Chapter 8 - No One Remembers the First Flame
The infirmary was quiet. Too quiet for a boy whose body had only hours ago been flung through flame.
Kaien sat on the edge of his cot, shirt off, chest wrapped in gauze that smelled faintly of burnt cloth and medicine. A steady line of red traced his ribcage—Vash's parting gift. But it wasn't the pain that kept him awake.
It was the whisper.
Not words now. Not commands. Just… presence. Like a language pressing against the inside of his bones, waiting to be spoken.
"Protocol Zero: Phase One… initializing."
What the hell does that even mean?
He stared at his hand, palm open. No glow. No flicker. Just callused skin and a shaking thumb.
A knock came at the door.
He looked up—ready to lie, deflect, survive.
But it was Professor Velle.
"May I?" the older man asked, not waiting for permission before entering.
He moved with the confidence of someone who'd once danced with war and now only played chess. His robes were darker than usual, lined with copper trim, and they carried the scent of ozone and chalk. The badge on his chest bore six interlocking rings — a Master Protocolist.
He sat, not beside Kaien, but across — setting a small box on the table between them.
"You were listening today," Velle said, voice low, unreadable.
Kaien nodded slowly. "To your lecture?"
Velle chuckled once. "To the world."
He opened the box.
Inside lay a thin disc of obsidian inscribed with a spiral glyph — one Kaien didn't recognize. Velle's fingers hovered over it but didn't touch.
"Do you know what this is?"
Kaien shook his head.
"A Recorder Glyph. It absorbs ambient Protocol signatures during combat and transcribes them into observable strands."
Velle touched it. The disc shimmered. A spectral replay of Kaien and Vash's duel played out in flickering golden light, condensed, hovering mid-air.
The crowd's roars were silent. But the data—the way Kaien moved—played out like a sequence of notes.
"See this?" Velle pointed. "Right there—mid-duel. Your trajectory shifts by 0.7 degrees off instinctual dodging. You're not mimicking. You're adjusting dynamically. Translating."
Kaien frowned. "That's not… impressive, is it?"
Velle stared hard at him.
"It's not impressive. It's impossible."
A beat.
Velle leaned closer. "Kaien. When were you first marked as Hollowborn?"
Kaien blinked. The question felt off. Too cold. Too pointed.
"After the Rite. Why?"
"No." Velle's voice dropped. "Not when they called you Hollowborn. When did you become it?"
The room went silent.
Kaien looked down at his hands. Thought of the Rite of Hollow Flame. Of his sister. Of the black monolith that had whispered, Cut deeper.
"I… I don't know," he whispered.
Velle stood.
"Then find out. Because if I'm right…" He paused. "Protocol Zero isn't yours. It's older than all of us. And it's waking up."
That night, Kaien didn't sleep.
Instead, he wandered.
Not through campus, but through memory.
He found himself at the Monument of Chosen Flames — a high terrace overlooking the city, lined with statues of the world's greatest Protocol bearers. Fire, Ice, Aether, Stone. Each held a relic. Each had a name.
Except for the statue at the end.
Its face was broken. Its hands were empty.
Kaien stood before it, chilled.
"Do you know what they called the first Protocol ever born?"
A voice behind him.
Kaien turned sharply—no one.
The voice continued.
"They called it Origin. But it was forgotten. Buried. Because the world fears the one thing it cannot classify…"
"A flame that chooses its own fuel."
Kaien's heart thundered. The air grew cold. Then—
From behind the shattered statue, a figure emerged.
Eyes like starlight drowned in shadow.
A masked entity — not a student, not a teacher, not human.
It stepped forward.
"Hello, Unwritten," it said.
And vanished.
Kaien, standing before the statue with no name, wind tearing at his sleeves. The stars above him flicker—not from cloud or storm.
From something older. Watching.