An Isekai Story

The Lantern Hall stretches far beneath the Cradle, deeper than even the echo of footsteps can follow. Along its length hang iron-braided lanterns, suspended from hooked ribs of the mountain itself. Each vessel holds no flame—only a dull, undulating glow that pulses in quiet rhythm, like the last breath of a dying thought. These are not lights, but keepsakes of absence: the final memory of a town that vanished without resistance, the silent regret of a hero who turned back, the promise unspoken before the world ended. The deeper one walks, the stranger time becomes. Visitors forget what brought them here. Names slip. Thoughts tangle. At the end of the hall is a pedestal, bare save for the faint shape of something that was never placed. It’s said the Unmaker walks this hall alone at times, never touching the lanterns, never stopping—just listening. This is not a monument to glory. It is a corridor of grief built by inevitability.

The Lantern Hall is narrow, long, and unyieldingly silent. The stone walls curve inward slightly, giving the feeling of walking inside a throat that no longer breathes. Rusted chains suspend the lanterns at uneven heights, their ghostly gray glows casting sluggish, overlapping shadows. No dust stirs here. The air is brittle, cold, and dry as old paper. At the far end, the faintest shape of a forgotten object lingers, like a memory that refuses to fully fade.