Xin trudged through the ash-strewn earth, his boots sinking into the gray muck that coated the settlement's outskirts. Four nights. Four endless nights of battling hollows, those grotesque creatures that clawed their way from the ground, their eyeless faces shrieking with hunger. The sun crept over the horizon, its pale light bleeding across the barren landscape, and the hollows dissolved into wisps of black mist, retreating as they always did when dawn arrived. Yet the weight on Xin's shoulders did not lift. Exhaustion clung to him, a parasite burrowing deeper with every step, every breath, every thought.
He had not slept properly in days. His body ached, muscles screaming from the strain of wielding his blade against the relentless tide of monsters. His mind was a storm, churning with the faces of the fallen, the dwindling food stores in the settlement below the mountain, and the soldiers he could not save. Each night, the hollows claimed at least one life. One soul snuffed out, their screams echoing in his ears long after the dawn silenced the creatures. He saw their eyes in his dreams, accusing, pleading, empty.
Today, he had buried three more. Their names were etched into his memory: Kael, with his crooked smile; Mira, who sang off-key to keep the younger soldiers' spirits high; and Torren, barely sixteen, who had begged to fight alongside the others. Xin had carried their bodies to the burial ground himself, his hands trembling as he placed stones over their graves. The others had helped, their faces grim, their voices hushed. Raven, the steelwart dark knight, had stood at his side, her presence a quiet anchor in the chaos. She had slowed the rate of deaths, her blade carving through hollows with brutal precision, yet it was not enough. Never enough.
Xin's green hair, once vibrant and silky, hung dull and heavy, nearly reaching his hips. It tangled in the wind, a constant reminder of time slipping away, of years spent fighting, grieving, surviving. He would have to cut it soon, if only to shed one small burden. He ran a hand through the strands, wincing at their brittle texture, and turned his gaze to the horizon. The settlement sprawled below, a cluster of ramshackle huts clinging to the mountainside, their roofs patched with whatever scraps the survivors could scavenge. The air smelled of soot and decay, a stench that never faded, no matter how many hollows they killed.
"Another night," Raven said, her voice low, cutting through the silence. She stood a few paces away, her armor glinting faintly in the dawn light, her sword still drawn, as if she expected the hollows to return at any moment. "We're losing ground, Xin. You know it."
He did not answer. His throat was too tight, his thoughts too fractured. Instead, he nodded, his eyes fixed on the graves they had finished marking. The stones were uneven, hastily gathered from the rocky slopes. No one had the strength to carve proper headstones anymore.
"I keep seeing them," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time I close my eyes, they're there. Kael. Mira. Torren. Shun." His voice cracked on the last name, and he swallowed hard, forcing the grief down. Shun had been gone for four days, yet the wound felt fresh, raw, as if the hollows had torn it open anew each night. Shun, his closest friend, the one who had fought beside him since they were children, laughing even in the face of death. Now he was nothing but a memory, a ghost that haunted Xin's every waking moment.
"You can't carry them all," Raven said, stepping closer. Her dark eyes were sharp, but there was a softness in them, a rare glimpse of the woman beneath the armor. "You'll break, Xin. You're already breaking."
"I'm fine," he lied, the words tasting like ash. He was not fine. He was unraveling, thread by thread, his mind a labyrinth of guilt and fear. The voice in his head—his own, yet twisted, cruel—had grown louder these past nights. You've killed more people than our dead best friend, Bel, it whispered, slithering through his thoughts like a venomous snake. Bel, the traitor who had abandoned them years ago, who had chosen power over loyalty, whose betrayal had cost them dozens of lives. Xin had hated him for it, had vowed never to become like him. Yet the voice was relentless, accusing, taunting. You're no better. You let them die. You failed them.
He shook his head, trying to silence it, but it only grew louder, sharper, a blade slicing through his resolve. Was it madness? Grief? Or something darker, something born of the ether that pulsed through the land, the same force that birthed the hollows? He did not know, and the uncertainty gnawed at him, a parasite feeding on his sanity.
"I should have done more," he said, his voice trembling. "I should have been faster, stronger. If I had been there when Shun fell, if I had—"
"Stop it," Raven snapped, her tone cutting through his spiral. "You can't save everyone, Xin. No one can. Not even you."
He wanted to believe her, wanted to cling to her words like a lifeline, but the voice in his head laughed, cold and mocking. Liar. You could have saved them. You chose not to. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, the pain grounding him for a fleeting moment. He needed rest, needed peace, needed something to quiet the storm in his mind. He thought of his mother's guitar, its worn strings and chipped wood, the way its melodies had once soothed him. Playing it had always felt like summoning her spirit, her warmth lingering in every note. But the guitar was gone, lost in the chaos of the last hollow surge, and there was no time for music now, no time for anything but survival.
He turned away from the graves, his legs heavy as he made his way back to the settlement. The wounded had been tended to, their bandages stained with blood, their moans echoing in the makeshift infirmary. Xin had helped there too, his hands steady despite the exhaustion that blurred his vision. He had cleaned wounds, stitched gashes, whispered reassurances he did not believe. Each soldier he saved was a small victory, yet it felt hollow, overshadowed by the losses that piled higher with every night.
When he reached his sleeping quarters, a cramped hut with a single cot and a cracked window, he collapsed onto the thin mattress, not bothering to remove his boots. His body screamed for rest, but his mind refused to quiet. The faces of the dead swirled behind his eyes, their voices blending with the one in his head, a chorus of accusations. You failed us. You let us die. You're weak. He pressed his hands to his temples, willing the thoughts to stop, but they only grew louder, more insistent, until they felt like claws scraping at the inside of his skull.
He wanted to scream, to tear the voice out of his mind, but he was too tired, too broken. Instead, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, his breaths shallow and uneven. The world felt wrong, heavy, as if the ether itself was pressing down on him, suffocating him. He closed his eyes, praying for even a few hours of sleep, a brief escape from the horror that had become his life.
But then he heard it—a commotion outside, voices raised in alarm. His senses sharpened, his hand instinctively reaching for the blade at his side. No hollows. He would have felt their presence immediately, the dome's wards humming with their dark energy. This was something else.
He sat up, his heart pounding, and reached out with his senses, probing the ether. There it was—a surge of signatures, pulsing like beacons in the dawn light. Familiar ones. Ones he knew.