Chaos had engulfed Hollowmere.
Swords were drawn, voices screamed, hatred flared in every glance. If not swords, then chairs—brooms, knives, pitchforks—whatever a desperate hand could grip to survive. Friend turned on friend. Neighbors became enemies. All reason drowned in the storm.
The incident that sparked it—already forgotten. It wasn't a matter of who started it anymore. The true culprit was something far crueler:
The blessing of the Hero had been lifted.
And with its vanishing came silence—an unbearable silence. Not the kind that calms, but the kind that strangles. Without the divine mantle watching over them, Hollowmere forgot how to believe in one another. They forgot how to listen. How to wait. How to breathe.
That was when he stepped into the square.
"He walked as if the earth held its breath, and in his shadow, even hate forgot its name. Some swore the storms knelt when he passed—others claimed he was the storm, dreaming peace."
Sulvyan had drawn upon a distant miracle.The moment he arrived, the violence wavered.
Some dropped their weapons.
Others froze in place, as if waking from a nightmare and unsure whether it had truly ended.
"People of Hollowmere," Sulvyan's voice rang out—not shouted, but clear, resonant, a bell tolling through fog. "Stand down."
"I am Sulvyan Calder of the Order of Light. I guarantee your safety."
A white lie. A necessary one. He knew the Hero's blessing would not return—not soon. Perhaps never.
But the truth was a blade they could not yet survive.
"The blessing may be gone," he continued, eyes sweeping across terrified, maddened faces, "but its spirit is not. It lives in each choice you make now. So think—calmly—before you do something you'll carry to your grave."
Silence followed.
Then a broom clattered to the ground.
Then a blade.
And then—the first sob.
Then, from the distance, another voice cut through the haze.
"All of you," Allucard's voice echoed across the square—calm, steady, almost mournful. "Think of your own. Think of who might be waiting for you."
He stepped into view, his cloak fluttering like a shadow caught in wind. "Even if they are injured, even if you fear the worst—we can heal them. But only if we don't lose ourselves first."
Heads turned toward him. Some eyes began to water. Others flickered with shame.
Then came a third voice, softer, but no less powerful—this one from the heart of the gathering, among the people themselves.
"Find those dear to you," the speaker called out, their face hidden by the crowd, "and hold their hands. Look them in the eyes. Calm them down. If not in the Hero's grace, then… believe in your own light within you."
The silence deepened—but this time, it was different. Heavy, yes, but not suffocating. It was the kind of silence just before a prayer.
A woman dropped her broom and reached for her child, who clung to her skirts with tear-streaked cheeks. A man who'd raised a pitchfork lowered it, then fell to his knees, trembling. Two brothers, bloodied from a senseless scuffle, embraced in stunned apology.
In the space of a breath, Hollowmere began to remember itself—not through miracles, not through divine blessings—but through the fragile, enduring will to hope.
And above them, framed by mist and sorrow, Sulvyan stood watchful, silent.
The riot was far from over but perhaps—just perhaps—they had remembered how to weather it.
On the other side of the village—where Julius once took his peaceful night walks—the storm of chaos had reached a fevered pitch.
And then came the laughter.
Unhinged, echoing through blood-stained winds, a silhouette stood in the flickering firelight. Dorian Vell, drenched in crimson, his fine cloak torn, eyes alight with wild triumph.
"Hahaha! Look at you all!" he shouted, arms spread wide. "Scurrying like rats when the ship begins to sink!"
He stumbled forward, madness and calculation dancing in his voice.
"Your name means nothing here!" he bellowed toward the knights. "The hero's protection is no more!"
He paused—breathing heavy, chest heaving with twisted pride.
"This land no longer has a future… on its own," he continued, a devilish calm softening his tone. "I, Margrave Dorian Vell, shall claim it. Kneel to me, accept my rule, and prosperity shall be yours."
Then, just as swiftly, his face contorted again, voice snapping like a whip:
"Refuse… and this land will drown in blood. If not today—then tomorrow. Or the day after. Others would inevitablly race to claim it !"
Silence followed. It lingered like the final breath before a sword is drawn.
And then came a whisper, low and melodic—but woven with power:
"It tilts not by weight, but by whispers only the soul can hear.
In its sway, some vanish into light—others bloom where curses root deep."
The chant did not come from the sky, nor from the earth—but from Julius, stepping from the shadows at the edge of the path where he once walked alone beneath the stars.
His robes were tattered, his eyes weary, but his presence struck deeper than any blade. The miracle answered his faith, and the world bent to his sorrowful grace.
Beneath Dorian's boots, the earth breathed. Not in violence, but in truth.
