Sound didn't disappear completely — but it became faint, warped, like everything was underwater.
He could hear Salvador speaking, but each word arrived mangled, bent out of shape.
A sense of disorientation crept in.
He knew he was breathing — but he couldn't hear it.
He knew his heart was still beating — but he couldn't feel the rhythm.
A light dizziness passed through his head. Not painful — just unbalanced.
Sound wasn't gone — just distorted. As if everyone was talking from inside a massive seashell.
He heard Salvador's voice, but each word came twisted, like it had to break before reaching his ear.
The feeling of disconnection deepened.
He knew he was breathing — yet heard no breath.
Knew his heart kept pulsing — but didn't know if it was fear… or just a delay before stopping.
A brief wave of dizziness washed over his crown. Not spinning. Not sharp.
Just… drifting.
As if he were sitting in the room — while his mind hovered three steps away.
Salvador smiled, voice muffled:
Salvador:
"Need a break? You look like you're about to fall apart."
Dathweet reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen — sleek black, Montblanc — the same one he had kept after that "schoolyard game."
The nib still held a faint reddish stain — almost like dried blood — nearly blended into the cold silver shine.
He twirled it between two fingers — slow, deliberate.
Dathweet (calm):
"You know… I almost killed someone with this."
Salvador tilted his head, raised an eyebrow slightly:
Salvador:
"Really? Which incident?
Or are you just trying to make me look at the pen instead of the cards behind you?"
Despite his words, Salvador's eyes flicked downward — just 0.3 seconds.
But enough. Dathweet saw it.
He didn't respond. Just smiled. Then held out a hand:
Dathweet:
"Give me a piece of paper."
Salvador waved a hand lazily. From thin air, a sheet of white paper appeared — floating gently before landing in front of Dathweet.
He picked it up — and wrote.
"Echo Bet = Child's Play."
The handwriting was rough. Bold and forceful at first — but each stroke grew thinner, as if the strength behind it was fading.
Finally, he slashed a line through the words — hard and jagged, like venting anger on a thought he wasn't even sure he believed.
Salvador glanced at the paper.
First strokes: deep, confident.
Later ones: slight tremor, retreating hand.
He gave a faint smile — not mocking, but as if reading something… bittersweet and promising.
Dathweet slowly turned his wrist.
To his right: a card.
To his left: the black Montblanc pen — gleaming under the strange lighting of the high chamber.
He gave Salvador one short look — then…
Clack.
The pen slipped from his hand, rolled cleanly under the table.
No one said a word.
No cough.
Just a drop. A "coincidence"… a little too well-timed.
Dathweet bent down. His fingers touched the pen — but as he rose… it had changed.
Identical in color, style, silver nib.
Except one thing — a tiny scratch, an X, fine as a hairline, right beneath the clip.
Salvador saw it.
No expression.
Just a slight raise of one eyebrow — like noticing a speck of dust too small to wipe off.
But he registered it.
Salvador:
"An X mark? Switched pens? Looks exactly the same.
What are you doing, Dathweet?"
Dathweet didn't answer.
He placed the card down, nudged it toward the center of the table.
His voice rang out — smooth and cold like honed steel:
Dathweet:
"One."
A single word.
A risky number.
Salvador lifted his eyebrows.
Salvador:
"One?"
Short. Weak. Uncharacteristic.
From the start, Dathweet had gone with safe values — 2 or 3. Nothing too risky, nothing too soft.
"1" was too blunt, too easy to suspect as bluff.
Unless… that's exactly what he wanted.
Salvador stared.
Dathweet's left hand began clicking the pen.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Four times. Evenly spaced — like the ticking of a clock.
Not fast. Not slow. Precise.
Still clicking.
Eyes locked on the pen — glued to the scratched X, as if it held some encrypted code.
(Four clicks. Random? Or a signal? Does '4' mean something?)
Salvador tilted his head, gaze locked onto Dathweet's eyes.
But those eyes — cold as a still lake.
No challenge. No fear.
Just a calm unreadability.
Salvador (thinking):
(You're letting me see you thinking. A trap? Or is it really a one?
If I think it's bait… then maybe I'm the one being baited.
But what if I'm correctly reading a false read?)
Salvador inhaled.
A thread-thin smile touched his lips:
Salvador:
"My guess is… you're telling the truth."
A ting rang out.
Soft as breath, yet sharp through this surreal chamber.
Salvador's Echo dropped to 8.
Dathweet smiled.
Not a "gotcha" grin.
But the smile of someone… who'd finally seen the trap spring.
He raised the pen to eye level.
Then said:
Dathweet:
"This pen… was just one of many things I prepped in advance."
Salvador:
"The X mark?"
Dathweet:
"Not a distraction.
Not a mark of failure."
He slid a finger gently across the X.
The faint ink shimmered… then faded completely.
Salvador froze. His eye twitched.
