Balairung Jade enveloped a silence unlike any other—not just an ordinary stillness, but a profound hush that defied words. This silence seemed to swallow every echo of the soul, muffling the very vibrations of voices that longed to emerge from the deepest recesses of being.
In the midst of that ethereal void, Lucian Varentius stood immobile, his figure a mere silhouette against the backdrop of an all-consuming quiet. Yet, there was an unsettling sense of incompleteness about him, as though his presence was beginning to fade into the background of existence itself. Not because of destructive magic, but rather due to the slow and relentless erosion of the name and role that once defined him—elements of his identity that were gradually slipping from the world's consciousness. Fragments of who he was crumbled one by one, swept away by the relentless tides of emptiness that swirled around his mind, blurring the fragile boundaries between reality and shadow.
He struggled to form words, but his mouth exhaled only hollow breaths—void and desolate, reflecting the deep wounds festering within his soul. In that haunting silence, he reached for the wispy tendrils of memories, desperately trying to piece together the splintered fragments of his fractured identity, yet every attempt transformed into a fresh torment, a cruel reminder of his despair. It felt as if he was dissolving into thin air, disappearing without a trace among the swirling shadows that beckoned him.
"Who am I? The one who orchestrates. The one who weighs. The one... the one...?" That faint voice was not a proclamation of certainty, but rather a hollow scream, echoing weakly through the cavernous emptiness within him. He raced against the relentless march of time, clinging to the essence of a self that was slipping away, as every question coiled tight, igniting painful knots that seared the very fabric of his consciousness.
His face tightened, with the delicate veins on his temples pulsing rapidly, throbbing as if they too sensed the impending loss. He glanced at Fitran—yet even that name was beginning to fade, eroding like an ancient inscription within the dark corridor of his crumbling memory. All the associations and cognitive connections that had once anchored his mind were now loosening, one by one, like knots gradually engulfed by flames, leaving behind only embers of horror that gnawed relentlessly at his heart. Everything that had once woven his existence into a cohesive tapestry shattered, splintered into countless fragments, scattered without a single anchor to support him.
Trembling, his hands wandered over his chest, searching for the reassuring signs of life that had evaded him. But all he felt was an overwhelming emptiness.
No pulse. No vibrations of feeling.
In an instant, a dark realization pierced his mind—a most terrifying acknowledgment: he was still conscious, yet had lost his very essence. This awareness was not a gift, but a curse that ensnared the deepest corners of his soul. He became an unspoken idea, a haunting whisper trapped in a dismal void, invisible to all who passed by. In the chilling silence, the emptiness crept into his being like a slow-acting poison, leaving his body a mere shadow, erased from the symphony of life.
"I am... something. I once was... someone." The whisper emerged softly, quivering with a fragile anxiety that sank deep into the chambers of his heart. Clutching the fragile shards of hope that threatened to shatter, he fought to hold onto the scattered fragments of himself, adrift in the thick fog of time. Yet, with each passing moment, he found himself slipping further into the endless darkness, utterly powerless against the relentless tide of an unfathomable void.
Suddenly, the scepter in his hand melted away, transforming into ethereal letters that hung suspended in the air—neither a blazing fire nor swirling dust, but fragmented characters, stripped of all meaning. One by one, they danced through the gloom: "L", "u", "c", "i", "a", "n."
Those letters were then wiped away by the world, lost without a trace—like shadows eroded by the dawn, vanishing in a silence that offered no farewell. In that dreadful quiet, Lucian felt himself being pulled into an abyss of emptiness, a relentless gnawing at the roots of his very soul. He was no longer the figure once known; instead, he had become a mere fragment, an echo left behind, empty and devoid of significance. Within the confines of his mind, a faint flicker persisted—struggling and writhing, desperately attempting to reclaim the wholeness of himself that was increasingly slipping through his fingers.
