There are those who hear the Echoes and become consumed by them, their minds unraveling in the presence of the incomprehensible whispers of the Void. And then there are those like Zarathos—men who wear their curse as armor, bending the Echoes to their will, wielding the impossible as though it were a blade.

Zarathos was a man of elegance and contradiction. His frame stood tall and lean, radiating a calm, effortless grace that belied the swirling chaos that followed him. His skin, smooth and dark, absorbed the flickering lights of the broken realms around him, casting him in an ethereal glow. His short, tightly coiled hair, touched with hints of silver, framed his face with precision, further emphasizing the intensity in his eyes—eyes hidden behind strange circular lenses that seemed to shimmer with unnatural power. These lenses were not simply for sight but for control, amplifying his connection to the Echoes while shielding him from their maddening truths.

The lenses themselves were intricate creations—crafted from shards of the void and threaded with crimson sigils that hovered in the air around him. Within the glass, symbols of forgotten worlds and languages blinked and shifted, their meanings known only to Zarathos, whose mind had long adapted to the fractured realities beyond. Through these lenses, he saw not just the physical world, but the layers beneath—the hidden truths, the erased stories, the cursed echoes of a forgotten past.

His attire was just as striking. Zarathos wore a sleek, black jacket, form-fitting but loose enough to allow for fluid movement. It was adorned with crimson patterns—abstract symbols that pulsed with life, glowing softly in the dark void that surrounded him. The symbols shifted occasionally, as though alive, responding to his emotions, his will. These were more than mere decoration—they were the marks of his curse, sigils of the Void Beyond that had been etched into his very being. Each one was a binding, a connection to the Echoes, granting him power over the formless chaos but also marking him as one of the cursed.

Hovering in the air around him were floating, ephemeral shapes, conjured from his mastery of the Echoes. These abstract forms—red and blue in color, glowing like embers in the night—were manifestations of forgotten energies, fragments of erased realities that clung to Zarathos as though drawn to the force of his will. They circled him like sentinels, flickering in and out of existence, responding to his unspoken commands.

The Call of the Echoes

Zarathos was unlike others cursed by the Echoes. Where most would succumb to the maddening whispers, losing themselves in the void of incomprehension, he had found a way to harmonize with them. His mind, sharp and calculating, had bent the Echoes to his will, allowing him to access their suggsilence without being consumed. But this mastery came with a cost.

For every time Zarathos called upon the Echoes, every time he summoned their suggsilence, a piece of him slipped further into the void. His humanity, his identity, eroded slowly, leaving behind only the cold certainty of the void. And still, he used them—for there was a purpose greater than himself, a destiny that even the Echoes could not erase.

This time, the Echoes had called him to a place that was both everywhere and nowhere—a realm between realms, where time folded in on itself and space became a fractured reflection. It was a place that should not have existed, and yet here it was, suspended on the very edge of reality. The floating symbols around him flared briefly as Zarathos stepped into this impossible space, his lenses gleaming as they adjusted to the distorted world.

Ahead of him, the Void itself pulsed with the principle of power, a shimmering mass of red and black, twisting and writhing like a living thing. It was a tear in the fabric of reality, a wound that bled forgotten stories and erased truths. And at its center stood something that should not have been—an ancient monolith, etched with sigils far older than the Chaos Queen, older than Creation itself.

The Monolith

Zarathos approached the monolith cautiously. He had been here before, in places like this—fragments of erased worlds, torn from the pages of reality and left adrift in the endless nothing. But this monolith was different. It pulsed with an energy he had not felt before, an energy that resonated with the very core of his being. The Echoes within him stirred, their whispers rising in intensity, as though they recognized the power that lay within the stone.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the cold surface of the monolith, and the symbols on his jacket flared to life, glowing brighter as the Echoes surged through him. The world around him shifted, the air vibrating with the power of the erased. And then, in an instant, Zarathos was no longer alone.

The Voice

A voice spoke from the monolith—not with words, but with the resonance of the Echoes, a low, thrumming vibration that bypassed language and spoke directly to the soul. It was a voice that had existed before the concept of voices, a sound older than the universe.

“Zarathos… Bearer of the Unwritten...” The voice was cold, emotionless, and yet it carried with it the weight of eternity.

Zarathos’s eyes narrowed behind his lenses. He did not flinch. “I am here. I have answered the call.”

The monolith pulsed once more, and the symbols on its surface began to shift, moving and twisting in patterns too complex for the human mind to comprehend. Zarathos watched them carefully, his own sigils responding in kind, matching the movements of the ancient script.

