Chrollo had been prepared for anything, but the sight that greeted him was far beyond his expectations.
In the distance, a vast black wall stood, smooth and ominous, devouring any light that dared to touch it. At first, he thought he had entered some new corner of the dream realm, and the wall was simply an unfamiliar sight. That was, until his mind flickered back to the later section of the Forgotten Shore arc.
The hunt for the First Lord's crown.
He now realized he was standing at the border of the Hollow Mountain and the Forgotten Shore. The cursed sea had already risen, but it posed no threat to Chrollo. After all, the sea wouldn't rush past a boundary that was no longer its hunting ground. This was the mist's domain.
"Wait... mist!"
Almost on cue, the all-consuming mist of the Hollow Mountain began to roll once more. Chrollo, only aware of this due to his [Danger Sense], felt a sickening unease settle in his stomach. It was as if something dreadful was drawing near.
Chrollo was stuck. His choices were limited—run into the cursed sea, or head toward the mountain, hoping to find the cave where the First Lord of the Dark City rested. Either path promised danger, but he had no other option.
Chrollo braced himself and broke into a mad dash toward the looming mountains. Their surfaces were too steep, almost seizure-inducing in their jagged, surreal design—impossible to climb and effectively trapping all Sleepers within the Forgotten Shore. But Chrollo's objective wasn't escape.
He was relying on his [Fated] attribute. It had a way of guiding the holder toward the most improbable outcomes—usually to Sunny's detriment in the novel, but Chrollo was willing to take whatever he could get.
Besides, he didn't have to worry about being immediately erased by the mist. He possessed a True Name, and that granted him a sliver of defense—a fragile thread of memory to anchor him, to keep him from forgetting himself.
"Seraph of the Silent Abyss" he began repeating in his mind, over and over, without a moment's lapse. A mantra to stay real.
At first, his thoughts were clear, the sound of his True Name ringing in his mind—but occasionally, he'd slip.
"Seraph of the Silent Abyss"
"Seraph Silent Abyss"
"Seraph of the Silent Abyss"
His feet pounded against the deadened ground, trampling over pale, brittle weeds—the final remnants of life, all drained and bleached by the mist's touch.
Soon, the terrain shifted. He recognized it from the novel—a place described as The Colosseum of Giants. That meant he was close. No—he was already there.
A few frantic breaths later, he found the entrance.
Without hesitation, he dove into the cave, abandoning the surface. His descent was clumsy, nearly slipping on the old wooden ladder, but he made it down. Safety, for now.
The mist did not follow. It couldn't reach in here. It had forgotten him.
****
He reached the bottom of the ladder and stepped into the mine. Its walls were lined with faded murals—ancient depictions etched by forgotten hands. But, going against Juliu's teachings, Chrollo ignored the history etched into stone. Survival came first.
Without delay, he summoned his Echo: [The Eclipsing Shade — Seraphine Vale].
From a ripple of pale light, she emerged—a slender, alabaster-toed beauty cloaked in eerie grace. Her eyes, dull and vacant, held no spark of soul or self. She was still a soulless being—no ego, no will. A haunting echo of what once was.
Wordlessly, he handed her the [Shroud of the Vanishing Star], the relic folding around her like a second skin, granting concealment and the means to stand guard.
Chrollo had already decided on his next steps.
He would train.
Refine his Nen principles. Sharpen his conjuration. Hunt and manoplaise on his conjured Nen beasts—each kill potentially granting him a memory, or even another Echo. Every success might also feed into the evolution of his [Mawtouched Carapace], bolstering its defensive strength and enhancing his odds of surviving this place.
And if fortune favored him, those same kills might count toward awakening his Berserker Hatsu
"Well… ain't nothing else to do."
Chrollo exhaled slowly, settling into a cross-legged position on the cold stone floor. The silence of the cave was thick, broken only by the faint rustle of the mist above and the distant dripping of mineral-heavy water.
He began with the basics—Ten and Zetsu, wrapping his body in aura, then snuffing it out like a dying flame. His control was steady, but there was still friction in the transitions, subtle resistance like breath catching on old wounds.
Then came Ren.
A deeper fire. One not just to contain—but to ignite.
He focused inward, calling on the furnace within, willing the raw power to swell and burn through him. It wasn't smooth. The aura flared in short, unstable bursts, flickering like a candle in a storm.
But he didn't stop.
This wasn't about elegance. It was about survival.
And Ren—raw, overwhelming Ren—was survival made manifest.
This cycle—Ten, Zetsu, Ren—repeated again and again until his limbs trembled with fatigue and his aura thinned to flickers. Sweat clung to his skin, cold in the cavern's breathless air.
With a quiet sigh, Chrollo reached into his [Hollow Satchel], retrieving a small pack of rations. A tube syntpast , a hard biscuit, and lukewarm water. Nothing pleasant, but it was enough.
He chewed in silence, his mind still tracing the pathways of aura, mentally running through what went right and what still frayed at the edges.
Once the last drop of water passed his lips, he set the empty flask aside and exhaled sharply through his nose.
No time for rest.
He closed his eyes and began again—Ten, hold. Zetsu, vanish. Ren, burn.
A cycle of control, emptiness, and raw presence.
And so it continued.