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Author Note:
' ' = When thinking in mind.
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Kaelthorn: Uh…
With effort, Kaelthorn's eyes cracked open. His breath came slow, shallow. The memories of that last battle surged like echoes of thunder through his body — hundreds of Infected swarming in suffocating waves, his broken spear crunching against bone, his knife black with coagulated blood. Even for him, it had been too much. After staggering back to the rooftop, he had locked himself in the shed, collapsed against the wall, and let darkness claim him.
But what greeted him now was not the shed.
Above stretched an impossible sky — a dome of swirling, bruised cloudstuff cracked open by veins of golden light. Thin mist bled through those fractures, filtering downward like sacred smoke. Whispers threaded through the golden haze, faint yet insistent, like countless voices half-buried beneath the world itself. The tones were fractured, broken, never fully forming words. A symphony of dread masquerading as prayer.
He stiffened immediately. Instincts sharpened. His body tensed as though an enemy lurked just beyond his peripheral vision. Slowly, he pushed himself upright and scanned the space.
What he saw made his expression darken.
The ground beneath his boots was stone, rough and unyielding, carved into an endless, perfect circle. The air smelled of dust and nothingness, thick and hollow. Silence pressed down on his ears until even the rhythm of his own pulse seemed like an intruder.
'Kaelthorn: …This place.'
Recognition snapped into him like lightning. He had been here before. This was the circle — the void realm that had been his prison. The place where he had endured nearly a hundred thousand years of endless nothing before clawing into the Apocalypse world. It was unmistakable. The same barren expanse. The same eternal loop.
The only difference: there was no longer that abyssal devouring darkness.
He tested the truth. Moving forward, he walked to the edge. The moment his foot crossed the boundary, reality folded with unnatural elegance — the world warped in silence and spat him back to the centre. Again, again. A perfect, infinite loop.
Kaelthorn's jaw tightened. He was back.
But before his thoughts could settle, the world ruptured with light.
At the centre of the circle, brilliance ignited. A burst of golden-white so intense that Kaelthorn flinched and raised an arm to shield his eyes. His vision swam in brilliance, his instincts screaming with raw dissonance — neither danger nor safety, but something far stranger.
When the glare receded, he lowered his arm and saw it.
The Tree.
Its trunk was pallid, twisted, and bone-white, splitting into thorned branches that curved upward like frozen ribs. From its roots pulsed veins of crimson light, pumping like arteries across the stone. Hanging beneath those roots were teardrops of crystal, scarlet and translucent, trembling as though they were alive. Above, the canopy was fractured and shifting, branches tangled with veins of shadow that refracted into fractal patterns — never still, never repeating. From its heart emanated a golden glow, rising and falling like the breath of a living titan.
Kaelthorn: The Hollow Core.
The words slipped out in a breath, heavy as an oath.
This was it — the last thing he had glimpsed before being hurled out of this prison world. Now here it stood in its whole, grotesque majesty. A monument of both divinity and despair.
His gaze locked onto it, transfixed. But then…
A voice.
???: Kael…
It was so soft, so fragile, that it broke through his armour like a blade through silk.
Kaelthorn's body jolted violently, his heart thundering against ribs that rarely remembered such a sensation. He turned — stiff, mechanical — as if the act of looking required shattering his own will.
And there she was.
A woman stood behind him, her figure framed against the impossible sky. Her hair spilled in silver waves that shimmered faintly, as though catching light that wasn't there. Her eyes — amber, luminous, wide — trembled with emotion so raw, so boundless, Kaelthorn found himself staggered. Pain. Relief. Longing. Regret. All clashing within her gaze until it felt like the weight of centuries bore down on her fragile frame.
Every step she took toward him was careful, reverent, as though she feared the ground itself might fracture and swallow her before she could reach him.
Kaelthorn didn't move. Couldn't. His body, normally precise and obedient, felt shackled by an invisible force.
When she finally stood before him, her trembling hand lifted, hesitated for the briefest second, and then touched his face.
Kaelthorn's composure shattered. His body quivered at the warmth of her fingers. For the first time in a thousand eternities, his cold armor cracked. His walls fell. A tidal wave of feelings — long-buried, long-denied — surged within him like a dam breaking.
Tears glistened in her eyes before falling freely, carving fragile lines down her cheeks.
???: I never thought… I would see you again, Kael.
Her voice fractured.
His throat tightened painfully. His memory clawed and failed — he couldn't recall her face, her story. Yet something deeper than memory, something etched into the very marrow of his existence, screamed recognition. It was undeniable. It was hers.
His lips parted. A name, heavy as fate, emerged like a truth that could not be silenced.
Kaelthorn: Io.
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Pic:
The Hollow Core
Io
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A few minutes later.
Kaelthorn and Io walked in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly on the strange stone-carpeted ground. The cloudy dome above them seemed to breathe in rhythm with their steps, cracks of golden mist splitting and sealing like a living wound in the sky. Every time the light surged, faint whispers threaded through the air, voices too soft to parse, but heavy enough to drag at the mind. The air itself pulsed, as though unseen veins fed this realm with some ancient lifeblood.
They walked hand in hand. Io's delicate fingers intertwined with Kaelthorn's, guiding him forward as though she were leading him through a half-forgotten dream. He followed without resistance, though every instinct in him screamed to never let his guard fall.
After a time, Io's soft voice broke the silence.
Io: You don't remember, do you?