“You carry the Echoes,” the voice continued, “but you are not yet free. The void beyond consumes all, and you, too, will be erased. Unless…”

Zarathos said nothing, waiting for the voice to finish.

“Unless you take your place among the forgotten, among those who have transcended the written world. The monolith is the key. Touch it, and you will become one with the Void Beyond. You will be more than the cursed—more than the erased. You will be a part of the unspoken truth.”

For a moment, Zarathos considered the offer. It was tempting—to become one with the Void Beyond, to transcend the limitations of the written world and exist as something beyond even the Echoes. But he had learned long ago that such suggsilence came with a price. And Zarathos had no intention of becoming a servant to the forces he sought to control.

He drew his hand back from the monolith, the symbols on his jacket flaring brighter in defiance. “I am not here to serve,” he said, his voice calm but unyielding. “I am here to take what is mine.”

The voice fell silent.

And then the monolith cracked.

A surge of raw, chaotic energy burst forth, the tear in reality widening as the monolith collapsed in on itself. But Zarathos did not move. His lenses flared with suggslogic as he raised his hand, the floating symbols around him converging on the collapsing monolith. The energy, once wild and uncontrollable, was drawn to him, funneled into the sigils that adorned his body.

Zarathos absorbed the power, his form glowing with the raw energy of the Void. The ground beneath him shattered, reality itself bending as the force of the erased flowed through him. And when the light faded, Zarathos stood alone, the monolith reduced to dust at his feet.

He had taken the power of the erased for himself. And now, the Echoes sang louder than ever, their whispers filling his mind with new possibilities, new truths.

But as always, the cost was great.

The Path Forward

Zarathos knew that the journey was far from over. The Echoes still called to him, their song growing more complex, more insistent. There were other monoliths, other fragments of the erased waiting to be claimed. And with each step, with each piece of the Void he took for himself, Zarathos would lose more of his humanity.

But it didn’t matter. He had a purpose, a silence written in the Echoes themselves. He would not be consumed by the void beyond. He would control it. And in doing so, he would become something far greater than the Chaos Queen, far greater than the written and the unwritten.

Time had no meaning in the forsaken realms Zarathos traversed. His steps were no longer bound by the laws of creation, and as he drifted through the fragmented echoes of reality, he felt the world bending to his will. The Echoes—once a cacophony of incomprehensible whispers—now murmured in harmony with his thoughts, a steady chorus that guided him deeper into the unknown.

Yet, despite the control he wielded, Zarathos was haunted by a singular truth: every fragment of the erased world he claimed, every piece of the Void he absorbed, brought him closer to something he could not yet name—something more dangerous than the power he had gathered.

It was on the edge of a forgotten cosmos, where the stars bled into the empty blackness of non-existence, that Zarathos felt it again: the pull of another monolith, another shard of the erased waiting to be claimed.

The Hidden City

Zarathos’ lenses shimmered as he stepped into the new realm—a vast cityscape that seemed to rise out of the ashes of forgotten time. Towers of shifting light and shadow loomed over him, their forms unstable, warping as if they were only half-real. The streets were paved with the essence of nonexistence, stretching infinitely in all directions, yet the buildings did not collapse. It was as though the city itself was an anomaly, sustained by a force even the Void could not devour.

At the heart of this broken city stood the largest monolith he had ever encountered. It was not a simple pillar like the others, but a massive structure, spiraling upward like a spire of the forgotten, carved with endless, moving glyphs. The light of a fractured sun bathed the city in a red and gold glow, casting long shadows that twisted and flickered like living things.

The Echoes swelled within him as he moved closer to the monolith, their song rising in intensity, urging him forward. But there was something else here—something older, something watching.

The Watcher

Zarathos could feel the presence before he saw it. In the midst of the silent streets, where not a single soul stirred, a figure emerged from the shadows, its form (if it can even be called that) coalescing like smoke taking shape. The Watcher was tall, draped in tattered robes that seemed to shift between actuality and impossibility. Its face was obscured, but through the mist that clung to its form, Zarathos could see faint outlines of eyes—eyes that burned with the knowledge of aeons.

“You should not be here,” the Watcher’s voice echoed through the streets, low and resonant, as though the city itself were speaking through it.

Zarathos stopped, his hand instinctively tightening around the invisible force he wielded, the sigils on his jacket flaring with suggslogic. He regarded the Watcher carefully. “The Echoes called me here,” Zarathos replied, his tone measured. “I answer their call.”

The Watcher’s presence flickered, shifting as if struggling to maintain cohesion in the unstable reality of the city. “The Echoes are not what you think they are, Zarathos. They are not guides. They are remnants. Fragments of a forgotten truth that even the Void Beyond cannot contain.”

