The sea parted like breath, and Hai Shen Ling stood once more at the gates of silence.
He emerged from the shattered memories of the Choir Temple with the fifth soul ring trailing behind him like a veil of dusk—deep indigo and woven from resonance, not conquest. Yet the ocean did not release him to peace. Ahead, submerged in the fold between waking and dream, rose a new domain.
Here, coral spires jutted from the sea floor like broken fingers reaching skyward. Great thrones—crafted not of gold but petrified coral and seashell bone—formed a ring beneath a dome of abyssal stone. They pulsed with traces of long-faded power, their surfaces cracked but not dead. Eight thrones for eight echoes. Only one glowed faintly now.
Hai Shen Ling stepped into the circle.
His footsteps triggered something. From each throne, water surged, not in chaos but in lament. The Sea God's sigil flared beneath his feet, revealing a glyph older than even Bo Saixi's songs. The sea hummed with discontent.
From above, the light dimmed. The trench was no longer just water—it was memory embodied. And he stood at its center.
Behind him, the echo of the Siren murmured:
They do not rest. They await voice.
A pulse ran through his bones. Shen Ling closed his eyes and listened—not with ears, but with his soul.
The pressure here was suffocating, not just in depth but in memory. Each throne exuded fragments of feeling: betrayal, love, sacrifice, despair. This was not a trial of strength—it was one of remembrance.
As he took his first step deeper into the throne circle, the silt stirred like breath, and the sea seemed to inhale.
He bowed before the first throne. It was worn smooth by time. A single spiral conch rested at its base. He reached for it—and the moment his hand brushed the surface, the world shuddered.
A vision struck.
He stood amidst a city carved entirely from pearlescent coral. Sirens danced in the air, their voices weaving the tides. At the center stood a crowned figure whose voice could still storms.
But then—their silence.
The crown fell. The choir choked on betrayal. The city drowned in silence.
Shen Ling gasped, returning to the trench.
He staggered to the next throne. This one bore skeletal remains of shell-clad armor. A broken harp leaned against its base.
Another vision.
A knight of the depths, swearing loyalty to a voice they never heard again. Loyalty unto silence.
He understood: these thrones were not for those who reigned—but for those who remembered.
With each throne, a new memory surged.
A healer who sacrificed her gift to keep a song alive.
A warrior who deafened himself so he would not betray.
A child who sang to keep the dead warm.
And each memory tore through his heart like tide against cliff.
"Why do they suffer still?" he whispered.
The Siren's voice came softer now:
Because the sea does not forget. It only waits.
The fifth ring pulsed—not in dominance, but in grief. In tribute.
He turned to the seventh throne. Its surface was etched with countless overlapping runes—some cracked, some unfinished.
He touched it.
The vision was different this time. No person. No tragedy. Only music.
A symphony played in reverse. A song unraveling itself.
And then silence.
He collapsed to his knees, breath shaking.
Only one throne remained. Unlike the others, it was untouched by coral, enshrined in crystal glass. Yet it held no relic, no name.
He stepped forward.
A sharp sound rang out—like a note played backward. The sea shook.
The throne cracked.
And from within, a figure emerged.
Not a beast. Not a soul.
A reflection.
It was Hai Shen Ling—older, wearier, with hollowed eyes and a voice stained by sorrow.
The copy raised its hand, and Shen Ling felt his own skills flare in response.
"Siren's Echo!"
Two waves of sonic force clashed. The sea roared.
"Song of the Abyssal Trial!"
Chains of echo and shadow wrapped around each form—canceling, straining.
"Elegy of the Drowned Crown!"
Crown met crown. One wept. The other bled.
But the mirror self laughed.
"Do you think power is enough? Do you think remembering is redemption?"
Shen Ling's voice cracked. "No. But it is a beginning."
The trial escalated.
The reflection used Song of Aeloria—illusions intertwined with melody to bury him in comfort, in false echoes.
But Shen Ling responded not with attack—but with an offering.
He sang the Requiem of the Abyssal Choir.
His voice trembled. But the echo listened.
And shattered.
The throne pulsed once more. And this time, the eighth sigil glowed.
Not in silver.
But in blue fire.
As the reflection dissolved, a fragment of a final memory touched him—a voice saying:
We never wanted vengeance. Only remembrance.
He wept. Not in pain.
But in reverence.
The sea was still.
All around him, the eight thrones began to shimmer. The broken harp from the temple floated toward him, whole now, strings gleaming with threads of memory.
When he plucked a single string, the trench vibrated.
The sea answered.
From the deep, echoes poured upward. Not voices. Not beasts. But names.
Arion. Velis. Saphira. Kalder. Nyssa. Mourn.
The sea had never forgotten. It had simply waited for one who would remember.
A pulse rippled outward. The ocean bent around him.
Bo Saixi, watching through the mirror in the sanctuary, fell to her knees.
Sea Dragon Douluo whispered, "The eighth echo... it answered."
Sea Ghost Douluo's face paled. "He's not just heir to the Siren. He's become its voice."
The trench shimmered.
The memory became marrow.
And in Hai Shen Ling's soul, the eighth voice did not whisper. It wept.
And then it sang.
The harp floated to his hands. He strummed it, and each note became a word, and each word a prayer.
He whispered: "I hear you. I remember. I will not let you fade."
And the sea sighed.
When Shen Ling surfaced from the Trench of Thrones, the sea parted to let him pass.
Above, the sky had darkened. Not in warning—but reverence.
He stood on the glider's edge, barefoot and breathless.
Bo Saixi waited for him. Behind her, the Seven Douluo knelt.
"Child," she whispered, "what did the thrones show you?"
Shen Ling raised his head.
"That the sea never forgets. It waits. And when its voice returns, it does not rage—it mourns."
The Douluo lowered their heads.
He turned toward the horizon.
And the sea shimmered.
In the far distance, beyond the vaults of memory and the storm-wrought sky—
—The Sea God's shadow stirred.
Not in judgment.
But in welcome.
And with the harp still in hand, and echoes threading through his veins, Hai Shen Ling whispered:
"Let the mourning become song. Let the song become truth."
And the ocean listened.