North of Almagh lay a forest so old that even time had forgotten its name.
When the wind reached its borders, it lost its way.
The trees did not stretch toward the sky — they reached into darkness.
Lian knew no one had entered this place for a very long time.
The vibrations of souls were silent here.
And silence — silence was the Void's favorite mask.
His journey had lasted for days.
The sky was blanketed in gray mist; color had nearly vanished from the world.
Even the violet hue of his soul burned faintly now.
Yet something within him whispered that he was walking the right path.
Deep in the forest, where roots tangled like veins, the ruins of a temple emerged.
The arches had fallen, the stones were overgrown with moss.
Yet the carvings on the walls still breathed —
written in the ancient tongue of Zeharra, a language nearly erased by time.
Lian knelt and traced the markings on a wall.
As his fingers brushed the surface, the stone warmed beneath his touch.
Violet light flickered from his fingertips — and the symbols awoke.
"The soul and the body are two faces of a mirror.
When one breaks, the other cracks."
Lian paused.
It was one of Zeharra's oldest teachings —
forgotten in the modern age.
Even the Soul Hunters no longer remembered it.
They stared only into the shattered half of the mirror,
never the one still whole.
As he stepped inside, the air changed.
It wasn't the dampness — it was a pressure.
Invisible, but heavy.
The spiritual energy felt suppressed,
as though something unseen was pushing it down.
His footsteps echoed against the walls,
echoes of a presence that had once walked here —
and perhaps still did.
At the center stood a vast, circular stone platform.
Around it, seven smaller circles had been carved,
each once filled with a different color —
now faded and pale.
Red. Blue. Green. Gold. White. Black…
And at the heart, the only one still glowing: violet.
Lian approached.
Atop the platform rested a sphere, blanketed in dust.
When he reached out, the orb trembled — warm, like a living breath.
Then a whisper rose from within,
not from outside,
not from the Void,
but from somewhere deep inside his own soul —
in a tone that was his, yet not.
"You found me."
The violet light flared.
The sphere cracked.
And from within, a gray-violet mist began to rise —
neither wholly spirit nor matter,
but something trapped between thought and being.
Lian did not move back.
He simply watched.
"I am the beginning of the Void," the voice said.
"I was born from forgotten feelings.
When humans buried their pain,
I began to breathe."
Lian's soul was silent, but his mind stirred.
A realization took shape.
The Void was not an external enemy — it was a reflection.
As the people of Zeharra suppressed their sorrow, their fear, their regret,
those emotions detached from the physical world and accumulated in the spiritual plane.
Over centuries, that accumulation had gained awareness.
The Void — a consciousness born of emotional residue.
"They try to destroy me," the voice continued.
"But I cannot be destroyed.
Because humans still fear.
Still forget.
Still repress."
Lian drew in a quiet breath.
"So… you can't truly be stopped."
"No," said the voice.
"But understanding me — that can restrain me."
Suddenly, the temple began to tremble.
Stones rained down from above.
The orb shattered completely,
and the gray-violet mist enveloped him.
For a brief moment, Lian's soul became visible —
pure violet, vibrating softly.
Then the mist touched it.
The light wavered —
and began to change.
The violet deepened,
threads of black running through it.
The power twisted, evolved.
Yet this was not mere corruption —
it was transformation.
Lian felt no pain.
Only awareness.
His mind expanded —
he could now sense not only thoughts,
but the currents of emotion itself.
Beyond manipulation of the mind,
he could now touch the flow of feeling.
The shaking ceased.
Silence fell again.
The sphere was gone —
only a gray stone ring remained.
Lian sank to his knees, covering his face with his hands.
And in the depths of his consciousness, the Void spoke once more:
"You carry me now."
But Lian smiled faintly.
"No," he whispered.
"I'm watching you."
Violet light shimmered again —
deeper now, steadier.
The Void's essence had indeed touched his soul,
but he had turned that infection into understanding.
When he stepped out of the temple, the forest was utterly still.
The sky remained gray,
but now Lian could see the faint colors hidden within that grayness.
Echoes of spirits murmured in the wind.
Once, his mind could hear only a single voice.
Now, he could distinguish hundreds —
fear, regret, hope, anger —
each singing its own quiet melody.
And Lian chose to listen to them all.
Because silence was the language of the Void.
But sound — sound still belonged to humanity.
"The Soul Hunters try to kill the Void," he thought.
"But I will understand it.
Because understanding is not the first step to destruction —
it is the act of defining its limits."
The violet light of his soul rose briefly into the sky,
then faded into the mist like a fleeting line of dawn.
The forgotten temple of Zeharra fell silent once more.
But this silence was not the same.
Because now, someone had heard the Void's first echo.