Section 1 : Songs Etched in Stone (Elwin)
The passage beneath the altar was unlike anything Elwin had seen in the cursed lands.
Stone gave way to a spiral path, carved directly into the mountain's roots. The walls shimmered faintly—veined with tear-shaped crystals, as though the mountain itself had wept over centuries. Each step down was accompanied by a quiet hum, as if the earth was remembering.
Meyr walked ahead, his silhouette half-swallowed by the soft, glowing mist. He hadn't spoken since they entered. But here, in this silence, Elwin felt the weight of stories too old for words.
Then—Meyr stopped.
Before them opened a massive cavern, the ceiling arched so high it vanished into darkness. At its heart stood a monument—a massive slab of obsidian carved with weeping faces. The sound of water echoed faintly, though there was no stream in sight.
Meyr finally spoke.
"This is the first altar," he said, "the place where the sorrow of the world was first heard."
Elwin stepped closer, heart pounding.
"You mean… the origin of the tears?"
Meyr nodded, placing a hand on the obsidian. "Long before Aymelle… before even the curses… there was one. A girl born of silence, whose heart broke not for herself, but for all things. Her tears called forth the first Crying Remains."
A shiver crawled down Elwin's spine.
"She wept so deeply," Meyr continued, "that even the gods turned away. Her name was stricken from time. But the altar remembers."
Elwin's eyes fixed on the carvings. They were… changing.
Faces in stone shimmered, becoming more lifelike—eyes wide, mouths open in silent anguish. And among them, he saw her—Aymelle.
Not as she was now, but as something older, deeper. Her hair soaked with spectral tears. Her hands reaching outward—not in fear, but in acceptance.
"Elwin," Meyr said softly, "the power she carries... it isn't just hers."
A dull thunder rolled through the cavern.
And in the flicker of crystal light—Elwin saw something he hadn't dared hope for.
A vision.
Aymelle, kneeling before another altar, far away—her hands trembling, her expression torn between agony and clarity.
She was remembering.
And with that remembrance… the world began to shift.
Section 2 : A Heart's Echo (Aymelle)
The cold air was thick with the scent of earth and decay, pressing in on Aymelle from all sides. It was as though the very land was alive, breathing in rhythm with her own pulse.
Her feet dragged through the muck, the remnants of her once-steady steps now unmoored, as though the land itself was determined to pull her deeper into its secrets. The Source of the Crying Remains—her prison, her place of reckoning—had taken on a life of its own, its walls weeping for her and the world she had been born to save.
And yet, she was not here to die.
Her hand, trembling with the weight of tears that did not belong to her, brushed against the cold stone wall as she moved. Each step felt heavier than the last, the gravity of her journey pulling her toward an unknown fate.
The vision was relentless.
It was always there, waiting in the edges of her mind—the image of a dark, empty sky, of swirling clouds churning with sorrow. The vision had haunted her ever since she arrived here. The world that had once been her home, the world of light and laughter, was no longer within her reach. Only the shadows remained.
But there was something else, too—a voice, distant but unmistakable.
"Aymelle…"
It was not a whisper, not a plea. It was a cry—a call that echoed through the labyrinth of her mind. And it was familiar.
Her heart jolted.
"Elwin…"
The name, like a lifeline, pulled her back from the brink of despair. It had been so long since she had heard it spoken aloud, and yet it was as if the very sound of it could guide her through the storm.
Her hand clenched around the sword at her side.
The vision of Elwin was fading, replaced by the sickening pulse of power that surged within her chest. Aymelle felt it—this force, both painful and beautiful, swirling within her like the storm itself. Her tears, once a curse, now held the power to unravel everything. To destroy everything. To save everyone.
She wasn't sure what she was becoming, but she knew she had to face it. For Elwin. For herself.
Her journey through the Source was no longer just a path to the end—it was the beginning of something far greater, far darker.
Ahead, the passage widened. The walls grew even colder, the air denser, as though the very breath of the mountain was suffocating her.
And then she saw it.
A figure stood at the center of the chamber, shrouded in shadow.
The Crying Remains.
It was the thing that had driven her to this cursed land in the first place. The thing she had to face, the thing that could finally end it all. Or could it?
The figure's eyes glowed faintly, pools of sorrow and rage staring back at her. Its form was indistinct—fluid, almost formless, like a collection of memories that had lost their anchor to reality. Yet there was something familiar about it.
