The figure that rose from the chasm did not walk.
It glided.
Bones crackled beneath a silk robe that never touched the ground. The air around it warped—light bent backward, and sound seemed to dampen like a muffled scream underwater.
Half of its face reflected Asari and Aicha with perfect clarity. The other half was bare bone, twisted into a smile.
It wore a jagged crown, forged of obsidian and silence.
"Who are you?" Asari asked, not lowering his sword.
The being answered, its voice carrying neither threat nor warmth—just truth.
"I am the reflection of every king who abandoned his people. The Monarch of Regret. The Forgotten King."
The city trembled as if the very stones mourned his return.
Asari's grip tightened. Aicha stepped beside him, raising her guard, her chair beginning to glow with defensive Eather as the enchantments activated one by one.
Aicha whispered, "This thing… it's not just an entity. It's a memory that gained form."
The Forgotten King extended a hand. The mirror-half of his face pulsed.
"You, Asari of the Blade. Do you wish to inherit what was left behind?"
"What is that?"
"A city… a throne… and a curse."
The sky over Noctelleth darkened further. Eather itself flickered like unstable lightning, and in the skies above, fragments of twisted constellations bled violet light.
Asari didn't answer.
Instead, he activated a stance—Blade Form: Third Vein.
His feet dug in. His sword shimmered. This was a defensive stance he had barely used. The Third Vein was about perception—reading through deceit, illusions, and soul lies.
He stared at the King.
And the truth poured in.
In a flash of violent memory, Asari saw the city as it once was—vibrant, golden, full of laughter and life. Then war. Betrayal. The king struck down by his own apostles. He didn't die. He was erased. Transformed by the curse of his people's despair.
This entity wasn't born. It was mourned into existence.
Aicha's eyes widened. "Asari, I think I get it. This city was sealed not by force… but by the pain of a forgotten nation."
The Forgotten King tilted his head.
"If you leave now, you will carry nothing. But if you stay, you will gain what others lost."
"What do you want from me?" Asari asked.
"To choose. As all kings must."
A tremor rippled under their feet. From every street corner, statues began to move—armored figures with blank shields and spears made of crystallized regrets. Guardians of the city's shame.
They didn't speak.
They only charged.
Asari sprang into action.
"Ghost Walking!"
He vanished mid-step, reappearing in the air, spinning as he brought down his sword.
"Devil Cry: Step Three – Funeral Waltz!"
His blade sang as it split one guardian in half, then carved through three more. Shadowed notes rang out from the impact, vibrating through the streets.
Aicha followed, raising her hands.
"Heaven's Refrain: Dome of Thousand Threads!"
Threads of golden Eather stretched outward, shielding Asari from ambushes and binding the guardians with blinding light.
But they kept coming.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
The Forgotten King watched, unmoving.
Asari knew this wasn't a test of strength.
It was a test of resolve.
With every guardian he cut down, the city responded—whispers turned to screams, shadows deeper, and every soul memory bled into the air.
Then it happened.
A blade pierced Asari's side.
He turned. It wasn't a guardian.
It was a child.
A pale little boy with tearless eyes. His hands held a broken dagger. His body trembled. "Don't save us," the boy whispered. "Let us be forgotten."
Asari looked at him. Not with rage.
But with sorrow.
He dropped his stance.
Aicha gasped. "Asari, what are you—!?"
"I understand now."
He turned to the Forgotten King.
"You're not offering power. You're offering a burden."
The King nodded slowly.
Asari let his sword vanish.
And then, he bowed.
To the city. To its lost memories. To its pain.
"I can't carry all of you," he said. "But I can remember. And I will carve the memory of this city into my blade."
The chasm pulsed.
The guardians stopped moving.
The Forgotten King raised his skeletal hand—and from his mirror face, light shone. Not blinding. Not divine.
Reflective.
Asari saw himself in that mirror. Tired. Scarred. Standing tall.
The King spoke one final time.
"Then I grant you the first of seven gifts."
From the light, a shard of obsidian drifted into Asari's hand. When he touched it, it fused into his palm.
Aicha stared. "What… is that?"
"A key," Asari said. "To the next city."
As Noctelleth began to fade behind them, Aicha whispered, "We're going deeper into this, aren't we?"
Asari gave a soft nod.
And behind them, Noctelleth vanished like a dream forgotten at dawn.
---
"The weight of the forgotten is heavier than any blade."
— End Chapter 51 Quote