490 Survivors of the Fall

4

90 Survivors of the Fall

[POV: Yggdra]

Eight years ago, the Hollowed World breathed new possibilities that Yggdra never thought possible.

The air itself pulsed with vitality, dense and vibrant, as though every invisible current carried a fragment of life’s origin. To Yggdra, it had felt almost intrusive at first, the way each inhalation filled her lungs with something richer than air.

Qi.

That was what they called it.

And it was… miraculous.

Even now, standing upon the colossal branch of the Hollowed World Tree, Yggdra remembered the first moments she had arrived. Her body had responded immediately with wounds knitting faster than thought, fatigue dissolving like frost under sunlight. Her natural regeneration, already abnormal, had surged to something almost excessive. It had felt as though the world itself refused to let her decay.

Back then, she had been an active member of the Losten Party of Champions. Those days had carried a constant rhythm of motion between missions, battles, and losses. Always losses.

She had rarely stood at the frontlines. Healers were too scarce in Losten to risk recklessly, and though Pope Archelon also played the role of a healer, Yggdra’s presence had been treated as something fragile and more important. Arthur and Fanarys, especially, had hovered with a vigilance that bordered on suffocation.

Not without reason.

The dead had accumulated faster than victories.

When the pathway to the Hollowed World was discovered, she had volunteered before hesitation could take root. It had not been bravery so much as inevitability. There were fewer and fewer of them each passing season.

The Voice of David had appeared to her soon after, giving her a mission.

Retrieve a branch of the World Tree planted within the Hollowed World.

A simple directive in wording. Less so in execution.

The journey had taken her across alien terrains, through regions where reality bent subtly under the weight of qi saturation. She had not been alone. The ‘players’—the new Vessels—had accompanied her.

They were… different.

In her generation, the separation had been clear. The Voice and the Vessel existed as distinct entities, one whispering and one acting. But these new ones blurred that boundary. They moved with a strange autonomy, yet carried the unmistakable will of the Voice within them, as though the two had fused into a single existence.

It had unsettled her.

And then there was him.

The one who had once whispered to her before the Fall.

She found him near a crumbling ruin overtaken by luminous roots, his presence immediately recognizable despite the absurdity of his form, a rooster. Bright-feathered, sharp-eyed, and utterly out of place.

He had looked at her, tilted his head, and then—

“Oi, Yggdra! Took you long enough. Where’ve you been hiding? Got any quests for me? Or loot? Don’t tell me you went dry on me after all these years.”

The voice had been unmistakable.

Gab.

She had studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable, before answering in a tone as even as still water.

“…If you wish for a task, then find them.”

He had blinked. “Find what?”

“The remains of my comrades,” she said. “Their bodies, their weapons, and nything that persists. Bring them to me.”

A pause had followed. Longer than expected.

“And if I do?” he had asked, quieter now.

“Then perhaps,” Yggdra had replied, “I will have something to give you.”

To Gab, she was nothing more than an NPC, a fixture of the world, a quest-giver with scripted responses.

Yet something had shifted in that moment.

The humor drained from his posture. His wings settled. When he spoke again, the flippancy was gone.

“…Yeah. Alright. I’ll find them. All of them that are left. I promise.”

There had been no system prompt. No reward notification.

Only that.

Nostalgia had clung to his voice, heavy and unspoken, threaded with a melancholy that did not belong to something that was merely playing a game.

—

The present returned quietly.

The war in Losten had ended. Victory, they called it. The word had spread quickly, carried across realms and roots alike. Victory.

Yggdra stood at the edge of the immense branch, her gaze lowered toward the base of the World Tree. There, a massive portal churned, a luminous gateway connecting the Hollowed World back to Losten. It pulsed like a second heart.

Behind her, the air shifted.

“Yggdra!”

The voice was clear, familiar.

She turned.

Wu Chen approached with light steps, her long ears catching the ambient glow filtering through the canopy. There was a resemblance between them, subtle, but undeniable. Yet Wu Chen did not belong to Losten. That alone set her apart in ways Yggdra still found difficult to define.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Wu Chen said, stopping a short distance away.

Yggdra regarded her calmly. “Did you require something?”

Wu Chen shook her head lightly. “Not me. The others are looking for you.”

A small pause lingered between them, filled only by the distant hum of the portal below and the ever-present pulse of qi in the air.

