The memory continued, unspooling the final moments of the treacherous betrayal.
In the cave, Hero — Auro of the Nine — fell to one knee, vomiting blood.
The Blur stood over him, a cold satisfaction radiating from his glitching form. He had just revealed his hand: he had poisoned the water supplies with Bloodbane berries.
"Finally," the boy whispered.
But the celebration was premature.
A hollow, rattling sigh echoed from Eurys of the Nine. The skull, resting on its pedestal, did not move — it had no muscles to lean forward, no face to grimace — but its voice carried a weight of ancient, weary knowledge.
"Foolish," the skull rasped. "A lethal dose for a mortal is merely a discomfort for an Awakened. The boy miscalculated the gap in their existence."
As if hearing the disembodied voice, Auro wiped his mouth and looked up. The pallor of sickness faded from his face, replaced by a cold, burning resolve.
"You see," Auro said, his voice steadying. "That plan would have worked if I was a normal human. But, alas, my Soul Core has Awakened long ago. Bloodbane poison, unpleasant as it might be, can never kill me".
The Blur realized his mistake instantly. He scrambled back, trying to run, but Hero was faster.
A heavy blow struck the boy in the back, sending him crashing into the rock wall. He screamed as something inside him broke.
Clutching his chest, the Blur rolled out of the cave and scrambled onto the snowy path.
"Stop," Auro commanded.
The boy froze. He turned around, hands raised. The two of them stood shivering under the moonlight. The Hero held his glowing sword, ready to execute justice.
The Blur did not answer. Instead, a small object appeared in his hand.
Anvil of Valor narrowed his eyes. "The Memory he received from the soldier. The bell."
Solvane scoffed. "And what will a trinket do against a warrior?"
In the memory, the Blur shook the silver bell.
A beautiful, clear ringing sound flowed over the mountain, filling the night with an enchanting melody.
"What are you doing?!" Auro shouted, bewildered.
The Blur didn't answer. He stopped ringing the bell. In fact, he stopped breathing. He stared intently past the Hero, into the darkness behind him.
Auro's confusion turned to anger. "Tell me right now or you will regret it."
"He doesn't understand," Cassie whispered, her knuckles white as she clenched her fist. "The Tyrant... it hunts by sound."
Eurys let out a dry, rattling sound — a noise that might have been a chuckle or a cough.
"My, oh my," the skull rasped, his voice dripping with ancient condescension. "The little rat thinks a beast frightens us? Auro is one of the Nine. He has bathed in the blood of angels. A blind monster is nothing but kindling for his light."
As if summoned by the girl's words and mocking the skull's confidence — a colossal shape detached itself from the shadows behind the Hero. The Mountain King had arrived.
Auro saw the fear in the boy's eyes and spun around, raising his sword.
"Watch," Eurys commanded the audience, his hollow sockets fixed on the projection. "Watch him shatter it. Watch the might of the Nine."
But it was too late.
A massive hand caught the Hero in an iron grip.
There was no epic duel. There was no flash of Transcendence. The bone claws simply crushed the Awakened armor like paper. Auro screamed — a desperate, defiant sound that was cut short as he was yanked off his feet with a wet, sickening crunch.
Eurys did not scream. He did not roar.
The skull went perfectly, terrifyingly still.
In the memory, the Mountain King didn't even pause. It dragged the struggling warrior into the darkness as one might drag a ragdoll. The legendary sword fell from Auro's grip, clattering uselessly onto the frozen stone.
"Huh?" Eurys whispered.
It was a small, confused sound. The sound of a mind failing to compute reality.
The Blur didn't watch. He turned and ran.
"He... he broke," Eurys murmured, his voice trembling not with sorrow, but with the onset of a manic episode. "Auro broke. Just like a twig."
"He used the monster," Mordret said, a look of pure, unadulterated delight on his face. He leaned forward, drinking in the betrayal. "He lured the blind beast with the bell, knowing it would target the loudest source of noise — the Hero shouting questions. Brilliant."
The desperate screams of the Hero faded, swallowed by the howling wind.
Eurys suddenly started to laugh. It was a jagged, creaky sound, like stones grinding together in a tomb.
"My, oh my!" Eurys cackled, the skull vibrating violently against the pedestal. "We marched to kill the Gods! We burned the world! And Auro, a Hero... the noblest of us... was fed to a dog?"