Kaelthorn's crimson eyes flickered, their glow dimming slightly. His jaw tightened. Silence stretched for several heartbeats before he finally answered.
Kaelthorn: …Yeah. I neither remembered my past, nor… about you.
Her expression did not falter. She smiled faintly, not in sadness but in something closer to relief.
Io: It's fine. Some memories are not worth remembering.
The words sank deep, heavier than they should have been. Kaelthorn stopped for a breath, staring into her eyes, searching for meaning. No matter how hard he tried, his memories remained locked away. And yet… feelings lingered. Buried emotions rose like embers stirring in ash. Even without memory, there was a resonance between them—an invisible thread. He distrusted everything by nature, every soul he met. But now, with Io, even his sharpened instincts told him something impossible: she could be trusted completely.
It unsettled him more than comforted him.
His gaze slid across her figure, studying her in full, almost mechanically—her pale, flawless skin, her hourglass shape, the torn gown shimmering faintly in the golden haze, the silver claws glinting like moonlight on her fingers, her cloak and adornments marked with jewels and etchings that seemed older than language. Every detail of her appearance was etched sharply into him, as though his eyes remembered what his mind could not.
Finally, he gathered his voice.
Kaelthorn: Io…
Io: Hmm? What is it, Kael?
Her amber eyes shone warmly, though they carried an undertone of exhaustion that only made them more striking.
Kaelthorn: …What am I doing here?
It was the question that gnawed at him since opening his eyes. He had escaped this eternal circle once, clawed his way back to a broken world less than a year ago. Now, he was here again. This place was not just a prison, it was a scar on his soul. To find himself back in its orbit twisted something deep inside him.
Io's answer came gently, but it landed like a blade.
Io: You died, Kael.
Kaelthorn froze. The word reverberated, echoing louder than the whispers in the mist. His mind replayed the last hours: the endless horde, the bodies he cut down, the blood he absorbed, the door he locked, the shed where he closed his eyes. He had made sure none survived the slaughter. None could have struck him down unnoticed.
Not the infected.
Not the four girls—fear was carved too deep into their souls. They would flee him long before they dared to strike.
So then… what killed him?
His reasoning spun sharp and fast.
'Kaelthorn: If not them, then someone from outside. Someone powerful enough to slip past my senses and end me in silence. But… no. Why am I concluding that? Could it be something else? Something inside me?'
The pieces aligned with brutal clarity. His fists clenched at the realization.
Kaelthorn: …Infection.
Io: Um. Exactly.
She tightened her hold on his hand and began walking again. Her voice was calm, steady, as though she had expected him to piece it together.
Io: Kael, ever since you arrived in that world, you have killed many infected and absorbed their blood. Each time, your body resisted the infection, yes… but resistance is not immunity.
The whispers above intensified briefly as she spoke, as if the very realm approved her words.
Kaelthorn's eyes narrowed. His voice was flat, but edged with grim recognition.
Kaelthorn: …When I fought that horde, they bit me again and again. Hundreds of infections at once… overwhelmed whatever resistance I had left.
Io: Yes. You were already at your limit when you reached the roof. By the time you entered the shed and closed your eyes to rest… You died.
The weight of it pressed down on him. Yet, when he flexed his fingers, when he looked down at his body, it felt unchanged—still strong, still alive.
Kaelthorn: It doesn't feel like I died. This is still my body. My real, physical body.
Io's amber eyes softened, almost sorrowful.
Io: Who said you would die if you were killed?
Kaelthorn's expression flickered, a rare confusion breaking through his cold mask. Io's voice dropped to something deeper, like a ritual, like a truth woven into the marrow of the world.
Io: Kaelthorn… you are not human. You are a Revenant.
She tilted her head slightly, her silver hair brushing her cheek.
Io: Or maybe… something beyond even that. A New-Type Revenant.
She shook her head, dismissing unspoken thoughts, and her tone grew quiet again—gentle, but absolute.
Io: As a Revenant, death only comes if your heart is utterly destroyed. As long as it endures, you will return here. Again and again.
The whispers in the dome faded into silence, as if the realm itself was listening. Kaelthorn's crimson eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the Hollow Core's golden veins. He said nothing. He didn't need to. For the first time in a long time, he understood something about what he was—something both liberating and horrifying.
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The Hollow Core loomed at the circle's centre, its pale, thorn-riddled branches swaying soundlessly in a wind that did not exist. Each pulse of its glowing roots seemed to resonate with Io's words, as though the tree itself acknowledged what was spoken.
Io: Revenants are ageless immortals, maintaining youthful form and peak physical health indefinitely.
Her voice echoed faintly in the golden haze that swirled overhead, and Kaelthorn noticed how the mist above rippled like disturbed water each time she revealed a truth.
Io: But you, Kael… you are something beyond them. That's why I called you a New-Type Revenant.
She raised her slender hand, pointing toward the grotesque, bone-like tree in the centre. Its branches stretched upward like frozen screams, its translucent veins pulsing faintly.
Kaelthorn: The Hollow Core.
Io: Um. Unlike others of your kind, this… exists within you. The Hollow Core is not just symbolic. It is an organ. A biological truth, embedded in your chest and fused to your soul-dimension.
The crimson light in Kaelthorn's eyes flickered as he studied the monstrous tree, its roots curling and twitching like veins searching for prey.
Kaelthorn: So, it's a part of me.
Io: Yes. Entirely yours. This place is yours, Kael. No one else can step into this circle.
