For thousands of years, Void—the absolute emptiness—was the point zero of magic: untouchable, unalterable, only to be evaded or subdued through great sacrifice. In the dark silence, it lay shrouded in shadows, cloaked in chilling solitude, as if yearning to reveal how hollow and transparent the world appeared in its absence.
However, after the tragic demise of Vorrak at the hands of the Nameless Crown, Void is no longer untouchable. It now resembles a haunting gray painting, where each devilish stroke embodies the unspoken sorrow of souls ensnared in profound yearning, capturing the essence of heartbreak and loss.
No longer merely an abyss, Void can now be recognized and even shaped by those courageous enough to remember something that never existed. Like buried memories daring to surface through the fragile veil of time, Void seems to whisper to the audacious creators, inviting them to experience it through every delicate thread of emotion and longing, as if each heartbeat echoed a silent story yearning to be told.
"It's like naming the hunger itself… then consuming it."
— Archsage Myrren, as he witnessed the Void Fragment begin to respond to emotions. His words resonated like a haunting echo in an empty valley, imbuing the air with the palpable sorrow behind each desire to comprehend the vast emptiness enveloping them.
For the first time, the Void began its transformation, embracing the profound solitude that had accompanied it for eons. From this profound emptiness sprang forth two colossal wombs, reminiscent of the majestic branches of a life-giving tree, long severed from its nurturing roots. From these wombs were birthed two new entities, symbolizing the notion that even from profound void, new hope can emerge, albeit forever haunted by an ancient loneliness that lingers like a specter in the night.
Arista the Lost – The Forgotten Child of the Cosmos
"She never existed. But we all remember her."
Arista was not simply created; she happened, as if unseen hands of fate grasped the collective memory, igniting flickers of light within the overwhelming darkness. The shadow of a little girl—whose name was never etched in the annals of history—lingers quietly in the stillness of the night, her radiant smile forever etched in the corners of dreams. In every endless tale and every heart-wrenching sob that ripples through the fabric of time, Arista is ever-present. She is enveloped in layers of sorrow, embodying that which is lost yet eternally remembered.
Form: She appears as a faceless girl, her body flowing like morning dew, overlooked by the beckoning light of the sun. A delicate black ribbon dances gently in the unseen air, symbolizing the emptiness that surrounds her—a silent melody crafting a poignant song of solitude.
Voidwright Domain: Eidolon Despair – In this realm, grief weaves an invisible web, ensnaring souls trapped in aimless confusion. Pain manifests with cruel precision, an affliction without cause, and each anguished breath of its victims echoes in a haunting chorus of despair. Surrounded by a tapestry of shadows, they find themselves adrift in an ocean of unanswered questions, losing the will to live amidst the suffocating silence.
Objective: To seek a world that is undisturbed, a sanctuary where he may reside in peace, washing away the turmoil as if cleansing the very essence of existence with his tears. In this profound stillness, Arista uncovers a haunting beauty that resonates with a bittersweet edge, a reminder of the echoes left behind.
Faranox the Hollow – Architect of Perfect Silence
"It is not absence… but perfection where nothing needs to be said."
Faranox serves as the antithesis of Fitran, a stark contrast akin to the inky, shadowed night that refuses to intersect with the bright, searing day. While Fitran stands as an unyielding wound etched in the fabric of existence, Faranox embodies the perfection of emptiness—a boundless void, patiently awaiting the return of its long-lost inhabitant. His ambition is not to obliterate the world as it is; instead, he strives to perfect the world so all meaning naturally disintegrates, reminiscent of morning dew dispersing delicately under the sun's warm breath.
Form: Towering and enigmatic, he is draped in a cloak of black mirror that catches not the light but reveals the void that lurks deep within the soul of those who dare to gaze upon him. His cloak billows with an ethereal grace, evoking the fluidity of an endless river that erases remnants of footsteps—symbolizing a journey devoid of destination, where each heartbeat stretches into eternity and every fleeting second dissolves into nothingness.
Voidwright Domain: Null Resonance – Within this realm, the surrounding world unfurls into a vast ocean of emptiness, where dichotomies such as "up-down," "good-evil," and "I-you" dissipate like the ephemeral morning dew. In the stifling serenity that envelops the battlefield, confrontation morphs into a never-ending internal dialogue, as if the echoes of thoughts reverberate within an eternal void. Every unvoiced scream, every bead of perspiration trickling down skin is but a faint echo of what was once alive, now forever abandoned to silence.