Fitran did not smile, nor did he express any satisfaction. He merely gazed at the remnants of what once bore the name Lucian, now reduced to a hollow void within the grandeur of the hall. The air around him hung heavy with the weight of absence, vibrant colors dimming to shades of gray where Lucian's essence had once illuminated the space.
From behind the pillar, Rinoa emerged, her body wavering slightly as if the very reality around her had been shaken. Yet her eyes shone fiercely, burning with an intense gaze fixed on the gaping emptiness before her.
"What... are you doing?"
Fitran replied without uttering a word, but the voice within him whispered firmly in the depths of his soul:
"I did not kill him. I merely showed him a world... without him."
Rinoa stood frozen, her gaze drifting toward Fitran, rife with a tumult of emotions—like encountering a stranger she had once cherished, now rendered untouchable, foreign, and achingly distant. The sorrow weighed heavily upon her chest; it was as if the essence of Lucian had drifted away, taking with it a piece of her heart, leaving a hollow ache in its place.
Lucian had vanished without a trace. His name now lingered in the atmosphere like the whisper of the wind, swept away and lost in the stillness, fading into a memory barely clung to in the remnants of reality.
Yet, within Rinoa's chest, there was an unsettling sensation that refused to be ignored—not merely the pang of sympathy for Lucian or the simmering anger, but an ever-deepening emptiness that slowly crept in like an uninvited shadow. It felt as though a piece of her essence had slowly faded away, akin to the glowing embers that had once crackled and danced through dry leaves, now reduced to ashen remnants, cold and devoid of any warmth.
In the suffocating silence, Rinoa sensed the once-vibrant threads of her emotions and spirit gradually unraveling, like a delicate tapestry fraying at the edges. Her very identity felt crushed and torn, a victim of the pervasive emptiness gnawing at the roots of her being.
"Fitran," she whispered, her voice weak and hoarse, a faint echo reverberating through the desolate corridors of her mind. "You truly won. But... with a magic so elusive, I can't even sense its remnants."
Fitran stood in silence, his gaze that once burned bright with passion now submerged in a profound abyss of darkness. The expression on his face bore the weight of a silent wound—not one visible to the eye, but an existential ache wrought by the loss of someone who had slipped away without a trace from reality.
Rinoa took slow, deliberate steps, halting a few meters away from Fitran. The space between them felt like an immense chasm, an insurmountable divide that magnified the emotional gulf separating their hearts.
"I... lost something today. Not just Lucian, but a part of you... a part that I once cherished deeply."
For the first time, Fitran remained unmoving—words fled from his lips, ensnared in an unexpected stillness that hung heavily in the air.
The Council of Atlantis found itself paralyzed, caught in the grip of an unsettling stillness. The delicate balance of laws, once diligently maintained by Lucian, began to fracture, revealing hundreds of mystical boundaries—each separating the realms of magic, the Void dimension, and ancient souls. These boundaries, akin to fragile threads, slowly unraveled one by one, and the very foundation sustaining this universe threatened to disintegrate. In the city of Thirtos, ominous signs began to surface, ominous omens that sent shivers through the hearts of its inhabitants. The dire phenomenon known as "echo collapse" unfolded, illustrating a creeping annihilation where space and time twisted in grotesque contortions, borne from the absence of the stabilizing force that had upheld order for eons.
Leaders from prominent cities found themselves adrift, losing not only their direction but also their hope. The noble elite, once united by tradition, now exchanged hollow flattery, forging uneasy alliances steeped in anxiety and trepidation, much like shipwrecked vessels struggling to find a safe harbor amidst turbulent waters. Dark whispers slithered through the streets, carrying rumors that the world's order—once regarded as eternal and invincible—was crumbling into chaos. Amidst this pandemonium and uncertainty, a haunting question reverberated, shaking the very souls of all who dared to listen:
"Who can replace someone whom even the world no longer remembers?"