The laughter grew louder, bordering on hysteria.
"A toy bell!" Eurys wheezed, staring into the abyss of the memory. "He died for a toy bell! It's a joke. It's all a joke. We are all just meat for the grinder, aren't we?"
The memory blurred, dissolving the bloody path into a swirl of snow and darkness, skipping the hours of desperate flight. When the vision cleared, it reformed on a landscape of jagged ice and merciless cold.
A lonesome dark mountain stood tall against the raging gale, its sharp edges cutting the night sky.
On the highest peak, under the ghostly light of a radiant moon, a solitary figure struggled against the elements.
The wavering silhouette looked less like a human and more like a walking corpse.
His tunic was torn to shreds, his body smeared with freezing mud and blood. He was hunched over, cradling the left side of his chest where the Hero had shattered his ribs. With every ragged breath, bloody foam bubbled on his lips.
Rain covered her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. "He's dying."
"He is," Nephis said softly, her gaze fixed on the memory. "But he hasn't stopped."
Step. Step. Another step.
The dying slave forced one foot in front of the other. He didn't look up. He just kept moving, driven by a spite so potent it refused to let him expire.
Finally, he reached the summit.
The wind died down, replaced by a heavy, sacred silence.
There, bathed in moonlight, stood a colossal ruin. A temple cut from black marble, magnificent and terrifying, like the palace of a dark god.
The atmosphere in the Loom shifted instantly. Even through the projection, a sense of crushing dread washed over the audience.
Anvil of Valor leaned forward, his steel-grey eyes scanning the perimeter of the ruin. "This place... the killing intent saturating the air is absolute."
"An invisible sentinel," Daeron rumbled, his vertical pupils narrowing. "I sense a presence. Something formless and ancient. Something that could critically wound a Transcendent in the blink of an eye without ever being seen".
"A death trap," Ki Song rasped. "No Saint could sense, let alone destroy such a thing. The boy walked into a grave."
To the side, the reaction of the younger generation was visceral.
Nephis stood rigid. The white flames dormant within her soul flared violently, not in aggression, but in a desperate, instinctive warning. Her soul, usually a source of unyielding radiance, flickered as if suffocated by the mere image of that ruin. She didn't just see a trap. She felt the space around the boy rejecting his very existence.
'He cannot survive this,' her intuition screamed. 'Not even I am sure I could.'
Mordret, usually wearing a mask of polite amusement, suddenly went still. His mirror-like eyes narrowed, stripping away the snow and the age of the memory, comparing the structure to the forbidding citadel he had recently visited.
He knew this place. He had walked into that very courtyard to recruit the mysterious Lord of Shadows... and had his vessel ruthlessly destroyed for the trouble.
The fear that gripped the others was absent from his face. Instead, there was a sharp, predatory calculation. He watched the dying boy with renewed intensity, realizing that he was witnessing not just a trial, but the origin of the anomaly in Godgrave.
"That ruin," Mordret whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "I know it. That is the Citadel."
Even the ancient Saints were unsettled. Noctis, the Sorcerer of the East, frowned deeply, his fingers twitching as if trying to unravel a knot. "This sorcery... feels old ," he muttered, his voice lacking its usual levity. "Older than the Chain Lords."
Eurys stared into the projection, the skull vibrating against the metal of the pedestal.
"They are dead," he whispered.
There was no reverence in his voice, only a cold, ancient bitterness. He wasn't looking at the temple — he was looking at the carpet of white bones scattered across the courtyard.
"The Gods are gone," Eurys rasped, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "We killed them. We emptied the heavens... and yet, their shadows remain."
He watched the invisible pressure descend on the boy, his hollow sockets seeming to darken. "Look at them. Thousands of them. Even from the grave, the bastards are still eating us. They are all dead for nothing."
In the memory, the shadowy figure stumbled toward the temple stairs.
Around him, thousands of bones lay scattered — remains of humans and monsters alike, all slain by the unseen protector.
Suddenly, the air shimmered. An invisible pressure descended upon the dying boy.
The invisible entity approached, ready to snuff out the intruder's life. It hovered over him, a force of pure death.
But then, it stopped.
The Guardian sensed something. A faint scent coming from the boy's soul. The scent of divinity.
"The Mark," Eurys murmured, the sockets of his skull seemingly widening in surprise. "He bears the [Mark of Divinity]. The Guardian... recognizes him.".