Her amber gaze softened, though her grip on his hand was firm, unyielding.
Io: And because of our connection, I am bound here. I cannot leave.
Kaelthorn's silence was long, broken only by the faint hum of the abyss around them. Finally, his voice emerged, low and deliberate.
Kaelthorn: Do you want to leave?
Io's answer came like a blade cutting through hesitation.
Io: No.
The refusal was absolute. The branches of the Hollow Core creaked faintly, shedding crystalline motes that dissolved into the mist as if affirming her vow.
Kaelthorn's brow furrowed slightly.
Kaelthorn: Why?
Io stepped closer, her silver hair drifting in the golden haze like strands of liquid moonlight. She looked directly into his crimson eyes, her expression radiant with a conviction that made the air itself vibrate.
Io: Because outside is chaos. Here, you are anchored. When the world devours you, when despair gnaws at you, you can return. I will always be here. This place is your sanctuary. And I… will be your home. Forever.
For a moment, Kaelthorn felt the hollowness inside him stir—an unfamiliar weight pressing on his chest. The conviction in her voice stripped away his cold barriers, if only for a heartbeat. He said nothing.
The silence stretched until Io finally pulled gently on his hand, leading him toward the abyss at the circle's edge.
Io: Before I tell you more about the Hollow Core, I must tell you the truth of your strength. Revenants do not live by flesh alone. Their source of power is Ichor.
Her words seemed to vibrate through the ground beneath their feet. Kaelthorn glanced down, noticing faint glowing lines snaking through the stone, converging toward the Hollow Core's roots as if feeding it.
Io: Ichor is divine blood, ethereal fuel. It is the marrow of your supernatural might. As Revenants rise in Rank, Ichor reshapes their very existence.
She gestured forward.
Io: Look, Kael. Concentrate on the abyss.
Kaelthorn's gaze locked on the endless void. At first, there was nothing. Then—like the surface of water breaking—golden light bled through. A vortex appeared, a swirling basin of faint gold about ten meters wide, rotating with a silent gravity. Its shimmering light reminded him of the motes he had seen after every kill—those fragments that had always entered him.
Io's voice was reverent.
Io: This is the truth of death. Those motes are Haze. They are not absorbed into your flesh, Kael—they are drawn here, into your Hollow Core.
Kaelthorn: Haze…
Io: Haze is the ash of divinity. The remains of what could have been. Every life leaves behind a residue of possibility. And you… You consume it. This place condenses their remnants into these nebula-like vortices.
The vortex pulsed brighter as she spoke, and Kaelthorn felt a thrum pass through his bones, a resonance he could not ignore.
Io: That is what fuels your growth, Kael. That is what makes you ascend.
Together, they walked back to the Hollow Core. Its roots writhed faintly as though sensing their approach, the crimson pods hanging like crystallized blood weeping from wounds.
Io: Have you wondered why you have never hungered since you arrived in that broken world?
Kaelthorn: I concluded it was the blood of the Infected. Their blood restored my strength. But if you raise this question now… it means the truth lies here, in this tree.
Io: You're right. The blood you consumed restored your Ichor, healing your strength and fatigue. But hunger—no. They never quenched that.
She stopped before the Hollow Core. The ground beneath their feet pulsed, veins of golden light spreading outward like a heartbeat.
Io: Even Revenants feel hunger, Kael. And when denied sustenance, they turn… they become Lost.
Kaelthorn: Lost?
Io's amber eyes flickered with something unspoken.
Io: Not yet. You'll understand in time. For now, know this—Revenants feed on blood. Not the blood of corpses, but the blood of the living. Dead blood only sharpens the hunger.
Her hand rose, pointing to the tree. The crimson pods hanging from the branches throbbed faintly, pulsing with soft light.
Io: There is another way. Blood Beads. These are crystallized Ichor, pure and sustaining. They carry memory, fragments of lives long gone. They do not make you stronger, but they hold your thirst at bay. Unlike human blood, they dissolve within you without drinking.
Kaelthorn's eyes narrowed at the pods, his instincts tugging faintly as if to reach for them.
Kaelthorn: So this Hollow Core produces them.
Io: Yes. Usually, Revenants scavenge the world for bloodsprings, plants that produce Blood Beads. They are rare. Precious. But you—your Hollow Core produces them. It senses your hunger before it devours you. It sustains you.
Her hand slid against his cheek, warm, grounding.
Io: That, Kael, is why you are not just another Revenant. You are something new. A New-Type.
The Hollow Core trembled faintly at her words, and the crimson pods glowed brighter, as if in agreement.
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After giving Kaelthorn time to digest the flood of revelations, Io's voice softened, almost like silk gliding through the oppressive silence of the Hollow Core.
Io: Kael, while The Hollow Core can produce Blood Beads, they are not free gifts. Just as plants require minerals, sunlight, and water to grow, The Hollow Core requires fuel. That fuel… is Haze.
Her gaze flicked toward the reservoir at the edge of the circle, where faint golden motes drifted in spiralling eddies. The glow seemed alive, swirling in nebula-like helices, as though holding the memories of countless things that had been extinguished.
Io: The Haze you gather when you kill is not swallowed into the tree. Instead, it comes into this reservoir. And here it lingers, until you will it to move.
Kaelthorn's expression sharpened, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly.
Kaelthorn: So, "The Hollow Core" can't consume it by itself. It waits for my command.
Io: Exactly. Because Haze is not simple energy. It is possibility. Potential. Destiny undone and rewritten. And it has many uses.
