In a dark void brushed with green and purple nebulae, a single landmass drifted beneath a dying sun. Four moons circled overhead, their pale light constant. Time did not pass here. Day never ended.
In the center of a shallow, luminous pool, Doran laid still.
His eyes opened as if waking from a long-forgotten dream. Above him, the void sky shimmered with swirling colors, and the dying sun cast eternal shadows across the land. Slowly, he sat up and looked down at the pool that held him.
The water—if it was water—was light blue and impossibly clear. It flowed from two small streams into twin lakes that glowed the same gentle hue. All around, lush trees rose from the soil, their leaves green and vibrant. Flowers bloomed in silence.
There was no sound.
He dipped his hand into the pool.
Feels like water, he thought.
But no ripple formed.
His fingers moved through it without resistance—no splash, no sound. The liquid clung to his skin not like moisture, but like memory. It was cool, but not cold. Alive, somehow.
He rose to his feet. The light blue liquid slid from his skin in slow, heavy drops—yet left him dry.
The air smelled faintly of crushed petals… and something older. Burned parchment. Rain on ancient stone. Doran turned slowly, taking in the surreal, silent world.
The trees swayed in a breeze that did not blow.
The grass bent to his steps before he took them.
And yet—he felt welcome.
Not safe. Never safe.
But known.
He moved forward, boots sinking slightly into the soft, warm soil. Overhead, the sky remained still—green and purple swirls shifting like bruises blooming across the void.
With every step, the air warmed—not from the sun, whose fading light held no heat, but from something deeper.
Something familiar.
Something ancient.
He emerged into a clearing.
At its center, seated atop a smooth, flat stone, was a man.
He looked young—no older than Doran. Slim frame. Frizzled orange hair that stood in wild defiance of gravity. His hands were clasped just below his chest, fingers entwined in silent focus.
But Doran felt it immediately.
The presence.
It was like Benji's—but heavier. Greater. Like standing before a flame that hadn't yet burned him, but could.
The man stared at the sky.
Not with wonder.
With challenge.
Doran stepped forward.
The man didn't turn. Didn't flinch.
He simply raised one hand, palm facing upward. "Stop."
Then lowered it again, folding it back into its twin without looking away. "Who are you?" he asked, calm but unwavering. "And how did you get here?"
His voice slid into Doran like warm air through a cracked window. Soft despite its edge. Cold in tone, but somehow… comforting.
"I'm…" Doran hesitated. He didn't know what name to give. Or what power names carried in this place. "I'm Doran," he said finally, firm.
The man's fingers twitched—once—then stilled.
"Doran," he echoed. "You carry the residue of a Sepideus… but you're not one of them."
He turned.
And Doran forgot how to breathe.
The man's face was human—almost.
But not quite.
Too symmetrical. Too precise. As if someone had drawn a man from memory and tried to make him real. But didn't understand how faces softened, how expressions truly lived.
Crimson eyes met his. They didn't shimmer with light, but with something deeper.
Depth. Age. Knowledge.
Doran flinched.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
Do I know him?
No. He couldn't. He didn't even know where he was.
And yet… something in this stranger felt known. Like a name half-remembered. A story whispered in sleep.
"You shouldn't be here," the man said, voice still calm. "This is the Realm of Gods."
Doran swallowed, mouth dry despite the rich, flower-sweet air.
The man stepped down from the stone, eyes sharpening.
"How did a mortal find their way here outside of the Ater Games?" he asked, voice low now. "Explain yourself."
Doran didn't answer at first.
Because he couldn't.
The man's presence pressed down on him like gravity had found its center here—on this land, in this moment. Every breath felt borrowed.
"I came from the Lands of the Passed," Doran finally said, voice low. "To witness an event from the past. I'm trying to return to my time, but I was told—"
The man cut him off with a scoff, the tension in his stance softening just slightly. "What could Forgotten possibly have planned for a mere mortal?"
He paused.
And in the silence that followed, understanding flickered across his face.
"Well now," he said, a grin spreading. "I suppose you're here to witness the taking of the Forbidden Flame."
His eyes gleamed. "How about this, mortal—why not assist me?"
Doran's brow furrowed. "Assist you?" he repeated, unsure if the man was serious… or simply toying with him.