The blood upon his body shimmered pale, not red but silver, crawling like liquid memory—binding, exposing, accusing. Guilt, drawn from the marrow of his soul.
Dorian staggered. "What… what is this trickery?!"
But the light only tightened, whispering all he tried to bury.
Faces. Names. Cries.
Not from the miracle—from within.
Julius spoke once more, voice like cold judgment wrapped in mourning:
"You seek to rule the land, yet fail to bear its sorrow.
You would crown yourself with ash, and wonder why the wind won't bow.
This is not your throne, Dorian Vell. This is your reckoning."
The Margrave collapsed, shuddering—not from pain, but from remembrance. Every cruelty now had a voice, and they would not fall silent again.
Julius turned, walking away without a glance back.
"Let the people decide your fate. The light has shown you who you truly are.
Whether you rise... or rot... is no longer my concern."
He stepped into the square, the firelight casting long shadows behind him, his silhouette calm amidst the flickering chaos. The villagers, stunned and trembling, turned toward him—not just with fear, but hope, fragile and flickering.
His voice rang clear, warm and commanding:
"People of Hollowmere—fear not. Abide in your faith."
He raised his hand—not to cast judgment, but to still the trembling hearts.
"If need be… then let a new Arik the Hero be born tonight, even in this darkness!"
His words struck like flint against dry soul-soaked timber. A spark. A memory. A name they had nearly forgotten.
"You are strong people! From the east, the west—survivors, wanderers, kin of the first fires and last hopes!
You have faced monsters beyond the veil. You have buried sons and broken bread with strangers.
This madness is not you. It is fear wearing your face."
The fighting slowed. A broom clattered to the ground. A blade found its sheath. A cry turned into a sob.
The priest's voice softened, more intimate now—as if speaking to each heart alone.
"I have walked among you. Shared your prayers.
If I believed you were weak, I would not speak these words now."
He stepped forward.
"But I believe in you. Still. Even now.
So look to those beside you. The ones you feared, the ones you doubted.
See them. Hold them. Choose peace."
An old man stared down at the iron poker in his grip. It had been meant for beasts, not neighbors. His hands shook as he let it fall.
"I nearly struck Thomas…" he said, horrified.
"And I would've let you," replied Thomas, stepping forward, eyes glistening. "But you didn't. And that's what matters."
From across the square, a teen girl dashed toward her grandmother, dodging fallen crates and overturned tables. They collapsed into each other, laughter and tears mingling freely.
"I thought I'd lost you," the girl cried.
"Not even the end of the world could take me from you," her grandmother whispered, stroking her hair.
The miracle's warmth lingered, not as fire, but as the memory of one—gentle and golden. It clung to skin like morning dew, seeping into wounds unseen.
Voices began to rise—not in anger now, but in remembrance.
"You helped me rebuild my roof last winter."
"You gave my wife herbs when she was sick."
"You watched over my son when I couldn't…"
"I'm sorry."
"I forgive you."
"We're still here."
Neighbors who had moments ago been strangers in their fear now reached out—hands grasping hands, shoulders embraced, cheeks pressed together with whispered prayers.
Julius stood in the center, his robes faintly glowing in the firelight, tears welling in his eyes.
The chaos that had gripped Hollowmere unraveled not by force, not by sword or miracle alone—but by the simple, sacred act of people choosing to see one another again.
"I guess now I understand more why her grace sent us here..." Jack murmured softly to himself as he walked toward the priest, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with a depth that could only come from the hard truth of the moment.
"Ahahahahaha!" A high-pitched, hysterical laugh echoed deep within the forest, shattering the calm that had only just begun to settle over Hollowmere. The laughter seemed to twist through the trees, an eerie, unsettling sound that carried both madness and sorrow.
"Can you believe this, Ragna? Ahahaha!" Morgana's voice rang out, sharp and unhinged. Her eyes, wild and distant, glinted in the pale moonlight. She cradled her cat high, as if offering him up to the heavens. "I am sorry... I forgive you... Ahahaha!"
The words caught in her throat, twisting into something more agonized than amused. Her face contorted in pain as she laughed, the madness bubbling beneath the surface. It was a psychological break—her mind fraying at the edges from the weight of everything she had lost, everything that had been taken from her.
"If only they had spared us some of that so-called kindness!" she spat, her voice thick with bitterness. "Ahahaha!" She laughed again, the sound echoing in the stillness, as if the forest itself was mocking her.
"Tell me, Ragna... Ragna..." Morgana's voice trembled as she spoke, her tone a strange mixture of desperation and madness. She paused for a moment, her eyes unfocused, staring into the abyss of her memories. The long, grueling journey flashed before her—faces of those who had fallen along the way, the weight of their sacrifice heavy on her soul.