Her amber eyes turned back to the pale, twisted branches of the Tree. Its thorns glistened faintly, its roots pulsing with veins of dull light.
Io: When you will it, the reservoir feeds into the Tree. But you must decide what becomes of it. It can strengthen the Tree itself, it can crystallize into Blood Beads, or it can unlock new thresholds—Elemental Control, or Gifts.
Kaelthorn's jaw tightened at the sheer scope implied.
Kaelthorn: That many paths…
Io: Yes. Each carries weight. Enhancements fortify your foundation. Blood Beads, you already know, are sustenance. Elemental Control is raw dominion over primal forces. And Gifts…
She let her words trail, her voice lowering as if reverence demanded silence first.
Io: Gifts are different. Gifts are the rewriting of rules. Where Elemental Control bends elements to your will… Gifts let you impose your own logic upon them. Reality itself trembles at a Gift properly used.
A faint gleam cut across Kaelthorn's eyes, his mind already calculating.
Kaelthorn: Manipulation versus rewriting. I see. And the elements?
Io: Four, waiting within you. Blood. Fire. Ice. Lightning. Each locked, each demanding Haze to awaken.
He folded this into the endless calculations of his mind. Fire promised devastation. Ice—restraint, binding. Lightning—precision, speed, the art of overwhelming force. Blood… the deepest tie, the reflection of his own nature.
Io's fingers tightened against his, pulling his attention back.
Io: And Kael, the reservoir should be emptied. Now.
His gaze slid to the golden whirlpool again.
Kaelthorn: Why press urgency?
Io's expression lost its softness, hardening with warning.
Io: Because Haze does not rest forever. When the reservoir overflows, it bleeds. And when it bleeds, it corrupts the world outside. Ghost-whispers, flickering lights, warped hours looping over themselves. Reality-bending, not by your will, but by accident. Do you understand? You would draw attention before you are ready.
Kaelthorn's frown deepened. Another layer of constraint, another problem clawing into an already dangerous world. Still, his voice remained level.
Kaelthorn: The Tree already has Blood Beads in abundance. More would be excess. Elemental Control and Gifts hold promise, but untested. For now, strengthening the core foundation makes the most sense.
To his surprise, Io shook her head softly, silver hair spilling around her like liquid moonlight.
Io: Not yet. Kael, to reach the next Rank—to advance the Core—you will require ten times the Haze you hold now.
Kaelthorn: …Ten times.
Even his iron tone strained at that number. Hundreds of Infected had filled the reservoir. Hundreds—and the battle had torn him apart. Ten times that meant thousands. An ocean of corpses, oceans of risk.
Why so much?
The thought lanced through him cold and sharp.
Io's eyes fixed upon him now, no softness left, only a steady amber fire.
Io: Kael, listen carefully. This is more important than the rest.
He met her seriousness with silence, his body coiled, every instinct ready.
Kaelthorn: I am listening.
Io: You no longer remember your past. But your knowledge remains. Think—books. Tales of power. Magic, mana, aura, bloodlines, qi, chakra…
Fragments stirred in Kaelthorn's mind. Half-remembered pages. Words on paper. Concepts of power etched into his memory though detached from his past life. He gave a slight nod.
Kaelthorn: Yes.
Io: Then you already know. Every system augments something. Mana swells sorcery but leaves the body fragile. Bloodlines gift strength, but not always will. Each raises a part of being, but never the whole.
Her eyes drifted again to the looming Tree.
Io: But you, Kaelthorn, are different. You've felt it already. Stronger. Faster. Sharper. Your instincts more honed. Your calculations more precise. You were never weak, but you were never… this.
Her voice lowered, reverent, as though naming something forbidden.
Io: Your system isn't bound. It does not favor one piece of you. It reaches all. Strength, endurance, agility, speed. Senses, will, instinct, perception. Soul. Even the dimensional threads themselves.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, as though the circle itself was listening. Io's final words fell like a blade.
Io: Whoever designed this… did so with only one goal. To create…
Kaelthorn's crimson eyes glowed faintly as he whispered, finishing her thought.
Kaelthorn: A Perfect Being.
Io: Exactly.
The silence after Io's words thickened until even Kaelthorn's breath felt like it weighed too much.
His crimson eyes flared faintly, casting thin reflections of bloodlight across the pale thorns of the Tree. And then—something shuddered in him. Not memory, not knowledge, but recognition.
It began as a prickle at the base of his neck, the slow rise of every hair on his body, as though unseen fingers dragged along his spine. His pulse did not quicken—it slowed, steadied, as if some deeper instinct was commanding silence before a predator.
A phantom pressure brushed the edges of his mind. Not voice, not word—merely the impression of an overwhelming presence. Familiar, achingly familiar. Like a shadow cast behind his thoughts, one that had always been there, watching, waiting.
Every fibre of his being screamed acknowledgement. His instincts—the same instincts honed in countless battles and reforged in the abyss of the Dark Multiverse—knew without doubt: this was the one.
The one who had shaped the lattice of his power. The architect of his becoming.
And yet, no name came. No face, no voice. Only that overwhelming familiarity pressed against his soul like a weight he could not lift. The more he reached for it, the further it slipped, like smoke sliding through clenched fingers.
The recognition was absolute. The truth, elusive.
Kaelthorn's jaw tightened, his glowing eyes narrowing against the unseen force.
Kaelthorn: …I know you.
