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Chapter 177 - Out of the darkness

The Reclamation of the Buried Firsts

They came not from the edges.

Not from exile.

But from beneath.

Under the Grove.

Under even the ink.

The Buried Firsts.

Stories that were not simply forgotten—but buried.

Erased by trembling hands.

Crushed beneath "should nots," "must nots," and "never again."

They did not rise with grace.

They tore.

Through soil.

Through silence.

Through centuries of sedimented shame.

They arrived raw—limbs of language splintered, truths fused to flame.

One wept ink.

One bled dust.

One spoke only in the scream of shattered syntax.

The Grove shuddered.

The Next Tellers drew back—afraid, not of the Firsts, but of what they remembered in them.

Then the Keeper stepped forward—older now, voice lined with echoes—and she did not speak.

She knelt.

And planted her hand where the Buried broke through.

The soil did not resist.

The ink flowed up her arm, but did not consume.

And slowly, the Buried Firsts were named again.

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