There was no title for the era that followed.
No scholars. No scribes. No tongues left to name it.
Just wind—wind that blew through a world shaped by suffering, echoing through bone towers, whispering through ruined flesh-trees. A silence broken only by the pulsing hum of something old... and still awake.
The Hollow King remained on his throne. Eyes shut.
He dreamed.
And what he dreamed, the world became.
---
Somewhere, outside of time—outside of sense—a single spark watched. It was not divine. It had no voice. No body. Just the last ember of what could have been.
It hovered near the throne. Waited.
But the King did not stir.
Not until the ember flickered against his skin.
His eyes opened. Black. Bottomless. Burning.
> "Still trying to rewrite me?" he whispered.
The ember fled. It did not survive.
---
There would be no rebellion. No savior.
Because no one remembered what salvation was.
Only the creed remained:
> There are no gods. There is only Hollow.
And in a world without heroes, Without hope,
That was enough.
---
END OF SERIES
Epilogue – "Chosen Of None" is complete. The world no longer needs heroes. Only the Hollow remains.