The man tilted his head, clearly enjoying the confusion. "You've arrived at the perfect moment. I need someone disposable… and you, mortal, are convenient."
He turned his back to Doran, gazing past the trees into a distance thick with light and heat. "There is a flame," he said. "Split into three. I plan to steal a piece of it… and wield it to dismantle those who cling to godhood like children gripping crowns."
The words landed like a hammer.
Doran's breath caught. "Wait… are you—Avon?"
The man glanced over his shoulder, "Yeah. What's it to ya?"
His grin faded as he turned fully to face Doran, reading the expression on the mortals face. "So I fail, huh?"
Doran stared.
This was the one.
The one who haunted his thoughts.
The one who whispered in his soul, who stitched him back from death.
The one whose flame both saved and cursed him.
And now… he stood before him.
Not as a ghost.
Not as a burning Soul.
But as a man.
Alive.
Whole.
"You… knew this would happen?" Doran asked quietly.
Avon looked up to the void-streaked sky. "No. But you appeared just as I finalized my plan to take the flame. Which can only mean—" his eyes narrowed, "—that I succeeded."
He paused, voice cooling. "But something must've gone wrong along the way."
Doran's lips parted, ready to respond.
But Avon turned his gaze back to him.
"If you know more," he said, "don't tell me. I want to see what path Fate has carved for me."
A silence settled between them. The trees rustled without wind. A long shadow stretched slowly across the grass, crawling from the dying sun like a reaching hand.
Avon turned again, his gaze distant. "Then it's time," he murmured. "Time to set the realms in motion."
Doran studied him, uncertain whether to feel awe or unease.
Finally, he stepped forward. "If I'm here, there's a reason. I don't know what it is yet. But I won't find it standing still."
He narrowed his eyes. "Just tell me one thing. If you already have a flame… why chase another?"
Avon blinked. Confusion flickered across his face.
"I don't have a flame. Where'd you get that impression?" He scoffed lightly. "I'm heir to the War Queen. Her throne becomes mine when her reign ends. That's all."
Doran's eye twitched.
So he lied.
He'll show me the truth—whether he wants to or not.
"Just… a little birdie told me otherwise," Doran muttered.
Avon didn't answer.
He just walked.
Not in silence—but in rhythm. A beat only he could hear. A beat Doran felt—like the ground itself pulsed to it.
Doran followed.
The trees around them curled their leaves inward as the two passed, breathing in long, slow pulses. The soil beneath their boots shimmered with faint silver veins, glowing and dimming like veins in a living thing.
"So where are we going?" Doran asked, suspicion in his tone.
Avon raised a hand and pointed ahead.
"To the Hollow Heart," he said. "Where the first piece is kept."
He glanced back over his shoulder, and his voice lowered.
"Where even Kamikura and Sepideus fear to tread."
They passed beneath an arch formed by the gnarled roots of an inverted tree—its trunk floating midair, suspended upside-down, with its branches clawing toward the earth like skeletal fingers.
Doran's eyes locked on it.
He stopped.
Something about the tree pulled at him. Whispered to him.
He reached out, fingers drawn to the roots as if called by name.
"Don't touch it," Avon snapped.
Doran froze, hand hovering inches away. "Why?"
Avon didn't stop walking. "My father planted those during the Ater Games. They trap the Souls of curious mortals."
Doran's brow furrowed. "So mortals have been here before?"
"Only as tools." Avon's voice took on a bitter lilt. "Imagine a game of chess where your piece is only a pawn… on a board filled only by queens."
Doran slowly withdrew his hand. The roots pulsed faintly—like veins, like mouths feeding on temptation. He lingered a moment longer, then turned and quickened his pace to catch up with Avon, who hadn't broken stride.
They walked deeper into the forest.
The light began to dim—not from clouds, nor from canopy, but as if the sun itself refused to witness what lay ahead.
The trees grew stranger here. Some bent inward on themselves like bones folding. Others grew upside-down with no visible anchor, suspended in the air, their reflections rippling in waters that didn't exist.
"How much longer?" Doran asked.
Avon exhaled sharply. "You mortals and your obsession with time. Time does not exist here." He sounded irritated, then added, "But we're close."
The air thickened with heat as they pressed on. The trees thinned. What foliage remained was charred—ashen remnants of a once-living forest. Leaves blackened and crumbled underfoot. The soil steamed with each step.