But the abyss offered no reply. Only silence.
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Io: Kael?
Snapping out of his thoughts, Kaelthorn looked at Io, whose amber eyes were fixed on him with quiet worry.
Io: You became still all of a sudden. Are you okay?
Noticing the genuine concern in her voice, Kaelthorn realized she hadn't heard what had just slipped from his lips. Or perhaps… had he spoken aloud at all?
'Kaelthorn: Or did I only think it?'
He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
Kaelthorn: Yeah. Just thinking about what I'll use Haze for.
Io: I see… Though if you ask me, I would say you should unlock Elemental Control first.
Kaelthorn: Elemental Control, hmm? Why not Gifts?
Io: Because I know you, Kael. You're already planning to face the hordes again. Gifts are useful, yes, but Elemental Control changes the field itself. It makes the impossible just slightly less so.
Kaelthorn weighed her words. She had a point. Every decision here would ripple into the battles waiting outside. He closed his eyes, filtering through possibilities like a strategist laying out campaigns. Each element carried strengths, weaknesses, implications. Fire would scorch. Ice would restrain. Lightning would pierce. But one stood above all—more intimate, more fitting.
Kaelthorn: Blood. That will be my first element.
Io smiled faintly, unsurprised. She had sensed he would choose the one most bound to his nature.
Io: Then will it. Let the Haze flow.
Kaelthorn exhaled and focused. In answer, the reservoir at the far edge stirred. A golden stream of light uncoiled like a serpent rising from deep water. The radiance wound its way toward them, humming with potential. As it passed between Kaelthorn and Io, its shimmer cast fractured light across their faces—warm and alien all at once.
The stream merged into The Hollow Core. The tree shuddered faintly, its thorned branches vibrating as though waking from slumber. Then one branch twisted, gleaming, its bark turning the dark hue of clotted crimson. Vein-like patterns pulsed along it, and inside the wood flowed a sluggish liquid—thick, scarlet, alive.
The connection struck Kaelthorn like a spear through the skull. His knees buckled as he grabbed his head, jagged flashes of knowledge tearing into his mind. His body rebelled, skin prickling as though every vein had caught fire. He staggered, would have collapsed, had Io not immediately caught him in her arms.
Io: Kael!
Her voice sounded muffled to him. He could hear his own blood singing, could feel the lattice of this dimension pressing against his soul. It was then the pull began. A slow, inexorable gravity dragging him outward, as though reality itself were rejecting his presence.
Kaelthorn: Io… what… is… happening…?
He forced the words out through clenched teeth, every syllable grinding past the storm in his body.
Io held him tighter, her tone steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Io: Kael, this is your first time here as the true owner of this place. The Hollow Core is adjusting itself, shaping the dimension to align with you. Until then, it cannot hold you. It is… sending you away.
Kaelthorn: Do… I… need… to… die… again… to… return?
Io: No. Not anymore. From now on, you may return here once every month in your world's time. Use that span to gather more Haze. This place will await you.
Kaelthorn: I… see… Then—
His final word fractured into silence. With a violent wrench, Kaelthorn was torn from Io's arms, body dissolving like smoke snuffed by unseen wind.
For a moment, Io stood frozen, staring at the empty space where his presence had been. Her fingers still curled as if holding him. Then, slowly, she let them fall. She had lived in silence before, she could do so again. And she knew—he would come back. Always.
Her gaze lifted. Above the Haze Reservoir floated the Vein Mirror—a vast, translucent disk of blood-crystal rimmed with rootlike vines. Its surface rippled faintly, projecting soundless fragments of the outside world. Through it she could glimpse Kaelthorn's reality, watch his struggles, witness the paths he carved through nightmare. Every time he bled, her heart clenched. Every time he fought, she ached to be at his side.
But she would not shackle him. Io's lips curved into a faint, resolute smile.
Io: Go as far as you must, Kael… I will always be here. Waiting.
Her hand pressed lightly to her chest as she whispered it. The Hollow Core loomed behind her like a silent witness, its crimson vein-branch glowing faintly, as if acknowledging the vow.
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Opening his eyes, Kaelthorn saw the same familiar ceiling. For a moment, he lay still, letting his senses confirm reality. Then, with measured precision, he pushed himself upright and scanned the shed. No wounds, no broken bones, no trace of the battle that had nearly crushed him. His body was whole, unblemished—yet he could feel the difference within. The blood in his veins ran sharper, alive, something he could sense and command. That alone confirmed the truth: his time in The Hollow Core had not been a dream. Io, the tree, the knowledge—it had all been real.
'Kaelthorn: I really want to ask Io about the sword and the gun I saw there last time. Unfortunately, it threw me out. …I'll ask her when I return.'
He checked his belongings next, one by one. His phone, the slim power bank, the compact laptop, the old pocket watch—every item hidden under his cloak and suit was still there. Even the pistol, cold and familiar against his waist, remained intact. It reminded him of Io's words: nothing material entered The Hollow Core with him. Which meant these things had been cast aside during his stay and returned only when he did. A curious detail, but one to shelve for later.
He unlocked the shed door and stepped into the open.
WHOOSH!
The cold rooftop wind swept across him, catching the edges of his crimson-black cape, pulling it into the air like a living banner. He let it wash over him for a moment, savouring the contrast between that suffocating pocket dimension and the chill reality outside. Then his gaze swept downward. The schoolyard—once crawling with hundreds of Infected—now lay desolate and empty. Not a single shambling body remained. For the moment, the grounds were his.
