The streets grew narrower as they walked.
The buildings seemed to press closer, their broken windows whispering secrets to each other.
Fred could feel Mira trembling against Subject 0's chest.
Her fever had worsened, her skin clammy.
They needed help.
Fast.
But Fred knew better than to trust the smiling man.
He was no savior.
He was a salesman.
Selling illusions.
Selling death.
And Fred knew the cost would be steep.
---
They reached a massive courtyard surrounded by crumbling statues.
Children — the silent watchers — filled the perimeter like a living fence.
At the center of the court stood an ancient fountain, its basin cracked and dry.
Above it, a throne made of twisted metal and bone loomed.
The smiling man turned to face Fred.
"This," he said, arms outstretched, "is the Hollow Court."
Fred said nothing.
He watched.
Waited.
The man's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Here, memory is currency. Pain is power. And loyalty... loyalty is everything."
Fred gritted his teeth.
He hated games.
He hated riddles.
"What do you want?" Fred asked coldly.
The smiling man's eyes glittered.
"I want you, boy," he said. "Or rather... the scar you carry."
Fred's hand instinctively went to his chest where the mark burned under his clothes.
---
The man stepped closer.
Too close.
Fred could smell him now — a faint scent of burning paper and dead flowers.
"You bear a fragment of the First Memory," the man whispered. "The bloodline that cannot be erased."
Fred's stomach twisted.
The First Memory?
What the hell did that even mean?
The man smiled wider, sensing his confusion.
"Give it to me," he said sweetly. "Willingly. I will heal the girl. I will free you from this city."
Fred stared at him.
Silent.
Thinking.
If he gave it up...
He might save Mira.
He might save them all.
But somewhere deep inside, a voice — old and furious — screamed at him.
"Never."
The mark wasn't just a scar.
It was a seed.
A legacy.
And once given away, it could never be reclaimed.
Fred shook his head.
"No deal."
The smiling man's eyes darkened.
For the first time, his smile wavered.
"You refuse?" he hissed, voice dripping venom.
Fred stood tall.
"I'd rather die on my feet than kneel for a lie."
The man's face twisted — not in anger, but in disappointment.
"Then you will see," he said softly, "what it costs to remember."
He snapped his fingers.
---
The silent children around them moved as one.
Their mouths opened, and from them poured a low, vibrating hum that shook the stones beneath Fred's feet.
The statues crumbled.
The ground cracked.
Mira whimpered in Subject 0's arms.
The smiling man stepped back into the shadows, merging with them.
And Fred found himself facing the Blood Children — eyes empty, mouths singing death.
He drew his blade.
Subject 0 lowered Mira gently to the ground and stood beside him.
Ready.
Silent.
Unbreakable.
The first wave came screaming.
Fred met them head-on.
---
As Fred fought, the mark on his chest flared brighter.
His blade moved faster.
His body remembered things he had never been taught — brutal counters, vicious strikes.
The Blood Children were strong.
But Fred was stronger.
Because he carried not just a memory.
He carried all the memories.
Generations of pain.
Generations of fury.
Every slash of his blade was a scream from the past.
Every breath he took was a defiance of oblivion.
Subject 0 fought like a shadow beside him, a ghost of violence.
Together, they carved a path through the impossible.
But the children kept coming.
Endless.
Relentless.
And Fred knew...
This was just the beginning.
---