The world did not resume when I stepped out of the Gate.
It waited.
Time hung like breath before a scream. The stillness was unnatural—birds frozen mid-flight outside the academy's enchanted dome, students suspended mid-step, magical fire frozen in its arc across the training fields.
The only thing that moved was me.
And the shadow that had followed me back.
At first, I thought it was part of me.
A reflection warped by the Gate. A memory that hadn't let go.
But the more I walked, the more I felt it watching. Not behind me, not beside me—but beneath me.
In the cracks of reality.
In the seams between seconds.
And then it spoke.
Not with a voice—but with a memory that wasn't mine.
I stood in the Hall of Origin, where portraits of Kadven's most powerful mages lined the walls—twelve Archmages, founders of the academy, their painted eyes enchanted to follow the viewer.
All twelve eyes were closed.
The silence deepened.
And then, from the farthest end of the hall, a thirteenth portrait began to bleed.
Not paint.
Ink.
Black and shifting.
It dripped down the frame, forming letters on the polished floor:
"Do you remember me now?"
I didn't answer.
Because I did.
The First One Forgotten wasn't a man.
It wasn't a god.
It was a presence.
A collective wound, given form.
Born from every erased name, every silenced spell, every truth buried for the sake of peace.
It had no face—but it wore mine when it stepped from the shadows.
It looked like me—Cid Nelaoji.
Same eyes. Same scars. Same silence.
But hollow.
As if my body had been emptied and filled with void.
"You bear the Memory Wound," it said.
"But you still fear what it shows you."
"I've accepted it," I said.
"Acceptance is not understanding," it replied.
Around us, the walls of the Hall of Origin began to crack.
Not physically—but in reality.
Each portrait peeled away, showing not mages—but graves.
Each window blinked, showing not sky—but the other side of the veil.
The world was unraveling—because truth no longer slept.
"You were the first," I whispered.
"The one who gave up his name… to protect Kadven."
The thing nodded.
Its smile was not cruel.
It was tired.
"I erased myself to hold back what now stirs again. But you—Cid—you walked the path back to memory."
"You called me here," I said.
"No," it replied. "You became me."
The First One Forgotten extended a hand.
Not in threat.
In offering.
"You can stop it. You can seal the wound again. But to do so—you must become what I was."
"And disappear?"
"From history. From name. From all who love you."
Raen.
Alia.
Gone.
They wouldn't even dream of me.
I said nothing.
But deep inside me, something answered.
A different voice.
Mine.
Stronger.
Older.
"I won't become you," I said.
"I'll remember you. I'll carry you. But I won't vanish. I'll stay—and fight."
The First One Forgotten tilted its head.
And for the first time… smiled like me.
"You might be strong enough, then. But the wound is open, Cid. Others will come through. Not all carry memory. Some… carry hunger."
It vanished.
Time resumed.
The portraits healed.
Outside, the sky cracked like glass.
People screamed.
Raen and Alia came running. They didn't know where I'd gone. But they knew something was wrong.
From above, in the clouds torn by the unseen hand, figures began to descend—wrapped in robes of static, wearing crowns of silence.
And the scream returned.
Not from the Gate.
But from the sky itself.
The First One Forgotten had warned me.
And now the war for memory…
had begun.