Purpose: In the desire to recreate, the world is reshaped into a silent structure, a blank canvas yearning to be filled yet forever void of color. Within this desolate expanse, conflict fades into oblivion, as identity dissolves, leaving no adversary to confront. Loneliness festers in the silence, echoing like a mirror reflecting a solitary visage, eternally ensconced in shadows.
A void opens in various parts of the world. On one side, Arista rises from the forgotten ruins of the city of Thirtos, where its ancient walls silently bear witness to unspoken histories. Like an invisible force that swallows light, the ruins captivate the beholder, creating a haunting tableau of sorrow amidst lost moments. In another realm, Faranox finds himself poised upon a silent altar in the depths of the Nix Sea, a hallowed place untouched for millennia. The altar looms tall, akin to an abandoned statue, cradling secrets long buried beneath a veneer of silence.
It stands as a haunting reminder from the ocean's depths, in a realm where currents are still, time has ceased, and he is marooned atop a tower devoid of stairs, trapped in the liminal space between the world and an encroaching emptiness.
The world beneath him trembles, shaking the very foundations of darkness, sending ripples of unease through the abyssal void. Yet he remains indifferent, as if the turmoil below were merely a symphony of solitude—a haunting melody that dances within the stillness of the air. There is beauty entwined with sorrow, and he finds himself its unwilling dancer.
He gazed up at the vast expanse of the sky, not out of hope, but because the sky was the only realm that remained unshattered by his despair. In that infinite blue, clouds drifted like forgotten memories, suspended in a timeless embrace, concealing unspoken anxieties within their fluffy forms. Each passing second felt like rain on parched earth, each droplet etching a profound trace of solitude on his weary spirit.
The wind carried an eerie sound—not a rustle or a whisper, but the haunting echo of memories that should not exist, swirling between the fabric of space and time, invading the sanctum of his trapped soul. Each gust felt like the wails of ghosts long gone, holistically reminding him of something that should have faded into oblivion. And in that enveloping stillness, he felt it.
Not through the senses. Not through any semblance of magic. But through a deeper understanding—the existential resonance between Voidwright. It was as if their souls vibrated against one another, locked in a silent wager of existence within the suffocating grasp of emptiness that devoured all remnants of hope. The chasm that separated them was immeasurable—silent, dark, and devoid of light.
His lips remained still, a fortress against the tempest within. Yet, his name slipped through the cracks of silence, falling like a burden too heavy to be left unspoken, creating a hollow resonance that echoed into the void. Within the chambers of his heart, a wave of unbearable sorrow surged, a growl building deep in his chest, pleading to be unleashed. Each whisper of his name sliced through the illusion of peace, cutting like shards of glass against tender flesh.
He closed his eyes tightly, shutting out the world as he summoned memories of Vorrak—thought to be lost in the abyss of time. Those memories whispered back to him like dancing ashes in the wind, twisting into shadowy figures that spiraled endlessly, as if trapped in an eternal vortex. Each fragment of nostalgia paraded in his mind like a buried secret resurfacing, leaving behind a profound sense of emptiness that permeated his very being.
Vorrak, his brother in the desolate expanse of emptiness that envelops them both. Vorrak, the victim of Fitran's hand wielding an unnameable crown, seemed to moan within the thick silence of the void. His essence entwined with the night breeze, softly whispering tales of lost centuries, carrying the weight of ages steeped in sorrow.
And now… Void does not accept that death. He, the very embodiment of emptiness, looms like a shadowy giant, a towering figure who consumes not just light but the essence of hope itself. He spits forth the remnants of severed souls, forming two haunting beings from the depths of unspeakable sorrow:
One birthed from a nameless wound, exuding an aroma of sadness that clings like a fog, compelling the spirit of loss to rise.
The other, a creation from perfection stripped of meaning, dances through existence like a ghost laughing in silence, questioning the very nature of being amid the swirling uncertainties of life.
"The void has never been silent, it seems," Fitran murmured, his voice reverberating through the emptiness. "It is merely waiting to respond." Like a restless shadow chasing its own form, his words wove into the stillness, intertwining with the very fabric of nothingness.
He stepped into the window of time, feeling his heartbeat resonate with the fading specters of the past. Each step was akin to another brushstroke on the expansive canvas of emptiness, a delicate whisper painted in sorrow.
