Chapter Text
He was always curious about what happened when you died. Is there an afterlife? A warm nothingness? Or does it all just…end? Heaven or hell? Purgatory? He once imagined that perhaps belief influenced what happened after death. Maybe your soul was sent to some 5th dimensional space beyond time, where mortality is relative and belief influences reality.
What he was absolutely confident in, was that he was definitely going to hell.
He didn’t even believe in ‘h, e, double hockey-sticks’ hell (from the Bible), however he figured that somewhere in the infinity of existence there had to be some sort of hell-adjacent place where sinners went after death.
And a sinner he was.
He had gotten so used to swimming in an ocean of his own regrets that the sea eventually became home. That damp feeling of friction chafing against your skin, like wet, tight skinny-jeans rubbing against your skin until it burns raw. Self-loathing thicker than blood.
In life, he was nothing special. Ordinary life. Ordinary family. Friends. All due to sheer fucking luck. Blind, dumb, luck.
He had his struggles, sure. But he was blessed to have so many people he could rely on, so many supportive links and good people in his life. Because of them, he was able to move on with his life.
And yet he wasted it for years stewing in misery and self-pity, stuck in a swamp of his own making.
Oh, how he wished to turn back time. But life is not a regression manhwa. It’s gone, he’s dead, game over. Into nothingness. Whatever regrets he had no longer mattered, it’s not his problem anymore.
Ironically, the one thing he didn’t regret was how he died.
He had heard a story about how his grandfather risked his life to save a drowning child in a fast-running river a long time ago, years before he was born. He saved a young boy and got him to safety. Perhaps he admired the self-sacrifice play a little too much.
So much so that when he saw a dog drowning in the cold river near his home, for once in his life he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t care that it was winter, and that he hated the cold more than anything, barely being able to handle cold showers. Hypothermia would take him sooner or later. He didn’t care that as soon as he got the dog, he was doomed. The poor thing would be struggling and thrashing, and that would push him under. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that it was just a dog. He never had a dog. Even had a phobia of them when he was young. He never had that attachment.
So it didn’t make sense that he immediately took the plunge. Fully clothed, not even caring about his phone. It didn’t matter anymore.
Because he was already dead.
In all the ways that mattered, at least.
After all, drowning in the cold was better than rotting away in the festering, damp, lukewarm heat of stale bedsheets, exhaustion and apathy. The lethargic tiredness when you know you’re falling behind. Of having a dream so bright, but without the discipline or the motivation to see it through. The lazy warmth of bedrotting and forced dopamine spikes, of hurting so bad you want to cry, but can’t.
So as soon as he got the dog closer to the riverbank, even though the cold was eating him alive, devouring him from the inside out. Yeah, he thought to himself, right as his eyes closed for the last time, This is better.
Call him selfish if you want.
He was just tired.
Now its not his problem anymore.
-
Floating.
It was an odd sensation. To feel cradled and warm after being so, so cold. Returning to the crucible of matter and polarity nurtured by the fundamental forces of the universe.
A place devoid of all, dark in ways he never thought possible. An absence of everything, and yet an abundance it all at the same time. The weight of regret, of love that he didn’t feel worthy to reciprocate, stinging him all over.
He left his loved ones behind because he wanted an excuse to prove something to himself. He wanted an excuse to sacrifice himself for something. To give himself to something so wholly, that no one would be able to refute it. To struggle properly, for once. To actually try.
And now here he was. Wherever, and whatever, here actually is.
Huh, he realised, Figures.
If he was reborn, he was gonna be pissed. He hated isekai. Sure, manhwa generally handled it better than manga, but there was a limit to how much slop he could tolerate, and this was over the fucking line.
Dying and being reborn is all fun and games in fiction, but having it actually happen to you? Fuck, he was feeling it all now. It all compressing down on him, the weight of a past life, of memories and identities that were no longer him.
He was proud of his end! He saved a cute little dog!
Now it was tarnished by the regret of selfishly throwing away his life for vindication, for his own lofty ideals of being a fucking hero, or whatever. He watched too much anime, sue him.
The warmth was gone now. All that was left was the cold. Biting, all-encompassing, ever-consuming, bitter, cold. He was surrounded by damp gelatin, a thick goop that stick to his skin(?) like glue. A blackness, an emptiness that sucked in everything.
He missed them.
Pull. A demanding pull from deep inside himself, an instinctual yell screaming at him to thrash around, struggle, to breathe-
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t see.
