Torches flickered across the vast underground chamber, their flames licking at the stale air with tongues of gold. Shadows stretched and coiled across ancient stone, as if the darkness itself had begun to stir. Beneath layers of earth and centuries of silence, hidden from the eyes of gods and men, the buried city of Elerion exhaled its first breath in ages.
The heart of the forgotten kingdom—once the site of solemn worship and sovereign judgment—had become something else entirely. Where the Shrine of the King once stood, proud and eternal, there now pulsed a transformed sanctum, carved into the rock with symbols unseen since the world was young.
The stone floor was no longer still. It pulsed with a rhythm older than memory, humming with the energy rising from beneath—like heat from a long-buried fire. Runes etched into the ground glowed faintly in violet and gold, veins of light beneath skin. Alive. Aware. Watching.
Above the shrine's broken altar, a swirling vortex of translucent light hung in the air—threads of energy twisting like fragments of memory, drawn into a spiral of intent. This was no longer a ruin. It was a living thing—ancient, unfinished, and waiting.
All around the chamber, members of The Secret Hand stood in solemn silence. Their ritual masks were gone, their faces bare in the trembling light. There was no celebration. Only awe. Fear. Reverence.
At the center stood their leader. Cloaked and still, soaked not in water but in the weight of what he had awakened. Both hands outstretched, he channeled the final threads of the ritual, his fingers trembling as they bridged the physical and the unknown.
This was no incantation.
This was communion—with something far older than words.
"The energy... it's responding to the seal," whispered one of the scholars, his voice barely louder than the hum that now filled the air.
The leader didn't look up. His gaze stayed fixed on the swirling light.
"No," he murmured. "It's not submission. It's recognition."
The runes flared in response—as if listening.
For centuries, they had pieced together fragments of this forgotten rite. Ancient scrolls. Forbidden glyphs. Secrets buried beneath obsidian stone. Dozens had died for the final piece.
And now the cost had paid off.
They hadn't come to simply awaken the power buried beneath the shrine.
Their purpose was greater.
To complete the creation of the mental realm—an unseen plane, half-truth and half-memory, tethered to the soul.
The leader stepped into the rune circle, the markings parting before him like mist. The ritual was nearing its end.
"Let the veil between mind and matter be sealed," he whispered. "Let the source awaken."
The chamber trembled.
The light surged upward, striking the vaulted ceiling in a pillar of force. The ground groaned beneath their feet, not in pain—but in hunger.
Then—silence.
A strange ringing replaced the sound of the world.
The leader opened his eyes.
"It's done."
One of the disciples stepped forward, cautious. "So… what now?"
The leader turned to him, voice quiet and solemn. "Now the trial begins. For all of us."
He let the silence linger.
"Those with a strong enough Echo of the Soul will feel the pull. Within days, they will collapse into the realm. Others… will never hear the call."
A younger cultist stepped forward, hesitant. "Echo of the Soul… what is it, really?"
The leader faced him fully, his tone steady—prepared, as if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times.
"It is not power. It is not magic. It is memory—truth—echoed through your will. It is the resonance of who you truly are: your joy, your guilt, your grief. Your will to stand when everything else is broken."
He moved closer to the runes, their glow casting pale light across his face.
"Echo of the Soul is not spiritual. It is existential. It cannot be forged. It cannot be borrowed. If you are hollow, the realm will not open. And if it does… it will devour you."
Some of the disciples stirred uncomfortably.
"Some of you may have already felt it," he continued. "In moments of fear. In the depths of despair. When everything else fell away, and only your will remained… that was your Echo responding. Not to your strength, but to your truth."
He turned back to the shrine.
"And now… it will answer louder than ever."
"The trial you face in the mental realm will not be chosen by us. It will be shaped by your own soul—your deepest fears, regrets, and truths. What you hide. What you bury."
A cold silence blanketed the chamber.
"If you fail…" He paused. "You may return. But you will not return whole."
Still, no one spoke.
Then he looked to the far wall—where vibrations now echoed faintly through the stone.
"Let them come," he said. "Let the others in the city feel it. The energy will draw them in. The Echo will decide who passes."
He turned away from the glowing shrine.
"The mental realm is no longer locked behind prophecy."
"It's a door. And it's open."
The runes flared again.
"This place…" the leader said, slowly raising his hand, "is no longer just sacred ground."
He looked to his disciples. "The Shrine of Endless Sacrifices has fulfilled its ancient purpose. It was built atop the ashes of the King's fall—where the energy first erupted and scorched the city."
"But it was never just a shrine," he continued. "It was always a gate. A threshold. And now… it is the conduit."
He met each of their gazes.
"The mental realm is born from the shrine—but it lives within us. What lies beyond that door is not a place."
"It's a reckoning."
He placed his palm on the stone.
"We did not just awaken the city. We completed what was left unfinished for centuries. The shrine has become the door. And our Echo… is the key."
The realm would now answer anyone drawn to this place. Every soul who entered the ruins would be tested. Not through strength—but through truth.
Through what they carried within.
The Echo of the Soul determined everything.
"It is the frequency of your existence," the leader explained. "Your will, your sorrow, your history. The stronger your Echo, the deeper the realm will pull. And the greater the danger."
A voice hesitated behind him. "Then only the strong survive?"
"No," the leader replied. "Only the real."
A pause.
"The Echo knows lies. It sees through them. You do not conquer the mental realm through force. You survive by facing who you truly are."
He turned one last time to his followers.
"You may enter when you're ready. But know this—fail, and you won't die."
"You'll wish you had."
He looked to the shrine, now burning bright with memory and meaning.
"This city… is no longer just a ruin."
"It is a crucible."
—
Meanwhile—
Far above, Kaizetsu stepped back from the broken gate, the remnants of a strange pulse still humming in his fingertips. The air had shifted. He could feel it in his chest—like the city itself had inhaled.
Kazuki scanned the horizon, uneasy. "Did you feel that? It's like… the ground's alive."
Kaizetsu didn't answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the distant skyline, where a shimmer of cold light hung above the ruins like rising heat—except colder. He could sense it.
"I don't know what they did," he murmured. "But something changed."
Kazuki took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Is it… that thing they mentioned before? The echo stuff?"
Kaizetsu shook his head slowly. "Maybe. But this feels deeper. Like the city's remembering something."
Neither of them spoke after that.
Because even though they didn't understand the ritual…
Even though they knew nothing of the source or the shrine's tru
e power—
Kaizetsu could feel it.
A pressure. Cold. Familiar. Watching.
The city was no longer asleep.
And whatever it had become—
It was coming for him.