This was the year 400 A.C.—After the Cataclysm.
According to the history lessons drilled into him at the Seed Pits of the Church of Atonement, the destruction of the old world had been inevitable. Humanity's original sin—greed—had driven them to consume the Earth without restraint. Resources were devoured at an unsustainable rate, all in service of profit, fueling the insatiable hunger of capitalism and the oligarchy.
Inevitably, scarcity followed. Hunger and war festered like an open wound. Disease and death became the final harvest of a dying planet.
Desperate for salvation, the oligarchs turned to the stars. That was when they found the Hollow Stone.
It was paraded as the miracle that would end suffering, an infinite source of energy that would fix scarcity, end hunger, and usher in a new golden age.
But the moment the Hollow Stone was introduced into the atmosphere, everything changed.
Hollow energy seeped into the world like a cancer. The planet quadrupled in size overnight, as if writhing in agony. Earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, and acid rains swept across the land, erasing entire cities, drowning continents, and reducing civilizations to dust.
Half of the population was wiped out.
Worse still, those unable to withstand the corruption did not simply die. They changed.
The weak and unprotected warped into Hollows—ravenous, mindless creatures that thrived on despair, feeding on corruption and the destruction left in the apocalypse's wake.
For the survivors, life became a brutal struggle. Wars were no longer fought over ideology or wealth but over resources.
Yet, among the chaos, some were touched by the Hollow energy and lived.
These rare individuals bore the mark of transformation—Hollow Marks. Some received golden marks, a sign of Virtue. Others bore red, branding them Sinners.
Both were powerful.
Ordinary weapons were useless against the Hollows. The only true defense was the power of Sin and Virtue. Those who bore the marks could summon Primordial Spirits, ancient entities bound to their very souls, to fight back against the nightmare the world had become.
Over time, humanity carved out a fragile foothold in this new Earth.
Four centuries later, the remnants of civilization have been rebuilt around those who wield the power of Hollow Marks. Temples and churches emerged, each dedicated to guiding and controlling these individuals, shaping their abilities to fit their own doctrines.
"It's been a week now…" Orion whispered, raising his left hand.
He wasn't sure what method had been used to heal him, but his recovery had been unnaturally swift. His wounds had closed, his strength had returned, and his basic movements no longer felt like an impossible struggle.
Since regaining consciousness, he hadn't seen the red-eyed man. Instead, a man named Geraldth had been tending to his needs—changing his bandages, administering treatments, ensuring his survival.
But Orion had lived long enough to know that generosity in this world always came with a price. He wasn't naive. Debts were never repaid in kindness.
What he needed now was to assess his worth. What leverage did he have? What bargaining chips could he play when the time came?
Pushing through the lingering stiffness in his limbs, he struggled to sit up, his mind finally clear enough to take in his surroundings.
The room was plain—functional. A standard hotel room? No, it felt too controlled. An underground facility, then. No daylight ever reached the interior. The bed was twin-sized, covered in sterile white sheets. A small closet stood beside it, next to a vanity—mirrorless.
His gaze shifted to the door—locked from the outside with a fingerprint scanner. A camera lingered in the upper corner, watching, always watching. On the opposite side of the room stood a desk with a single chair, a lamp, and a closed laptop. Just beyond it, a punching bag, weights, and a pull-up bar confirmed his suspicions.
This was no hotel. This was a military dormitory.
His chest tightened. Where the hell had he landed? And what did that red-eyed man want from him?
The thoughts gnawed at him, circling like vultures as he braced himself against the wall, steadying his balance before making his way to the bathroom.
It was a small, sterile space—white tiles, standard necessities, a long mirror spanning the wall.
Orion's breath hitched.
The man staring back at him was almost unrecognizable.
His body was leaner, his height had increased by at least a head. His collarbones and hips were sharper, more defined. His skin—paler than before—softened the harsh appearance of the countless scars littering his frame.
He had always hated seeing himself like this. Every scar carried the weight of his past, a testament to a life filled with horrors that a person with his previous ambitions should never have endured.
Letting out a slow breath, he stepped closer to the mirror.
The changes to his face were even more striking. His once-boyish features had sharpened into something more mature. A straight nose, full lips tinged a soft shade of rose, and phoenix eyes—deep green, like polished emeralds.
His dyed hair had begun to fade, the roots revealing his true color—jet black. The blonde highlights at the tips were all that remained of his attempt to be someone else.
For the first time in years, Orion was seeing himself without a mask.
No makeup. No artificial personas. Just him.
His fingers brushed against the mirror's surface, tracing the unfamiliar reflection.
"How long has it been since I last saw my real self?"
He had tried so hard to shape himself into something else—into someone worthy, someone untouchable—only for the universe to spit him back out, stripped bare.
He remembered that day vividly.
The awakening day. The moment he came into contact with the Hollow Stone.
The energy surged through his body like a tidal wave, an all-consuming force that tore through him without mercy. He felt it racing through his channel paths, starting at his fingertips, rushing to his heart, then splitting—like colliding electrons—before shooting toward both his forehead and navel.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
According to the teachings, the Hollow Energy should have marked one place. It should have be one the forehead or the navel. Sin or Virtue. Never both.
Yet the heat spread, searing his skin, etching marks into both.
An anomaly. A mistake. A deviation from the natural order.
But in that moment, when the red mark appeared on his forehead—branding him for all to see—who would listen? Who would believe that something had gone wrong?
No one.
The deed was done. What was the point of reminiscing?
"Your path as a Virtue was cut off that day. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can move forward."
Orion exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts away.
"Let's see what sin I've been found guilty of."