The deeper they journeyed into the dense, sprawling woodland known as Mournveil Hollow, the more twisted the trees became—gnarled like clenched fists, their bark carved with ancient sigils and crude totems hanging from blackened branches. The ground itself pulsed faintly with a crimson hue, soaked in residual Eather that reeked of rage and sorrow. It was as if the forest itself bore witness to something unspeakable.
Aicha clutched her cloak tighter, her knuckles pale. The air around them shifted constantly, hot and cold in alternating gusts, as if the Hollow breathed. Adamas walked slightly ahead, his back straight, spear ready, eyes narrowed.
Only Asari seemed unfazed, though a faint glint of irritation traced his gaze. His hand rested on his blade. The Devil Cry: Step Two – Mourning Surge was still active in his Eather stream, and its echo reverberated quietly through his body like a warning drum.
"Something's moving," Adamas whispered. "We're being watched."
Asari didn't respond. He didn't need to. A moment later, several red-glinting eyes peered from the underbrush—too many to count.
A figure emerged.
It crawled rather than walked, limbs too long, skin stretched too tight over bone. Hollow eyes and a mouth too wide.
"Welcome, dreamers," it rasped. "Or… are you wanderers? Lost things?"
Aicha staggered back, barely suppressing a scream.
Asari stepped forward, his Eather flaring quietly. "You are?"
"I am a Rootwhisperer, child of the soil, priest of forgotten hunger," the creature said, lowering its head, black liquid dripping from its jaw. "You've come to the sacred rot. The oldest hunger welcomes you."
More figures emerged, thin as shadows, crawling like insects, their spines exposed and wet with pulsing veins. They circled silently.
Asari's sword scraped from its sheath. "Then this rot ends today."
The Rootwhisperer smiled wider than any man should. "You cannot cut roots that run beneath your own feet."
Before he could strike, the ground exploded.
Vines—made of bone and nerves—erupted beneath them. Adamas moved quickly, slicing one before it touched Aicha. Asari leapt into the air, his aura igniting.
"Devil Cry: Domain Break."
A sphere of shrieking red Eather enveloped the Hollow. Trees cried out, sap flowing like blood, and the very roots screamed as the domain crushed them.
Yet the Rootwhisperer only laughed, even as the energy seared his flesh.
"You are loud… too loud. But even the loud bleed beneath the soil."
From the trees, twisted bodies dropped, suspended by their necks on long sinew vines. They twitched, not quite dead. Some were children.
Aicha choked. "These… they're still alive?"
"They are the past," the Rootwhisperer whispered. "This Hollow eats time, not just flesh."
Suddenly, visions poured into their minds—flashes of a long-forgotten village, once peaceful, now devoured by the creeping rot. People sacrificed, their names erased, until only hunger remained. And at the center—an ancient, slumbering seed, pulsing.
Adamas cried out, clutching his head. "Make it stop!"
Asari's blade glowed with black-red energy.
"Ghostwalking: Thousand Pulse Dash."
He vanished.
In a blink, he appeared behind the Rootwhisperer, slashing downward.
"Devil Cry: Step Three – Requiem Fang."
The blade didn't just cut—it erased.
The Rootwhisperer shrieked, the sound cracking the trees, as half his body was devoured by the blow. But from the remaining stump, roots grew again, faster, stronger.
"You are not the first devil to visit us," it rasped.
"No," Asari growled, eyes glowing, "But I'll be the last."
Then came the second figure—taller, cloaked in bone and flame.
A servant of the Hollow King.
Asari turned toward the new enemy. His Eather twisted and grew darker. For the first time, Aicha saw it: his silhouette flickering, unstable, like a god refusing to be bound by mortal form.
Adamas stepped in front of her. "Don't move."
The two dark figures clashed.
The Hollow was lit in a cascade of crimson sparks and thunderous shockwaves. Trees collapsed. The ground cracked.
Then silence.
Smoke and blood hung in the air.
The Rootwhisperer's upper body writhed, trying to reform.
Asari stepped forward, his body burned, bleeding from his mouth. "You feed on fear. Let me starve you."
"Wait—!" Aicha called.
Too late.
Asari thrust his hand into the creature's core.
A scream—not of pain, but pure memory—echoed through the air.
Then nothing.
The Hollow fell silent.
Ash drifted down from the sky like snow.
Adamas knelt, exhausted. Aicha sat down, shaking, eyes wide.
And Asari stood there, blood dripping from his sword, breathing like a dying beast.
The Hollow had fallen.
But something far older had stirred.
In the distance, beyond the trees, a bell tolled once—low, metallic, mournful.
A sound no one in Velmara had heard in over a thousand years.
"It has begun," whispered something far away, in a voice older than language.
---
Quote at the end:
"Even the strongest warrior drowns in silence when his soul carries too many screams."