Zami walked across the barren expanse of the Forsaken Hollow, his pace steady despite the fatigue weighing on his body. The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the crunch of his boots against the cracked, lifeless ground. His mind remained sharp, calculating every step, every breath. He had no choice but to move forward.
With every passing hour, the scars that littered his body seemed to itch more fiercely. They were countless—etched reminders of his battles, his failures, his victories. Each one told a story of survival, but also of a life spent entirely in conflict. He brushed his fingertips across his forearm, tracing a jagged mark left by the Bone Monarch.
So much time… so much pain. Is there even an end to this?
His thoughts lingered on the next vessel—Shattered Dominion. He knew little about it other than its location, the Withering Spire. It was a place he would have to reach, a challenge he would have to overcome, no matter the cost.
As he ventured farther, the barren land around him grew eerier. The rocky terrain gave way to uneven ground, with long, deep cracks running through the earth like scars of its own. The only sound was the faint whistle of a nonexistent wind, an unsettling hum that resonated from the stones.
It was then he noticed something unusual—a faint discoloration in the dirt ahead. Zami slowed his pace, his silver eyes narrowing as he focused on the anomaly. His heart began to race—not from fear, but from a flicker of something else.
Kneeling, he examined the patch of ground. It was unmistakable. A stain of red.
His fingers grazed the dried substance, and his mind sharpened like the edge of his katana. Blood. Human blood.
"This can't be mine," he muttered to himself. His body had long since adapted to the strange environment, his blood darker and thicker from centuries of survival here. This was different—bright red, vibrant even in its dried state.
He stood abruptly, scanning the area. There was no mistaking it. Someone had been here. Someone human.
The trail of blood wasn't extensive, but it was enough to point him in a direction. His grip tightened on his katana as he began to follow it, each step deliberate and measured. The land around him seemed to shift subtly, as though watching his movements.
The trail led him over jagged rocks and through narrow crevices. At times, it faded, forcing him to pause and search for the next sign. But always, it reappeared—sometimes just a single drop, other times smeared across the ground as though the person had stumbled.
Who could this be? he wondered. After all these years, the idea of encountering another human seemed impossible. And yet, here it was—a trail, undeniable evidence that he might not be as alone as he thought.
As he followed the blood, the terrain began to change. The barren wasteland gave way to a more chaotic landscape, with jagged stones jutting out at odd angles and pools of dark liquid bubbling ominously. The faint hum in the air grew louder, more dissonant, like a chorus of whispers just beyond his hearing.
Zami pressed on, his body tense and ready. Whatever lay at the end of this trail, he would face it. He had no other choice.