The Hollow bled silence.
Not absence. Not stillness. But silence alive, unchained, ravenous. It did not lie dormant like the quiet between breaths; it poured outward from the Pale Legion in waves, a tide that smothered every vibration of existence. It rolled through the void, drowning even the roar of fire and ruin, swallowing the Queen's fury, smothering Dante's defiance. Every strike, every scream, every flicker of argent blaze was consumed before it could take shape, devoured before it could touch the air. The Legion's march stripped the world of voice, and in that theft silence became something more than lack it became a weapon. It crushed sound like bone, suffocated memory like lungs, and ground identity into ash.
