A day and a night passed, a stretch of time Ren spent in meditative recovery within the grotto's healing influence. Under Kasai's watchful gaze, his physical strength returned, and the gnawing exhaustion in his spirit receded. He was ready.
Kasai, with a silent exertion of will, caused the water in his pool to swirl. A platform of thick, interwoven roots rose from the depths, bearing the unconscious form of the Hollow leader. The man was still wrapped in living, mossy vines, his breathing shallow, his face as pale and waxy as a corpse's. Shiro's potent attack, followed by the breaking of the Blight Heart, had cast him into a deep, magical stupor.
"He is ready," Kasai's voice filled the grotto. "But you must proceed with extreme caution, Ren-Guardian. The mind of a true Hollow is not like the minds of other men. It is a trap. They have emptied themselves to make room for the void. To enter it directly is to risk being lost in its nothingness."
"I will not enter his mind," Ren replied, his voice firm with a newfound understanding of his own abilities. "I will listen to his magic. My scar… it feels their energy. Perhaps I can use it to understand him."
A feeling of ancient approval emanated from the Great Turtle. "A dangerous but wise path. To use the poison as the key to its own undoing. I will shield you with the life of the Weald. Your serpent companion will be your anchor to what is real. But the journey into that darkness is one you must take alone."
Ren approached the bound figure. Shiro, sensing his master's intent, coiled tightly around his arm, a warm, living bracer. Kasai rested his colossal head on the edge of the platform, and a faint, emerald aura of protective energy enveloped the space around Ren. Taking a final, steadying breath, Ren reached out and placed his hand not on the man himself, but on the living root that lay across his chest.
He closed his eyes and opened the gate to the scar.
He did not push his consciousness forward. He simply let the cold resonance of the blight within him reach out, seeking its like. The connection was instant. He was not pulled into a landscape of memories, but into a place of chilling, geometric emptiness. He felt as though he were floating in a silent, starless void, surrounded by the faint, echoing whispers of the Unraveling. It was a place devoid of emotion, of warmth, of life—a place of perfect, horrible peace.
The temptation to simply let go, to dissolve into the silent tranquility, was immense. It was the core of the Hollow's power: the promise of an end to all struggle.
Just as the allure of the void began to pull at him, he felt a sharp, defiant pulse of warmth from his arm—Shiro. It was a fierce assertion of being, a reminder of connection, of loyalty, of life. Anchored by that feeling, Ren pushed past the tempting silence and began to search the darkness.
Suddenly, the emptiness recoiled. A wave of pure, concentrated despair, a psychic defense, washed over him. He was slammed with feelings of utter futility, the crushing certainty that his quest was meaningless, that all life was a brief, pointless flicker destined for eventual silence.
But he had faced this before. In the glade, in his final trial, he had stared into this same abyss. He clung to the warmth of Shiro's presence and the memory of the Eldest's wisdom and Olthann's courage. He did not fight the despair; he weathered it, letting it wash over him like a cold wave, his own small, stubborn light refusing to be extinguished.
As the wave receded, he found what he was looking for. A memory, stored not in a mind but in the very fabric of the blight magic itself.
The scene bloomed in the darkness. He saw through the prisoner's eyes, kneeling in a vast hall carved from black, volcanic rock. Before him sat a throne, and on it, a figure. The figure's form was shrouded in deeper shadow, its face completely hidden, but its presence was a vortex of immense power and cold, ancient intelligence. This was the "Lord" the prisoner had spoken to. Ren could feel the prisoner's absolute, fanatical devotion.
Behind the throne, a vast star-chart was etched into the wall, but it was a map of their world. He saw the Redwood Weald, now marked with a symbol of failure. He saw the Ashen Mire. And he saw another, much brighter mark, pulsing with future intent, over a jagged, harsh mountain range far to the east. The Iron Peaks.
The memory was so vivid, so potent, that it triggered a backlash. The connection snapped. Ren was thrown backward, stumbling away from the prisoner, gasping as if he had just surfaced from a deep dive. He was shivering, the cold of the void still clinging to him.
"You have returned," Kasai's voice was a comforting balm. "What did you see?"
Panting, Ren described the throne room, the shadowed Master, and the map. "They have other targets. Their next great effort… it's in a place called the Iron Peaks."
He had done it. He had stared into his enemy's soul and stolen a secret. The victory in the Mire was complete, but he now held the knowledge of where the next battle must be fought. The war, he knew, had just gotten much, much bigger.