Darkness clung to his skin like tar. Thick and viscous, it filled his lungs with every breath, sliding down his throat like cold, bitter honey. It smelled of dampness and decay, like a grave that had been disturbed. There was no fighting it—it wrapped around his mind, blurring the line between reality and oblivion.
Cain didn't know who he was. He remembered nothing before the last three and a half years. The void in his head pulsed with a dull ache, like an open wound that refused to heal.
He was sinking in that endless blackness. Weightless. Lost. With no up or down.
His heartbeat echoed like drops falling into a bottomless well. Time dissolved in the dark, turning into the thick syrup of forgetfulness. His breath froze into frost on his lips.
But there, ahead... where nothing should be—a light flared. Tiny, trembling, like the last candle in a snowstorm. So distant it seemed like a star on the edge of the world.
His body moved on its own, struggling through the resistance of the dark. Every motion was a battle, like swimming through an oil slick. His hand reached out, fingers trembling with effort.
"I..." slipped from his lips. His throat tightened, silencing anything more. Something vital clawed to escape, something he couldn't breathe without, but...
The darkness slammed shut, like a coffin lid. As always. As it had every night for the past three and a half years.
And then—a voice.
It pierced his mind like a heated needle. Not from outside—from within. Sharp. Piercing. Painfully familiar:
"Find the fire..."
Cain lunged forward—
...and opened his eyes.
Reality returned with the scent of smoke. A small campfire crackled at his feet, scattering sparks into the night sky. A cold mountain wind pushed the clouds above, revealing and hiding the indifferent stars.
He sat up slowly, feeling the ache in his muscles.
"What fire am I supposed to find?" he asked the flames.
The fire only crackled in reply. It didn't know. Neither did he.
His gaze drifted to the sword leaning against a stone. It was a shirasaya—a black blade laced with a web of fine cracks, shimmering as if alive in the firelight. A faint metallic scent rose from it—not of blood, but of something older, more terrible. The weapon wasn't his—he knew that. But it followed him like a curse.
He remembered killing with it. The movements had been smooth, precise, like a dance learned before birth. But they weren't his movements. Not his skills. It was as if someone else lived in his muscles, guided his bones, breathed with his lungs.
Cain rose. Carefully wrapped the katana in worn cloth. Stomped out the fire, grinding the embers into the damp earth. And set off.
"The Hanged Drunk" — the sign creaked on rusty chains, swinging in the wind. The old stone building looked like a tomb embedded in the mountainside. Green moss oozed from the cracks between the stones.
Inside, the air was thick with tobacco smoke and stale sweat. The scent of sour ale, burned fat, and unwashed bodies hung heavy. In the corner, a hearth flickered, casting reddish light across soot-stained walls.
The people in the tavern looked as worn as the place itself: mercenaries in patched jackets, hollow-cheeked drifters, traders with wary eyes. The air buzzed with tension—that animal sense when everyone is ready to tear into each other.
Cain stayed near the wall, his back to the rough stone. Hood pulled low, katana strapped tight to his back.
Behind the bar loomed the innkeeper—a bloated man with a swollen face and thin, greasy hair combed over his bald scalp. His sausage-like fingers constantly wiped a dirty mug with an even dirtier cloth. Beady eyes, buried deep in folds of fat, scanned the room sharply.
"What'll it be?" he rasped.
"Bread. Stew," Cain placed a copper coin on the counter.
"From far away?" the innkeeper grunted, setting a chipped bowl before him. Steam rose from the stew, smelling of boiled turnips and old meat.
"How do I get to Memento?" Cain dipped a spoon into the murky broth.
"Memento?" the innkeeper spat on the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why you heading to that city of merchants and scum?"
"Looking for someone," Cain said vaguely.
"Your call," the innkeeper shrugged his massive shoulders. "Straight east, then left at the fork. Three days if you're lucky. If not..." He dragged a finger across his throat.
Cain nodded silently and returned to his meal. The wooden spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. In the corner, someone started a drunken song, off-key with every note.