Aymelle raised her sword, her heart pounding in her chest.
The figure stepped forward.
And she understood.
This was not just the manifestation of her pain. This was the embodiment of the world's suffering, the thing that had been born from every tear shed since the beginning of time. And it had been waiting for her.
Waiting for this moment.
"Aymelle…"
The voice rang in her mind again, but now, it was different. It wasn't just a name.
It was a command.
The sword in her hand pulsed with power, a surge that coursed through her veins. The tears in her eyes welled up, but they weren't hers anymore. They belonged to the world. To the people who had suffered, to the land that had bled.
And she—Aymelle—was the vessel.
The figure lunged.
Section 3 : The Weight of Silence (Elwin)
Elwin stood at the edge of Wushan, the wind biting at his skin, carrying with it the taste of salt from the distant sea. His heart was a storm—much like the weather—clouded with uncertainty and rage. The silence of the border town did nothing to quell the tumult within him. In fact, it only made it worse.
He hadn't found her yet.
It had been days since he had arrived, but the trail was thin, and the rumors were nothing more than whispers in the wind. Each person he had questioned had a different story, a different version of where Aymelle might be, but none of them had anything concrete. No one had seen her. No one had heard her name.
But still, he pressed on.
He had promised her, hadn't he? The thought made him grit his teeth. Aymelle was not one to be left behind, but the world seemed intent on tearing them apart, one piece at a time.
Aymelle, his love, his companion through the darkest of times—where could she have gone? What was happening to her?
The city behind him was a labyrinth, a maze of twisted alleys and closed doors that all led to dead ends. But there was something—something important—he could feel it in his bones. There was a reason the silence was so oppressive. The answer lay hidden in the shadows of this forsaken place, waiting for him to uncover it.
Elwin's steps carried him toward the eastern gate, where a large, ancient stone monument stood. The town's most obvious landmark. The locals said it was cursed, that the spirit of the land resided there. It was said that anyone who ventured too close would feel the touch of the dead, as though the souls of the past reached out from the stone itself.
He did not believe in ghosts.
But something in the air was changing. The wind was different. The silence had grown heavy, as if it was filled with forgotten memories, murmurs of something older than time. The hairs on his neck stood on end.
He wasn't alone.
Before him, half-hidden in the mist, a figure emerged from the shadows.
"Are you lost, warrior?" The voice was low, but sharp—dangerously so. It sent a chill running down Elwin's spine. The figure stepped closer, revealing a tall, lithe man dressed in dark robes. His features were obscured, but the gleam of his eyes—sharp as a blade—was enough to tell Elwin that this man was no mere traveler.
"I'm looking for someone," Elwin said, his voice steady despite the unease creeping up his spine. He had faced monsters, demons, and gods in his time, but there was something in the presence of this man that made even his bravado falter. "A woman. She came this way. Have you seen her?"
The man's lips curled into a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Perhaps. But then again, the paths of the lost are difficult to follow. Sometimes, one has to make their own path." He reached out and laid a hand on the stone monument. His fingers seemed to glow with a faint, eerie light.
Elwin instinctively stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "What do you know about her? Where is she?"
The stranger's expression remained unreadable. "She is close. Very close. But the path you seek is not one that leads to safety. Are you prepared to face what you will find?" His voice was steady, as though he was speaking not just to Elwin, but to something—or someone—else entirely.
Elwin's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, his gaze hardening. He had been prepared to face whatever he had to, for Aymelle. But this man—this presence—was something different. Something older, and far more dangerous than anything he had faced before.
"I'll face whatever it takes. Now tell me where she is."
The stranger studied him for a long moment, as though weighing the sincerity in Elwin's eyes. Finally, he spoke again, his tone colder now, more deliberate. "The Crying Remains. That's where she is. But be warned, warrior. There are those who walk these lands whose tears have long since turned to blades. Not everyone who enters comes back."
The words struck Elwin like a thunderclap, a warning that he could feel in the very marrow of his bones. The Crying Remains. The place he had heard whispered about in the taverns, in the stories. A place of death. A place of sorrow.
"Why are you telling me this?" Elwin demanded, his eyes never leaving the stranger's face.
