The Underfold was alive.

Elian could feel it breathing beneath his boots. The stone islands they stood on pulsed faintly, as if veins ran beneath the rock, feeding off their presence.

Overhead, the sky churned — a swirling canvas of inverted stars spinning in impossible patterns. No horizon. No up. No down.

Just endless void.

And somewhere in this broken expanse pulsed the First Fracture — the original wound that had birthed every Hollow, every cult, every nightmare they had ever faced.

"We don’t have much time," Lysara said.

"Time barely functions here," Calen whispered, unnerved.
"Even breathing feels…wrong."

Elian's eyes stayed sharp, scanning the floating islands that stretched outward like broken puzzle pieces.

"It’s not about time," he said.
"It’s about proximity."

The deeper they traveled, the stronger the pull.

The closer they came, the more the fractures whispered.

Behind them, Cray cast another glance back toward the breach they'd entered from. The swirling portal still hung there, but cracks spread through its edges now, threatening to collapse entirely.

"We’re cut off soon if that closes," Cray muttered.
"Just saying."

"It will close," Elian said. "The factions are right behind us. They won't stop hunting."

As if summoned, the faint crackle of distortion echoed across the void.

Dozens of emerald-clad cultists stood on a distant floating isle — their insectile eyes glimmering in perfect unison.

They had followed.

And worse — they weren’t alone.

Behind them, a darker form materialized.

Tall.
Thin.
Cloaked in spiraling shadows.

The entity did not walk.
It glided — its body flickering like a faulty projection.

Lysara inhaled sharply.
"That’s not Malrek."

"No," Elian said.
"It’s older."

The creature raised an elongated hand, fingers splitting into dozens of smaller tendrils.

From its outstretched palm, a spiral of pulsing symbols burst outward — warping the air between the two groups.

A bridge of twisted matter formed, connecting their island to Elian’s.

"They’re coming," Cray said tightly, already preparing his next glyph.

"We won’t outrun them," Lysara warned.

Elian’s voice was cold, focused.

"Then we won’t run."

As the cultists poured across the bridge, Elian struck first — his Memory Blade slicing through the leading attackers.

Their forms convulsed, unraveling into fractal dust that twisted into the void.

Cray unleashed his wards — glyphs forming protective barriers and lances of pure energy, slamming into the oncoming horde.

Lysara stood behind them, her eyes burning silver as she wove containment sigils around the group, anchoring them to the fragile platform beneath their feet.

And Calen, trembling but determined, whispered incantations of stabilization — fighting back the Underfold’s instinct to collapse the very ground they stood on.

But the older entity — the one beyond the cultists — moved closer.

Its voice seeped into their minds.

"You cannot close what was never meant to heal."

Elian's head pounded, but he forced his focus forward.

"What are you?" he demanded.

The voice rippled like oil poured into water.

"I am the Before. I am the source Malrek only serves. I am what waits when all gates fail."

The Old Masters.

One of the true originals.

Not a servant.

A root.

The entity stepped fully onto the stone now.

It didn’t attack like the others — not yet.

Instead, its tendrils extended upward, tapping into the broken air — drawing in energy from the First Fracture itself. The void pulsed in response.

The fracture was aware of them now.

Cray’s voice strained.
"This is beyond anything we’ve faced!"

"It’s feeding," Lysara hissed. "If it completes that siphon—"

"—it’ll rip this layer apart," Elian finished.

He felt the Memory Blade pulse in his grip — as though it, too, recognized the gravity of what stood before them.

"We end this here."

The Cartographer’s voice rang suddenly in their minds — distant, but present.

"The core lies beneath. Follow the pulse. Sever the anchor, and the wound will seal — but only if you survive the Root."

Elian’s eyes narrowed.

The decision made itself.

"Lysara. Cut us a path down. Now!"

With a final sweep of her arm, Lysara tore open a spiral in the air — a controlled fall into the deeper chamber.

As the island cracked behind them, Elian, Cray, Lysara, and Calen dove into the spiral descent — narrowly escaping as the cultists and the Root surged forward behind them.

The Underfold twisted around them, the walls narrowing as they plummeted into the pit.

At the bottom was silence.

And then—
The Core.

A sphere hovered in the chamber — vast, glowing, cracked like an ancient egg.

The First Fracture.

Pulsing with every beat of the Hollow’s existence.

The source of it all.

Calen whispered, awestruck.
"It’s... breathing."

Lysara stepped forward, voice shaking.
"This is where everything started."

Cray stared upward, wide-eyed.

"And where it either ends or we do."

Elian gripped the Memory Blade, staring into the swirling eye of the First Fracture.

The air trembled as the Root entity descended slowly behind them.

And so began the final confrontation.