The world continued to breathe.

…

..

.

[POV: Fanarys]

Fanarys had crossed dimensions before.

Fractured planes, warped territories, even the artificial pockets shaped by the Voice called a lobby. None of it had been unfamiliar to her. But this… this was different. Entirely different.

The moment she stepped through the portal carved into the World Tree’s root, the air changed. Not just in density or temperature, but in weight.

Sand stretched endlessly before her.

A vast desert sprawled under an open sky, the horizon wavering in the heat. Yet it wasn’t empty. An encampment stood near the base of the colossal root they had emerged from, structures hastily erected yet already expanding outward. Beyond it, a city was being built in real time with frameworks rising and materials shifting, as if guided by invisible hands.

Arthur walked beside her, his expression unusually tight, his gaze scanning everything with restrained unease.

“It looks like we’re doing this, huh?” he muttered.

Fanarys didn’t slow her stride. “The fight’s not over yet.”

Her eyes drifted upward, tracing the immense structure behind them.

The “tree” on this side dwarfed anything she had seen beneath New Risendawn. It pierced the sky, its surface alive with faint pulses of energy, veins of something deeper than matter running through it. Yet she knew better than to call it a tree in the conventional sense.

Yggdra’s voice echoed faintly in memory, correcting her when she got it wrong.

The World Tree was not a tree. It was a conceptual anchor, a structure that held together the very framework of reality itself. What they stood beside now was merely a root. One of countless extensions.

Fanarys exhaled lightly.

She didn’t care.

Concepts, structures, and truths didn’t matter. She was a combat sorceress. A fire mage. Her world was war, and war had simple rules.

Burn or be burned.

The moment they stepped fully into the encampment, noise erupted around them.

“WELCOME, CHAMPIONS OF LOSTEN!”

“OVER HERE! THIS WAY!”

“YOU MADE IT!”

Cheers rose from every direction, loud and unrestrained. Figures gathered along the pathways. They were varied in appearance, gear, and demeanor, yet united by one thing.

They were all Vessels of the Voice.

The Player Alliance.

Fanarys’ gaze moved across them without warmth.

Her feelings remained… complicated.

These Voices had once guided her world. Shaped it. Then abandoned it when it mattered most. The war, the losses, the collapse… all of it had unfolded in their absence.

It was easier not to think about them at all.

Arthur suddenly reached out, his hand catching her arm lightly.

“Fanarys,” he said, quieter now. “Look.”

He gestured ahead.

Fanarys followed his gaze and stopped.

A woman stood not far from them.

Red skin. Horns curling elegantly from her temples. Eyes that burned with a familiar intensity. Her posture and presence was like staring into a distorted reflection.

A hellspawn.

No.

Not just any hellspawn.

“The Voice.”

Recognition came instantly, without hesitation or doubt. The Voice that had once been with her. The one who had named her. Guided her. Shaped her.

“The Voice of Fanarys.”

By all means, she should have felt something. Anger. Hatred. Resentment. Instead, she felt nothing. Just a hollow, quiet absence.

The woman stepped closer, her expression steady, almost restrained.

“I’ve been looking for you,” the Voice said. “Fanarys.”

Fanarys said nothing.

“I know what happened,” the Voice continued. “And I know what I failed to do. I’m going to find them. Your comrades. What’s left of them… their legacies. I’ll bring them back to you. I’ll make things right again.”

Her voice didn’t waver, but something beneath it strained quietly.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness. Not now.” She met Fanarys’ eyes directly. “But when the time comes… I’d like the chance for you to know me again.”

Silence stretched between them.

The next moment, the woman vanished, her form dissolving instantly, leaving no trace behind.

Fast Travel.

A privilege reserved for the Voice.

Fanarys turned away as if nothing had happened.

The journey continued.

—

The flying vessel awaited them at the edge of the encampment.

It hovered above the ground with quiet stability, its structure sleek yet intricate, layered with mechanisms that hummed with restrained power. Energy coursed along its frame in controlled currents, giving it the appearance of something alive.

They boarded without ceremony.

Inside, the space was far more expansive than its exterior suggested.

A man approached them shortly after.

“Welcome aboard,” he said with a slight bow. “You are currently riding the latest iteration of the Soaring Dragon vessel. It is equipped with warp capabilities and a variety of integrated functions designed for both combat and long-distance traversal.”