***
In the silent ruins of the Atlantica library—a sacred sanctuary where the ancient glyphs of law were meticulously etched by the hands of the original founders—a strange and unsettling entity began to emerge. This being was neither a creature of flesh and blood nor a spirit with a distinct, tangible form. Instead, it possessed an ever-shifting shape that defied comprehension, casting an unsettling presence that radiated a dense, dark aura. The very essence of its existence caused the surrounding flora to wither and die, while the water pooling on the floor froze into intricate patterns that seemed to mock the laws of nature itself. A chilling, deathly atmosphere pervaded the air, a palpable sign that something unnatural had risen from the void left in Lucian's wake.
From the existential abyss that Lucian vacated, there emerged something foreign and horrifying: an entity wrought from emptiness and the silence of meaning. Its form was in a constant state of flux, terrifying in every shadow it cast. The macabre silhouette of its bones and flesh flowed like molten metal, sometimes melting into a formless mass before solidifying once more, as though it were fashioned from thick, black mist and blood frozen in an eternal stillness.
The entity bears no ordinary name; it is known as Interregnum, the embodiment of transitions of meaning, a living shadow that constantly shifts and morphs. Its form resembles an ever-flowing silhouette, never settling—at times, it takes on the visage of a young Lucian, his pronounced bones protruding grotesquely from pale, taut skin; at other moments, it manifests as a faceless Fitran, its flesh sloughing off its skeletal frame like wax dribbling from a melting candle. Occasionally, it appears as Rinoa, her eyes overflowing with silent grief, her face blooming and bleeding dark, viscous blood, saturating the air with an aura of deep revulsion and palpable dread.
Interregnum's very existence conjures a thick, oppressive atmosphere steeped in supernatural horror: anyone audacious enough to approach becomes ensnared in a nightmarish labyrinth of horrifying hallucinations—haunting figures lurking in the periphery, faces frozen in silent screams, and an insidious chill that creeps into the bones, enveloping the soul in a shivering dread. The voice of Interregnum emerges as a cacophony of fragmented whispers, echoing like the anguished cries of countless souls trapped in an infinite void of sorrow:
"I… am… what remains… of the forgotten… words…"
Yet, within this ominous presence lies no true storm of destruction. Interregnum embodies a creeping shadow brimming with questions that the world can never answer, sneaking into the farthest recesses of memory, steadily siphoning away fragments of meaning and hope until only an abyss of despair lingers.
"Who am I, if the world has never written me?"
Each time it speaks, the air around it thickens and hardens, as if even the essence of wonder itself cannot endure the weight of something born from the empty spaces in history, something alien and undefined. Interregnum's form shifts into a grotesque figure; its skin appears as a grotesque melting mass, wrapping around sharp bones that jut out like jagged mountains against a turbulent skyline. A dark aura envelops it, exuding an icy presence that causes leaves to wither and curl at its touch, while puddles freeze in an instant, transforming into fragile panes of glass. Within the surrounding circle, horrified onlookers are besieged by terrifying hallucinations: twisted shadows of shattered figures, faces contorted in anguish as they silently scream, and broken reflections of a past that warps into nightmarish forms. The voice of Interregnum resonates like a terrifying cacophony—the anguished wails of thousands of tormented souls rise and fall, deafening and crushing the spirits of all who hear it. Magic falters, rendered mute in the face of an entity that eludes capture in the annals of time.
Fitran gazed up at the dense tapestry of the night sky, where stars twinkled like distant whispers, hinting at secrets concealed in the vastness beyond the horizon. Beside him stood Rinoa, a wounded figure draped in shadows, her presence both a comfort and a palpable distance, as if an invisible barrier lay between them. They meandered slowly toward their dim oasis, a refuge nestled among the curling shadows and the remnants of haunting memories, before ultimately deciding to tread toward the ancient stones that loomed ahead. In the heavy silence that enveloped them, a bitter realization settled within their hearts: from that moment on, their footsteps no longer harmonized. Though Rinoa's love endured, it had been stained by deep wounds, metamorphosing from a once-certain bond into a thicket of uncertainty—an aching understanding that, at times, even love can become lost, wandering in search of its own path.