Suddenly, glass shattered, cutting through the tavern's murmur. A fight had broken out by the hearth—two brutes tangled over cards, flipping a table. Coins clinked across the floor, mixing with curses. One brawler, his brow split open, was thrown toward the bar and collided with Cain. His hood slipped off.
Silence fell like an executioner's axe.
White hair, unnatural on such a young face. Twin scars near both eyes. Blue eyes, cold as mountain ice, stared without emotion. And on his neck, etched deep in black lines — a brand: 161914.
"Gods... that's..." someone whispered, dropping their mug. "The runaway slave from the mines," breathed another, backing away. "The one who gutted three overseers," said a tall mercenary with a burnt face, slowly reaching for his blade. "Bastion's offering a fortune for his head."
Steel hissed from sheaths. Chairs scraped back. Heavy footsteps on wooden floor.
Cain stood. His movements fluid like water. Calm as the eye of a storm.
"Well, look at this," grinned a big man with an axe, gripping the handle tighter. Scars on his arms told stories of a life steeped in blood. "The pup wants to play hero."
Cruel laughter rolled through the tavern. Seven blades pointed his way. The rest of the patrons scrambled to the walls, clearing space for the inevitable.
Cain just stared. His blue eyes were bottomless, hollow. No fear. No rage. Only endless weariness.
Then he moved.
The cloth slipped from the katana like snakeskin. The blade, blacker than night, caught the firelight. For a moment, the cracks along it seemed to shift, like something alive.
The first strike was too fast to see. The axe-wielder didn't even raise his weapon—the black steel arced, and his throat opened like a red flower. Blood sprayed the wall.
The second mercenary managed to block—steel met steel with a deafening ring. But Cain's blade sliced through the sword like butter. Blade and hand dropped separately.
The third came from the side. Cain twisted—a step, a turn, a thrust, death.
The rest charged at once. Steel clanged. Screams. The stomp of boots.
Cain moved like a dancer. Each step precise, every blow fatal. The sword sang its death song, leaving a trail of blood and broken cries.
And then came the visions.
A child in a basement. Rats gnawing fingers. Lips sewn shut—to silence the screams.
A woman on her knees in the snow. Selling her child. The blizzard howls softer than her sobbing.
An old man in a temple. A rope around his neck. "The gods have abandoned us..." —his final whisper before the drop.
Cain shuddered. The katana drank more than blood—it drank their fears, their pain, their despair. Each memory stabbed into his mind like a hot needle, forcing him to see, to feel, to live their last moments.
Nausea welled in his throat. The screams in his head rang like iron. His fingers clenched the hilt until his knuckles turned white.
"Enough..." he whispered. Not to them. Not to himself. To the blade.
The katana trembled in his grip, like a living thing that refused to settle. The cracks still shimmered, pulsing in rhythm with his heart.
Cain slowly wiped the blade on a dead man's shirt. Every motion labored—his muscles trembled as if fevered. Blood cooled on the floor, pooling in black.
The living froze in the corners, pressed against the walls. Their fear was palpable—thick, choking, clinging like smoke. Someone prayed in silence, clutching an amulet with shaking hands. Someone whimpered, hiding beneath a table.
Cain wrapped the blade in cloth. Slow, almost ritualistic. Pulled his hood over silver hair.
No one moved as he walked to the door. Only eyes—dozens of terrified eyes—tracked his every step.
Night greeted him with a blast of icy wind. The stars had vanished behind clouds, leaving the world in pitch black. Cain walked on, never looking back.
He still felt their deaths on his hands. The blood soaked into his skin, under his nails—or perhaps it was the remnants of their memories, refusing to let go.
And then—again, that voice.
"Find the fire..."
Quiet. Urgent. Almost pleading.
Cain stopped in the middle of the road. Lifted his face to the invisible sky. Closed his eyes.
The void in his memory throbbed like an open wound. He didn't know who he was. Remembered nothing before the cursed mines. But something... something drove him forward. Something stronger than fear, stronger than pain, stronger than himself.
Memento—a city where memories are bought and sold. Where happiness has a price, and oblivion is currency. Maybe there he'd find answers.
Or at least—that damned fire.