Chapter 1: Your Breath Is Your Bond
A sprawling ruined city skyline stretched beneath a greenish fog. Twisted skyscrapers crumbled into the haze. A cracked freeway ran diagonally across the ground, littered with wreckage and debris.
Erno stood at the freeway's edge, his cloak billowing fiercely in the toxic wind. His mother's gas mask—cracked but still held firm—covered his face like armor. He looked out over the desolate scene, a solitary figure on hostile terrain.
In a world split by breath…
He sensed something deeper than pollution dragging at his lungs.
Your breath is your bond, but it is also your burden.
Erno walked carefully down the broken freeway. His boots crunched on glass and metal shards. Beyond, the distant city was shrouded in toxic fog, with sickly orange fires dancing, which only added to the gloom.
Red Zone: toxic wasteland. Birthplace of true Links.
He knelt on the cracked asphalt and peeled back a weathered, torn map, the paper crackling with each fold.
The map, faded and stained, bore one clear message—WHITE RING, circled in shaky red ink. Everything else was smudged beyond recognition.
Erno's tired, bloodshot eyes narrowed at the name. Was it salvation or another cage?
"The White Ring is it salvation, or is it just another shitty cage?"
He closed his eyes and remembered better days. Skinning along his mother's shoulders under an azure sky—an impossible memory now. She had been smiling, carefree.
Then, her eyes had gone glassy. Her breaths had grown shallow and rapid, like the world was squeezing the air out of her.
Young Erno had screamed. Panic had twisted his face.
Now he held the cracked mask close, eyes moist behind the glass.
He returned to the broken freeway, unfolded the map again more deliberately:
WHITE RING, OXYGEN HAVEN—bold letters and a faint route etched out. His jaw hardened.
"Gotta move."
Steadying himself, he stood upright and pushed forward, descending into the labyrinth of ruined alleys. Puddles of toxic rain hissed and bubbled beneath his boots.
From shadowed doorways, civilians coughed violently, their rasping breaths a constant reminder of those who could not link.
He stopped by a burnt-out bus where a child leaned, gasping with each hack. Kneeling, he offered a small canister of air. It hissed as clean oxygen was released.
The child grabbed it, greedily inhaling. A woman staggered forward, tears in her eyes.
Mother: "Thank you..."
Erno nodded and moved on.
The wind picked up as he pulled his hood over the mask. His filter gauge flickered toward "Empty."
No time to play hero... he thought to himself as he climbed a collapsed overpass. Beneath him stretched the Red Zone—silent, toxic, unforgiving.
Suddenly, his map caught the wind and danced out of his hand. It smacked against a rusted pole, revealing a fresh smear of red blood.
Erno froze.
A voice slithered through the air from an alley:
"Well, well... a fresh breather."
Three figures emerged from the shadows. Ragged armor, spiked masks leaking acid mist, twisted with menace. One cracked his knuckles; air barbs flickered around his fists. The third stood silent, ink-like tendrils curled from his sleeves.
Thug 2: "Bleak owns this zone! All the air is for the Harvesters to take."
Civilians shrank away. Erno's hand tightened on his mask strap. Reflected in the glass cracked lens: determination—and fear.
Is that so? Well, now I have no choice but to fight.
He stepped forward confidently.
Thug 2 (leaning in): "Before we rip that mask off your face… What's your name, punk?"
Erno's eyes glowed faint blue behind the cracked glass.
Erno (quiet, deadly): "Erno Linx."
He raised his chin.
Erno: "Remember it, cause I'll make sure you regret ever hearing it."
Ash swirled across the freeway as he squared up to the thugs. He was ready.
The first thug exhaled glowing green bubbles toward him.
Erno snapped on his mask and dodged. The bubbles exploded on the crumbling wall with a hiss.
In one close moment, a bubble burst near a terrified civilian's face.
Then the second thug swung. Air blades shredded rubble.
Spikes punched into the wall. Erno yanked a child back to safety.
Child: "Mister!"
Spikes whistled past his head.
The third thug raised his arms, ink tendrils curling outward, snaking around bystanders. Ghostly faces appeared in the inky coils, haunting and silent.
Erno gasped, clutched at his mask, his breath faltering.
"No, not now."
His chest tightened; he struggled for air. Coughs echoed. Civilians cried out.
Caption: Link Drawback, suffocation memory triggered.
His eyes reddened. Fog pressed inward with new intensity, pushing them all backward in a shuddering wave.
The world is constricted.
"I… can't… breathe…"
Then he slammed a hand to his chest. He exhaled, summoned strength. Moments later, a glowing purple dome of purified air burst outward around him.
Ironically silent.
The dome spread, clearing the toxic fog. Civilians gasped—color returning to pallid faces. Acid mist recoiled at the edge. The thugs staggered back, disbelief etched into their expressions.
Thug 1: "What the hell…?"
The first thug charged, but the acid bubbles burst harmlessly on the dome's surface. Erno sidestepped, tripping the attacker's legs.
