Deep within the corridor, beneath the nearly crumbling steel bridge, they discovered a small spiraling chamber: Sanctum Lamenta—a sacred place where the ancient magus, Gamma, had inscribed forbidden glyphs to harbor the memories rejected by the world. The sharp scent of metal mingled with the cool dampness as if embracing the walls, while shadows flickered beneath the dim light emanating from an unseen source.

  In the center of the room there a Glyph of a Thousand Souls: an intricate carving forming circles within circles, filled with spiral symbols and ancient scripts that even Valkyrie had to scrutinize closely to grasp their meaning. “Observe this carving,” Valkyrie said, her voice hoarse yet imbued with respect as she leaned closer to observe the details that were nearly fading in the corners of the glyph. “Each line here tells a tragic tale,” she added, her sharp eyes gleaming with tension. Amidst the spirals were traces of blood, scraps of fabric, and remnants of bone—the last vestiges of refugees who had once endured longer than any other.

  Valkyrie lowered her gaze, activating the intricate glyph reader. A dim yellow light flickered to life, creating an atmosphere thick with tension as shadows loomed menacingly around her. “This... is not an ordinary glyph. The Glyph of a Thousand Souls serves as a binding for collective trauma,” she explained, her voice heavy with seriousness. “Crafted so that one soul can bear the weight of thousands of memories, wounds, and unspoken sacrifices. Each time someone sits here, they will hear voices and tales that linger unfinished.” She locked eyes with Rinoa, awaiting the response she so desperately sought.

  Rinoa stared at the center of the glyph, shivering from the chill seeping into her bones. “Has anyone ever endured after attempting… to bear all this?” she asked, her voice trembling with anxiety, as she clutched her sleeves, seeking solace in the encroaching darkness that enveloped them.

  Valkyrie shook her head gently, her face reflecting profound sorrow. “Many have tried,” she said softly, almost a whisper, “the ancient Magus, automata, even a few of the Gamma heroes. Yet, most lost themselves— their souls shattered, ensnared in tales they could not erase.” Her voice resonated like thunder breaking the silence, stirring the weighty truth entwined with suffering trapped in the dark corners.

  Fitran bowed his head, sensing a faint tremor beneath the earth, a soft voice that crept into his ears. "There is a sound," he murmured quietly, his voice trembling with emotion. "Someone… a woman… sings to her child. Yet each verse is cut short, like a song that has lost its final note." His gaze traced the ground, as if striving to ponder the hidden tale buried within the dust that blanketed the floor.

  Suddenly, the room was filled with gentle whispers—voices of children pleading to be told stories, their hopes earnest and pure. "Please, tell us the tale of the hero!" whispered one child, their voice soft and melancholic. A young man's lament echoed through the air, "Mother, why did you leave?" In silence, a woman's voice in prayer emerged, "O Lord, grant mercy for the beloved departed." All these voices overlapped, merging into a symphony of sorrow and hope that had yet to find its way home. Fitran felt an unspoken weight of emotion pressing against his heart.

  Valkyrie approached the wall with a tense movement, her sharp gaze sweeping the expanse of the room. Her voice was deep and resonant, radiating the chilling atmosphere that enveloped them. "The Legend of Gamma," she stated, inclining her head slightly, "tells that whosoever may weave a complete tale within these confines—without losing their true self—shall gain the means to unveil a new path of escape." She drew a deep breath, pausing for a moment before continuing, "And shall return with the soul that has been trapped the longest." Her voice reverberated, amplifying the weight of the stagnant atmosphere thickened with uncertainty.

  Rinoa sat slowly at the edge of the glyph, closing her eyes and allowing a singular voice to penetrate her consciousness. She felt the cold air enveloping her, as if the world beyond the Sanctum Lamenta had vanished, leaving only the presence of the glyph to fill the void. A vision of a young man, Shiran, who appeared to be around seventeen years of age, emerged in her mind. He fought valiantly, striving to save his younger sister and mother from the crumbling ruins as the night of the siege descended. The sound of the child’s cries echoed within her thoughts, “Shiran! Over here!” Each time he neared success, the walls collapsed with a deafening roar, scattering dust and drowning him in profound despair. Her mother’s face, filled with terror, seemed to call out Shiran’s name with a desperate plea, “You must return, my son!” Yet, that voice was always interrupted, fading into a horrific emptiness, causing Rinoa to flinch. Her inner dialogue resonated, “Why is there never a happy ending? Why does the world allow tales to end abruptly, without witnesses?” I

  Valkyrie, observing Rinoa's restless and troubled demeanor, placed her metal hand upon her friend's shoulder. The touch brought a modicum of solace, though the presence of that hand also reminded Rinoa of her own helplessness. “Do not linger too long within this glyph,” Valkyrie's voice was heavy, swaying in the silence. “There are many who have never returned.” Rinoa lowered her head, struggling to suppress the sob that pricked at her throat. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, “I only wish to bear witness to one tale. If I can guide Shiran home, even if only in memory, at least one soul may find peace.”

