The rain hadn't changed.
Still cold. Still damp. Still falling every day.
But the world had changed.
Three years had passed since the boy performed his first miracle for the forgotten.
Now, the southern slums were no longer called slums.
People had started calling the place The Hollow of Grace.
The homes were still patched with old wood and torn cloth, but they were clean. The people were still poor, but no one went hungry. Children still ran barefoot, but there were no open wounds, no fevered cries, no coughs in the dark.
There were no fights anymore. No curses. Only whispers of thanks.
And worship.
Every morning, before dawn, the Hollow would awaken not with noise—but with reverence.
Men, women, and children knelt in the mud with faces bowed low—not toward the heavens, not toward any altar, but toward the hill where a wooden hut stood.
They did not pray for Froy. They prayed to him.
Not out of fear. Not out of tradition. But out of something deeper. Something that had taken root where desperation once lived.
There were no scriptures. No priests. Only one phrase, passed from mouth to mouth, chanted in breathless awe:
"He who sees us. He who saves us. He who is greater than gods. We belong to Him."
It was no longer belief. It was submission. An offering of identity. A surrender of self.
Because for the forgotten, no deity had ever answered their cries.
But He had.
The boy was named Froy.
He was ten now.
Taller, a little stronger, but still far too quiet for his age. Still calm—unsettlingly so.
He no longer worked at Lys' tavern. He had saved enough in the first two years. And by the third, he vanished from noble eyes and merchant memory.
Some said he died. Others claimed Lys spirited him away.
No one truly knew.
Except the people in the Hollow.
There, Froy was everything.
Not a god. Not a king.
But something more.
Something divine, yet dangerous. Something beautiful... and absolute.
The eighteen beggars he once fed and healed had become something else. They no longer coughed blood or limped through alleys. They were strong. Clean. Focused.
They no longer begged. They recruited.
Some became craftsmen. Others merchants. A few disappeared into cities beyond the Hollow, speaking only to those whose pain was ripe for conversion.
All of them faithful.
No matter what they did, a portion of their silver always returned to the Hollow—to him.
And everything they gave... He gave again.
No one went without.
Not anymore.
Froy lived in a small wooden hut atop the highest slope in the Hollow. No guards. No ornaments. Just a lamp, old books, and curtains always drawn at night.
Every morning, offerings were left at his door. Bread. Fruit. Trinkets. Small carvings. Flowers grown in pots filled with city soil.
He never touched them. The eighteen collected them. Sorted them. Gave them to the newly arrived.
And he watched.
"If they grow strong like you once were, then that's my miracle," Froy once told Number Eleven with a faint smile.
But sometimes, when no one was watching... he whispered to himself.
Words no one taught him. Names that burned the tongue. Truths that twisted like vines in the mind.
He didn't fear the whispers anymore. He listened.
And learned.
Far from the Hollow, in the golden halls of the capital, whispers turned to concern.
"Have you heard? Some cult worships a boy in the southern ruins."
"Ridiculous. No child can be a savior."
"Still... they say people don't get sick near him. And no one's ever starved."
Some laughed. Some feared.
But no one understood.
In the Hollow, no one questioned.
Because whether he was a god, a prophet, or something else...
He saw them.
And that alone was enough.
That night, the rain poured harder than usual. Thunder crawled across the sky like a warning.
Froy stood at his window, watching raindrops carve rivers down the glass.
His reflection smiled back.
But it wasn't his.
A whisper stirred behind him.
"Well done. You'll understand soon... why I chose you."
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
His smile—quiet, subtle—carried a weight it hadn't before.
Not the smile of a child.
But of someone who had learned the rules of the world... and decided they weren't worth following.
That same night, Number Four stood beneath the dripping edge of the roof.
He didn't shiver in the rain.
He waited.
When Froy stepped out, the boy's presence felt heavier than the storm.
"Prophet," Number Four said softly. "What should we do with those who don't believe?"
Froy looked up at the sky. Thunder rolled above.
He considered the question for a long time.
Then answered.
