---
The Obituarists arrived quietly.
Not with thunder.
Not with swords.
But with pens—tipped in obsidian ink—and scrolls wrapped around their arms like skin.
Wherever they walked, names faded.
A guard captain stared at her own badge in horror as the letters blurred.
A mother clutched a child whose name she could no longer recall.
And in the plaza, a statue cracked—because the hero it honored was no longer remembered.
---
> [System Event: Obituarists Deployed]
Class: Temporal Assassins
Target: Civic Memory Threads
Function: Remove people from collective identity
Effect: If no one speaks your name within one hour, you cease to exist
---
Takumi stood atop the highest bell tower, coat whipping in the black wind.
From here, he could see them—robed in bone-white cloth, gliding silently through the storm. Some knelt before homes and began to cross names off doors. Others entered taverns and cut lines out of the stories being told.
Lisette joined him moments later, sweat beading down her brow.
She was pale.
Shaky.
And glowing faintly with a blue echo-light along her collarbones—residue from "Takumi the Lost."
"You see them too, don't you?" she whispered. "Even the ones outside time."
Takumi nodded.
His voice was calm, but tight.
> "They're trying to unwrite the population.
Not by death… but by forgetting."
---
> New Objective: Establish a City-Wide Memory Anchor
Method: Create a "Passage Structure"
– A written artifact so massive and meaningful it defines location-wide truth
– Resists Spiral interference
Requirement: A paragraph authored by at least 1,000 citizens
---
Takumi turned to Lisette.
"Help me gather them."
"Where?"
He pointed to the Hall of Bells—the old cathedral at the city center.
> "We're going to write something that can't be erased."
---
By sundown, hundreds had gathered in the Hall.
Not warriors.
Not mages.
Just people.
Holding pages. Scraps. Memory shards. Crumpled letters. Songs. Names of lost pets. Bits of broken jewelry from those who were already vanishing.
Takumi stood at the altar.
And raised his voice—not magically amplified, not theatrically booming.
Just real.
> "They are trying to silence us.
But memory… is louder than any scream."
He held up his own page.
> "Write a sentence. A story. A moment.
Anything that proves you were here."
And they did.
---
Children wrote in crayon:
> "My brother gave me half his bread even though he was hungrier."
"I saw fireworks from the wall once and thought they were dragons."
Old women scrawled with shaking hands:
> "My husband tripped on the temple stairs and still proposed while bleeding."
"My son's first word was 'cloud.' We laughed for days."
A baker scribbled:
> "I burned the first cake. She ate it anyway."
---
> [Passage Fragmentation: 617/1000 Complete]
Memory Lattice forming...
Conceptual Barrier Resistance: 34% → 61%
---
Outside, the Obituarists began to falter.
One froze mid-stroke, trying to cross out a name—but the ink dripped upward instead.
Another turned a corner and found the street glowing with shared recollections.
Their power—reliant on silence—was weakening.
Because the city was singing in writing.
---
Takumi wrote the final piece.
In the center of the cathedral wall.
His hand didn't shake.
His words were not flowery.
But they were his.
---
"I came here with nothing. I found people. I broke things. I fixed what I could.
I cleaned, and it mattered.
I stayed.
And I chose."
---
> [Passage Structure Complete]
City Memory Anchor: "The Hall of Lived Words"
Effect: Halrion cannot be rewritten while even a single person reads from this wall.
Obituarist Power Nullified: 83%
---
The storm outside began to fade.
The last Obituarists retreated, ink curling behind them like smoke.
Takumi collapsed to one knee.
Exhausted.
Not from magic.
From remembering too much.
---
Lisette knelt beside him.
Held him.
Said nothing.
She didn't have to.
Because when they looked up, the wall glowed.
And from far above—
for the first time in months—
the sky didn't rain.
It snowed.
Clean, white flakes.
Paper turning blank not from loss,
but to be filled again.
---
🔹 End of Chapter 27