The earth beneath Raen cracked open—not just physically, but spiritually.
Ash didn't fall from the sky. It rose from the ground, swirling like the memories of a dead civilization. The villagers, faces still locked in empty smiles, began to hum. Low. Unified. Wrong.
Then came the voice again.
> "He walks again... the one who survived the Ashfall."
Raen took a step back. He didn't remember any Ashfall. But the way the ground responded to his presence—the way the ring on his finger bled light like a wounded star—told him something ancient remembered him.
A sudden quake knocked him down. From the center of the village, the soil tore apart and gave birth to a monolith. Black as void. Taller than the trees. Covered in spiraling glyphs that bled shadows.
An eye opened on the spire. Slitted. Cold. Alive.
> "It sees you," the voice whispered again. "It remembers its thief."
Thief?
Raen's breath caught.
Flashes filled his mind.
> Fire. Screaming. A city in ruins. A boy holding a glowing ring, kneeling in blood—his own?
> A promise made in another life: "I'll return the ring... when the world is ready."
Raen gritted his teeth. "What is this place?"
A figure emerged from the smoke.
Tall. Wrapped in cloaks of stitched skin. Its face was veiled, but six eyes burned behind the folds.
It did not walk. It glided.
> "Welcome to the Threshold, Raen," it said, voice layered with hundreds of tones.
> "You stand where kings once begged for mercy... and were denied."
> "You carry what they died to bury."
Raen raised his sword.
The being laughed—a sound like a thousand bones snapping.
> "You think the blade can protect you?"
"Even steel forgets its edge in the presence of the Eye."
It raised a skeletal hand—and the ash formed images in the air: soldiers falling, towers melting, a sky bleeding stars.
> "This ring you wear once belonged to the Ash King himself."
"He used it to open the first door... the door to memory."
> "But you… you opened the second."
> "You have awakened the Eye Beneath."
Suddenly, Raen was flung into the air—his body slammed against invisible walls, twisted space. The spire cracked, and from its seams poured voices—too many to bear.
Whispers of betrayal. Of power. Of sacrifices.
> "Shut up!" Raen roared, clutching his head.
He slammed the sword into the ground.
A shockwave burst from him—fueled not by strength, but by desperation.
When the dust settled, the being was gone.
So was the village.
Raen stood alone on a field of ash.
Only the ring remained warm—and the mark glowing across his chest. A spiral of flame and eye.
And then... a distant rumble.
Not thunder.
Footsteps.
A dozen figures in silver cloaks stood at the horizon, watching.
> "The Eye has opened," one of them said.
"Kill the bearer."
Raen looked down at his hand.
The ring pulsed again.
And deep within him… something opened its own eye.