He smiled faintly.

“I will be your guide during this journey. You may refer to me as the Thinker Constellation, Fu Wu.”

Fanarys studied him briefly and recognized him quickly. He had been present during the war, one of the more prominent Guardians. A caster, if memory served. Though compared to the Mage Legacy Bearers of Losten, his spells had lacked impact.

Fu Wu continued smoothly, “My Lord has entrusted me with your care, so I will ensure your stay is… comfortable.”

His tone shifted slightly, lighter now.

“Before we proceed further, are there any foods you dislike or cannot tolerate? We would like to prepare accordingly for the banquet.”

Arthur’s expression changed immediately, a rare spark of enthusiasm breaking through.

“Food? You’ve got options here?” he said, almost grinning.

Fanarys barely glanced at him before answering.

“Insects,” she said flatly. “And seafood. Crabs, shrimp, lobsters.”

A brief pause.

“They’re just oceanic roaches. I hate them.”

Fu Wu blinked once and then smiled politely, as if nothing about that statement required further clarification.

“Understood,” he said.

…

..

.

[POV: Arthur]

Arthur kept his gaze forward as the Soaring Dragon vessel cut through the sky, but his thoughts refused to follow a straight path.

If he were honest with himself, there was no satisfaction left in what he had achieved.

He had slain countless Children of the Origin. He had stood against the Great Enemy and survived where many had not. His name carried weight among the remnants of Losten, spoken with the kind of respect earned through blood and endurance.

Yet when he measured himself against the Six Queens, the truth had been undeniable.

He had not even come close.

The gap had not been narrow, not something that could be bridged with effort or time. It had been absolute. Crushing. The kind of disparity that stripped meaning from prior victories.

It left a hollow realization in its wake.

He was weak.

Arthur exhaled slowly, resting his arms along the railing as the wind rushed past them. Somewhere along the line, comparison had stopped being a tool and become something corrosive. He understood now why people said it stole joy. It didn’t just diminish accomplishments—it erased them entirely.

Below, the desert stretched endlessly, broken only by the growing structures and distant movement of life. Above, the sky remained vast and indifferent.

The presence of the players only complicated things further.

They moved through the world with a strange authority, their actions guided by something unseen yet undeniable. It stirred a quiet resentment in him, one he didn’t fully accept but couldn’t ignore either. It felt as though something had been taken from them—something fundamental.

The Voice.

But even as the thought formed, he dismissed it.

That wasn’t fair. Things didn’t always happen with reason or intent. Sometimes they simply… changed.

Fanarys stood not far from him, her posture rigid, her silence heavier than usual. He didn’t need to ask to know she felt it more sharply than he did.

And then there were the Guardians.

Arthur’s eyes shifted briefly toward Fu Wu, who stood composed as ever, his presence steady against the hum of the vessel.

The Guardians were something else entirely.

Divine warriors under Da Wei, each carrying power that rivaled the Champions of Losten. Not in legend, not in exaggeration—in truth. Arthur had seen enough already to understand that much.

They weren’t allies born of desperation.

They were built for dominance.

Still, he forced his thoughts away from that spiral. There were more immediate concerns, more practical matters to focus on, even if a part of him felt unanchored in this new world.

Lost, perhaps.

Fu Wu’s voice broke through the quiet, smooth and measured as he turned slightly toward them.

“There is a story often told of my Lord,” he began, his tone carrying the cadence of practiced narration. “It is said that in this very desert, he once waged war against the Heavenly Temple.”

Arthur glanced toward him, listening despite himself.

“The conflict was… immense,” Fu Wu continued. “It is estimated that nearly thirty percent of the world’s population perished during that war. Entire civilizations collapsed under its weight.”

A brief pause followed before his voice softened, though the weight of the words did not lessen.

“And yet, through what can only be described as a divine miracle, my Lord restored them all to life.”

Fanarys let out a quiet scoff.

Arthur didn’t need to look directly to know her reaction, but he did anyway. Her expression remained controlled, unimpressed on the surface, yet the subtle tremble in her eyes and the tension in her jaw betrayed something sharper beneath.

Annoyance.

Or perhaps something deeper.

Arthur looked away again, his gaze drifting toward the horizon.

They were walking among gods now.

The realization settled without resistance.

Fu Wu seemed to register the shift in atmosphere a moment later. His expression faltered slightly before he inclined his head.