The second thug swung again—spiked gusts whipped toward Erno. He raised a hand; compressed air deflected the attack.
The third thug lunged with ink tendrils, wrapping them around Erno's neck. In his mind, he saw his mother gasping, her face filled with panic.
Erno (thought): "No… not again!"
He grounded himself, calming overtaking panic. His mask glowed bright purple. A cyclone of wind and energy swirled around him.
Caption: Artifact Mode — Unlocked.
In an instant, Erno's mask and body fused. Purple symbols spun around him, and a tornado of purified air and spectral light erupted, shredding debris and fog alike.
A moment passed.
He thrust a palm forward. A blast wave—an Air Burst—exploded outward, breathing whispers of his mother's voice with it.
Thugs were hurled into rusted cars, crashing loudly. The third thug braced, pulling his ink close.
Erno's eyes glowed with determination—his breath now steady.
He swung again. Razor arcs of compressed air—Vapor Blade—sliced through lingering illusions.
The blade cut through the fog, revealing the thugs regrouping with acid and ink swirling in a storm of attacks.
Erno planted his feet, mask catching the toxic light. The gravity of his purpose settled: protect or perish.
Chains of fog erupted from the dome—Grief Chain. They snaked outward with smoky, living intent.
The chains bound all three thugs, slamming them into rubble and pavement.
In his mind, Erno heard one clear thought:
"Mom… I won't let you down."
Civilians cheered inside the dome, tears streaming, voices broken with gratitude.
"You can do it, you got this, kick their shitty butts."
Erno spun, summoning a massive tornado—Purge Cyclone. Shimmering blue fragments of memory swirled within it. Debris lifted. The battlefield was cleared.
Thugs screamed as they were caught in the cyclone. Erno's eyes burned brighter. His mother's voice whispered in the wind.
Then, just as swiftly, the cyclone collapsed. The thugs collapsed, unconscious and coughing. Civilians rushed forward.
Civilian: "You… you saved us, mister."
Erno staggered, breathing heavily. His mask flickered. A whisper drifted to his ears:
"Rest..."
Survivors formed a protective circle around him.
He looked down at the bound thugs, anger and sorrow etched across his face. He picked up a broken comm device from the ground.
"Why do they have a freaking comm device?"
With that, he limped away through the misty ruins. His cloak dragged behind him. The gas mask's lenses glinted in distant light.
Far away, atop a desolate ridge, the Cathedral of Bleak loomed—abandoned and twisted, relics bound by chains of trauma surrounded a dark throne.
Bleak sat, face hidden beneath stitched fabric. Eyes glowed a faint red. Fog coiled across the cold stone floor like fingers.
His fingers caressed a relic—a child's toy fused with sorrowful whispers.
Storm clouds gathered ominously above the cathedral.
Bleak (voice low, cold): "A new voice… for my choir."
Back in the Red Zone, Erno scavenged supply crates, gathered oxygen canisters, and shared water with survivors in a shelter. He slipped past Black Lung Guild scouts, jaw set, doubt flickering in his eyes.
He bandaged a wounded arm, civilians watching with respect and hope.
At last, he reached a ridge overlooking the faint glow of the White Ring city—a shining dome piercing the toxic haze.
Next stop: the White Ring.
His eyes, tired but resolute, reflected its light.
Beyond Erno, others stirred.
Jin Yoshi danced through crumbling halls, wristwatch flickering:
"I won't abandon him."
Mila Vacia watched from a rooftop, her pendant cold:
"What is... feeling?"
Kaia Rhéne knelt beside a broken journal, ink-stained and tearful:
"I must forgive myself."
Vexxie Drift laughed, harmonica weaving chaotic wind:
"I'll laugh... even if it kills me."
Silas Vein gripped his oxygen tank on a battlefield:
"Your breath... is your bond, but it is also your burden."
Across all distances, each felt a subtle pulse as Erno's Breath Zone awakened. A watch, a pendant, a journal, a harmonica, an oxygen tank—they all thrummed with life.
Each bore a look—focus, hesitation, determination, fear, quiet strength.
A map of Divided Earth unfurled in memory: White Rings gleaming, Gray Cities sprawling, Red Zones burning.
A world split—some breathing, others suffocating.
Erno stood before them all, resolute:
"Survive through pain... or sever all bonds."
He clutched his mother's mask.
"That's the way of life."
Behind him, Silas smiled softly as he watched. The storm over Bleak's cathedral grew wilder.
Erno looked skyward. Toxic clouds churned violently.
He braced himself:
"No more running from this, it's time to embrace it."
And then, a gathering storm exploded around him: swirling winds and shards of broken memories.
His eyes glowed fiercely.
Erno: "I fight... for those who can't."
The cliff trembled as he stood tall, cloak billowing, eyes burning purple fire. The toxic clouds above seemed to twist into faces—cries frozen in the wind.
Silent vow blazing in his gaze.
He inhaled, ready at last.