The dust had not yet settled. Fine rock fragments drifted in the air, glinting with a dull silvery-white hue in the light.
A beam of light slanted down through a narrow crack at the top of the rock wall, like something had jostled it, dislodging it suddenly, allowing the light to pour straight into the depths below. This was not light for illumination, it felt more like a wordless guide, falling directly onto the center of the ground, silent yet absolute.
There stood a platform, elevated above the sunken earth. Its carved reliefs were worn and faded, and a ring of dry, cracked marks lingered along its edges—as if water had once flowed there, though it had long since dried up.
In the middle of the platform was a circular indentation.
Something rested quietly inside it, completely shrouded in the ligh like a chosen protagonist at the center of a stage. It made no sound, yet in its stillness, it stirred the very atmosphere of the entire space. Distant gravel still rumbled as it tumbled down, and water cascaded from cracks in the rock, but their echoes felt unusually faint in this vast, ruined chamber.
The visitor had arrived.
Footsteps, neither hurried nor slow, drew closer from afar. Each step landed on the rock with precise, unwavering rhythm—as if the scene had been rehearsed long ago, waiting only for this moment to unfold.
The dark figure approached silently, moving toward the center of the platform.
No hesitation, no glances around. The light did not shift its angle or flinch at the figure's appearance; it merely hung there quietly, as if indifferent.
The figure extended a hand.
In the next instant, the light suddenly changed. It did not move, nor did it grow brighter—but the moment the hand touched it, it burst forth with a blinding heat, as if carrying resistance and a warning.
The shadow's hand froze mid-air, its fingertips trembling slightly.
A moment of silence.
The dark figure moved closer again—and this time, the light did not yield.
A wordless struggle endured for a few breaths. Then, a violent surge of force erupted from the figure. It was not a sound, but a pressure that shook the entire platform faintly. The streams of water on the rock wall shattered, spraying into fine droplets like rain.
The light faded abruptly.
A palm print was left in the center of the platform, its edges tinged with charred black. The object that had once been fully enclosed was now gone; only a faint, indistinct shadow remained in the indentation—like embers still lingering on the surface, yet with nothing left to cling to.
The rumble of falling gravel ceased, and the cascading water returned to its steady rhythm.
The space seemed to revert to its original state in an instant.
Only the beam of light lingered quietly in place—as if it had forgotten its purpose, or refused to acknowledge that all this had ever happened.
There was no sound, no trace to show where the shadow had gone—only residual warmth, lingering faintly between the rock layers. It was like a secret that had been uncovered, only to sink back into the earth after a brief moment of exposure.
This is a story hidden deep in memory, and it must have been a long time before you came to hear it.
It is also a complex story.
Moreover, even those directly involved—Arthur, or myself, who once stood by his side—could never have imagined that Silkeya would bring us an experience that would shake us to our cores.
You, in the future, may think this sounds like a fantasy, and that is alright.
But as long as you remember it exists, whether it is true or not, it will have been worth it.
Just as Arthur told me the words he would never forget: "You are the best proof that we ever existed."
That is also why I want to write this down: to hope that more people will understand what once happened.
I will do my best to recreate every moment of that time, just as Arthur hoped.
And as I myself do.
Finally, I only want you to know this: there was a group of people who once strived for this world.
Time may distort the truth of it. But as I said before, as long as someone still remembers, that will be the best proof of its existence.
What the past looked like no longer matters.
I have recorded the deeds that belonged to us, and you too can create the stories that belong to you.
Once someone holds it in their heart, it will have been worth it.
Dedicated to all those who carved great traces in the torrents of history—Saint Ankdo