The wind howled as we stood at the base of the hill, the long grass whipping against our legs like restless spirits. The land before us stretched out in an endless sea of tombstones, each marker standing as a silent witness to a forgotten life. It was known as the Hill of Dead Memories, a place where the past lingered, where the souls of the lost clung to the earth in a futile attempt to be remembered.
I couldn't help but feel a strange connection to this place. It was as though the hill itself understood the burden of my existence—the weight of fate that clung to me, growing heavier with each passing day.
Zeke stood beside me, his usual energy dampened by the oppressive atmosphere. He glanced at me with a worried look but said nothing. There wasn't much left to say after what had happened back at the castle. I had used the fate script again, and now I was left questioning just how much of myself was still… me.
I could still feel the residue of the script's power pulsing inside me, like a ticking clock counting down. Each time I called upon it, I inched closer to losing more of myself. The realization was like a knife in my gut.
With a deep breath, I reached inside my coat pocket and pulled out the small, tattered journal that had been given to me by the stranger in the shadows. It was the key to understanding what I had become—a vessel of fate. The journal contained a detailed account of every fate script I had ever used.
I flipped through the pages, stopping at the last entry.
10,321 remaining.
The number stared back at me, mocking my dwindling autonomy. I had already used two scripts since the library encounter. Each use had saved my life, but at what cost? Every script used chipped away at my essence, rewriting me in ways I didn't fully understand.
Zeke noticed my grim expression and tilted his head. "How many?"
"10,321," I replied quietly, my voice almost lost to the wind.
His eyes widened, though he quickly masked his surprise. "That's still a lot… right? I mean, it's not like you'll run out anytime soon."
I shook my head. "It's not about the number, Zeke. Every time I use a script, I lose a part of myself. The more I use, the less I remain who I was. It's like… the scripts are rewriting my soul."
Zeke was silent for a moment, his usual carefree attitude replaced by something far more serious. "What happens when you use the last one?"
I didn't have an answer. I wasn't even sure if there was an answer. The fate scripts were ancient, mysterious—written in a language that predated everything I understood. But I knew one thing for sure: if I kept using them, eventually, I'd lose the very essence of who I was.
"You're not going to use them all, though, right?" Zeke pressed, trying to sound optimistic. "We'll figure something out before you get to that point."
I wanted to believe him, to cling to the hope that there was another way. But as I stared at the hill, the weight of my decisions bore down on me like never before.
The Hill of Dead Memories was not just a burial ground for the forgotten. It was a place where people came to leave behind parts of themselves they no longer wanted to remember. Broken dreams, shattered hopes, lost loves—everything that had once been meaningful, now reduced to dust and stone.
And in many ways, I was no different. Each fate script I used left a piece of my soul here, buried with the ghosts of my past.
Zeke motioned for us to move forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as we approached the top of the hill. The wind grew colder, and the sky above us darkened, as if the world itself knew what was coming.
At the summit, an ancient monument stood—a stone pillar etched with symbols I couldn't decipher. This was the heart of the hill, the place where the memories of the dead were said to gather. The air here was thick, almost suffocating, and I could feel the weight of countless lost souls pressing down on me.
But something else drew my attention—a faint glimmer of light at the base of the monument. As we approached, I saw it clearly. A script—a fate script, glowing faintly, etched into the stone.
I reached out instinctively, my fingers brushing against the cold surface. The moment I touched it, the script flared to life, its words searing themselves into my mind.
[Fate Script 10,321 Activated]
Command: Unveil.
I gasped as the world around me shifted. The tombstones, the grass, the sky—all of it began to twist and warp, like a veil being lifted. I was no longer standing on the hill. Instead, I was inside a memory—one that wasn't my own.
I saw flashes of a life long forgotten. A king, draped in robes of silver and gold, standing before a vast army. A sword raised high in his hand as he called out to his soldiers. A queen, her face hidden beneath a veil, watching from a distant tower.
And then… a betrayal.
The king, brought to his knees, his crown falling to the ground. The queen, stepping forward, her hand reaching for the sword that would end his life.
The memory shattered, and I was back on the hill, gasping for breath. My heart raced as I tried to make sense of what I had just seen.
Zeke was by my side in an instant. "Ryuji! What happened?"
I shook my head, still reeling. "I… I saw something. A memory. But it wasn't mine."
Zeke frowned, his eyes narrowing. "A memory of who?"
"I don't know," I whispered, staring at the monument. "But whatever it was, it's connected to this place."
As I stood there, trying to piece together the fragments of the vision, I felt the weight of the fate script's power settle over me once more. Another piece of myself had been claimed, and I was left wondering just how many more pieces I could afford to lose.