The silver mists coiled around Jin like living silk, muffling sound, stealing warmth. Every step he took on the path of forgetting felt heavier than the last, like he was dragging memories behind him that refused to let go.
The Weaver of Forgotten Names floated ahead of him, not walking but drifting, her feet never touching the ground. Her face remained veiled, her voice impossibly calm, as though she were reciting a prophecy long foretold.
"You are entering the place where selves unravel," she said softly. "The Trial of Shards begins now."
A chime rang—clear, metallic, and final.
The mists parted like a curtain.
Jin stepped into a circular arena of floating glass panels, suspended in an infinite void. Each panel held a reflection. Not just of him—but of all the versions of him.
The boy who stole bread to survive.
The son who watched his sister die.
The youth who loved once, and was betrayed.
The corpse that clawed its way from the grave.
The man who awakened.
And something else.
A version of himself wrapped in black flame, eyes void of mercy, standing atop a mountain of bones. A warlord. A god of vengeance.
The Weaver extended her arm.
"This is the first shard," she whispered.
One of the panels lit up and detached from the circle, floating toward Jin. He reached out—and as his fingers brushed it, he was pulled inside.
He stood on a battlefield.
Ash rained from the sky.
Before him knelt a woman, impaled by his own hand. Her eyes were full of tears—not of pain, but recognition.
"Jin… please," she whispered. "You promised you'd never become like them."
Blood poured from her mouth.
He wanted to drop the blade. He wanted to step back. But his arms didn't listen.
Behind him, an army cheered.
Thousands of soldiers, wearing armor marked by a crown of thorns. His banner.
The warlord version of himself turned to them and raised his blood-soaked sword.
The sky wept fire.
Jin was thrown back out, gasping.
The panel shattered behind him into motes of memory.
The Weaver's voice echoed. "That was the future you may become, if you walk the path of vengeance without wisdom. Can you reject that fate?"
"Yes," he croaked. "I already have."
"Then we continue."
The second shard floated toward him.
This time, he was a scholar.
Sitting in an ancient hall, surrounded by scrolls and artifacts.
He had never picked up a blade. Never cultivated. Never tasted power.
But he was happy.
He taught children. He studied lost languages. He smiled.
A quiet, peaceful life.
Until one day, the sky darkened.
The Sovereign came.
And no one remembered to fight.
They bowed as the Veilborne walked among them. They forgot their families, their names, their wills.
And in the end, the scholar died—unnoticed. Unimportant.
Forgotten, without ever making a mark.
Jin collapsed out of the vision.
His fists were clenched, his chest heaving.
"That was the fate of non-action," the Weaver said. "Of surrendering power in fear of its corruption."
He looked up. "I won't let myself rot in peace while monsters reign. If I have the strength to fight—I will."
The Weaver nodded. "Then you are beginning to understand."
One by one, the shards came.
A lover who betrayed him for fear of his growing strength.
A disciple who poisoned him to steal his legacy.
An army that rose in his name… and burned cities without his command.
Each vision shattered some part of him. Each forced him to choose—reject or accept.
Finally, after what felt like hours or days or eternities, the last shard floated forward.
This one was blank.
He reached out.
And found himself nowhere.
No light.
No sound.
No body.
Just emptiness.
This was what forgetting felt like.
This was what surrendering his name truly meant.
A whisper came, distant and thin.
"You do not exist."
Jin tried to reply—but he had no voice.
"You have no family. No memories. No past."
Another voice echoed. Softer. Familiar.
"But if you have no past, then you are no longer bound."
"You are free to be anything."
The two voices twisted around him.
"Vessel."
"Cage."
"God."
"Monster."
Jin didn't scream—because he couldn't.
He focused on one thing: the flame inside him.
It had no name either.
But it burned.
And as he embraced it—
The void cracked.
Light poured in.
He awoke kneeling before the Weaver.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, but his mind was calm. Cleansed.
She stepped forward and placed a finger on his forehead.
"You have passed," she said.
"Who am I now?" he asked.
The Weaver tilted her head. "You are the echo of who you were, and the promise of who you will become."
She reached into the folds of her robe and drew out a talisman made of bone, etched with a spiral rune.
"This token will shield your soul from the Sovereign's scrying. You are no longer bound to the mortal thread. You walk the Forgotten Path now."
Jin took the talisman.
It felt cold. But comforting.
"What comes next?" he asked.
The Weaver turned away. "That depends on whether you're ready to remember what the Sovereign fears most."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
She raised a hand.
The mists shifted, revealing a floating island in the distance.
Upon it stood a colossal statue—buried up to its shoulders in stone, chained by golden vines.
It was a man with three faces.
One weeping.
One laughing.
One blind.
Jin felt the air twist around him.
"That… that's the thing I saw in the grave," he whispered.
"Yes," the Weaver said. "He was your ancestor. The First Forbidden."
Jin's heart slammed against his ribs. "What?"
"The Sovereign didn't destroy your bloodline by accident. He feared what you carried. Your lineage is older than the Empire. Older than the sects. It was exiled from history."
She turned to face him fully now.
"To fight him, you must awaken what he tried to bury."
Jin swallowed. "You want me to free that thing?"
"No," she said. "I want you to face him. And if you survive… ask him what your true name was, before it was stripped."
Jin clenched the talisman in his fist.
He looked at the chained figure in the distance.
The First Forbidden.
His blood stirred.
For the first time, it wasn't anger he felt. Or grief. Or pain.
It was destiny.
He turned to the Weaver.
"Then show me the path."
Beyond the mists, the Sovereign stirred.
Eyes opened across a thousand planes.
The boy had vanished from the world's memory.
But power leaves a trail even forgetting can't erase.
The Sovereign smiled without lips.
"So he dares to awaken his lineage. Then let him."
He raised a hand, and the air around his throne peeled open like paper.
A single word echoed across realms.
"Release the Hollow Crown."
Somewhere, a coffin opened.