A sharp intake of breath broke the silence. To his right, four figures stood frozen, their eyes wide. Wakasa Yūri, Ebisuzawa Kurumi, Takeya Yuki, Naoki Miki—watching him as though he were something alien. He knew why. An hour ago, they had seen him half-dead, shredded and bloodied beyond recognition. Yet now, he stood before them completely restored.
He had already checked the time on his phone: only an hour had passed since he entered the shed. But in The Hollow Core, hours had slipped by. Different clocks, different laws. The discrepancy explained their shock. To them, this was impossible. To him, it was only confirmation.
'Kaelthorn: One more task to complete before I move the equipment from the Mall.'
He didn't spare them another glance. His eyes remained fixed on the empty horizon as his voice cut through the air, calm and cold.
Kaelthorn: What do you girls plan to do now?
They flinched at the weight behind his words. For a few moments, no one answered. Finally, Wakasa Yūri bit her lip, gathering courage.
Wakasa Yūri: We… want to leave.
Her voice trembled, but she forced it out. The others nodded weakly beside her, avoiding his eyes.
Kaelthorn: I see.
There was no shift in his expression, no hint of judgment. He had already anticipated this outcome. Few would choose the shadow of a monster when the comfort of other survivors—or the illusion of safety under the military—seemed possible.
Kaelthorn: Where do you plan to go next?
Naoki Miki: Saint Isidore University.
Kaelthorn: And how do you plan to get there?
Ebisuzawa Kurumi: We… had the key to one of our teachers' cars. It was lost two months ago, but if we search carefully, we might find it.
Kaelthorn turned his head then, his gaze slicing through them like a blade. Their bodies stiffened, breaths caught. From his pocket, he drew a key and tossed it casually. Kurumi caught it instinctively.
Kaelthorn: This one?
Her eyes widened, staring at the small teddy-bear keychain dangling from it.
Ebisuzawa Kurumi: That's… it. How did you…?
Kaelthorn: Picked it up on the way.
He had found it on the second floor after clearing the infected there. The shape alone told him it was a vehicle key. A tool to pocket, nothing more.
At the sight of the key, Yuki whispered a name—"Megu-nee"—and grief flickered across all their faces. For a moment, silence reigned, heavy and fragile. Then Yūri stepped forward, bowing low.
Wakasa Yūri: Thank you for everything, Mr. Lex.
The others followed her lead.
Ebisuzawa Kurumi: Yes… Thank you.
Naoki Miki: We won't forget this kindness.
Takeya Yuki: Thank you.
Their gratitude was sincere. Their trembling voices carried both relief and guilt. Kaelthorn regarded them for a long, unreadable moment, then turned without a word and disappeared into the shed. Unease crept into their expressions, as if fearing their thanks had been dismissed as meaningless. But when he returned, he carried the weight of a backpack. Without ceremony, he handed it to Yūri.
Kaelthorn: This contains a flashlight, hand sanitizer, lighter, bandages, eight packets of hardtack, eight canned foods, three bottles of water, and a Lifestraw purifier. Enough for your journey.
The four froze, trembling at the generosity of it. In this world, food and water were rarer than gold. He was handing them survival.
Yūri clutched the pack tightly, tears brimming.
Wakasa Yūri: Why?
Kaelthorn: I wonder.
His flat reply killed further questions. He walked to the railing and spoke again, his voice carrying absolute authority.
Kaelthorn: Come here.
Obediently, the girls approached. Before they could react, he seized Yūri and Kurumi by their waists and leapt from the rooftop.
Wakasa Yūri: Kyaa!!
Ebisuzawa Kurumi: Kyaa!!
Their screams echoed until, impossibly, their momentum slowed. Their feet touched the ground with the gentleness of a feather. They collapsed to their knees, gasping, terror still clinging to them.
Kaelthorn was already moving. In two powerful bounds, he scaled back to the roof. Miki and Yuki stood frozen, staring in disbelief. Without hesitation, he grabbed them both and descended again. Soon, all four were panting on the ground, sweat beading their foreheads.
Takeya Yuki: Uh… what was that for?
Kaelthorn: Do you want to walk through corridors filled with corpses, bones, and blood?
That silenced them.
Kaelthorn: One last thing. Don't trust any survivor you meet on the way.
Kurumi blinked, frowning at him.
Ebisuzawa Kurumi: Wha—Why?
Kaelthorn's gaze sharpened, like the edge of a blade catching light.
Kaelthorn: Because the Infected are not your only enemies in this forsaken world.
The words hung in the air like a noose. The four girls froze, each caught in their own storm of thought.
Yūri's eyes widened. Her heart thudded painfully, and her hand clenched the strap of the backpack Kaelthorn had given them. Don't trust survivors? For her, the idea was unbearable. She had always carried the burden of leadership, the fragile dream of keeping them together. If even other humans were enemies, then what was left? Her mind replayed all the times she had prayed for rescue—soldiers, relief teams, anyone. And now Kaelthorn had cut that hope down with a single swing of his voice.
Kurumi's reaction was sharper, colder. Her instinct was to trust her shovel more than any stranger anyway, but Kaelthorn's tone told her this wasn't paranoia—it was truth. He's seen it. He's lived it. He's done it. The image of him, drenched in blood, cutting down not just Infected but also humans, carved itself into her mind. A shiver traced her spine, not just from fear but from understanding. She could almost see it: people turning on each other for food, weapons, scraps. Monsters without infection.
