In the deep canyon between two peaks, heavy with the scent of ages-old blood, stood a man whose face bore the deep lines of sorrow. He spoke to himself in a gentle voice:
"What was the point of all we did? To protect people we love? Most of us have already lost them…"
He fell to his knees, crying openly. The temptation to end it all for himself was almost suffocating him, yet he could not; ghosts of the ones closest to him haunted him every second, driving him on in his wretchedness.
His condition was abject—not weakness, but mere shock at what had been done, as at what had been done by, that damned generation.".
He lifted his head toward the sky, gazing at the single object not touched by destruction:
"At the center of the struggle waged by humans in a bid to protect those they love is the strongest hope… the hope that love is an impenetrable fortress, and the struggle for it lends life an unmatchable sense.
But when a human finds himself bereft of his loved ones, all he has left is the echo of emptiness… the quietness of grief that gnaws at the soul.
At that darkest moment, bravery is not made clear in triumphs, but in the human ability to stand among the debris of what is lost.
Perhaps pain is the final soldier in the wars of life; it holds the burden of eternal memories to remind us that love isn't measured by survival, but by believing that the souls of the ones who left us behind… continue to shine like a lamp in the dark, compelling us to reconstruct what is lost, and discover in the center of loss a new sprout of life."
This man—noble, born with a silver spoon in his mouth—never knew his world would change from peaceful tranquility to crushing devastation. His previous life had been a castle of dreams: an arranged marriage, grand estates, servants, peace of mind. All he had to do was defend his fief during a time once called the "Age of Peace"…
But the empire of Ostravium didn't.
The catastrophe did not begin with a sound, nor in a burst of lightning. Like all true curses, it began with the promise of triumph that was false.
The Ostravium Emperor, Valos Darksign, controlled lands ranging from the crests of ice to the fire wasteland. It was not a nation, but a living entity to which the world kneeled. As his empire grew, time itself appeared to fold into his hand, until he envisioned himself beyond law and fate.
At the center of the Sevirah Mountains, where time itself is said to pause before proceeding, diggers unearthed the ruins of an unseen world. Inscriptions never seen before, and scrolls not composed in ink—but in filament threads made of the remains of long-departed beasts.
There lay a spell entombed. Not a myth—but a recipe. A spell that upheld the equilibrium between the living and what was kept in abeyance beyond the fissures.
It would eventually be referred to as "The Original Call," and it was theorized as a defensive magic used by that society to shield itself from a cryptic downfall. By the reasoning of power, Darksign believed that which they could not rule—he would rule.
One evening in autumn, five of the court's most powerful mages gathered within the Hall of Mirrors Beneath—a location that was not built on the earth, but dug into it—and began the ritual. They used blood of a very old bloodline, and unusual substances brought from all parts of the globe. Destruction was not their goal, but to establish a "sealed channel" so that they might unleash primal forces that would be enslavable and shaped.
But what was opened… did not close.
It was not a gate—it was a gash in the tissue of the world. It could not be perceived, or shut, or grasped. And rather than light, shadows poured out—not as beasts, but as existent concepts, horrors with teeth.
The first animal came three days later. It lacked a face, having only altering crossing forms. Whatever came at it—man or stone—did not disappear, but became echoes: massless creatures, recollections without origin.
Then stranger things followed. Some did not walk but drifted in the air like smoke in a closed mouth. Others carried human faces borrowed from unb integrally buried dead.
The capital lost its mind. Priests prophesied disaster. Mages tried to shatter the curse. But time began to shatter. Night stopped falling on time, and dreams ceased to fade at morning.
The kingdoms toppled one after another. The great cities grew still, and death was preferable to living amidst specters that resided in walls and drew breath from children's mouths.
Then… the name Ostravium was torn from maps.
Nobody remembered borders, regulations, or faces. Ruins only where madness prevailed.
And that instant was called "The Great Fracture." Not because the earth split apart—but because reality split, and something irreparable bled through.
It was not the monsters themselves who poured out of the texture of the world when the tremendous calamity hit. With them spilled strange waves—not magical energy, nor radiation, but something invisible to measurement, something that could not be seen directly. These beings came to describe the effect as "the Echo."
The Echo is neither learned ability nor gained power. It is an immediate result of the human mind's interaction with the disaster. Whoever survived immediate exposure to the fracture, or proximal reality collapse, had this "thing" flow into them. Some could not handle the warp and went mad or were killed, while a few survived in rare numbers… altered—but not at first visible.
The Echo is, at its heart, not a power, but an echo. It is a perversion of the internal balance of men and women, which causes small but bizarre alterations outward. They are not bursts of raw power, but bizarre new powers. A man whose voice can shatter the minds of other people—but only when he is talking of guilt. A woman who cannot lie—and other people can't lie about her either. Others darken the light around them with presence, or befog the memories of those who look upon them too long.
What distinguishes the Echo system is that it is subject to no recognizable rules. It is not energy, or trainable or strengthened through discipline. The Echo exists only when its wearer has undergone a change within himself—not through attempting, but through pain, regret, or through a fresh discovery of self or destiny. That is the reason why two Echoes are never the same. They cannot be duplicated. Even scientists and priests tried to dissect them to make uniform categorizations, but could not because the Echo is inherently linked with the human soul.