Sorrowful and lonesome, the invisible terror moved aside, letting the boy pass.
The glitching figure entered the great hall. The roof was broken, letting in cascades of silver moonlight. At the far end, untouched by snow, stood a black altar.
He didn't look at the architecture. He didn't look for treasure.
He climbed onto the altar and lay down.
"He just wants to sleep," Effie said, her voice trembling.
But he was not allowed to rest.
A heavy scraping sound echoed from the entrance. The Mountain King had followed him.
The Tyrant, covered in gore, sniffed the air. It salivated, sensing the prey on the altar. It moved forward, its bone claws clicking on the stone floor.
The dying boy coughed, spitting bloody foam onto the black stone. The marble absorbed it instantly.
The monster reached out.
"I guess this is the end," the boy thought.
And then, the world stopped.
[You have offered yourself as a sacrifice to the gods.]
The Spell's voice thundered, shaking the very fabric of the Loom.
[The gods are dead, and can not hear you.]
Eurys flinched, the skull rattling against the metal. "Dead," he repeated, a harsh, grating laugh escaping him. "Finally, the truth spoken aloud. They cannot hear anyone."
[Your soul bears the mark of divinity.]
[You are a temple slave.]
The darkness in the temple seemed to thicken. The shadows detached themselves from the walls.
[Shadow God stirs in his eternal slumber.]
The blood drained from Solvane's face. "Impossible. The Shadow God... he heard?"
Eurys let out a ragged sound, somewhere between shock and fury. "He stirs? For a slave? He cursed me to eternal life... but he stirs for him?"
[He sends a blessing from beyond the grave.]
[Child of Shadows, receive your blessing!]
In the memory, the shadows surged. They were not merely the absence of light. They were physical, violent, and hungry. Tentacles of darkness erupted from the floor, wrapping around the Tyrant's limbs.
The Mountain King howled — a sound of pure terror. But against a God, even a dead one, a Tyrant was nothing.
The shadows pulled.
With a wet, sickening tear, the Tyrant was ripped apart. Limbs, head, and torso were separated in an instant, showering the altar in a rain of black blood.
Silence returned to the temple. The wavering figure blinked, alone in the dark.
[You have slain an Awakened Tyrant, Mountain King.]
[Wake up, ■■■■■■■! Your nightmare is over.]
[Prepare for appraisal...]
The scenery dissolved into the starry void of the Spell's appraisal chamber. The audience sat in stunned silence. They had just watched a mortal boy summon the wrath of a dead god.
"He didn't just survive," Daeron rumbled. "He was... answered."
The Blur — now fully restored, his skin pale and unblemished — floated in the starlight. He looked confused, then ecstatic as the rewards began to roll in.
[Aspirant! Your trial is over.]
[A nameless slave ascended the Black Mountain. Both heroes and monsters fell by his hand. Unbroken, he entered the ruined temple of a long-forgotten god and spilled his blood on the sacred altar. The gods were dead, and yet they listened.]
[You have received a Memory: Puppeteer's Shroud]
[You have defeated a dormant beast: Mountain King's Larva.]
[You have defeated three dormant humans, names unknown.]
[You have defeated an awakened human: Auro of the Nine.]
[You have defeated an awakened tyrant: Mountain King.]
[You have received the Shadow God's blessing.]
[You have achieved the impossible!]
The Spell's voice took on a tone of grandeur.
[Final appraisal: Glorious. Your treachery truly knows no bounds.]
"Treachery," Kai repeated, a complicated expression on his face. "Even the Spell acknowledges it."
[Dreamer ■■■■■■■, receive your boon!]
The Spell's voice boomed, resonating with a sense of finality.
[You have been bestowed a True Name...]
The audience leaned forward. A True Name was a mark of destiny, a sign that the holder was woven deeply into the tapestry of Fate. For a Sleeper to receive one in their First Nightmare was a feat reserved for the absolute elite — only a handful in history, like Changing Star herself, had ever achieved it.
But when the name appeared, reality seemed to stutter.
[You have been bestowed a True Name: ■■■■■■■]
The runes that should have formed the name did not glow. Instead, they were pitch black, like holes burned into the fabric of the projection. They were not text. They were a void. A static, grinding noise tore through the audio, scrubbing the sound of the name from existence.
Mordret narrowed his eyes, the amusement dropping from his face. "What was that? A glitch?"