The man's lips curled into something like a smirk. "Because you are not the only one who seeks her, Elwin Sallet. There are others who would see you fail. And they know things you do not."
With that, he turned away, disappearing into the fog, leaving Elwin standing in stunned silence.
The weight of the stranger's words pressed down on him like a physical force. His mind reeled, trying to process everything that had just been said. But one thing stood clear: the Crying Remains was his destination. That was where Aymelle was. That was where he had to go.
And nothing, not even the whispers of this mysterious man, would stop him.
Section 4: The Tears of the Past (Aymelle)
Aymelle's footsteps echoed softly as she ventured deeper into the heart of the Crying Remains. The air here was thick with the weight of sorrow, each breath she took filled with a heavy, mournful energy. It was a place where memories lingered like the scent of decay, and shadows seemed to whisper of things forgotten. But Aymelle's determination burned brighter than the dark, and the more she advanced, the more resolute she became.
Her heart called out to Elwin, a constant pull that she could not ignore, no matter how far the distance between them grew. She could feel him, even now, as though their souls were still tethered by an invisible string. And yet, the further she traveled into the Remains, the more uncertain she grew. The dark magic here was ancient, its presence suffocating. It twisted the land and time itself, and it whispered to her, tempting her with the promise of answers.
But what answers could there be? What truths could she possibly learn here that would bring her closer to Elwin?
She didn't know.
Still, she pressed on, drawn forward by something that felt beyond her control. She could no longer remember why she had come here, or when she had made the decision to enter this forsaken place. All she knew was that she needed to see it through. She needed to find what lay at the center of the Crying Remains, what her heart seemed to be telling her to seek.
The landscape shifted before her eyes, the ground beneath her feet becoming more treacherous with each step. The once-solid earth was now fractured, like the broken remnants of an old memory. Faint traces of glowing light flickered in the distance, illuminating the path with an eerie, ghostly glow.
Aymelle's senses heightened as the air grew colder, and the faint sound of crying reached her ears. She froze. The sound was distant but unmistakable—the mournful wails of those who had perished, trapped in this cursed place. The tears of the dead. The souls that had never found peace.
"Why am I here?" she whispered to herself, her voice trembling. The words felt heavy on her tongue, like the burden of a thousand unanswered questions.
The ground trembled beneath her feet, and she felt a powerful force surge through her body—a sensation that caused her to gasp. The power of the Remains was alive, and it was awakening within her.
At first, it was subtle—a tingling in her fingertips, a sudden surge of energy flowing through her veins. But then it became overwhelming, a force that consumed her, filling her with a strange, foreign power that she couldn't control. Her vision blurred, and the sounds of the crying grew louder, more desperate.
Her body buckled under the weight of the energy. She fell to her knees, clutching at the earth beneath her as her breath came in ragged gasps. The tears began to flow—tears not of sorrow, but of rage. The power of the Crying Remains, the power of the dead, was coursing through her, and she could feel it bending her will.
"No... no!" she cried out, struggling to break free from the dark magic that held her in its grip. "I will not become one of them. I will not."
Her fingers clenched into fists, and the ground around her began to crack, as though responding to her struggle. The tears that poured from her eyes turned to light—bright, brilliant, and sharp as steel. Her body, trembling with the intensity of the power, was no longer her own. The Remains had chosen her. She could feel it in her bones.
But she would not yield. She could not.
In that moment, something inside her snapped. The pain—the fear—it all fell away as her heart burned with a single thought: she had to be strong. For herself. For Elwin.
The light from her tears grew brighter, sharper, more intense, until it was as though the very air around her was alive with it. The power surged through her once more, but this time, Aymelle welcomed it. She embraced the pain, embraced the power, and with a single motion, she forced it outward.
The ground shook violently as the tears exploded from her in a wave of blinding light, a shockwave that cracked the earth and sent the spirits in the distance wailing into the ether. Aymelle's scream tore through the air, raw and primal, as she released the full force of the Remains' magic.
When the light finally faded, Aymelle was kneeling, her body spent, her clothes torn, her face streaked with blood and tears. But there was a sense of peace in her. The power of the Remains was no longer consuming her; it was hers to command.
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply as the power inside her subsided. The air around her was still. The cries had quieted, the ghosts fading back into the earth.
Aymelle lifted her head, her eyes filled with a quiet, burning resolve.
She had awoken.