Every Echo carries a price—and one that its user would not want. Some kill the body. Others burn memories. Some make sleep impossible and force the user to relive the shattering each time they have a nightmare. As such, many fear having one. Others think it's a curse and not a blessing.
Ten years later, humanity should have been wiped out entirely. The great cities vanished. The governments dissolved. Remains of the old regime existed only in memory. Yet, out of chaos, four powers rose from on-the-brink collapse and learned to organize survival in a world whose very foundation had changed. They came to be known as "The Four Resistances."
They were not ancient nations' legacy or war alliances, but new orders built on the ruins of the Echo. Each was ruled by an individual—or group—of a "Core of the Echo," individuals who had a special and intense relationship with what the catastrophe unleashed.
Though these four resistances differed in philosophy and leadership, they had in common their de facto total reliance on Echo bearers—warriors, aye, but police, leaders, guards, even healers. All their most influential leaders bore Echoes.
They were not allies. They often battled one another and along their borders. But all knew that survival required restraint of the Echo—not battle with it.
For in a world where vision is deceit, and space and time do not remain immobile, mankind has but one hope: the distorted who have already been so… to shield it from further.
When his weary feet reached the outskirts of the city—a city in none of the four resistances, only that some survivors were left there with minimal provisions—no one was waiting for him. Silence, as if even demons had abandoned this site.
A small, forgotten city surrounded by silent mountains like sentinels to some unavenged crime. It was not walled, it was not defended—there was only a broken minaret in a dust-filled square, and 230 human beings still clinging to the hope of living.
As he strode, throngs came forth as though to witness a ghost of hope, or a mirage that withstood the fires. They shouted, cheered his name, prostrated themselves to him as if his mere presence was a miracle.
But he did not welcome them. He stood among them deathly pale, eyes hollow, shoulders bent, as if every breath reminded him of a life he never wanted.
"They cheer, but they don't know."
"They can't see the blood beneath my fingers… or the eyes upon me while I sleep."
"I don't fight anymore. I just… move."
That night, he was summoned to a secret meeting in a cellar half-burnt. Five survivors that bore Echoes, each one with a purpose… or a curse.
A single torch flickered along a stone wall. Five huddled at a weathered wooden table, exchanging glances as if the air between their respirations was heavy, weighed heavy like dust.
Ashura – tapping the table with his leather-covered, hollow hand. The noise echoed:
"Oracle Base is two days away. Just two days, under the quiet of the fractures and the thunder of the sands. They have walls. They have food. Real food—not burnt bushes or rotten meat."
Zorim – spinning his sword around, the tip glinting in the light of the torches:
"Ashura. this is not a date-chosing adventure. The road's filled with trackers—things that are no longer human. Do we risk everything we have left?"
Ilsa – hunched forward, eyes fretful, her warm voice unable to disguise:
"But we're not living here… we're just not dying yet. The children are getting sick, the water's going bad. The Echo here is fading, as if the city itself disowns us."
Naiv – in a low voice as if he feared shadows would listen in:
"What if the base is a trap? Herded there like cattle… and then? Swallowed up in a system we don't know? I don't want to lose myself again."
Meer – measured voice, but it carried secret weight:
"I don't trust the road, nor quiet. We need to make a decision. If we're going to die, let's at least die on a road that leads somewhere. Not in the ruins."
Silence.
They all knew the next words carried special weight.
Everyone gazed at him—the man who would not speak, but when he did… the walls listened.
Ashura, pausing for a moment:
"You. have not spoken yet. Tell us, stranger borne on the Echo but not on hope. do we depart, or stay?"
He remained—to complete something.
He pulled a small vial from his topcoat, turned the vial in his fist as if weighing a sin, opened the vial and poured the colorless fluid into his palm.
No one protested.
Ilsa nodded forward, understanding what he would do, and whispered:
"You're joking… you can't."
But he did.
He covered his face with the liquid, then took a small strip of material, lit it, and pressed it to his skin.
It was not a scream. It was a gurgled breath, a prolonged one, as if the pain was not brought about by fire, but from within.
The air stank of burning flesh, metal, and memory.
Having incinerated his face in silence… with still-rising smoke from his burnt flesh, he sat down on the floor, as if his legs could no longer carry him. Sweat, tears, and broken breath.
Then he grumbled in a cracking, rasping voice, each word as though something inside him was breaking:
"I'm… tired."
"Every time I close my eyes, I see them. Their faces… voices… and I am the one who stayed behind."
"I hate this face… everyone who looks at me expects something. Hope, rescue, or apology…"
"But I'm none of them."
"I'm not a savior. Not a hero. I'm just…"
He hesitated, ran his charred face with trembling hands.
"If anyone sees me, they'll ask for more. They'll drag me back to that place. that hell."
"But I don't want. I don't want to be him anymore."
He winced as he stood up, his words inaudible:
"I can no longer pretend I am still there. I can no longer be myself."
Silence overcame the room.
Zorim clenched his fist, but he did not utter a word.
Meer bit his lip, swallowing a thought he did not wish to consider.
Ilsa stepped back from him, looking at him as if he had ceased to be human.
Only Ashura rose and turned aside.
As he strode toward the door, a voice finally broke the stillness.
Naiv, quietly but with fire:
"So that is all? All we experienced—walk away?"
Standing in the doorway, he hesitated. Did not turn.
He spoke:
"I did not walk away from anyone."
And left, dragging his feet through the ruins of his former world… to a terminus without a name.