Salvador:
"Invisible ink…?"
Dathweet (even, slow):
"That X… is my symbol for absolute control.
My own code.
If I see it during this game — it means I'm in control.
It means… the opponent is playing on my tempo."
Silence.
Several seconds.
Salvador exhaled — slow and deep.
Then rested his chin on his hand.
His expression shifted.
No more condescension.
No more smirking games.
Just… a real evaluation.
Salvador:
"Well done.
In that case…
I suppose I should start taking this seriously."
Before the next round began, Salvador sat in silence for a moment, then gently placed his hand on the table.
His voice was soft, but carried a mocking undertone:
Salvador:
"Three senses in one round. Perhaps I should give you… three minutes to rest."
Dathweet leaned back in his chair, eyes closed.
He could no longer hear echoes, feel the breeze brushing through his sleeves, nor smell the faint aroma of tea since the match began.
It was as if he had been peeled away from reality — a physical body still moving, but a soul hovering above, never touching the ground.
He could still hear Salvador speaking, but the voice echoed from the bottom of a deep cave — warped, twisted.
Salvador:
"You're recalling a bit… of your former self, aren't you?"
Dathweet (opening his eyes, voice hoarse):
"What do you mean?"
Salvador raised an eyebrow, poured tea for both of them — not out of politeness this time.
But because he was intrigued.
Salvador:
"If you beat me… and move on to the next location, maybe you'll understand.
It's like… your memories from age 17–18 are being blurred out."
Dathweet froze.
It was true.
He could clearly remember being 15, 16 — chaotic, disoriented years.
He also remembered everything from age 20 onward — when he met Hakan, and the spiral began.
But 17… 18…
A thick fog covered it.
Fragments of memory seemed to have once existed, only to be painted over in white by someone.
He couldn't recall them.
All he knew was… trying to dig into those years brought pain. And sorrow.
Dathweet (whispering):
"…That's what I've forgotten?"
Salvador:
"Think of Hollow Echo as a trail of breadcrumbs. You thought this was just a place to 'pass through' and wake up?"
He sneered.
"No. It's a place to find. And confront."
Dathweet:
"So the goal isn't survival… it's recollection?"
Salvador (nodding):
"Exactly. And to recall, you must beat me.
And to beat me…"
He leaned forward, his eyes cutting through the emotional mask on Dathweet's face.
Salvador:
"…you must become the best version of yourself."
Dathweet:
"I'll admit… I had a knack for gambling and reading people before I turned 20.
But I never thought… that even at 17–18, I was already playing at this level."
Salvador nodded slightly, then gave a cryptic smile.
Salvador:
"Because it was around that time… you started changing, without even realizing it."
This time, Salvador didn't rush.
He drew a card, held it in his hand, spinning it lightly between his fingers like savoring tea.
The air in the room seemed to slow down – his every movement felt random, yet deliberate.
Then gently – he tapped the back of his left ear with his index finger.
A small gesture.
But enough to draw Dathweet's gaze toward it.
"Three."
Salvador called the number almost immediately after the ear tap, forcing Dathweet's brain to process two signals at once.
Simultaneously, Salvador glanced down at the table — exactly 0.5 seconds.
His lower lip trembled slightly.
Thumb flicked against middle finger — in a steady rhythm:
Three. One. Three.
Dathweet froze.
(Morse code…? A bluff? Or did he want me to think it's a bluff?)
He exhaled three times in a row.
One shoulder twitched.
His pupils dilated.
His brain was overloaded.
Not because Salvador was too skilled — but because Dathweet had lost nearly half his echo.
The foggy sensation, lack of oxygen, and warped perception were pushing him into a state where he couldn't trust his own logic anymore.
Dathweet:
(Am I being manipulated? Or is this an actual counterattack?)
Salvador sat still, but every action whispered into his opponent's mind:
"Guess. But don't trust your instincts."
Dathweet shut his eyes for one second.
No sounds now — just the erratic beat of his heart pounding in his ears.
He opened them — staring straight at Salvador.
Still the same calm face, the half-smile, but…
A crack appeared.
Left side of Salvador's neck — pulse steady.
But on the right temple — a vein surfaced, twitching twice rapidly.
Not large — but unmistakable.
That wasn't normal.
Temporal veins only twitch when:
A person is straining their face muscles to suppress emotion.
Or trying hard to hide premature excitement at winning.
Dathweet chuckled — hoarse, tired, but deep:
"Your neck's fine… but that temple vein isn't."
Salvador froze.
For the first time in the match, he… touched his temple.
An unconscious reaction — to check if that detail had really been exposed.
His breath stalled.
Lip twitched once.
Dathweet still smiled, even as the vessels in his eyes trembled from oxygen deprivation.
Dathweet:
"You lied."
Ting.
Salvador's echo dropped from 8 to 7.
Dathweet gasped — but didn't break eye contact.