Then it appeared.
The Hollow Heart.
It loomed ahead, breathing smoke and flame like a living thing—part fortress, part beast, all ruin. Blackened stone twisted into jagged spires. Fire bled from cracks in its surface. Ancient runes pulsed beneath layers of soot, flickering in time with the land's unnatural heartbeat.
Doran stared.
The Hollow Heart lived.
Avon stopped just before the clearing that cradled the Hollow Heart.
"From here on," he said quietly, "no talking. No sound. Death is listening."
Doran's chest tightened—not with fear, but something stranger. A pressure in his ribs, like his body knew what his mind refused to admit. Like it resisted the path ahead.
He stared at the structure.
It breathed.
Not with lungs. Not in rhythm.
But with presence.
As if it had waited centuries for someone—anyone—to try.
The Hollow Heart pulsed once.
THOOOM.
A dull, cavernous sound, like a war drum struck in the belly of the world.
Doran took a step.
Then another.
His legs began to ache—not from exertion, but from defiance. Each step heavier than the last, like the ground was deciding whether to accept him.
He glanced at Avon, hoping to see strain—but Avon walked as if the pressure meant nothing. Untouched. Undeterred.
The stone radiated heat and silence. No wind. No birds. Only the low, groaning hum of a reality stretched too far, held together by memory and ash.
Avon stopped at the mouth of the Hollow Heart, just before the scorched entrance. He didn't look back.
"You feel it, don't you?" he whispered.
Doran nodded slowly, sweat beading across his brow.
"The Hollow Heart's power," Avon murmured. "It's the soul of the firstborn."
Doran blinked. "What?"
Avon turned.
No smirk.
Just gravity.
"A true god," he said. "Killed out of hatred. Its Soul was sealed here."
The black maw of the Hollow Heart pulsed once—
And opened.
The sound was like a canyon breaking in half. The echo rolled out in waves, a rumble that rattled the air.
An unbearable heat surged from the opening. Embers followed—dozens—riding the breath of the beast.
Doran raised an arm, shielding his face. The embers kissed his skin but did not burn.
Avon didn't flinch.
He stepped forward—and vanished into the dark.
Doran hesitated.
Not from fear.
From knowing.
The kind of knowing that comes from a dream you haven't had yet. A warning whispered through time.
Then he stepped in.
The air changed instantly.
Heat became weight. Breath came thick, like dragging smoke through cracked lungs. The stone walls pulsed with veins of glowing magma, snaking like arteries, alive and restless. The corridor twisted unnaturally, its geometry broken—too many angles where none should exist. Corners that bled into themselves, leading forward and behind at once.
Doran glanced back toward the entrance—
Gone.
Sealed.
A wall of blackened stone now stood where the threshold had been.
He turned forward again, jaw tightening. No choice but forward.
"Avon?" he called out, his voice barely above a whisper. "Where'd you go?"
ERRRREEEEKKKKK.
The Hollow Heart groaned.
The floor beneath him shifted. The walls pressed inward. The ceiling creaked.
The entire corridor breathed.
Then slowly exhaled—stone retreating like lungs settling after a strained gasp.
He froze.
The sound had no source.
It was the air.
Not around him, but within it. Like it had always been there, waiting.
The walls stilled, yet Doran still felt the pulse. Slow. Ancient. The tremble of something learning to breathe again after being silent for an eternity.
He inhaled sharply and moved forward, steps cautious.
His boots scraped against the molten stone—but left no mark.
The hallway opened suddenly, giving way to a massive chamber.
Cathedral-like.
Circular.
Its walls were lined with jagged pillars of obsidian, like broken teeth surrounding a silent altar. In the center, suspended by thick chains of bone and steel, hovered an obsidian prism. Its edges shimmered faintly, as if resisting light itself.
Avon was nowhere to be seen.
"Avon?" Doran said, voice steadier now. He stepped forward, slowly approaching the room's center.
No answer.
The chamber didn't echo.
It absorbed.
Every sound—every footstep, every breath—was devoured by the air itself, swallowed whole.
Then—
The Hollow Heart pulsed again.
THOOOM.
The walls moved inward, the ground trembling beneath him.
Chains groaned. Bone scraped metal. The links surrounding the prism clanked loose—then snapped taut again.
