The walls of the catacombs were smooth, almost polished, but there was something unsettling about them.
If you raised your hands, your skin would tingle, as if you were touching something that had once been tasted but had long since dried up. The air was filled with silence, heavy and suffocating, making it difficult to breathe.
"Who has been here?"
Ikai Liu continued walking, his footsteps echoing in the darkness.
The floor was covered with handprints, small, large, and broken. They were everywhere, like a silent plea for help that went unanswered.
There were no signs of a struggle, no traces of violence or panic.
Only touches – thousands of touches. It seemed that they had died here in silence, but they had asked at least the wall to remember them.
The handprints seemed to tell a story of despair and hope. Some of them were faint, barely visible, while others were deeply etched into the stone.
These were the only traces that remained after him, the only evidence that someone had been here before him.
He felt a chill run down his spine as he imagined the faces behind those hands, the voices that had once filled the catacombs with sound.
But now there was only silence. And handprints. Thousands of them, like a ghostly choir whispering the secrets of the past.
He crouched down and placed his hand on the stone.
And he heard.
"I breathed here..."
"I waited... I asked... Not for myself, for someone else. He didn't come."
"I was a carrier."
"But I wasn't a star. I didn't make it. I stayed here. To forget who I am."
Ikai recoiled.
"It doesn't feel like an Echo, or a thought. It's a mark... of breath. An emotion burned through stone?"
He ran his fingers over another hand.
There were burn marks on her fingers. There were heat stains, as if someone had tried to pull the star out but couldn't.
"There are more of them than the map shows..."
Even though he had goosebumps, he decided to keep going.
Ikai slowly made his way forward, the sand sticking to his feet as if it didn't want to let go. The air here wasn't just dry; it was old, filled with a scent that couldn't be described in words.
It was a smell that preceded death, a smell that was in the air but not a part of it.
"Why am I here again? Underground again. Always underground. Even before I die, I'm already burying myself in silence. Who am I now, a guest or a corpse?"
The passage led him into a hall that was domed, with a crumbling ceiling. There was no light, only his own footsteps, barely discernible in the dust.
And the walls... no, not the walls. Shapes. Rows of wax petrified sculptures praying to someone.
The stone figures are kneeling, their heads bowed. Their hands are outstretched, as if in prayer, but there is no one to address.
He stopped.
Inside Ikai Liu, a sense of unease grew, a tension, as if the very air around him was watchful of his every move.
"All these statues are bowed. From the bottom of their heads. And I am the only one standing wrong. Someone will surely not leave this unnoticed."
He took a cautious step forward. One of the frozen figures suddenly sighed.
The sound was distinct.
A subtle, barely perceptible… before it reached him.
Her chest rose slightly, a moment before he took a breath.
Ikai froze. Not a single movement.
But the sculpture, with a crackling sound of sand, exhaled slowly, as if repeating his own gesture.
"No. That's not right. She didn't 'repeat.' It was me… repeating her. "
Ikai Liu was backing away.
His breathing was short and ragged.
She moved forward again, as if responding to his fear.
He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling his heart beating into an empty space. This gesture was not just an instinctual movement, but a manifestation of his deep inner turmoil.
His heart seemed to be trying to break free from the confines of his chest, beating in unison with the questions that plagued his mind.
"Is this a mirror? Or am I no longer myself? What if everything I do is pre-programmed by someone? Something? This star... does it breathe before I do?"
These thoughts whirled around in his head like a whirlwind, leaving nothing but emptiness in their wake. Ikai Liu felt like water flowing through his fingers, losing its shape.
Was he the author of his own life, or was he just a puppet being pulled by the invisible strings of fate? The star shining in the sky seemed like a living being to him, sensing his presence, as if it had been breathing before him, witnessing his doubts.
The figure beside him tilted his head, and at that moment, a strange feeling gripped him.
The gaze was absent, stone-like. However, the feeling was alive, like the warm breath of the wind on a cold day.
It wasn't the warmth of a body, but something more - a presence that reminded him of something important. It seemed as if someone, perhaps something, was watching him through the eyes of this statue, observing his inner struggle.
He began to speak, his voice quiet, tinged with uncertainty, as if every word could touch an invisible barrier.
"Who are you?"
In response, there was silence. It was deafening. Every moment was drawn out like a spider's web, piercing the space between them.
And the silence echoed his voice again. But just a little earlier. This phenomenon seemed to defy logical explanation.
It was as if... the answer was ahead of the question, as if the universe knew his thoughts before he could put them into words. In that moment, he felt that time had become relative here.
"It's not just a place. It's a loop, entangled in its own dimensions. A reflection. Someone was here before me. Someone is me. Only... different. Early broken."
"Should I search this place?"
Among the painted walls, clay-strewn passageways, and empty niches where bodies might once have lain or only their shadows could, Ikaj came across a leather cover.
Dry, cracked, as if dried by the heat of someone's hopeless prayer.
He slowly picked it up. My fingers were shaking. It was as if this diary was also breathing, but from the inside.
On the first page:
"I am the Ninth. But I was wrong."
I've been looking at this inscription for a long time.
The author's hand seemed to have left not ink, but fear, absorbed into the skin of the page.
He turned the page over.
"A star is not a tool. Not power.
These are the ashes of the will.
Everything we take in doesn't disappear.
Each of us is a vessel. But a vessel for whom? For what?"
Ikai was reading slowly.
The pages were like footsteps on forgotten graves.
"I heard their voices. Not words. Just echoes.
Someone was calling my name, but it wasn't my name.
It was who I had become.
We don't die. We dissolve.
Impulse. Echo. Wave.
We become parts of the star itself."
He looked away, unable to comprehend the gravity of what was happening.
"So they're all... here. The wax figures haven't disappeared."
He said, as if each of these words were not just a phrase, but a heavy burden that he had to carry.
"If the Ninth is right, then it means that each carrier is not just a memory, but an extension of the star that shines in the sky. It is more than just an individual experience. It is the sum of all the mistakes, decisions, and victories that have shaped their existence."
Memory, will, and error. These three elements intertwine to create a multifaceted world where everyone has a role to play. This is not just a philosophical concept; it is a reality that he must face.
"I made a mistake because I thought I could remain myself…"
"But the star... it wants to be whole. It brings us together, even if we don't want to."
"Each new host is more than just a vessel. He is a composite of feelings."
"I feel those who came before me."
"Some of them whisper. Some of them shout."
"One is silent, but looks."
Ikai closed the diary.
And everything inside became heavy.
"So you've heard them too. You weren't silent."
He ran his hand over the last lines, almost erased.:
"If you're reading this, you're already absorbed.
But maybe it hasn't been dissolved yet.
Maybe you won't be their voice... but their choice."
The thin cracks on the walls, like the delicate scars of time, echoed, repeating:
"... choice..."
Ikai stood up, feeling his heart beat faster. In that moment, he realized that the star veiled in his soul was not just watching him. It was longing for his honesty. It was waiting for the words that would be the first in their long conversation.
A faint light filtered through the thick clouds, gently illuminating his face. He felt the warmth of this light enveloping him from within.
Every word he uttered would be more than just a sound. It would be a manifestation of his inner world, his hopes and fears. He understood that silence was not just a lack of words. It was a barrier that prevented him from expressing himself.