The Ruins Below Caelum
Noah wandered through corridors carved from black stone and memory.
His footsteps stirred ash that hadn't moved in centuries. Faint glyphs flickered on the walls — like fireflies caught in dying breath.
He didn't know how far he'd gone since the altar.
He only knew this:
He could no longer remember his sister's name.
And something inside him was gone — eaten clean. A gap where warmth used to live.
The mark on his palm itched.
The ash spiral, etched into him like a brand, pulsed softly — alive with each heartbeat. He clenched his fist, teeth gritted, and forced himself to press on.
He had no food. No water. No weapons.
But he had this.
A power born from forgetting.
The Whispers Return
It started as a feeling.
A weight in the air. A change in temperature.
Then: footsteps. Not echoing — absorbing sound, as if the floor itself didn't want to betray them.
Noah turned.
Nothing.
He backed away, hand against the wall, until his palm touched something warm.
Not stone. Not ash.
Skin.
He spun.
Behind him stood a girl.
Dirty feet. Tattered ribbon. Silver-gray eyes like mirrors.
"You promised," she whispered. "You promised you wouldn't forget me."
Memory Phantom
Noah stumbled back, nearly falling. "No. No, I—"
She stepped forward, barefoot on broken bones.
Her face was wrong. Blurred. Like a painting left in the rain.
"Why did you leave me in the fire?"
"You're not real," he said. "You're not real!"
She screamed — a shriek that echoed with two voices. Hers… and something else.
Her body twisted into ash and reformatted itself, forming a new shape:
A humanoid figure — tall, genderless, faceless. Its body composed of black cinders and scorched bone. A burning crown hovered just above its skull.
The ruin shook.
From the walls, runes ignited — reacting to the presence.
A whisper entered his skull:
"Guardian of the Forgotten. Slayer of Regret."
"Only those who destroy what binds them may pass."
The Battle Begins
The ash-crowned figure lunged.
Noah dove sideways, barely dodging the strike. The ground exploded behind him — a crater of flame and memory. The air smelled of old wood, incense, and—
His father's voice, laughing over wine.
Gone.
Noah rolled, panting. "You're feeding on me…"
The creature charged again. Its arms split into spears of ember. Noah ran — stumbling, bleeding, gasping.
He reached a dead-end.
Nowhere to run.
The mark on his palm blazed.
"Burn to survive."
He reached inward — not with hands, but with memory.
The First Glyph
A vision flashed:
His father, guiding his hands with a wooden sword.
The first lesson. Grip, weight, motion. Breath. Control.
"A sword is just memory made muscle."
Noah opened his eyes.
And let it go.
The glyph on his palm exploded with light — ash swirling around his arm like smoke caught in wind. A weapon formed in his hand — black, jagged, raw.
An ashblade.
Its edge shimmered like mourning silk.
"Come on," Noah hissed.
The guardian attacked.
Noah met it head-on.
Steel rang out — not metal, but memory. The blade cut through the creature's chest, and where it struck, memories burst outward like sparks: faces he didn't recognize, laughter he'd never heard, music from some ancient court.
The guardian staggered.
Noah didn't.
He pressed forward, each strike costing something. Tiny things. A childhood song. His favorite taste. A friend's face. A birthday morning.
The guardian shattered into burning dust.
Collapse
Noah dropped to one knee, coughing blood.
The ashblade dissolved.
The mark on his hand dimmed.
He tried to remember how his father's voice sounded in that sword lesson.
It was gone.
Not blurry — gone. Like it never existed.
He put his hand to his chest.
Nothing beat where pride should be.
Only hunger.
The Message on the Wall
In the next chamber, he found an old mural, half-destroyed by time.
It showed a man kneeling in fire, surrounded by empty silhouettes.
Above it: words etched in ancient ash:
"Burn the empire of light. Let the world forget its kings."
Noah stared at it.
Then, slowly, he carved the symbol of the Holy Empire into the wall with a shard of bone.
And set it ablaze with the glyph in his palm.
It burned blue.
He stood in the smoke, alone, coughing, shaking.
"If I must burn every memory to destroy them…"
His voice cracked.
"Then I'll become the last thing they remember."