In a narrow passage between two mountains, steeped in the scent of ancient blood, stood a man whose features bore the deep traces of sorrow. He spoke to himself in a low voice:
"What was the purpose of everything we did? To protect those we love? Most of us lost them already…"
He fell to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes. A powerful desire to end his life overcame him, but he couldn't do it; the phantoms of those he loved haunted him in every moment, forcing him to continue in his torment.
His condition was pitiful—not from weakness, but from the sheer horror of what he had lived through, as had the few who survived that accursed age.
He raised his head toward the sky, staring at the one thing untouched by ruin:
"At the heart of the struggle waged by humans to protect those they love lies the deepest form of hope… the hope that love remains an unshakable fortress, and that fighting for it gives life an indomitable meaning.But when a person is stripped of their loved ones, all that remains is the echo of emptiness… the silence of pain that devours the soul.In that dark moment, courage is not measured by victories, but by the human ability to stand amidst the ruins of what has been lost.Perhaps pain is the last soldier in life's battle; it bears the burden of undying memories to teach us that love is not measured by survival, but by the belief that the souls of those who've passed… remain a beacon in the darkness, pushing us to rebuild what has fallen, and find in the heart of loss a new seed of life."
This man—noble, born with a silver spoon in his mouth—never knew his world would shift from tranquil peace to crushing devastation. His former life had been a castle of dreams: an arranged marriage, vast lands, servants, peace of mind. All that was asked of him was to protect his fief during an era once called the "Age of Peace"…
But the empire of Ostravium changed everything.
The catastrophe didn't begin with a sound, nor with a beam of light. Like all true curses, it began with the illusion of victory.
The Emperor of Ostravium, Valos Darksign, ruled lands stretching from the peaks of ice to the desert of fire. It was not a nation, but a living creature to which the world submitted. As its borders expanded, time itself seemed to shrink in his hands, until he saw himself above law and fate.
In the heart of the Sevirah Mountains, where time itself is said to hesitate before moving forward, excavators uncovered the remains of an unknown civilization. Inscriptions unlike anything known, and scrolls not written in ink—but in threads made from the bones of extinct creatures.
There, a spell was buried. Not a legend—but a formula. A spell that maintained the balance between the living and what was imprisoned beyond the cracks.
It would later be called "The Original Call", thought to be a defensive magic used by that civilization to save itself from a mysterious downfall. In the logic of power, Darksign believed that what they failed to control—he would master.
One autumn night, five of the court's most powerful mages gathered in the Hall of Mirrors Beneath—a forbidden place not built on the earth, but carved into it—and began the ritual. They used the blood of an ancient bloodline, and rare substances gathered from across the world. The goal wasn't destruction, but to open a "sealed channel" to unleash primal forces that could be enslaved and shaped.
But what opened… did not close.
It wasn't a gate—it was a wound in the fabric of the world. It couldn't be seen, or closed, or understood. And instead of light, shadows spilled out—not as creatures, but as manifested ideas, nightmares with fangs.
The first being appeared three days later. It had no face, only ever-shifting intersecting shapes. Whatever came near it—whether human or stone—did not disappear, but turned into echoes: massless existences, memories with no origin.
Then came stranger things. Some didn't walk but drifted through the air like smoke in a closed mouth. Others wore human faces taken from the unburied dead.
The capital descended into madness. Priests predicted doom. Mages tried to reverse the spell. But time began to fracture. Night no longer arrived on time, and dreams no longer ended upon waking.
The kingdoms collapsed one after another. The great cities fell silent, and death became preferable to life among spirits that inhabited walls and breathed through the mouths of children.
Then… the name Ostravium was torn from maps.
No one remembered borders, laws, or faces. Only ruins where madness roamed.
And that moment became known as "The Great Fracture." Not because the earth split—but because reality itself broke, and something irreparable leaked through.
After the great catastrophe, it wasn't just monsters that emerged from the cracks in the world's fabric. Along with them came strange waves—not magical energy, nor radiation, but something that couldn't be measured or seen directly. Later, this phenomenon came to be known among the survivors as "the Echo."
The Echo is not a learned skill or acquired power. It is a direct consequence of the human mind's interaction with the catastrophe. Anyone who survived direct exposure to the fracture, or nearby reality collapse, had this "thing" seep into them. Some couldn't bear the distortion and descended into madness or died, while a rare few returned… changed—but not visibly at first.
The Echo is, at its core, not a power, but a reflection. It is a distortion of the human internal balance, resulting in subtle but bizarre external changes. These aren't bursts of raw strength, but new, inexplicable traits. A man whose voice can shake the minds of others—only when he speaks of guilt. A woman unable to lie—and those around her cannot lie either. Others dim the light around them by their presence or cloud the memories of those who meet their gaze too long.
What distinguishes the Echo system is that it follows no clear rules. It cannot be classified as energy, nor trained or strengthened by discipline. The Echo evolves only when its bearer changes internally—not through effort, but through pain, regret, or a new awareness of self or destiny. For this reason, no two Echoes are alike. None can be copied. Even scientists and priests who tried to study them failed to create consistent classifications, as the Echo is deeply tied to the human soul.