Within the observation room of reality, a realm accessible solely to those who renounce birth, Fitran summoned the remnants of Nameless Crown—a haunting vibration pulsing within the very threads of existence, humming softly like the tense sigh of sweat under pressure. He did not wield it. Instead, he listened intently. More than just a sound, it was the very breath of the Void, resonating with silence and echoing through the desolation.
And the crown spoke like the whisper of the wind sweeping across an empty, moonlit field.
Not with discernible words, but with a profound rejection. It was an excruciating repudiation, echoing the truth that every dream, every flicker of hope, lay ensnared in the desolate void surrounding him.
"You killed Vorrak," the voice resonated through the abyss, slicing through the suffocating silence that shrouded Fitran like an impenetrable cloak of shadows.
"But you released something even the Void itself fears."
Fitran inhaled slowly, each breath feeling like a tentative step across a precarious bridge leading into the abyss of uncertainty.
A tightness began to infiltrate his chest, a reminder of an overwhelming presence that transcended mere struggles and sacrifices.
"If the Void now dares to dream…" he uttered, his voice quaking like a frail twig desperately clinging to life in parched soil, "…then I must prepare to extinguish that dream."
Yet, deep within him, beneath the layers of guilt that assailed him, quieter than the tempest raging in his heart—a heart wrestling with the tumultuous clash of right and wrong—Fitran felt trembled.
He sensed that his body and soul were ensnared between two realms, caught in a dense shroud of isolation, as if the Void itself were a living entity, its dark, suffocating eyes fixed upon him, brimming with doubt.
Not because of Arista's power, a relentless torrent flowing like an unstoppable river, capable of shattering the very fabric of existence.
Not because of Faranox's perfection, which sparkled like distant stars scattered across a velvet night sky, offering fleeting hope while simultaneously emphasizing the deep, aching solitude that enveloped him.
But because… he didn't know if he truly wanted to win.
For if he triumphed, the world would forever remember him as the crown bearer who turned his back on his name, destined to be etched in the annals of dark history, forever imprisoned in memory as a traitor.
And if he lost…
Then perhaps the world might finally find solace—in that profound silence, in the void of his absence, leaving behind only the shattered fragments of lost memories.
And for the first time… Fitran hesitated.
"Am I still a creature capable of standing against them?"
"Or… am I merely a crown awaiting a new head?"
There is no sky, only an eternal darkness that envelops everything like a suffocating shroud.
There is no ground, only an empty abyss that gnaws at him, instilling a profound sense of loneliness that grips his heart like icy fingers.
Only an endless white expanse stretches before him, where existence hangs like a whisper that has lost its body, suspended in the boundless emptiness of time. It is as if the universe has forged a silent tyranny, passing judgment on every heartbeat, each thud echoing like a scream emitted without a voice.
Fitran stands there, devoid of a shadow, for in this desolate realm there is no light to create one. He feels like a discarded remnant, a being relegated to the margins of existence, as if the universe had long forgotten him. Here, loneliness is not merely a state of mind; it is a consuming force, devouring every trace of vitality except for the rancid emptiness that crawls within his soul like a serpent. Fitran is drawn inexorably into a new dimension of despair.
Then, she comes.
Arista the Lost materializes like footprints on an untraveled floor, her presence both thrilling and terrifying. A figure cloaked in layers of enigma, she illuminates the darkest uncertainties languishing in Fitran's heart. A faceless girl, draped in a tattered dress woven from the threads of discarded dreams, she embodies rejection, as if the world conspired to ignore her very existence. In her fragile hand, she clutches a broken doll—headless and voiceless—an unsettling symbol of shattered hope and forsaken desires.
"You killed Father." Her voice echoes through the silence, haunting and relentless, tormenting the deepest recesses of his soul.
"But I am not angry… because I do not know who he is."
Fitran remains silent, trapped in a vortex of his own thoughts. He knows all too well: The more you try to explain to Arista, the more you lose your own memories. He feels the crushing weight of solitude pressing down on him, as if the world demanded he make an agonizing choice between remembering and forgetting, between surrendering to a tale buried in the silence of his mind.
Then, Faranox arrived.
It neither walked nor floated. It simply existed there, like an immutable law emerging from the depths of darkness, a symbol steeped in uncertainty. Its very presence exuded an unsettling aura, reminiscent of the collective suffering etched into the fabric of existence. The cloak it wore was not merely black—it was a void that resisted any attempt at simplification. It enveloped Fitran like the breath of a cold night wind, seeping into the very core of his being, snuffing out the last flickers of hope. Its face was a mirror reflecting what once was; within it, Fitran glimpsed himself... but devoid of a name, stripped of an identity, as if reduced to a mere shadow of his own essence, ensnared within a maze of isolation.
