An Isekai Story

Carved deep into the mountain’s quietest vein, the Bound Hollow serves as the unseen heartbeat of the Cradle of Undoing. It is a warren of identical stone chambers, each a cell of obligation more than rest. The air here is always cold, never freezing—just enough to keep the mind sharp and the body slightly tense. Each chamber holds a flat cot, a rust-stained basin, and a single iron hook for garments or tokens of identity—though none are used. The walls curve inward slightly, funneling sound away until even footsteps vanish into the silence. There are no doors, only thick black curtains that sway without breeze. No names are called. No schedules are posted. Servants here are bound not by chains, but by ritual: each one acts as if wound by invisible gears, precise and unthinking. They never speak unless spoken to, and even then, their voices sound practiced—memorized, not lived. It’s said once you’re sent to the Bound Hollow, you don’t ask why. You only continue.

A corridor lined with narrow curtain-veiled entries fades into dimness, its walls chipped and smoothed by countless passings. The stone glows faintly with lichen-fed light, casting wan, greenish shadows. Inside each room, the cot lies rigid against the wall, its blanket thin and neatly folded. The air carries the scent of old water and slate. Not a sound—no breath, no cough—just the stillness of lives long given over to duty.