Doran froze mid-step.
Then it came—a pulse.
Not through the walls.
Not through the air.
But in a place that felt… absent.
Missing.
Yet somehow familiar.
Doran clutched his chest. His heart raced, pounding in sync with something unseen.
The prism above began to glow—slowly at first. Not with fire. But with something older. Deeper. A light that felt like it belonged before time had form.
It rumbled.
The pulse quickened—faster and faster—until it matched the rhythm of Doran's heartbeat.
Then—silence.
The chamber fell still.
A fracture spread across the obsidian surface of the prism.
Then another.
Then it shattered.
From the ruins emerged a flame—swirling with interwoven tongues of orange and blue. It spun slowly, three ember rings orbiting its core like planets bound by gravity.
Doran froze.
The flame's heat surged through the chamber, thickening the air. Every breath scorched his lungs. It wasn't just heat—it was essence, trying to burn its way into him.
Still—despite the pain, despite his body's rebellion—he moved forward.
Drawn to it.
Called to it.
Each step blurred the world around him. His vision swam. His legs shook. His chest screamed for air.
But he kept going.
Until he collapsed.
His body gave out, crumpling beneath him.
The flame hovered above.
Waiting.
Watching.
The room groaned again. The walls and ceiling began to contract—closing in once more.
Then the flame flared.
Once.
The walls recoiled. The chamber expanded with a thunderous crack.
The flame descended.
The ember rings tightened, forming a single band of molten light before spiraling through the air—then piercing into Doran's back like threads of fire being stitched into his soul.
The flame dimmed… and poured itself into him.
Slowly, steadily, it vanished—its essence dissolving into his body, ember by ember.
The world shimmered.
Then darkened.
The chamber faded.
Silence claimed everything.
And Doran drifted—alone—in the black.
Weightless.
He opened his eyes to nothing.
Then—suddenly—he was back.
The Lands of the Passed.
Forgotten stood before him, towering in silence. His skeletal face, normally unreadable, now twisted in something unfamiliar.
Fear.
Doran laid trembling on the solid void beneath him. The ground held no texture, no weight—just existence.
"What did you do!" Forgotten roared.
His voice echoed through the black, a thunderclap in the silence. Far off, titanic pillars drifted through the dark like thoughts in motion.
"I went and witnessed like you told me to!" Doran shouted back, struggling to push himself up. His body still shook, limbs rebelling.
Forgotten raised a hand.
Palm forward.
Doran's body rose into the air, held aloft like a puppet by invisible strings.
"You erased an entire timeline!" Forgotten's voice cracked with fury, and something beneath it—panic.
Doran's eyes shifted.
The third arch.
Crumbled.
Broken.
"I just followed Avon," he muttered. "Figured… that's what I was supposed to do."
Forgotten lowered his palm and Doran fell.
He hit the formless ground with a thud that made no sound, only ripples—waves in a surface that wasn't water, wasn't stone, wasn't real.
"You stopped Avon from taking the flame," Forgotten said, his tone tightening. "That flame was meant to pass through him… and end up in you. But now—you possess two of the same flame."
Doran stared at the ruins of the arch.
The truth crept into his bones like winter.
"Two… of the same flame?" he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.
Forgotten began to pace. Sharp movements. Uneven. Frantic. A stark contrast to his usual spectral calm.
"You've thrown off the balance," he muttered. "But maybe…"
He stopped.
Turned his back to Doran.
Then swept his hand through the air, leaving behind a trail of faint green lights—like stars blinking into existence mid-thought.
"Maybe the cycle was Fated to break," he whispered.
He stood still for a long moment.
Then turned.
Faceless skull staring down Doran once more.
"Fate is beyond even the gods' control," Forgotten said, his twin-layered voice echoing in strange harmony. "But you…"
He paused.
"You seem to weave between its vision."
A silence pulsed between them.
"Maybe," Forgotten said, "you will write your own Fate."
Doran stood now—fully upright.
His shoulders heaved, his body broken but not bowed. Pain still throbbed in every limb, but for the first time since Fructum was turned to gold, he felt… whole.
Yet that feeling of absence remained.
A hollow ache he'd known every day for the past four years.
More vivid now than ever.
"What do I do now?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Forgotten turned to him, pausing.
Then he spoke.