And now, nothing would stop her from finding Elwin.
Section 5 : The One Who Waits
As Aymelle regained her breath, the dark energy of the Crying Remains slowly began to dissipate, leaving behind a quiet emptiness. She was surrounded by a vast stillness—yet beneath it, she could feel the tremors of something ancient, something that had always been there, waiting. The ghosts of the dead, the lingering spirits that had once cried out for release, had quieted. They no longer wept in agony, but in peace. Aymelle had done it—she had silenced them. She had claimed her power, but what came next?
Her thoughts were still clouded, the remnants of her awakening swirling in her mind like fragments of broken glass. Her heart felt heavy with the weight of the discovery. This place—the Crying Remains—was more than just a land of sorrow. It was a tomb for the lost souls, yes, but it was also a living entity, ancient and vast, and it had chosen her. For what purpose, though?
Aymelle stood slowly, wiping the blood from her lip, her hands shaking slightly as the last vestiges of the energy settled within her. The power was hers now, but it still felt unfamiliar. She had not yet learned to control it fully.
Taking a deep breath, she turned her gaze toward the horizon. The ground stretched before her, barren and cracked, as though the earth itself had suffered at the hands of time. In the distance, she could just make out the faint silhouette of a figure standing on the edge of a cliff. They were still, unmoving, like a statue carved from the bones of the land.
She blinked, unsure if her eyes were deceiving her. It had to be a mirage. Or was it?
Her heart raced as she stepped forward, each movement calculated, her senses heightened. The figure on the horizon did not move, did not speak. But as Aymelle drew closer, a feeling surged within her—a mixture of dread and recognition, as though this figure were something she had been waiting for, something she had always known but never met.
When she finally reached the figure, she was no longer surprised by the sight of them. He was tall, with dark hair that seemed to absorb the light around him. His features were sharp, his eyes a deep, penetrating shade of gray that seemed to see through her, past her.
He was not human, at least not in the way she understood it.
"You've arrived," the figure said, his voice low, yet carrying an unmistakable weight.
Aymelle took a step back, but her legs felt like they were made of stone. She was rooted in place, unable to move.
"Who are you?" she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
The figure did not answer immediately. Instead, he took a single step toward her, and the air around them seemed to shift. The remnants of her tears—the light that had once surged through her—seemed to flicker, responding to his presence.
"I am Meyr," he finally said, his voice as cold as the wind that howled through the desolate land.
"Meyr?" Aymelle repeated the name, though it did not sound familiar. "What are you doing here?"
The figure did not answer at first. He simply stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with a motion as fluid as water, he extended his hand toward her. The gesture was inviting yet foreboding, like an offer to dance with the abyss.
"You have awakened, Aymelle. But your journey is not yet complete. The Crying Remains have given you their power, but they will demand something in return. You must decide what you are willing to sacrifice."
Aymelle stared at his hand, the darkness of his presence chilling her to the bone. She could feel the weight of his words—his warning. This power, this gift from the Remains, came at a cost.
"What do you mean?" Aymelle's voice was steadier now, though she could still feel the pulse of fear thrumming through her veins.
"You will understand in time," Meyr replied, his voice unwavering. "But first, you must face the trials of the Remains. There is much more to uncover. Much more to learn. And not all truths are kind."
Aymelle felt the pull of his words, like a whisper in the dark, urging her to move forward. But she could not—she would not—be swayed by this strange figure. She had her own path, her own destiny to fulfill. She had come here for a reason, and she would not allow herself to be distracted.
"I do not need your guidance," Aymelle said firmly, her eyes burning with resolve. "I know what I must do. I must find Elwin."
Meyr's gaze softened ever so slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. "Your journey is not so simple, child. Elwin is lost in ways you do not yet understand. The Crying Remains will reveal much to you, but they will also test you. They will make you question everything you thought you knew."
Aymelle stood tall, unwilling to be intimidated. "I have no time for riddles. I will find him, and I will bring him back."
Meyr's expression shifted, a faint glimmer of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. "Very well. But remember this, Aymelle: you are not alone. The Remains will guide you, and they will show you the way. But the path will not be easy. You must be ready for what lies ahead."
With that, he turned, his cloak billowing in the wind as he walked away, fading into the darkness of the Crying Remains.
