Part I – The Dream With Too Many Doors
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Sleep didn't come easily.
Not in Fogwalker's Landing.
Not under a sky of smoke, where stars blinked in the wrong rhythm, and masks watched you even after they were removed.
But eventually, exhaustion won.
And Izan slept.
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In that sleep, he dreamed—but it wasn't a dream of his making.
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He stood in a hallway.
Endless.
The floor was wet ink. The ceiling... parchment. Dozens—no, hundreds—of doors lined the corridor, each marked with a single word carved into brass plates:
"Regret"
"Shame"
"Curiosity"
"Truth"
"You"
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The sigil on his chest burned softly. Not in pain. In recognition.
Each door pulsed faintly, calling to him.
But one—only one—bled beneath its frame.
Its brass nameplate read:
> "Future."
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He stepped toward it.
His reflection appeared on the door's surface—but it wasn't him.
It was… the same body, but missing a face.
In its place was the Hollow Mask—but broken, cracked down the middle, and behind it... a swarm of blinking eyes, each weeping blood.
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He touched the handle.
> click
The door opened—inward.
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Inside, the world twisted into a city of glass, suspended upside-down above the clouds.
The people wore masks made of flesh.
A bell rang.
A star screamed.
And above the city floated a single, impossible object:
A giant eye, as wide as a cathedral, suspended in the sky—its pupil shaped like the Hollow Sigil, and its iris swirling with ink and constellations.
The moment Izan looked at it—
It looked back.
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He collapsed to his knees as a name burned into his skull.
> "You carry the seed of the Forgotten Dream."
"Your body is a door. Your mind, the lock."
"Others seek to open you."
The voice echoed from within him.
From the sigil.
From the eye.
And behind it...
Something stirred.
Something with teeth.
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He turned to run—
But the city melted around him. The sky cracked. Stars bled like ink spilled across a dying manuscript.
And suddenly—
He wasn't alone.
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A figure stood ahead, cloaked in stars, its head a mass of tangled hair and metal rings. It wore no mask—but its face was blurred, like ink smeared across paper before it dried.
It whispered a name.
> "Alvek."
"First Hunter of the Eye."
"Bound to bring silence to the unworthy."
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Then—it moved.
No step. No warning. Just appeared behind him.
Izan's chest split in pain. The eye beneath his skin screamed.
The figure pressed its hand to Izan's shoulder and whispered:
> "The Hunt begins now."
"Wake, vessel.
Or die in your sleep."
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And he woke—choking on smoke.
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Back in his room above the clocktower, fog had leaked inside through the sealed windows.
Silva burst in, dagger drawn, her coat half-wrapped.
> "They're here," she hissed. "An Order Hunter just crossed into the city. The Sealed Ones don't send him unless…"
Her eyes locked with Izan's.
> "Unless the Hollow Sigil has been declared Awakened."
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Outside, in the night sky, one star burned bright red.
It bled softly, its light dripping downward like candlewax into the city's fog.
And every mask in Fogwalker's Landing…
Turned to face the sky.
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Part II – The Crimson Bell and the Hunter of Names
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They say the Crimson Bell only tolls for the end of a name.
Tonight, it rang for Izan Virel.
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The sound was not metallic—it was wet, like a heartbeat echoing through water.
Its toll spread across Fogwalker's Landing like a plague made of sound.
Windows cracked.
Birds fell dead from the sky.
Ink bled from statues' eyes.
And high above, the bleeding star pulsed in rhythm—one beat per ring.
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Silva cursed under her breath.
> "That's not just any Hunter.
That's a Crimson-Declared. A sanctioned erasure."
"He's allowed to remove you from existence, soul-first."
Izan stood at the window.
The fog outside had turned red, glowing faintly like blood diluted in milk.
Through it, a figure walked.
Slow. Calm. No rush. As if the world would wait for him to arrive.
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He wore no cloak. No sigil. No badge.
Only a long coat made of stitched shadows,
and a mirror mask, cracked at the brow—
identical to Izan's.
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> "Alvek," Izan whispered.
"I saw him in the dream…"
Silva snapped her fingers in front of his eyes.
> "Listen. You don't fight him now. Not at Sequence 9."
"You run. You vanish. You live."
> "But the Sigil—"
> "The Sigil won't mean anything if your name is burned from the Codex."
She pulled a scroll from inside her coat. Its paper was black, and the ink glowed silver.
> "Teleportation scroll. Illegal. Flawed. One-way. But it'll get us to a Whispering Zone in the city's bones."
"If we reach the Veil-Hall, you might survive the night."
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She activated the scroll. It hissed.
The runes unraveled—
And the room folded.
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CRACK.
They landed in darkness.
A tunnel. Deep. Echoing. Lined with pale fungal lanterns and statues of headless scribes. The deeper levels of the city—the bones of Fogwalker's Landing.
They began to run.
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Behind them, footsteps echoed.
Not rushed.
Measured.
The Hunter had entered the same tunnel, without the scroll.
> "How is he following—" Izan began.
Silva answered grimly:
> "He doesn't follow footsteps. He follows names."