"Death. Forge your flames to defy the god himself. When you return to the Lands of the Passed, I will tell you more about him. But for now—he knows you exist. That is the cost of your actions. Move forward with caution."
His tone grew grave.
"The gods will now intervene."
"No!" Doran shouted, fury rising in his chest. "You're going to tell me what I want to know—now!"
Forgotten didn't flinch.
He extended one arm to the side. With a crack of soundless pressure, a staff appeared in his skeletal hand—long, made from a single spine. Jewels glittered along each vertebra, and five skulls crowned its head like a warped flail.
He began to chant.
"Mittere Domum Mortale."
Light bloomed.
And in a blink—
Doran was gone.
Alone.
Floating in the cold, endless silence of space.
Stars drifted like dust across the dark.
Fragments of Lily's ruined city-body turned lazily in orbit, haloed by silence. Splintered towers. Twisted beams. Cracked windows that would never see dawn again.
In the center of it all, Doran floated—adrift among ghosts.
His breaths came slow. Steady. Not from fear.
But from weight.
Something new burned inside him. Not pain. Not heat.
A rhythm.
It beat beneath his ribs, just out of sync with his own pulse. Not just fire. Not just power.
A soul.
Across the void, Avon hovered—flame-wreathed wings tucked close, his light reduced to a simmer. His expression wasn't blank.
It was crowded.
"…What did you do?" Avon asked, his voice low and flat.
Doran didn't look at him, his gaze lingered on the distant sun.
"You should be dead," Avon snapped, voice cracking like flint. "The Soul Bind should've shattered when you blew up that walking city bitch!"
He surged forward, wings flaring in frustration.
Doran's fingers curled.
The flame within shifted.
Not in anger.
In awareness.
"You pushed yourself too far," Avon growled. "I felt it. The Links broke. You died. Fully. And when you came back… there was something new."
He narrowed his eyes.
"A soul."
Doran turned slowly.
His eyes glinted—flecks of indigo burning through gold like cracks in a mask.
"You lied to me," he said, voice cold. "God of the first flame? Please. You just stole it. Like the spoiled little brat you are."
Avon flinched, just barely.
"How did you…?"
"I went to the Lands of the Passed," Doran said quietly. "I don't understand all of it yet, but I saw you."
He paused. Drew in a breathless breath—one the void didn't offer. The flame inside him inhaled for him.
"You were mortal," he continued. "Just a guy. About to steal the flame."
Avon's jaw tensed.
"…About to?" he echoed. "And then what?"
Doran didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Avon's flames pulled inward—tight and sharp. Not as armor.
As fear.
"You took it," he breathed. "Before I could…"
He stared, like he was looking at something that shouldn't exist. Something wrong.
"No," he said. "That's not possible. I have the flame. I stole it. It's mine."
He recoiled a half-step. The heat around him dimmed. Not from control.
From confusion.
"Wait… you said the Lands of the Passed?" he asked, more to himself than to Doran. Then his tone darkened. "That means… Forgotten."
Doran gave a slow nod.
Avon hissed through his teeth.
"That explains it… That skeletal bastard. He helped me escape to the mortal realm once. But what the hell does he want with you?"
Doran's brow furrowed.
"I don't know. He just kept talking in riddles. Made me go through some arches to witness… I don't know. Pieces of the past? Timelines?" He grimaced. "It was like walking through someone else's memory. But it felt real."
In the Lands of Passed
Forgotten stood alone atop a single pillar, drifting through the endless void.
Beneath him, nothing.
Above him, eternity.
"Five souls from Daseptin," he murmured, voice thin as smoke. "One from Obellustle."
He sighed.
"The trouble that mortal brings…"
A sudden flash split the void—
and for a breathless moment, the darkness was peeled back.
Millions of pillars revealed themselves, scattered across the infinite expanse.
Some whole. Some fractured.
Some vacant.
All drifting—slow and solemn—guided by a current no eye could trace.
Then, just as suddenly, darkness returned.
Forgotten did not move.
But his voice came again. Calm. Cold.
"I know why the mortal is here."
He tilted his skull slightly, a gesture both curious and tired.
"But the rest of you…"
A pause.
"…What do I owe the pleasure?"
Behind him, the silver arch cracked.
A thin, jagged fracture tore down its surface.