Every Echo has a cost—and one not chosen by its bearer. Some weaken the body. Others burn memories. Some make sleep impossible without reliving the fracture in every dream. Thus, many fear possessing one. Others see it as a curse, not a gift.
Ten years after the catastrophe, humanity should have collapsed entirely. The great cities vanished. Governments crumbled. Nothing remained of the old order but memory. Yet amid the chaos, four powers rose from near-collapse and succeeded in organizing survival in a world whose very essence had changed. These came to be known as "The Four Resistances."
They were not remnants of old nations or military alliances, but new systems built upon the ruins of the Echo. Each was led by a person—or council—called a "Core of the Echo," individuals with a unique and profound connection to what the catastrophe unleashed.
Although these four resistances differed in philosophy and rule, what they had in common was their near-total reliance on Echo bearers—not just as warriors, but as police, leaders, guardians, even healers. Most of their key figures bore Echoes.
These resistances were not a united front. They often competed and clashed at their borders. But all knew their survival depended on containing the Echo—not fighting it.
For in a world where the senses lie, and neither place nor time remain stable, humanity has only one hope: those who have been warped… to shield it from worse.
When his worn feet reached the edge of the city—a city not belonging to any of the four resistances, home only to a few survivors with limited supplies—no one was there to greet him. Only silence, as though even the demons had forgotten this place.
A small, forgotten city surrounded by silent mountains like witnesses to an unpunished crime. It had no walls, no defenses—just a broken minaret in a square choked with dust, and 230 souls still clinging to the idea of survival.
As he approached, people came out as if seeing a phantom of hope, or an illusion surviving the fire. They shouted, called his name, bowed to him like his mere presence was a miracle.
But he did not return the greeting. He stood among them pale, eyes empty, shoulders slumped, as though every breath reminded him of a life he never asked for.
"They cheer, but they don't understand…"
"They don't see the blood beneath my fingers… or the eyes watching me in my dreams."
"I don't fight anymore. I just… move."
That night, he was called to a secret meeting in a half-collapsed cellar. Five survivors who bore Echoes, each carrying an intention… or a burden.
A single torch flickered on a stone wall. Five sat around a cracked wooden table, exchanging looks as though the air between their breaths was heavy, thick like dust.
Ashura – tapping the table with his hollow leather-clad hand. The sound echoed:
"Oracle Base is two days away. Just two days, under the silence of the fractures and the roar of the sands. They have walls. They have food. Real food—not burnt plants or rotting meat."
Zorim – gently turning his sword, the tip gleaming in the torchlight:
"Ashura... this isn't a date-picking trip. The road's full of trackers—things that aren't people anymore. Do we risk everything we have left?"
Ilsa – leaning forward, her eyes filled with worry her warm voice can't hide:
"But we're not living here… we're just not dying yet. The children are getting sick, the water's going foul. The Echo here is fading, as if the city itself rejects us."
Naiv – whispering like he feared shadows might hear:
"What if the base itself is a trap? Herded there like cattle… and then? Absorbed into a system we don't know? I don't want to disappear again."
Meer – calm voice, but it carried hidden weight:
"I don't trust the road, nor stillness. We need a decision. If we're to die, let's die on a path that leads somewhere. Not in the ruins."
Silence.
They all knew the next words carried special weight.
All eyes turned to him—the man who rarely spoke, but when he did… even the walls listened.
Ashura, after a pause:
"You… haven't spoken yet. Tell us, stranger borne by the Echo but not by hope… do we go, or do we stay?"
He stood—not to answer, but to end something.
He pulled a small bottle from his coat, turned it in his hands like weighing a sin, then opened it and poured the colorless liquid into his palm.
No one asked.
Ilsa stepped forward, sensing what he'd do, and whispered:
"You're joking… please, don't…"
But he did.
He spread the liquid across his face, then lit a small cloth and pressed it against his skin.
It wasn't a scream. It was a long, strangled exhale, as if the pain wasn't from fire, but from within.
The air filled with the smell of burning flesh, metal, and memory.
After burning his face in silence… with smoke still rising from his scorched skin, he sat on the ground, as if his legs could no longer hold him. Sweat, tears, and broken breath.
Then he spoke in a hoarse, cracking voice, every word sounding like something inside him was shattering:
"I'm… tired."
"Every time I close my eyes, I see them. Their faces… their voices… and I'm the one who stayed."
"I hate this face… everyone who looks at me expects something. Hope, salvation, or apology…"
"But I'm none of that."
"I'm not a hero. Not a savior. I'm just…"
He paused, touched his burned face with trembling fingers.
"If anyone recognizes me, they'll ask for more. They'll drag me back to that role… that hell."
"But I don't want… I don't want to be him anymore."
He muttered as he rose, barely audible:
"I can't keep living like I'm still there… I can't keep being me."
Silence choked the room.
Zorim's fist clenched, but he said nothing.
Meer bit his lip, swallowing a thought he didn't want.
Ilsa stepped back, looking at him as though he were no longer human.
Only Ashura rose and turned his back.
As he walked toward the door, a voice finally broke the silence.
Naiv, softly but charged:
"So that's it? Everything we went through—you walk away?"
At the threshold, he stopped. Did not turn.
He said:
"I didn't walk away from anyone."
And left, dragging his feet over the ruins of the old world… toward a fate with no name.