Chapter 5:

Chapter 5: The Ones Who Remember

The Hero Who Shouldn’t Exist


The wind in the Hollow Vale tasted like ash and echoes.

He walked alone—no roads, no stars, just a trail carved by forgotten footsteps and the burden of remembrance. His boots were caked with dust. His cloak clung to dried blood from days ago. Not all of it was his.

The Vale was not on any map. That was the point.

No one sought out this place—because this was where stories went to die.

And where one waited to be reborn.

The shrine stood crooked, swallowed by vines and thorns. A cracked statue of a masked warrior sat at its heart, offering nothing but silence. A hundred crude talismans hung from the branches above—each carved with symbols that no longer held meaning.

But he remembered them all.

He remembered when they still prayed to him.

Before his name was scraped from history.
Before the world rewrote its heroes.
Before the betrayal.

A low voice echoed from the shadow of the shrine.

“You return with blood on your soul, not just your hands.”

He didn’t flinch.

An old woman stepped forward—back bent, eyes like twin lanterns dimmed by time, but burning still with truth. Her skin was inked with glyphs, most of them worn away. But one glowed faintly.

The symbol of the Unwritten Blade.

“You remember me?” he asked, voice flat.

“I remember what the world wants me to forget.”

She bowed slowly.

“To the One Who Was Erased.”

He sat by the shrine’s edge as she poured bitterroot tea. The heat and bitterness bit into his throat like memory.

“They chant new names now,” he said. “Call children to kneel before masks.”

The old woman smiled sadly. “Children believe what the world teaches them. But the world is a liar with a golden tongue.”

He didn’t respond.

Instead, he traced the edge of the Tsuyoi seal on his forearm. It pulsed faintly with dark energy. The more he used it, the deeper it rooted in him—like rot in divine flesh.

She noticed.

“You’ve touched the Forbidden.”

“I embraced it.”

“Then you’ve already begun to burn.”

He looked at her.

“I’m not afraid of fire. I was forged in it.”

A silence passed between them.

The shrine creaked.

Somewhere, a crow cried.

Then she spoke again—softly.

“Do you know why I stayed here, child?”

He didn’t answer.

“Because I knew you would return. And because the world’s heroes… they don’t protect people like me.”

She stood.

Walked to the back of the shrine.

And pulled back the curtain.

Behind it, seven figures stood waiting. Scarred. Silent. Armed. Not knights. Not saints.

Survivors.

Each one marked by pain the world ignored.

“We remember,” the eldest among them said. “We were saved by a nameless hero. We’ve lived in shadow ever since. Waiting.”

Waiting for what?

For him.

He stepped forward slowly.

One by one, they knelt—not in worship, but in recognition.

Not a savior.

A weapon.

A truth.

The first followers of the Forgotten King had gathered.

The Tsuyoi surged through him—not in rage this time, but in purpose.

He would not beg the world to remember.

He would make it never forget again.