Yuki, on the other hand, blinked rapidly, as if the words hadn't landed. Her childish denial rose like a shield.
Takeya Yuki: That can't be true… Survivors help each other. Heroes help people. Right?
Her voice cracked halfway, and she hugged herself unconsciously. But even as she said it, she couldn't forget the crimson glow in Kaelthorn's eyes when he had stepped through that roof door, dragging a broken spear through a river of corpses. He wasn't lying. He had done it.
Miki lowered her gaze, her lips pressed into a thin line. Of all of them, she accepted his words most quickly. She already distrusted strangers. She already knew what desperation could drive people to do. But hearing him say it—so casually, so certainly—was like having ice poured down her spine. If Kaelthorn killed survivors, then he did so without hesitation, without remorse. And if he believed they should do the same… did they have the strength to?
The silence stretched. Their breaths were shallow, their throats dry. The truth of his words pressed against them heavier than any visible threat.
Kaelthorn, meanwhile, had already turned his gaze back toward the horizon, cloak billowing faintly in the cold wind. His voice, flat and merciless, echoed back to them.
Kaelthorn: Desperation makes humans worse than the dead. Remember that.
The girls stood frozen, the truth cutting deeper than any blade.
A short time later, they left the school in a dented car—its engine still functioning despite the scars of abandonment. Kurumi rested her shovel across her lap, fingers tight around its handle, as if clinging to both a weapon and a memory. None of them spoke as the vehicle rolled past the empty grounds, but Kaelthorn's voice lingered in their minds.
And from that day on, every time they imagined meeting other survivors, fear came first—fear shaped by his warning.
.
.
.
Time went by.
Six months passed in silence, and the world outside Megurigaoka Private High School changed—though not in ways anyone could have imagined.
The school no longer stood as an open structure exposed to the wind, rain, and endless stares of the Infected. Instead, it had been encased, smothered within an enormous steel dome. A sphere of darkened iron, seamless and impenetrable, rose from the school grounds and curved high overhead. No gap allowed sunlight or air to enter. The outside world could no longer see in, and those inside could no longer see out. What had once been a school was now a fortress, swallowed whole by a metal womb.
Flatbed trucks, cranes, and other heavy vehicles stood abandoned on the grounds, silent witnesses to the titanic labour that had built this place. Their once-bright paint was stained with rust and dust, their beds still stacked with remnants of steel beams and reinforced plating.
This was Kaelthorn's work.
Instead of merely fortifying classrooms and doors, he had chosen to fortify the ground itself—to create an artificial shell that severed this piece of the city from the outside. It had taken him a month of calculation, drafting, revising, and discarding plans before he arrived at a design worthy of his standards. A structure that would allow no weakness. Within its layers, he embedded hidden cameras, air-purification vents, reservoirs for artificial rain, projectors for artificial sunlight, and even dormant weapon systems waiting for power.
But power was the one thing he withheld. All of it—every purifier, every emitter, every turret—remained dormant. He could have burned through batteries, could have siphoned makeshift energy to flicker life into the systems. Instead, he waited. The dome sat in darkness, a vast shell without breath or light, a husk ready for its time. For now, the fortress existed as potential, not promise.
The second month had been nothing but gathering. Kaelthorn scoured construction sites, lumber yards, equipment depots, and municipal stores. He stripped metal, commandeered machinery, scavenged welding fuel, and dismantled generators. The scavenging itself had been endless, a monotony of weight and haul, but necessary. Every beam, every plate, every bolt was accounted for. He left nothing to chance.
The next four months, he built. Alone.
Each day was labour and blood. The roar of machines echoed across abandoned streets—but he had already culled the nearby Infected, slaughtering them in silent waves so the sound of engines would not draw their kind. Their corpses became resources too: blood to sustain him, vessels to restore his strength when fatigue crept in. He worked without pause or rest. Whenever his body began to falter, he drank from the blood until it obeyed him again.
Piece by piece, plate by plate, the dome rose. The seams closed. The shell sealed. By the end of the sixth month, the fortress was complete—an iron night encapsulating all within.
No survivor stumbled across him. No military unit. Not even the variants Ren had written of in his notebook. The silence of those months was unsettling, yet convenient. Kaelthorn could only assume the horrors Ren had feared would come later. For now, he had carved out a hollow fortress in the corpse of a city, all by himself.
And when he finally stood beneath the sealed dome, surrounded by the faint hum of silence and the dormant promise of his fortress, Kaelthorn did not allow himself the weakness of pride.
He stared at the steel walls that now encased Megurigaoka Private High School, the monstrous sphere of iron that devoured all sunlight, air, and sky. To another, it might have seemed like sanctuary. To him, it was only the first line scratched into an endless battlefield.
'Kaelthorn: This dome is not safety. It is a coffin turned outward.'
He knew it was temporary. A shell. A barrier against what he had already foreseen. The Infected were not the true enemy. They were a tide—ceaseless, mindless, inevitable. But tides were never the end. Beyond them lurked the unknown: the Variants, the anomalies already stirring in the city, and whatever greater hungers haunted this world.
'Kaelthorn: Every wall crumbles. Every fortress falls. The question is not if… but when. And when the storm comes, this sphere will either hold long enough for me to sharpen myself… or collapse, burying me in its husk.'
