Chapter 87: The Beginning
The wind barely whispered across the plain, as though even it feared to disturb the stillness that clung to this strange space. Petals of midnight blue drifted through the open lattice doors, spiraling past carved eaves and gilded beams until they settled like whispers at his feet.
A man stepped forward slowly—silent, composed, a silhouette of dark silk and untold burdens. The scroll in his hand trembled once, but not from frailty. It bore the memory of the world: every achievement, every growth, every change, every evolution etched into the parchment—the weight of every deed, the essence of every name it carried.
Before him stretched a wall of light. No—of memory. Ancient calligraphy shimmered in suspended air, carved not onto stone but into the soul of the pavilion itself. Each character pulsed faintly, as though alive, drifting gently as they descended in endless vertical lines. A cathedral of unspoken voices.
He raised his hand.
Fingers brushed the edge of the scroll, unrolling it with the reverence of a mourner reading last rites. The ink began to glow, mirroring the wall before him, and for a moment his breath caught. The names were matching.
This was no mere history.
This was a binding.
Behind the veil of characters, vague reflections stirred—echoes of those who once bore the memories now illuminated, whether events or legends. Their features blurred, as though the space fought to preserve them even in its erosion. One spirit—tall, draped in silver robes, eyes sharp as dawn—stepped forward, pressing its hand to the mirrored wall from the other side. But the man did not flinch.
He had witnessed too many of these things.
Instead, he brought his brush down onto the scroll, dipping it in the inkstone fastened to his belt. His strokes were fluid, unbroken. Not calligraphy. Not art. A rite.
After refreshing the characters shimmering on the invisible wall.
He stepped back and finally turned away, revealing his pale face and silver hair that tousled like a storm yet to pass. Two black horns jutted from his head, sharp and regal, framing eyes that blazed with cold, unnatural blue fire.