"Why do men spread lies and false hope, huh?" she continued, her voice growing more furious with each word. "Why did so many die?" The words were sharp, laden with the pain of all those lost along their desperate gambit to reach Hollowmere—the people who had traveled beside her, hoping for a better life, only to be swallowed by the unforgiving world.
"Mother... Father..." Morgana looked upward, her gaze lost in the sky as if seeking answers from the stars themselves. "Would you have burst into laughter? Tears? Had you known it was all for naught?" Her voice cracked, and she let out a wild, unhinged laugh that was both hollow and piercing, a sound born of grief that had no escape. "Ahahaha!"
She stumbled, her balance lost as the weight of her thoughts and her tears pulled her to the ground. She fell to her knees, her body trembling with the violent mix of laughter and sorrow. Her hands pressed against the earth, desperate for something to hold onto, but the world was slipping through her fingers.
"Mew? Mew? Meeowww!" Ragna's soft mewing broke through the chaos of her spiraling mind. The sound of his voice seemed almost like a gentle whisper in the storm of her thoughts. Morgana's head snapped down, and for a fleeting moment, there was a flicker of clarity in her wild eyes, as if she could understand the quiet plea in his voice.
For a brief moment, a flicker of something almost human—almost hopeful—sparkled in Morgana's eyes, a brief reprieve from the overwhelming darkness that consumed her. She inhaled shakily, wiping the tears that stained her cheeks, and in a voice barely louder than a whisper, she spoke to the cat cradled in her arms.
"Don't worry about me, Ragna," she murmured, her words shaky but filled with a quiet resolve. "I will take my fate into my own hands."
Her shoulders straightened as if a weight had been lifted, the fierce cry of sorrow replaced by a bitter determination. Slowly, she rose, wiping her face, and began walking with a new purpose—each step firm, though her heart still thudded painfully in her chest. The path ahead was unclear, but the resolve in her eyes was unmistakable.
"A cursed child, they say? So be it," her voice thick with defiance. "If that's what they want, let it be. I will bear it, as they would have me." Her hands clenched into fists, her fingers trembling with both anger and grief.
As she approached the ancient monument, her gaze fixed on the stone, something peculiar caught her eye—an engraving beneath the shattered remains of what once had been a grand tribute to Arik. This was no mere stone structure.
There, amidst the rubble, were relics of a hero's past. A sword, its blade dulled with age but still unmistakably forged with the weight of countless battles. A shield, cracked but resolute, bearing the emblem of the long-dead hero. The remnants of his armor—worn and torn—clung to its former glory, stained with time's cruel touch. And there, too, was the notebook, worn at the edges, ink fading, but the hand of the hero still visible in every stroke. It had once chronicled a life of valor, of triumphs and tragedies, of hopes and broken dreams.
Morgana's breath caught as she stared at the objects, each one a testament to a past now lost to the ages. The weight of it settled in her chest, the memory of Arik too close, too tangible. This was the legacy they had left behind. A legacy now buried under the weight of time, but still haunting her with its impossibly heavy burden.
"Say, Arik..." Morgana's voice cracked, as if addressing the remnants of a memory, as if asking a question only the dead could answer. "Were you truly a hero? Or were you just... a cursed child, like me?" Her words were laced with bitterness and longing.
And with that, the last thread of her connection to the past snapped. Morgana's eyes darkened as her hands, trembling with emotion, reached out to the relics of Arik. The sword, the shield, the armor, and the notebook—they were all part of a world that had long since abandoned her. They were symbols of a future she would never have, a future that had turned to dust in the hands of others.
Without hesitation, she brought her foot down on the debris. The sword shattered first, its once-proud blade breaking into jagged shards. The shield followed, cracking under the force of her anger. Her hands crushed the remnants of the armor, the steel bending and crumpling like paper under her touch. Finally, she reached for the notebook—its pages fluttered in her grasp, as if trying to escape, but she held it tight.
With a sharp, final motion, Morgana tore the pages from the notebook, watching as they fluttered to the ground, ink smeared and fading. The last traces of Arik's existence were scattered, lost in the wind.
Arik's legacy was no more., Morgana stood amidst the wreckage, panting, her chest heaving with the weight of what was coming .
"Arik, the hero, silenced the night with a single breath, banishing creatures to the void. But the darkness waits, patient, as all things fade with time. When his legacy crumbles, the veil will tear, and the shadows will rise again."
In that moment, something broke—something not just physical, but in her very soul. The last tie to the past, to the ideals of heroes, was gone. What lay before her now was a blank slate. No longer bound by the legacy of others, Morgana's future was hers to command.