Nerin staggered from the shattered alley, each breath a razor slicing through his lungs. The cold was no longer a mere chill—it was a living thing, crawling beneath his skin like black ice, gnawing at marrow and memory alike.
The blood-red moss clung to every cracked stone, pulsing with a sinister rhythm—as if the city itself were breathing, hungry, watching. The walls weren't just damp—they were digesting the light, swallowing every flicker of hope until only the abyss remained.
His fingers traced the burning mark branded into his palm. The Hollow Mark flared with cruel intelligence, its cold blue flame dancing beneath his skin like a serpent waiting to strike.
Behind him, the grotesque silhouette of the specter-child vanished, melting into the shadows like spilled ink. Her parting words echoed in his mind, jagged shards slicing through fragile sanity:
"Survival demands sacrifice."
But what did it want him to sacrifice?
Nerin's eyes darted through the twisted streets—doors hung crooked on rusted hinges, stairways leading to nowhere, and windows like hollow eyes, staring blank into the void.
He was a ghost trapped in a mausoleum, a living corpse branded by a curse older than memory.
A slow, sickening realization clawed at his mind: the city wasn't just a prison—it was a predator.
Shadows lengthened and writhed, whispering secrets only the damned could hear. A chorus of lost souls, each voice a nail driven into the coffin of hope.
Nerin clenched his jaw, his breath fogging the rancid air. He could feel it—the city's hunger, a weight pressing down, crushing thoughts, twisting desires.
His skin prickled as a sudden movement caught his eye.
From the gloom emerged figures—hollowed citizens, their bodies gaunt, eyes black voids leaking despair. They moved like marionettes pulled by unseen strings, their mouths twitching in silent screams.
One stepped forward—his face cracked like old porcelain, veins black and pulsing. A low growl rumbled from his throat, a sound that tore through the silence like a blade.
Nerin raised the bone knife, the only weapon against this nightmare.
The hollowed advanced, shadows stretching like claws.
The city's breath grew colder.
The trial was far from over.
And in the heart of the Hollowed City, the line between hunter and prey blurred into oblivion.
The bone knife felt cold and brittle in Nerin's grasp, like it might shatter if he pressed too hard. But it was all he had—a sliver of defiance against the endless decay pressing in from every shattered corner of this cursed city.
The hollowed figure lunged, a twisted marionette pulled by despair, its black eyes leaking shadow like poison. Nerin's muscles tensed, his instincts a razor's edge honed by terror and desperation.
The clash was brutal—bone scraping bone, shadow against flesh. Nerin's blade bit deep, carving a shallow wound that bled black ichor, thick and tar-like.
The hollowed hissed—a sound like teeth gnashing beneath skin, a creature starving for more than flesh.
Nerin backed up, heart hammering like a war drum, lungs burning with the cold, poisoned air.
Behind him, the city groaned—walls shifting like the ribs of some gargantuan beast, the blood-red moss pulsing with dreadful life.
He could feel the weight of a thousand unseen eyes, watching, waiting for him to break.
But the Mark burned hotter now, a cold fire that seared through his veins, sharpening senses, twisting pain into power.
He stumbled into a narrow alley, the shadows thick and suffocating. The hollowed pursued, relentless.
Suddenly, a voice, low and raspy, cut through the madness—a whisper from the darkness.
"Use it," it breathed, "Let the Mark guide you."
Nerin's fingers curled over the branded palm. A surge of icy flame shot through him, a wild energy thrumming beneath the surface.
His vision sharpened; the world slowed to a crawl. The hollowed moved clumsily, its form flickering like a dying candle.
With a roar torn from the depths of his soul, Nerin lunged—bone knife flashing like a shard of night.
The hollowed's form shattered, black ichor splattering like spilled ink, its scream swallowed by the city's hunger.
Nerin gasped for air, chest heaving, eyes burning with cold fire.
But relief was a lie whispered by the dead.
From the shadows emerged more hollowed—each one a shard of nightmare, each one closer, faster.
The city wasn't done with him.
And neither was the curse branded into his flesh.
The narrow alleyways twisted like serpent coils, each corner a trap woven from shadow and decay. Nerin moved with ragged breaths, his bones aching under the relentless cold gnawing from within. The Hollow Mark burned faintly beneath his soaked ragged sleeves, a sick pulse syncing with the city's cruel heartbeat.
Behind him, the hollowed whispers grew—voices layered with sorrow and malice, weaving madness into the thick, rotting air. Their words weren't meant to be heard. They were claws scraping against the fragile walls of his mind.
Nerin's fingers curled tight around the bone knife, its edge chipped but deadly. He could feel the adaptive instinct stirring, a flicker of primal survival clawing up from the dark pit inside him.
Ahead, the street fractured into a labyrinth of twisting corridors—walls covered in the pulsing blood-red moss that seemed to breathe with a life of its own. The city wasn't just a prison; it was a living nightmare, feeding on fear and memory, reshaping itself with each heartbeat.
A sudden chill pressed against his neck like cold breath. He spun, eyes locking on a shadow detaching itself from the wall—a hollowed citizen, gaunt and eyeless, chains rattling softly like a death knell.
The creature stepped forward, mouth opening in a silent scream that echoed in Nerin's skull.
His heart hammered against the cage of ribs, a frantic rhythm that could break or bind.
Nerin lunged, the knife slicing through the stagnant air. The hollowed vanished into mist, only to reappear behind him—a dance of death played on a stage of shadows.
The Mark flared violently, pain lancing through his veins. A surge of memories—fragments not his own—ripped through his mind. Faces, screams, laughter turned to screams, all bleeding together in a maddening chorus.
He staggered, clutching his head, teeth gritting against the storm.
"Remember," the city whispered. "Forget, and become nothing."
Nerin steadied himself, eyes burning with grim resolve.
The adaptive instinct was awakening—not just a gift, but a curse demanding sacrifice.
He had to learn the maze, its hunger, its rules—or be swallowed whole.
The city breathed around him—its pulse syncing with his own.
The Hollowed were watching.
Waiting.