"No," Cassie whispered, her voice trembling. She pressed a hand to her temple, looking paler than usual. "It wasn't a glitch. It was... an absence. There is nothing there to read. It is a name that does not exist."
Anvil of Valor frowned. "A True Name that cannot be spoken? Or a True Name that was stolen?"
The anomaly sent a chill through the room. It was one thing to see a powerful boy. It was another to see a boy whom the Spell itself could not fully define.
But the Spell wasn't finished. The darkness cleared, replaced by the familiar golden glow of the next notification.
[Your Aspect is ready to evolve. Evolve Aspect?]
The boy in the memory shouted "Yes!"
[Dormant Aspect Temple Slave is evolving...]
[New Aspect acquired.]
The runes spun wildly. The Sovereigns leaned in. This was the moment. This would determine the threat level of the Lost Variable.
[Aspect Rank: Divine.]
The air in the Loom vanished.
Anvil of Valor stepped forward, the force of his movement cracking the illusory stone beneath his boots. Ki Song's dead eyes widened, the rot in her veins seemingly freezing in place.
"Divine?" Morgan of Valor whispered, her usually impassive face cracking with shock. She stared at the projection, her eyes wide. "That... that is impossible. There are only two... "
[Aspect Name: Shadow Slave.]
[Aspect Description: You are a miraculous shadow left behind by a dead god. As a divine shadow, you possess plenty of strange and wondrous powers. However, your existence is empty and lonesome; you mourn the passing of your former master and long to find a new one.]
Nephis froze. She stared at the words burning in the air.
Shadow Slave.
"Slave," she whispered. The realization hit her like a physical blow. The bond. The obedience. It wasn't loyalty. It wasn't choice.
He was a Divine Aspect holder... and he was a slave.
Mordret started to laugh. It was a manic, incredulous sound. "A Divine Aspect! Hidden right under our noses! A slave to the Shadow God... and who holds his leash now, I wonder?"
The boy in the memory fell to his knees, horrified.
[Innate Ability: Shadow Bond.]
[Ability Description: Find a worthy master and let them know your True Name. Once they recite it out loud, you will be bound to their will, unable to disobey any command. It is improper for a shadow, let alone a divine one, to walk around without a master.]
The projection flickered. The golden glow turned cold, the voice of the Spell dropping an octave, becoming heavy and absolute.
[All power has a price.]
[You have received a Flaw.]
The runes twisted, forming three simple words that sealed the boy's fate more effectively than any chain.
[Your Flaw is: Clear Conscience.]
[Description: You cannot lie.]
A heavy silence descended upon the Loom.
Kai, who had been watching with a mix of horror and fascination, slumped back. He raised a hand to his mouth, his eyes wide with a unique kind of empathy. He knew the burden of truth better than anyone; his own Flaw allowed him to hear every lie spoken around him.
"He survived because he was a liar," Kai whispered, the tragic irony landing like a physical blow. "He poisoned them with a smile. He tricked the Hero with a bell. He lived only because he could deceive... and the Spell just took that away."
"It is worse than that," Cassie murmured, her face as pale as the snow in the memory. "He has a True Name. He has a Slave Aspect that activates when that name is spoken. And now... if someone asks him for his name, he cannot lie. He cannot hide."
Mordret's smile returned, sharper and crueler than before. "A slave who cannot disobey, and now, a slave who cannot deceive. The Spell truly has a twisted sense of humor."
In the projection, the boy stared at the runes, his face contorted in pure, unadulterated terror. He looked like a man who had just been handed a death sentence.
The memory flickered. The appraisal was ending.
The audience watched him with a mix of pity and calculation, seeing a victim of fate.
They did not realize that the terrified boy was gone.
And he was listening.
[INITIATING NEXT SEQUENCE...]
[RECORD: 02 - THE FORGOTTEN SHORE]
****
Bastion.
The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the shop, illuminating the rows of gleaming Memories and filling the air with the rich aroma of fresh coffee. Behind the counter, a young man with porcelain skin was drying a cup, a look of polite boredom on his face.
Suddenly, he froze.
The cloth dropped from his hand. The cup slipped from his fingers and smashed against the floor, shattering into fragments — just like his hard-earned peace.
The young man leaned his elbows heavily on the counter and buried his face in his hands, letting out a long, weary sigh.
"Damnation."