The sound split through the Hollow like a scream of metal giving way. Manato’s boots slammed against the fractured ground, every step kicking up a flare of ember and dust. His grip tightened around his weapon, the other hand crushing warped steel as if it were paper. The air was thick—humming with distortion, shimmering with the violet haze of concentrated Ether.

Spook Shack had been dispatched into the Lemnian Hollow to recover a missing shipment and the personnel who vanished with it. What they found instead was a rising tide of Ethereals—drawn to something pulsing deep within the rift. “Crap— the miasma’s too dense!” Manato’s voice echoed, distorted in the static air. His flames burst outward, slicing through the mist and igniting the creatures that lunged from its depths. Their shrieks were swallowed by the Hollow’s own heartbeat—low, rhythmic, alive.

Then came the surge. Dozens of silhouettes materialized through the haze, eyes glowing pale and empty. Without hesitation, Manato charged. The inferno followed. Heat rolled through the cavern, painting the black stone in gold and scarlet as Ethereals disintegrated mid-lunge. “Hurry it up!” He roared, glancing back just long enough to see the others break through the fissure’s veil—a faint glimmer of light in the dark. He stayed behind, carving a final arc of flame to seal the way shut.

When he finally emerged, the Hollow spat him out in silence. His coat was tattered and streaked with soot, ash clinging to his skin like a second layer. Blood traced faint lines across his forearms where the heat had bitten through. “We didn’t finish the mission,” He muttered, voice hoarse, almost drowned by the faint crackle of dying fire. “So we’re not getting paid.”

He gave a half-laugh, half-grimace— before shaking his coat to remove any excess dirt.