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Up ahead, a figure stood in the darkness—hooded, tall, and faceless. A gatekeeper.
He held out a hand.
> "Name," the figure intoned.
Silva stepped forward.
> "Silva Noct. Fogwalker. Sequence 8."
The figure nodded. A gate behind him began to open.
Then he turned to Izan.
> "Name."
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Izan froze.
The sigil pulsed.
And then, a voice not his own whispered from his mouth:
> "Izan Virel, Sequence 9—Dream-Touched.
Path of the Hollow Sigil.
Bearer of the Erased Name."
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The figure recoiled.
The gate slammed shut again.
> "That name is under Redbell Judgement.
This path is no longer open."
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Behind them, the red fog thickened. A voice spoke calmly, like a teacher reading an obituary.
> "You are not meant to be here, Vessel."
> "Return the name. Or lose the body."
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Then—attack.
The red fog lunged forward like a living thing—grasping with hands of smoke and glass.
Silva raised her pipe, blew out the embers—
And cast a Flash Sigil into the air.
> B O O M
A wave of silver flame burst outward, buying seconds.
> "Change of plan!" she shouted.
"We find the Backdoor to the Bleeding Mirror!"
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Izan gritted his teeth.
The eye beneath his skin opened.
He turned to face the Hunter—just for a moment.
And what he saw wasn't a man.
It was a shell, an instrument.
Alvek's body was a suit worn by something else.
Something with antlers made of bone.
Something with a tongue of paper.
Something that fed on unwritten pages—like the one still hidden inside Izan's soul.
> "You carry a Future," it said.
"And I eat Futures."
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But Izan had already begun to chant.
Words formed on his lips—ones the Codex hadn't taught him, but the dream had branded into his marrow.
He raised his hand.
A circle of twelve symbols formed, pulsing with ink.
He screamed:
> "I REFUSE TO BE ERASED."
And the Hollow Sigil burned so bright it lit the tunnel in ghostlight.
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The Hunter paused.
For the first time—he blinked.
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Silva grabbed Izan's wrist, dragging him toward the collapsing stone tunnel at the far end—
> "Whatever you did, it bought us time! Move!"
Behind them, the bell rang again—one last time.
And the star in the sky above?
It went dark.
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Part III – The Bleeding Mirror's Door
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The tunnel ended at a shrine carved from mirrors—shattered, melted, rebuilt.
Not one reflected the real world.
Each showed something else:
A version of Izan hanging upside down, wrapped in chains of runes.
Silva, younger, wearing a crown of wax, screaming at a god made of clocks.
And in the center… a mirror that wept blood.
Literally.
Crimson rivulets oozed from its cracks, vanishing into the floor.
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Silva halted, breath ragged.
> "The Bleeding Mirror. An artifact from the Old Orders."
"It doesn't show what is... It shows what was erased."
> "That's how we escape?" Izan asked.
> "No. That's how you remember."
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She stepped back.
> "Only you can walk through.
The sigil protects you. Or damns you.
Depends what's on the other side."
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Izan approached the mirror.
The moment his hand touched it—
it bled harder.
And he heard a voice.
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> "You seek what you were? Then see.
But know this—your memory was not stolen.
You gave it up."
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He was pulled inside.
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FLASH
He stood in a cathedral made of ribs, floating in a void of parchment stars.
Twelve thrones stood in a circle.
Only two were occupied:
A man with a smile carved into his throat, dripping ink.
A woman with no mouth, speaking through the movements of tarot cards.
In the center, a child knelt.
It was Izan. Or rather… a boy with Izan's face.
The man spoke:
> "He bears too much. The Dream took root. The Eye awakened. He'll become a god—or a wound in the world."
The woman shuffled her cards.
> ☽ The Tower. Reversed.
☽ The Fool. Upright.
☽ The Hanged Man. Burning.
> "Seal him. Rewrite the name."
> "He will forget. And the world will forget him."
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The memory shattered.
Another surged in.
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Izan—older now—stood at a crossroads of mirrors.
He signed a contract with a sigil that bled.
Words scrawled in his own hand:
> "I renounce my name.
I renounce my Sequence.
I offer memory for silence.
Let the Hollow bear me until the stars align again."
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And then:
He carved the sigil into his chest—himself.
Willingly.
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FLASH.
Back in the shrine, Izan staggered out of the mirror.
Covered in blood—but not his.
The sigil on his chest burned white-hot.
And Silva… looked terrified.
> "You... you chose this.
You weren't cursed. You were hiding."
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The world rumbled.
Above the city, the bleeding star exploded, raining ash across Fogwalker's Landing.
A new symbol burned in the sky—
A mirror split by a blade.
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Silva whispered:
> "The Orders will come in full now. You're no longer a suspect."
"You're a remnant."
> "Or worse… a returning god."
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And somewhere far away…
In a candlelit temple beneath an ocean of ink…
A figure in golden robes raised their head.
> "The Hollow Sigil breathes again," they whispered.
"Begin the Calling."
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Next Chapter 4: The Orders of the Forgotten Choir.