His crimson eyes gleamed faintly in the dark, catching the dim reflection of steel. To the dome itself, to the fortress he had carved with his own hands, he gave no reverence. It was nothing more than a tool—useful, functional, expendable.
'Kaelthorn: This is not home. This is not hope. This is only the staging ground.
The staging ground for what was to come.
.
.
.
TAP!!
TAP!!
TAP!!
The rhythmic sound of keystrokes echoed inside the darkened shed. A faint glow illuminated Kaelthorn's sharp features — the light from his portable laptop screen, a cold halo in the surrounding void. His fingers moved with machine-like precision, opening one window after another: lines of code, blueprints layered with annotations, schematic drafts riddled with corrections, command shells filled with stark calculations.
The shed itself was suffocating with the weight of his obsession. The ground was buried beneath a sea of discarded papers — blueprints marked with thick red crosses, sketches violently crumpled into balls and tossed aside, calculations scribbled in haste and then abandoned. This was his war room, his crucible of design. The dome encasing the school — his fortress — had been born here, in this cage of ink, paper, and cold logic.
TAP!!
His fingers halted. A final command executed. A design saved.
Exhaling through his nose, Kaelthorn closed the laptop with deliberate care and slid it back under his cloak, hidden once more. He stood. The darkness greeted him as an old companion.
Outside the shed, the air was still — heavy, metallic, void of natural light. The steel dome that now swallowed the entire school had banished day and night alike. Inside was eternal shadow. Yet his crimson eyes cut through the dark with ease.
Leaping from the rooftop, he landed silently on the ground, cloak fluttering. Before him loomed the familiar school building, unchanged and decrepit beneath its new shell: shattered windows like broken teeth, walls still smeared with dried blood, doors scarred by barricades of rotting wood. Kaelthorn had not wasted time repairing it before. His first priority had been the dome — the fortress shell. Now that the outer armour was finished, the core could be reforged.
But first, the inspection.
He crouched at the base of the dome, pried open a small concealed hatch, and drew a thick black wire from the soil. From beneath his cloak, the laptop reappeared. He connected the wire.
At once, the screen lit with schematics — the dome itself, rendered in glowing lines of pale blue. A digital shell encased his fortress, every bolt, plate, and joint mapped in meticulous detail.
Kaelthorn's gaze swept across it all, eyes sharp, searching for imperfection. He traced the lines of steel like a surgeon reading veins. No cracks. No dents. No structural weaknesses. He did this every single day. It was not paranoia — it was survival. The dome was not simply a wall. It was the difference between existence and annihilation.
An hour passed in silence, broken only by the occasional shift of the cursor across the glowing screen. Finally satisfied, he disconnected the laptop, buried the cable back into the ground, and sealed the hatch.
His next task awaited.
One of the nearby trucks groaned open under his pull. Inside, stacked from floor to ceiling, lay corrugated steel sheets scavenged from countless construction yards. He dragged them out one by one, their weight meaningless against his enhanced body, and laid them across the dirt. A marker in hand, he began drawing precise lines, preparing the cuts.
'Kaelthorn: It's time to reinforce the school.'
.
.
.
Three months passed.
The transformation was absolute.
Where once stood a decayed ruin of learning, now loomed a fortress of steel and silence.
Ground Floor:
Every wall sealed in corrugated steel and reinforced concrete. Windows buried, leaving no glimpse of the outside. The entrance a monolithic slab of steel with a multi-lock system, camera feeds, and an intercom grid. Hidden micro-cameras blinked silently in the corners, all wireless, all feeding to a control hub in the library above. Stairwells were sealed with blast doors — rifle slots, reinforced hinges. The ground floor was no longer the heart of the school. It was bait. A sacrificial layer, meant to fall so the rest could endure.
First and Second Floors:
These were no longer classrooms. They were bunkers. Every hallway lined with hidden cameras, retractable spike traps waiting in choke points. Each room locked by heavy steel doors, padded to silence the desperate. Bulletproof one-way glass replaced shattered windows, giving sight outward but none inward. Inside each chamber: weapon racks, emergency supplies, panic bunkers. Rooms were islands — even if the hallway fell, each chamber could still hold.
The Roof:
The lifeline. The rooftop garden, once a fragile patch of soil, now encased in a dome of steel mesh. The shed had become a greenhouse, its walls of glass replaced by reinforced panes able to withstand storms and sabotage alike. Solar panels remained, though the water tanks had been sealed in steel. Barbed wire, hidden cameras, spike traps — every approach layered with pain and warning. The sky itself was caged.
The school was no longer a ruin. It was a citadel carved from fear, obsession, and necessity.
.
.
.
Kaelthorn stood at its edge, surveying his work. In darkness, the fortress radiated menace — a thing alive, breathing in silence.
But one piece remained unfinished.
He walked the length of the school, boots echoing against the steel ground, until he reached the backyard. There, a pit yawned open in the earth, carved with precision. He stood at its rim, staring down into the shadow.
'Kaelthorn: I wonder how long it would take before I can enter "The Hollow Core" and meet Io again.'
The thought lingered, cold as the air. Io had told him that he could enter that dimension once a month. Yet months had passed, and the Hollow Core remained silent. He knew she hadn't lied. It meant only one thing: the Hollow Core itself was still reshaping, molding itself to him. Adjusting for what he was becoming.
He exhaled, set the thought aside, and looked into the pit.
There lay the foundation of his next step. The true heart of his fortress.
'Kaelthorn: It's time to create a Reactor.'
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*A/N: Please throw some power stones.
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