Aymelle watched him go, a sense of unease settling in her chest. She didn't trust Meyr, but his words echoed in her mind. There were things she still did not understand, and the trials that awaited her were far from over.
But for now, she had one goal: to find Elwin. She would face whatever came next, no matter the cost.
Section 6: The Price of Power
The wind shifted, cold and biting against Aymelle's skin as she stood alone in the vast expanse of the Crying Remains. Meyr's words lingered in her mind like an echo, a warning she could not shake off. There was something unsettling about him, something that gnawed at the edges of her thoughts.
But Elwin. Her heart clenched at the thought of him—lost, somewhere out there, waiting for her. She couldn't afford to be distracted. Not now. Not when she was so close.
With a deep breath, Aymelle began walking again, the barren land stretching before her, endless and unforgiving. The Crying Remains seemed to pulse with a life of its own, the ground beneath her feet crackling faintly as if it were waking from a long slumber.
Every step she took felt like a choice. Every movement was a step closer to her destiny, a path she had no choice but to walk. The power that surged through her was both a blessing and a curse. The tears that had once been her weakness were now her strength. But she couldn't forget what Meyr had said: "The Crying Remains will demand something in return."
What price would she have to pay?
As Aymelle continued deeper into the heart of the Remains, the atmosphere began to change. The air grew heavier, thicker, and the distant wailing of spirits reached her ears once more. But this time, the voices were different. There was a note of anger in them, a yearning, as if the souls trapped here were no longer at peace.
Aymelle's eyes narrowed. The Crying Remains were not simply a place of sorrow. They were a battleground, a place of transformation. But for what purpose?
Suddenly, the ground beneath her feet trembled, a violent shake that sent her sprawling to the earth. She caught herself just in time, her fingers digging into the cracked soil. The earth groaned, as if it were alive, responding to an unseen force.
Aymelle stood quickly, her pulse quickening. She had to move. She had to get through this, no matter what.
The tremors subsided, but a new presence emerged—one that felt different from anything she had encountered before. It was dark, oppressive, the air around her thick with malice. And then, emerging from the shadows, came a figure—clad in tattered robes, their face obscured by a hood.
Aymelle's heart skipped a beat. She had felt this presence before. This wasn't just any spirit or creature. This was something more.
The figure stepped forward, and Aymelle instinctively reached for her tears, preparing for whatever was about to come.
"Why do you persist, child?" the figure's voice was soft, but it carried an immense weight, like a whisper that could shatter the world.
Aymelle's grip tightened. "I will not stop. I will find him."
The figure chuckled, a sound that sent chills down Aymelle's spine. "You do not understand, do you? You think you are the one in control. But here, in this place, you are nothing more than a pawn, just like the rest of them."
Aymelle's eyes burned with defiance. "I am not a pawn. I control my own fate."
The figure's laugh faded, replaced by a deep, resonating sigh. "Very well, then. But know this: the Crying Remains are not kind. They do not show mercy, not even to those with the power to awaken them."
With a swift motion, the figure raised its hand, and the ground trembled once more. Aymelle braced herself, ready to fight, but the figure did not strike immediately. Instead, a wave of darkness surged toward her, its tendrils twisting and writhing like living shadows.
She summoned her tears, her hands trembling as the power surged through her. The energy crackled, and she felt the familiar rush of strength flood her veins. She could feel the force of the shadows pressing in on her, but she was ready. She could feel the power within her, stronger than before.
Aymelle clenched her fists, and the tears around her flared to life, a blazing storm of radiant energy. The shadows recoiled, hissing in pain as they were pushed back by the force of her power.
The figure stepped back, watching her with an unreadable expression. "Impressive," it murmured. "But your strength will not save you here. There are forces at work that you cannot comprehend."
Aymelle's chest tightened, but she stood tall. "Then I will learn. I will learn what it takes to save him."
The figure didn't respond, but the air around them seemed to grow colder, darker. Aymelle could feel the weight of its presence pressing down on her, as if it were testing her resolve.
And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the figure turned and vanished into the darkness, leaving Aymelle standing alone in the vast emptiness of the Crying Remains.
Her breath was heavy, her body aching from the intensity of the encounter. But she was not afraid. She was stronger now, more determined than ever. The figure's words echoed in her mind, but she would not let them break her. She had a mission. She had to find Elwin.
And she would do whatever it took to save him.