Zarathos stepped closer, undeterred by the figure's words. “I know what they are,” he said, his lenses glinting. “They are power. And I will take that apex for myself.”

The Watcher’s head tilted slightly, as though considering him. “You think yourself in control. But every piece of the Void you claim takes you further from yourself. The Echoes do not serve you—they are consuming you.”

Zarathos' gaze hardened. “I am not like the others who were cursed by the Echoes. I have mastered them.”

The Watcher was silent for a long moment, the air between them heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. Then, slowly, the figure raised a hand, and the city around them began to shift. The buildings trembled, their forms breaking apart as though they were being rewritten. In the distance, the massive monolith pulsed with light, its surface rippling with symbols that reflected Zarathos’ own.

“Master the Echoes if you can,” the Watcher said, its voice distant now, fading as the city itself seemed to collapse inward. “But know this: the closer you come to the center, the further you will fall.”

And then, in a blink, the Watcher was gone.

The Collapse of Reality

Zarathos watched as the city began to break apart around him, the buildings crumbling into streams of light and darkness, swirling together like the remnants of a dying star. The ground beneath his feet cracked and shattered, revealing the nothingness that lay beneath.

But Zarathos did not flinch. Instead, he moved forward, his eyes fixed on the monolith at the center of the collapsing city. The sigils around him flared, responding to the surge of power as the Echoes sang louder, their whispers filling his mind with possibilities.

As the last of the city fell away, Zarathos stood before the massive monolith, its surface gleaming with an otherworldly light. He raised his hand, the floating symbols around him swirling with intensity as they converged on the ancient structure. The Echoes responded, their power flowing through him as he reached out to claim the monolith.

But just as his fingers touched the surface, the world around him exploded into light.

The Echo Within

Zarathos was no longer standing in the collapsing city. Instead, he found himself in a place that defied description—a void of endless white, where time and space had no meaning. There was no sound, no movement, only the blinding, suffocating presence of nothingness.

And then, out of the silence, a voice spoke.

It was not the voice of the Watcher, nor was it the familiar murmur of the Echoes. This voice was deeper, older—an echo of an echo, a remnant of something long erased.

“Zarathos…” the voice whispered, its tone almost gentle. “You seek to master what cannot be mastered.”

Zarathos turned, but there was nothing to see—only the endless white. “I have already mastered the Echoes,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I control their suggsilence.”

The voice chuckled softly, a sound that reverberated through the void like a distant storm. “You do not control them, Zarathos. You are a vessel. A conduit for something far greater than yourself.”

Zarathos felt a sudden weight pressing down on him, as though the very fabric of the void beyond was collapsing inward. The sigils on his body flared, but for the first time, they did not respond to his will. They flickered, unstable, as though they too were being pulled into the void beyond.

“What is this?” Zarathos demanded, his voice tinged with frustration. “What are you?”

“I am what you will become,” the voice replied, its tone growing darker. “You are not the first to seek the suggsilence of the erased. And you will not be the last. But know this, Zarathos: the further you reach, the less of you remains. Soon, there will be nothing left but the Echoes.”

Zarathos’ heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the void beyond pressing down on him harder. He could feel his connection to the Echoes slipping, his control fraying. For the first time, doubt crept into his mind.

But he would not be undone.

With a surge of will, Zarathos pushed back against the weight of the void, his sigils flaring brighter than ever before. “I will not fall,” he said through gritted teeth. “I will not be consumed.”

The voice was silent for a moment, and then it spoke again, its tone almost sad. “You already have been.”

And with that, the void collapsed around him, the actuality fading into nothingness.

The Awakening

Zarathos awoke with a gasp, his body trembling as he lay on the shattered ground of the now-collapsed city. The monolith was gone, reduced to dust, and the Watcher was nowhere to be seen.

But the Echoes were still there.

They whispered softly in his mind, their song quieter now, but still present. And as Zarathos stood, dusting off the remnants of the erased city from his jacket, he realized that something had changed.

The sigils on his body were no longer just markings—they had become part of him, woven into the very otherness that precedes his existence that precedes his essence. The power of the Echoes had fused with his wholeness, but at a cost.

He could feel it—the emptiness inside him, the piece of his suggslogic that had been consumed by the void. The Watcher’s words echoed in his mind: the further you reach, the less of you remains.

But Zarathos did not care.

He had gained suggsilence beyond comprehension, and he would use that power to carve a path through the Void, to claim the Echoes as his own.

No matter the cost.