“My apologies,” he said. “I may have spoken insensitively.”

Arthur shook his head lightly, redirecting the conversation before it could linger.

“Those islands,” he said, gesturing outward. “At the tips of the branches. What are they?”

There were many of them—vast landmasses suspended among the sprawling limbs of the World Tree, each one distinct yet connected in an intricate network that defied natural explanation.

Fu Wu followed his gaze, a faint smile returning.

“Those lands were once known as the Promised Land,” he explained. “They served as the foundation of the Heavenly Temple’s civilization.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly.

“During the Hollowed World War, the entire continent was torn apart,” Fu Wu continued calmly. “The branches of the World Tree caught the fragments as they fell. What you see now are the remnants of that land.”

His tone carried a quiet sense of significance.

“They are called the Hanging Islands. Development is already underway, and in time, they are expected to play a central role in the administration of this world.”

Arthur absorbed that in silence.

Even the ruins here had purpose.

—

The journey did not last much longer.

The Soaring Dragon shifted subtly as it approached its destination, the air around them thickening with layered currents of energy. What emerged ahead caused even Arthur to pause.

The Capital City of the Holy Empire.

New Willow.

It floated like a sovereign presence in the sky, an island vast enough to rival nations. Structures rose in elegant harmony across its surface, blending natural forms with deliberate design. It reminded him of New Risendawn, but only distantly.

This was larger.

Broader.

More complete.

As the vessel docked, voices greeted them almost immediately.

“Welcome to New Willow!”

“The Champions of Losten have arrived!”

“Make way!”

Figures gathered along the platform—Guardians, attendants, and others whose presence carried varying degrees of authority. Their attention settled on Arthur and Fanarys with open curiosity.

Among them, a familiar figure approached.

Yggdra.

She raised her hand in a small wave, her expression calm as ever.

“Arthur,” she greeted.

Then, without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Fanarys.

Fanarys stiffened instantly.

“I see you’re still intact,” Yggdra added, her tone neutral despite the gesture.

Fanarys did not return the embrace.

Arthur almost smiled.

Almost.

Fu Wu resumed his role without pause, guiding them through the city with practiced ease. The pathways led them inward, toward the heart of New Willow, where the architecture grew more refined, more deliberate in its design.

Eventually, they arrived before a set of imposing doors.

The office of the Holy Emperor.

They entered.

The room was vast yet restrained, its design emphasizing presence over excess. At its center stood a figure whose authority was immediately apparent.

Da Wei.

“Sit,” he said simply.

Fanarys remained standing. “No thanks.”

Arthur took a seat without comment.

His attention shifted then—drawn unexpectedly to someone else in the room.

A woman stood nearby, clad in polished plate armor. Her hair was blonde, her posture rigid, and her expression—

Surprised.

Not at the situation.

At him.

Recognition came slowly, like a memory surfacing through fog.

The Voice.

The one that had once been with him.

Arthur’s understanding of the Voice had always been abstract, formless. Genderless. Yet now, looking at her, something faint stirred in his memory. A sense—uncertain but persistent—that the presence guiding him before had leaned… masculine.

And yet here she stood.

Real.

Defined.

“Ah,” Da Wei’s voice cut in, calm and deliberate. “It seems recognition has already begun.”

He gestured toward the armored woman.

“This is Saber.”

Then his gaze shifted to Arthur.

“And this is Arthur, one of Losten’s Champions.”

A brief pause followed, filled with quiet expectation.

“I would like the two of you to work together,” Da Wei continued. “There is much to be done if we are to properly integrate Losten with the Hollowed World.”

Arthur didn’t respond immediately.

He simply looked at her—at Saber—and felt the weight of something long absent begin to settle back into place, though its shape had changed entirely.

…

..

.

[POV: Joan]

The bells of New Risendawn rang longer that day.

Not in alarm, not in mourning, but in something quieter and more uncertain. Victory did not erase what had been lost, and yet it settled over Losten like a long-awaited breath finally released.

Joan stood upon one of the high terraces overlooking the city, her gaze drifting across the skyline that still bore the scars of war. Reconstruction had already begun in earnest. Structures rose where ruins once stood, and the wounded moved through the streets with renewed purpose. It was not perfect. It would never be perfect.

But it was enough to begin again.

They had won.

