Hope stepped through the crumbling stone arch of the temple, pushing aside a dusty curtain of faded vines. The heavy door creaked behind him as it swung shut, shutting out the cold murmur of the Ashlands beyond. The air inside was quiet, almost reverent. The sanctum had grown familiar over the last few months, filled with the lingering presence of silence, old stone, and the occasional flicker of Veil energy that curled like mist along the cracked floor.
This place was his now.
Once a forgotten ruin, it had become Hope's refuge—no, Hopeless's refuge. The outside world could have its Citadel politics, its power games, its cults and factions. He preferred this ancient temple and its shadows. At least they didn't lie.
Hope made his way toward the far side of the hall, his boots echoing faintly with each step. Reaching a reinforced locker tucked behind a broken shrine, he summoned the soul cores he'd collected during today's hunt. A soft hum pulsed through the air as the glowing fragments emerged from his soul sea—blue, red, and obsidian shards of crystallized power. One by one, he poured them into the locker.
The container was already packed with cores. Hundreds. Some were jagged, others smooth, each representing a creature defeated, a threat erased. He could've stored them in his soul sea, but he'd long since reached the safe threshold. More than that, keeping them here gave the place a sense of weight—like a vault of silent victories.
With a long sigh, Hope slumped into the nearest stone bench and leaned back, letting the weight of the day settle into his bones. "Ahh… long day," he muttered.
Today's hunt had taken him farther into the wastelands than usual. The target had been a carapace scavenger—a beast as armored as it was feral, all serrated legs and crushing jaws. Its shell had been near-impenetrable, forcing Hope to play a game of patience and precision. After a grueling battle and a near-miss with a collapsing ridge, he'd finally split its skull with a heavy downward strike.
Blood, ash, and fatigue clung to him even now.
He raised his hand and summoned his current stats, the interface appearing in front of his eyes in translucent glyphs:
---
Darkness Fragment: 2250/ 5000
Soul Essence: 2500 / 5000
Memories Equipped:
Sword
Sanity (Mask)
Cloak
Armor
Beast soul:
Parrot
---
Hope stared at the last entry—Parrot. He frowned slightly, his thoughts drifting.
Six months in the Citadel, and the only new memory sorry beast soul he'd acquired was a damn talking parrot. While others gained deadly constructs, elemental weapons, or mutated beasts as companions, he had a brightly-colored bird that enjoyed wisecracks and sarcasm. Not that it was useless—the parrot had a keen eye and remarkable perception. It could detect energy fluctuations, mimic voices, and sometimes, it knew things no one else should. Still, sometimes it felt like the Ashlands were mocking him.
His stomach growled.
Hope rose and wandered toward a side chamber he'd repurposed into a pantry. Within, dried meat hung from metal hooks, smoked until it was nearly rock-hard. He tore off a chunk, chewed slowly, then sighed. Rations like this weren't gourmet, but they did the job. Chewing noisily, he wiped his mouth and called out to the silence.
"Parrot."
The air shimmered beside him as motes of light spiraled into existence. A flash, a flutter of wings, and suddenly the vibrant green-blue memory hovered before him, blinking its beady black eyes.
"Hey, Hope," the parrot chirped with casual familiarity, fluttering its wings before settling on a nearby shelf.
Hope groaned immediately. "How many times have I told you? It's Hopeless."
The parrot tilted its head. "Okay, okay… Hopeless. Fine. Stupid name, but sure."
Hope shot it a look. The parrot backpedaled—if such a thing could be done midair. "Heheh… Not that deep! Not that deep, my bad," it said, voice laced with amusement. "So what did you do today, o' brooding master of doom and gloom?"
Hope rubbed his temples. "Killed a few carapace scavengers. Needed to top off the soul core stash."
The parrot chuckled, its wings beating lazily as it floated over to perch on Hope's shoulder. "Waste, if you ask me. You're hoarding all that power and doing nothing with it. You could be living large in the Citadel—wine, silk, beautiful girls. Richest guy in the fortress."
Hope narrowed his eyes. "How the hell do you even know about women?"
The bird's beak clicked in a laugh. "You think I don't listen when you eavesdrop at the bar? I pick up things. I've got range."
Hope snorted, unimpressed. "I don't really care for extravagant living. Waste of time. Makes you soft."
The parrot hopped slightly, adjusting its footing on his shoulder. "I know, I know… 'silent shadows and survival over social splendor,' right? But come on, Hope. Sometimes you gotta do something for yourself. Take a risk. Live a little."
Hope paused, halfway through another bite of dried meat. He turned to stare at the bird, expression blank.
"…Are you advising me about life right now?"
The parrot blinked innocently. "Might be."
He nearly choked. He coughed hard, wiped his mouth, and stared out at the temple's cracked ceiling.
Great. Absolutely perfect. Six months in a ruined sanctuary, and now he was being lectured by a sarcastic beast soul bird about living life to the fullest.
He rubbed his eyes and muttered, "I'm so fucking doomed."
The parrot whistled. "Language."
Hope didn't even bother replying.
And yet… beneath the exhaustion, beneath the solitude and sarcasm, a part of him wondered if the damn bird wasn't entirely wrong. "maybe I should socialize more ..., nahh" hope quickly gave up the idea.