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  Fitran beside Rinoa, watching the tension etched upon her face, then bowed his head in respect to the glyph that trembled upon the floor. His voice carried a profound emotion, “Every refugee in this world carries a story yet untold. Sometimes, merely repeating a name and granting time to listen is enough to open the door to home.” He gazed at the glyph, as if it could reveal the entirety of the tale woven within, the tragic current that seeped into this chamber. Rinoa inhaled deeply, sorrow filling her chest, “Shiran…” she murmured softly, sincerely from her heart. “We must never allow them to be trapped forever.”

  Within the dark confines of the Sanctum, the atmosphere grew increasingly warmer; their presence appeared to breathe life into the gentle whispers of wind that flowed between its walls. Rinoa lifted her index finger, which trembled softly as she inscribed the name “Shiran” within the center of the spiral she had formed. The room's warmth deepened, the tender song of a woman, initially shaky, began to weave together—though imperfect, it now suggested an ending: the soft voice of a mother whispering.

  Once more, Rinoa inhaled deeply, murmuring a small incantation to summon the spirits, one she had labored to learn with earnest effort and hope. “Hear me, Shiran,” she spoke, her voice nearly drowned in the warmth enveloping the chamber, instilling a profound sense of emotion. With her finger still quivering, she inscribed the name “Shiran” at the center of the spiral, each stroke feeling laborious yet imparting a healing touch. The space began to vibrate; the air around her thickened with soft, dancing light. The song of the woman, previously fragmented, now connected—though not flawlessly, it became poignant: the delicate voice of the mother softly saying, “We are going home, my child. All is well now.”

  The glyphs shimmered in soft shades of blue, casting mysterious shadows that danced upon the dark walls. For a fleeting moment, the faces of Shiran and her mother appeared clearly, their warm smiles lighting the space as they gazed at Rinoa with profound affection, their eyes sparkling like stars, as if conveying gratitude before fading into the light. Rinoa felt their presence, a blend of happiness and sorrow entwined within her, tears streaming down her face uncontrollably.

  Valkyrie regarded Rinoa with a gentle gaze, her eyes filled with emotion and respect. "Such occurrences are rare," she said, her voice melodious yet firm, reflecting a deep sincerity. "Few possess the patience to free a single tale from this glyph." Rinoa, lost in thought, stared blankly ahead, striving to recapture the image that was slowly drifting away. "You have closed a wound in this world, Rinoa," Valkyrie added, casting a warm hope through her deep, lingering gaze.

  Fitran stood beside them, offering a gentle smile. He softly patted Rinoa’s shoulder, as if channeling a new spirit through his touch. "Sometimes, the most meaningful victories are not those that save thousands of souls," he said in a soothing tone, “but rather those that bring peace to a name nearly forgotten by time.”

  They departed from Sanctum Lamenta, leaving behind traces of light and warmth from the glyphs that continued to caress their souls. Yet, the corridors of escape echoed with other voices, the countless tales of refugees that seemed never-ending, spreading the scent of sorrow that filled the air. At every crossroads, there was always a name waiting to be heard, always a glyph yearning to be felt, and always a witness who, if endowed with sufficient courage, might become the happy ending for one soul amidst a thousand wounds. Rinoa gazed ahead, holding back the tears that threatened to spill, her shoulders tense. “I promise,” she said, her voice trembling with resolve, “whenever I encounter a glyph, I shall pause and listen for one more name.”

  “We must unite, Valkyrie,” Fitran spoke with a nod, his face adorned with a look of resolute determination. The air around them felt heavy, as if the weight of the past was an anchor upon Sanctum Lamenta. “These stories should not end here.”

  Valkyrie regarded her companion, her eyes shining softly with both tenderness and resolve. “I comprehend. Every path we tread, every story we come to know, is an opportunity to alter fate.” Her hand clenched, as if feeling the pulse of life in every word that crossed her lips.

  These three companions on the brink of darkness, countless histories whispering around them, soft voices urging them to press onward. “What we do here shall shake the world,” Valkyrie declared, her voice vibrant with conviction.

  “And we shall carry hope, not only for ourselves but for all who yearn for change,” Fitran replied, his fervor lighting a fire within him. He stepped forward, his strides firm and filled with purpose. “Together, we shall resurrect all the forgotten tales.”

  They advanced, closing the distance between one another. Around them, the Sanctum Lamenta trembled with echoes, as if affirming their vow. A chill seeped into their bones, yet the warmth of hope within their hearts granted them the strength to journey further.

  “We are witnesses, Valkyrie. And witnesses do not merely stand idle and observe,” Fitran voiced, now standing closer, his hand gently resting on Valkyrie's shoulder, as though offering encouragement. “We shall forge a joyful end from all this sorrow.”

  Valkyrie returned a faint smile, though tears still coursed down her cheeks. “Let us begin.”

  With a fervor ignited within their souls, the three figures stepped into the corridor of darkness, unafraid, with only bright hope shining amidst the thick gloom. Behind them, Sanctum Lamenta held every tale, waiting with profound curiosity to be recounted to a world daring enough to listen.