She had done her part. All of them had.

The Hollowed World’s influence was already taking root. New healing techniques, inspired by Da Wei’s mastery and her own divine arts, spread steadily through Losten. Wounds that once meant death were now survivable. Conditions once thought permanent were beginning to fade.

If a world as vast as the Hollowed World could recover, then Losten would follow.

It had to.

Her steps eventually carried her to the Church of Da Wei, where the atmosphere shifted into something hushed and reverent. The faint glow of divine energy lingered in the air, woven into the very structure.

She found him there.

Dave knelt before the altar, his posture straight yet heavy, as though the weight on his shoulders had not lessened even after the war’s end. His hands were clasped, his head bowed slightly in quiet prayer.

Joan approached without hesitation, her tone light as she broke the silence.

“So, what do you think about becoming the King of Losten?”

Dave opened his eyes slowly, the glow within them dimming as he turned his head toward her. His expression was conflicted, caught somewhere between acceptance and uncertainty.

There was something deeply rooted in him that still reached toward the Voice. Toward David. Toward Da Wei. The presence that had guided him, shaped him, carried him through trials that would have broken others.

And yet that connection had changed.

He no longer leaned on it the same way.

He had grown beyond it.

Joan tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint pout. “Is that really the kind of look you should be giving your future Queen?”

Dave let out a quiet breath, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to her. “I just… don’t know if this is the right course.”

Joan’s expression sharpened slightly. “You’re doubting Da Wei now of all times?”

She understood the hesitation. The decision had come abruptly, delivered with that same effortless authority Da Wei always carried.

“Joan, Dave, become King and Queen of Losten and help the people heal. Let’s do it on your wedding. The sooner the better, capiche?”

Capiche.

Even now, the word felt out of place. It sounded more like something Yggdra would say, or perhaps the Voice that once lingered behind her.

Dave’s voice lowered. “What if I’m not the right fit for it?”

Joan studied him for a moment, seeing past the doubt to what lay beneath. It wasn’t just uncertainty. It was fear of being set aside, of no longer having a place in something larger than himself.

She stepped closer.

“You’re overthinking it,” she said, her tone softer now. “This isn’t you being cast aside. This is you being trusted.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

Joan continued, her voice steady, grounded.

“Don’t lose sight of what you’ve built. The legacy you’ve carried since the beginning.” She met his eyes directly. “Do you remember our first real quest together? After that goblin hunt?”

A faint flicker of recognition passed through his expression.

“You spoke to that fortune teller,” she went on. “You said you wanted to lead people to the light. That you wanted to become their hope.”

She allowed a small smile to form.

“This is that path, Dave. Just… bigger than either of us expected.”

Her hand found his, firm and certain.

“You don’t have to be ready for everything right now. You won’t be. But you won’t be alone either.”

The weight in his gaze shifted, not gone, but no longer as suffocating.

“I’ll be there,” she added quietly.

The rest of the day unfolded in a similar rhythm, filled with preparations, conversations, and moments of stillness in between. The future pressed closer with every passing hour, no longer distant or abstract.

When night came, it brought with it a rare quiet.

The world outside softened, and for the first time in what felt like an age, there was no urgency demanding their attention.

They found themselves alone.

Dave stood near the window at first, his form flickering faintly as the incorporeal nature he had long maintained wavered. Then, with deliberate intent, he invoked Blessed Regeneration. Light gathered around him, weaving flesh from spirit, restoring something he had set aside long ago.

When he turned to her, his eyes shone.

Not with power alone, but with something deeper. The Ophanim burned within them, radiant and overwhelming, and yet what followed was something far more fragile.

Tears.

Joan stepped closer, her expression softening. “Is something wrong?”

Dave shook his head, his voice unsteady.

“No… I just…” He swallowed, struggling to steady himself. “You’re… beautiful. I love you.”

His gaze lingered on her, taking in every detail as though committing it to memory.

“Your hair… the way it catches the light. Your eyes… they’re so gentle.”

Joan didn’t respond with words.

She simply closed the distance between them.

What followed was not driven by urgency or desperation, but by something quieter and more enduring. After everything they had faced, everything they had lost and preserved, the closeness they shared carried a different weight.

It was not about victory.

It was about presence.

And in that stillness, they held onto each other, not as champions or symbols, but simply as two people who had endured long enough to reach this moment together.