"Break their doubt. Bind their hearts. Shape belief from fear... until they no longer remember they ever resisted."
He didn't shout.
He didn't threaten.
But the way he said it... like it was a law already written into the world— made the disciple nod with reverence.
The lightning cracked the sky.
And the rain continued to fall.
But something had shifted.
Not in the heavens. Not in the Hollow.
But in the eyes of the boy on the hill.
His gaze was no longer one of pity.
It was possession.
The kind of gaze that claimed—not saved.
And for those below, bowed and wet with faith...
They would never know when mercy had ended.
And ownership began.
Far from the Hollow, beyond the crooked alleys and half-sunken markets, a single candle flickered in a room too quiet for midnight.
Rain tapped against the glass of an arched window—soft, patient, deliberate. Like fingers drumming secrets across the bones of the city.
Madame Lys did not sleep.
She sat behind a carved blackwood desk, one leg crossed over the other, swirling a glass of dark red wine in slow circles.
The reports lay before her—dozens of them. Scribed by thieves, travelers, petty priests, and silver-tongued cowards alike.
She'd read every one.
Her lips curled.
"Froy," she murmured.
The name had returned after three years of silence—not as gossip, but as design. In patterns.
Unified food routes.Zero recorded violence in the southern slums.Faith rituals without scripture.Loyalists without indoctrination.
It wasn't luck.It was architecture.
Power, grown in shadows.
She took a slow sip of wine.
"The boy's no longer hiding," she said softly. "He's building."
And no one in the capital understood that yet.
"But I do."
Lys rose from her seat and walked to the tall window, her silhouette long and regal in the flickering firelight.
Her violet robe shimmered faintly with layered enchantments—subtle but potent. It didn't just ward off curses. It warned predators.
To many, she looked like nobility.But she was far more dangerous than a noble.
Madame Lys was a Seventh-Ring Mage.A High Alchemist, certified by two grand guilds.And though she had been offered titles, crowns, and councils—she had refused them all.
Because in the shadows, she held real power.
She built her empire with velvet and venom.
Her tavern—her brothel—was sanctuary to sinners and saints alike. Kings whispered secrets under her roof. Assassins crossed swords just to claim her favor. And nobles sent gifts they couldn't afford, hoping only to be remembered.
She ruled the underworld with a smile and a scalpel.
And she did it all before the age of thirty.
Lys placed one pale hand on the cold glass, watching droplets stream downward like dying stars.
She was beautiful—unreasonably so. Long black hair spilled over her shoulder like silk ink. Her skin was fair with a natural flush of pink, like porcelain brought to life. Eyes black as night itself, sharp and unblinking.
A face sculpted for temptation.A mind sharpened for war.
She was elegance. And precision. And control.
But tonight… even she was still.
Because she could feel the Hollow. Not see it. Not hear it.
But feel it. Like a second heartbeat.
She remembered when the boy came to her—silent, unnerving, with eyes that moved slower than his thoughts. Too observant. Too polite. Too still.
He left without a word.And she hadn't stopped him.
"I thought I understood people," she whispered.
"But Froy… he was never a person."
"He was a thread. And now... he's a tether."
Her voice dropped into silence.
Pulling faith away from gods and kings—and binding it to himself.
The candle behind her flickered once. The magical wards in the room hummed in low warning.
On her desk lay a sealed envelope.
She turned and opened it slowly.
No crest. No signature. Just a symbol: A broken line wrapped around a perfect circle—drawn in silver ink.
Inside, only a single sentence:
"The Hollow does not forget. Nor forgive."
Lys stared at it.
Then smiled.
"Good," she said, and fed the letter to flame with a snap of her fingers.
She turned to the corner of the room—where the shadows were just thick enough to speak.
"Send someone."
A pause.
"A girl. Smart. Curious. Disposable."
"Let her walk the Hollow's edge. Let her see what he's building."
A voice answered from the dark."And if he sees through her?"
Lys sipped her wine again, slowly.
"He will."
She gave a slight smirk.
"But that's the point."