"Not all monsters are created. Some are simply memories that refused to stay dead." — Rudhana's Whisper, beneath the Fifth Rail
The road to Veilpoint was lined with trees that leaned toward each other, branches crossing like hands clasped in prayer. The fog grew thicker the closer they walked to the coast — a pale mist that smelled of iron and wet stone.
No birds.
No insects.
No wind.
Just the quiet dragging sound of something moving through the fog without footsteps.
Esya drew closer to Kabe without speaking.
He didn't need to ask.
He felt it too.
Ken and Reka walked slightly ahead, eyes narrowed, listening.
Hanazel's fingers hovered over her talisman seals.
Veilpoint emerged from the fog — but not as they remembered it.
Where once there were watchtowers, lanterns, fishing nets hung to dry — Now there were shards of memory, flickering like unstable images.
A house would appear solid one second —
Then fade into a chalk outline of itself the next.
The anchor was weakening.
Kabe's jaw clenched. "We move fast. No hesitation."
They entered the village.
And that's when they heard it —
The dragging.
The scraping.
The wet breathing.
Shapes rose from the fog.
Not corpses.
Not anymore.
Bodies twisted — like joints remembered different angles.
Skin pale like paper soaked too long in water.
Eyes empty — but not dead.
They recognized Kabe.
They recognized Esya.
They recognized all of them.
Not by identity —but by memory echo.
One creature shuddered —a fisherman Kabe used to train with.
"Kabe…"
The voice was mangled. Mouth too loose. Throat too torn to shape words properly.
"…did we survive…?"
Esya's breath hitched.
Just once.
Kabe didn't move.
Ken swallowed hard. Rudhana murmured inside him:
"This is the price of remembering a world that is being erased."
Hanazel formed a seal. "We have to put them to rest—"
"No."
Kabe stepped forward. His voice was steady.
Painful.
Human.
"We do this clean. No suffering. No hesitation."
The fisherman-creature reached toward him again.
"…We were…home…? Weren't we…?"
Esya whispered — voice trembling in the smallest way:
"They're not asking you.
They're asking the memory of you."
Ken drew his blade.
Rudhana's aura flared.
And the world shifted.
A distant sound echoed through the fog.
Not footsteps.
Not growling.
A low metal rumble.
Like a train running along rails that shouldn't exist.
The anchor was calling the Rift.
Rudhana's voice sharpened:
"If Veilpoint falls — the rewriting gains its first foundation."
Ken raised his sword.
Kabe lifted his.
Esya unfolded her parasol — seals igniting like pale golden sunrise.
Reka exhaled once — acknowledging the weight of what must be done.
Kabe whispered — for Esya's ears only:
"For our children. For the real world."
She nodded.
The creatures lunged.
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Battle — Atmosphere, Not Full Combat
Blades flashed.
Seals burned.
Rudhana's shadows spiraled around Ken, controlled but burning.
These creatures did not scream.
They did not rage.
They moved with the calm precision of beings who thought they still lived.
That made fighting them infinitely worse.
Kabe's sword cut clean.
He did not hesitate.
Not until —one of the creatures shifted shape mid-motion. They had seen that shape before.
A student from Harama.
A teenager.
Someone who used to greet Kabe politely every morning at the courtyard.
Esya's breath caught.
The student-creature smiled at Kabe.
A real smile — warm, hopeful.
"We made it home… didn't we… sensei?"
Kabe froze.
Just for a heartbeat. That was enough.
The creature moved — and Ken intercepted with a shoulder strike, knocking it back.
"Kabe."
Ken's voice was low.
Not scolding.
Not cold.
Human.
"You cannot save memories that are already rewritten."
Kabe closed his eyes.
Opened them again.
And this time —he did not hesitate.
One clean strike.
The body fell.
Esya reached for Kabe's hand — and this time he held her.
Strong.
Steady.
Unbreakable.
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The fog shifted.
A figure walked toward them.
Not zombie.
Not living.
Not Uhayyad either.
A silhouette wearing a half-mask of polished bone, holding a conductor's staff made of mirror-metal rails.
A Herald of the Rift.
Not the conductor.
But the one who prepares the stage.
Their voice flowed like a whisper through water:
"Welcome to the First Anchor of the Story Yet to Be Told."
Everyone drew weapons.
The Herald smiled beneath the mask.
"You are already too late."