In the dim, fading light of the dying moon, a young man stood before a cracked, dusty mirror in an old, abandoned building.

His reflection was beyond haunting, almost ghostly.

His long hair hung in tangled, matted clumps, framing a face that was gaunt and hollow.

Dark bruises marred his pale skin, which clung to his bones, revealing the angles of his skeletal frame.

His eyes, sunken and weary, stared back at him with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow. The moonlight cast a bright, silvery glow on his frail body, highlighting every inch and crave of his fragile figure.

He raised a trembling hand to touch the mirror, his skeletal fingers brushing sombrely against the cold, cracked glass.

The old building around him was silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant sound of the wind whispering through the broken windows.

The young man took a deep, shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling with effort. He felt a profound sense of loss, one question running through his broken mind:

“Who. Is. This?”

***

Fallen's eyes suddenly snapped open as he awoke from the memory, his body convulsing as he gasped for air.

"Arg!"

He found himself in a strange, yet beautiful greenhouse-like place made of shimmering gold. The tranquil water in which he struggled was shaped like a giant lily pad, its edges gently curled and rippling.

In the centre lay a stunning golden bridge, which he desperately swam to as soon as it caught his eye. Its surface was adorned with intricate engravings that caught the light and felt rough under his weak, soaked palms.

He heaved and convulsed, coughing up water as he struggled to catch his breath. After managing to crawl and push himself onto the bridge, he leaned over, clutching his chest before rolling onto his back and staring blankly at the ceiling.

His chest rose and fell rapidly as his left hand rested on his ribcage. His soaked hair clung to his scalp, and his pants stuck to his bony legs.

He stared at the ceiling, which was surprisingly beautiful and bright, constructed of pristine, transparent glass. Through this clear canopy, the sky was visible in all its glory—an expansive, vivid blue without a trace of the sun. The celestial expanse seemed almost ethereal.

Fallen turned his head to the side.

Tall, imposing walls, crafted from the same resplendent gold, surrounded the body of water. These walls rose majestically, reaching toward the glass roof, their surfaces adorned with elaborate patterns depicting giant-like humans locked in intense combat. The engravings were so detailed that every muscle, sinew, and expression—whether of utter defeat or overwhelming victory—was rendered with breathtaking precision.

Numerous doors were set into these golden walls, each one unique and ornately designed. Some doors were large and grand, with imposing frames and intricate carvings, while others were small and plain.

‘Huh?’

Fallen turned to look up at the sky, wondering, ‘Am I still in the Hollow Temple?’ He lifted his left hand from his ribcage to above his head. Surprisingly warm light streamed through the gap between his fingers, casting a hand-shaped shadow on his face.

He was in utter disbelief at the warmth of the light and the mystical beauty of this entire domain. He couldn’t fathom that a place this beautiful, filled with so much light, could exist in the Hollow Temple—a supposed realm of shadows and darkness.

His eyes sparkled with slight amazement as he watched the light filtering through his fingers before he noticed the tattooed number on his palm: ‘47’. He jolted upright, gripping his wrist with his right hand as he stared at the new number on his trembling palm.

‘How has it been three days?’

Cold sweat dripped down his face as his lips quivered and his hand trembled. His head snapped in all directions, the ruby-eyed horror flashing in his mind.

‘There’s no way a place like this could exist in this nightmare without a nightmare itself!’ He reasoned as he got to his feet and frantically scanned the area for anything that exuded an eerie presence or any presence at all. But he found nothing and swallowed hard as the mystical sky-blue water glistened and sparkled in the light, casting beautiful reflections on the golden walls.

The bridge’s texture felt rough under his feet from the engravings, but he didn’t care as he stood on guard, eyeing every wall, door, and object within the domain. Then he heard a familiar clank.

The spear-like branches that had nearly killed him—their eerie commander, the ruby eye, the shrine, and the obsidian altar—all flashed through his mind as a chill ran down his spine.

Fallen shifted his gaze and spotted the dagger—the very black-chain hilt dagger he had used to defeat the ruby eye—tied around his waist.

He slowly reached for its hilt with his right hand, feeling the details of the carved man as the black blade glistened in the ethereal light. He just stared at it, confusion and disbelief etched across his face, before he realized he was using his right hand, which had been struck by one of the spears.

He dropped the dagger, the links of the chain clanking as the blade dangled at his side.

He gripped his right wrist with his left hand, looking at his arm in shock.

‘It’s... fine?’

He remembered a spear, clear as moonlight, striking his arm and causing him to bleed.

He fell to his knees, overwhelmed by confusion.

‘But... but I felt it!’

The moment his knees hit the floor, his body was not struck by any surge of pain... because it was fine. His ankle supported him without issue, he could blink his eye normally, and his arm was as well as ever.

‘But I felt the pain.’

He slowly reached his trembling hand to touch his left eye, and his eyes widened as he felt the surprising trace of a faint scar going across, stopping just below his left eyebrow.

‘I have a scar!?’

He froze, processing the information before hastily gliding his hand over his right arm and feeling it—a large scar tracing the remnants of once being a gaping wound just above his elbow.

‘I have this one as well... but what about...?’

“Tsk!” He wasn’t very flexible, so he struggled to reach his upper back until his fingers grazed something—another scar, long and running across the entirety of his upper back.

‘I have this one too... and they're all healed.’

He noticed smaller scars scattered over his arms, feet, and traces of small cuts on his nose and cheeks, and also not a single bruise.

‘How am I healed? Why would I be healed? And by whom?’