"You have tainted the geometry of silence," Faranox declared,
"with a longing to be remembered." His voice resonated like a haunting melody, echoing the fragility of his very existence, gnawing at Fitran's soul as each syllable morphed into a shard of darkness.
Fitran inhaled deeply, the silence pressing down upon his spirit like a weighty shroud. Or perhaps it was the world itself exhaling, leaving within him a hollow space, akin to dew clinging to leaves in the quiet of dawn.
"I don't want to be remembered," he murmured, his voice quivering like raindrops striking thirsty earth,
"I just want this world not to descend into futility, to avoid becoming mere remnants of dreams that gradually dissipate without a trace."
Arista turned, her features obscured as if they were mere echoes of a past long forgotten, yet her movements exuded an overwhelming sadness, akin to a shadow caught and stilled beneath the luminous gaze of a full moon.
"But isn't futility our true home?" Her question hung heavy in the air, resonating as if the cosmos itself conspired to mock their shared despair.
In that moment, time appeared to freeze, transforming into a silent witness to the trio of souls entwined in an inescapable fate.
This was not a spell cast upon them, but rather a manifestation of their unwillingness to let time's relentless narrative unfold, like hesitant dancers lingering on a stage, paralyzed by the specter of an inevitable ending.
Within that profound silence, something beyond verbal expression emerged among them: existential convergence—a delicate dance between the whispers of fading hope and the vast emptiness that loomed on the horizon.
Fitran, the denier, stood as a bridge spanning two disparate worlds, ensnared in a vicious storm of doubt and uncertainty.
Arista, the forgotten one, confronted the encroaching darkness that consumed memories, like a distant star suffocated in the pitch-black tapestry of the night sky.
Faranox, the embodiment of pure void, enveloped the space in an impenetrable silence, much like an endless ocean, quietly mourning its inability to create waves.
And in the void that stretched between words, a poignant question arose, suspended delicately in the charged atmosphere:
"Who truly deserves to claim the title of the Voidwright?"
"The one who brings forth meaning, or the one who remains entirely empty?"
"The one who obliterates existence, or… the one who remains paralyzed by indecision, ensnared in the intricate web of time?"
Fitran walked slowly along the desolate path, his footsteps gently kissing the parched earth, each step reverberating like a fading echo in reality, awakening long-buried memories hidden in the shadows of the past.
"The three of us are the embodiment of a world torn between the haunting pull of memories and the chilling embrace of emptiness, akin to a half-finished painting gathering dust in a forsaken gallery," he mused.
He paused mid-sentence, the remnants of his resolve ebbing away, siphoned off by the overwhelming void that encircled him.
"So let us choose one another amidst this interminable struggle, a battle woven from the very fabric of deep and relentless pain."
Arista lifted her doll, a woeful creation marred by its imperfections, and from the doll's torn and gaping mouth, a silent cry emanated, resonating through the air and causing the very walls of reality to tremble and peel away, unveiling the buried despair lingering beneath.
Faranox raised his hand, and with a sweeping motion, the vibrant hues of the world began to drain away, as if the paint upon the walls were disintegrating into oblivion. Concepts started to unravel—there was no 'right' or 'left,' only an enveloping structural void that clutched at their souls, casting them further into an abyss of eternal darkness.
Fitran, the bearer of the nameless crown, extended his left palm, as if reaching out to grasp something eternally elusive—the fragile echoes of a confusing past that danced just beyond his fingertips. Like brittle leaves caught in the grip of a solitary wind, he summoned the Void, a terrifying entity that harbored every sorrow and emptiness known to the world.
"Let the Void consume us. And from that… the world can choose who it wishes to forget," he intoned, his voice a ghostly whisper echoing through the stillness of the night, a lingering hope amidst despair. He watched as each fleeting moment dissolved, swallowed by the consuming darkness, transforming existence into a haunting symphony of silence that rendered everything more tangible—more melancholic.
The battle of the Voidwrights thus began.
Amidst this uncertainty, not only was magic unleashed, but also the confrontation between concepts of reality. They battled in the shadows, questioning each other's existence within an endless labyrinth of thought and perception. Indeed, every movement was an elegy—a profound tribute to the journey of a soul ensnared in the abyss.