Salvador sat still. This time, no nod, no praise.
Just… stared at him for a long time.
As if, for the first time, doubting his control over the game.
Dathweet sat motionless — right hand lightly resting on the wooden table.
Behind him, six cards neatly laid out.
Three his. Three Salvador's.
The ceiling light flickered slightly, casting his shadow over the table like a distorted mask.
A slow breath.
Not deep, not short. Just… on rhythm.
He reached out and took a card.
The motion was swift, decisive.
"Two."
He called the number the moment he placed the card down.
The air didn't have time to catch up.
His right hand touched the table — with just enough force for skin-on-wood sound.
Not loud enough to startle. Not faint enough to ignore.
Index finger tapped twice on the card's edge — precisely twice.
No more, no less.
Eyes blinked three times in equal intervals.
No twitching lips. No squinting. No smile.
Everything… was perfect.
Salvador stared at him for 12 full seconds — longer than any previous turn.
He didn't speak. Just observed.
For a long time.
Salvador:
(What is he doing…? He knows I read body language… yet every move is precisely calculated. Like he's forcing me to believe he's telling the truth.)
He tilted his head, scanning the eyes, hands, shoulders, breathing.
No errant rhythm.
No facial muscle tension.
No voice quivers.
No eye flicks.
Not a single crack.
Salvador:
(He's telling the truth. No one could fake this.
Not someone this exhausted…
This has to be unconscious — so it's real.)
He inhaled softly — about to call his answer.
But—
Dathweet, subtly — smiled.
A tiny smirk, lasting less than a second.
Dathweet:
"Hurry up. So you can prepare… to die alone."
Salvador froze.
His pupils widened.
Hand trembled for a split second.
Lips paled. One eyebrow pulled slightly inward.
He broke — mentally.
Salvador:
(What was that…? A threat? Did he know I'm about to guess wrong? Or just taunting?
No — impossible.
If it were the truth, why would he mock me now?)
Salvador began to doubt… even his own analysis.
Three seconds passed.
Salvador:
"You're lying."
He growled — like tossing the answer just to escape the mental trap.
A click — echo board preparing to update.
But before it could…
Dathweet collapsed backward, chair toppling to the floor.
His head hit the glass panel to the left — not hard, but unbraced.
Eyes wide open — not from pain, but neural shock.
He tried to lift his hand — but felt no arm.
The crash — unheard.
Sound… vanished entirely. No echo, no bounce.
The room around him began to swirl — like viewing through boiling water.
He breathed — but felt no air.
Eyelids heavy as stone. Chest compressed.
It felt like falling — but with no sensation of falling.
The world reduced to blurry outlines.
Disconnected from reality.
An abstract terror surged forth:
As if a part of the brain had been unplugged.
As if he no longer resided in his own body.
As if he were lost… within his own memories.
Salvador's figure remained — but warped.
He was speaking — lips moving — but Dathweet couldn't hear.
His body grew cold — not from actual cold.
But because the nervous system had stopped sending signals.
Echo: 2.
Dathweet had just touched the threshold between the living and the dead.
Salvador stepped forward, leather shoes tapping the glass floor — each echo distant, surreal.
He crouched down, looking at the collapsed Dathweet.
Salvador
His voice sharp like metal slicing through glass — but to Dathweet, it was only a warped murmur, muffled like an underwater echo:
"That… is the price of overconfidence."
But he couldn't hear it.
Not a word.
Sound evaporated from the world.
As if the space around him had been submerged in a thick ocean, suffocating every sense.
No echo. No breathing. No motion.
Only… absolute void.
He opened his mouth — but couldn't even hear himself.
Like a man adrift, helpless at the bottom of a sea — no bottom, no direction.
Waves of dizziness, disorientation, and panic crashed over him.
Then… a spark.
A memory.
Flashed.
Hospital.
White walls. Cold lights.
Air thick with antiseptic.
Everything was blurry — but he saw himself, younger.
Standing there.
Tense shoulders. Eyes unreadable.
But the voice echoed in his mind like a blade across flesh:
"Kill it. It lives… only to burden me."
That moment… struck him like a collision.
Dathweet's eyes shot open. Cold sweat dripped down his temples.
His breath still uneven, but the senses… sharper.
Not because he could hear again.
But because his body had begun adapting — to the void.
Like a blind man learning to "see" with touch.
Like the brain rewiring itself — when three senses are lost, the others are pushed to their limits.
He trembled as he stood.
Legs failed. Knees buckled — body tilted like collapsing again.
Salvador looked surprised. He stepped forward, grabbed Dathweet — not out of pity, but because… he still wanted the match to continue.
Dathweet was pushed back into his chair.
His hands rested on the table, fingernails lightly scraping the wood.
His lips formed a sentence — unclear, but still readable by lip movement
Dathweet:
"Keep going…"
— end of chapter —