Dark.
He felt smaller, more vulnerable than ever before. Had he…shrank? He wanted to rip it all off, cast it all away, grab it by the throat and tear-
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream.
Yet he didn’t have a mouth.
Now he wanted to laugh at the irony.
His body felt new, foreign, unnatural to him. His nervous coordination wasn’t calibrated, it was all…wrong. Was he a child again? That would really suck. He did not want to go through that again. At least he still had his mind (somewhat) intact.
He reached out, and felt a wall. Bad news, his arm was so fucking short, what the actual hell-
FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK! OH NONONONONONO, he panicked internally, This has all gone VERY wrong VERY fast, holy shit-
Alright, fuck it, that’s it. He’s had his fill in wombville, or wherever the hell he is, he wants out!
With a mental growl, he did his best to remember the movements for a punch from his martial arts days. It took him several tries, being submerged in liquid and all. Eventually, after around fifty tries, he managed to chip whatever surface he was hitting.
Pulling him downwards, he felt gravity’s pull, yet he kept hitting the wall, grunting and taking out all of his frustration, all of his anger and self-hatred on punching this fucking god-damn, piece-of-shit WALL!
Crack!
You know that feeling when you wake up in a cold sweat because felt like you were falling when you were asleep? Not great, 0/10, do not recommend. Not at all. Possibly one of his least favorite sensations ever.
You know what is worse than that?
Actually falling.
Falling into a damp liquid.
Falling into a shallow, damp, cold liquid.
Falling and having several heavy things fall on top of you at the same time.
Being dogpiled by several other body-shaped objects in a fucking swamp. Burn me, he cursed. Beneath the pile, he managed to crawl out from underneath, and crawled towards what he sensed was open air. Once his head(?) was exposed, he groaned. Or, at least, attempted to groan.
He couldn’t speak. Great.
He apparently didn’t have a mouth. Also great.
When he looked up, he realized why. A black, reflective shard of what he now recognized as a deep, black egg. An egg he had just hatched from.
And in its reflection was a creature that was very familiar to him. Two pitch black hollow eyes. A pale mask. Small, black body. A small cloak. Horns. A Vessel.
He was a Vessel.
Oh.
No voice to cry…whatever he was feeling right now. Panic because, oh god, this is very, very bad. Relief because, thank god he was reborn in something he actually knew things about. Relief again, because thank fucking christ it wasn’t Berserk. Actually…was this worse?
He chose to ignore that train of thought, in favor of clambering fully out of the pile ignoring what were definitely the corpses of his stillborn siblings, shit that’s traumatic. Anyway, he was a vessel. This means he was in Hallownest’s Abyss. At the very bottom.
Great.
He stood up, quickly scanned himself over. He had an infant vessel’s body, maybe on the larger side. Perhaps because he was at the bottom of the Abyss, hence more exposure to the Void, so he grew more? A thought for another time.
Immediately, he realized his hands…were no longer hands. More like claws. Three finger-like appendages, two regular fingers and one thumb. They were pointy, almost triangular. This is much better than the short-little pokey-things of the Hollow Knight art style that would have probably had suction-like properties or something like that.
It took a few tries to amateurishly grab the egg shard. Holding it up, he peering inwards, taking in his appearance. Then he noticed his vestigial wings curled up into a patterned cloak. Dayummmm, I have got that shit on tho!
No mind to think, bullshit. Call him vain or whatever, his cloak looked dope as hell.
His wings were larger than he expected, wrapping around his body like a poncho-esque robe with a hood. He had a hood! He was very happy about this development. The lion does not concern himself with basic health and safety needs beyond the drip.
He scanned his small body, finding that his wings were attached to his main shell through small inky vine-like roots. Root, Wyrm and Void. He could see their influence in his new anatomy. His body comprised of a black exoskeleton shell made of a chitin-like substance, one that would likely grow and harden as he molted. However, he also very quickly noticed that he also had a spine-like vertical column, a backbone. Odd. Bugs are invertebrates, they don't have spines. Yet he clearly felt a backbone. That also meant he had an endoskeleton as well.
He wondered if this was unique to Wyrms and their offspring, or did it apply to all of the bugs and beasts of this world?
He quickly examined his arms and legs, feeling for any interior bones. Quickly, he realized his bones were very, very small in his limbs. Likely they too would grow as his body got larger. Although, in insects, the muscles and joints usually occupied the interior of the exoskeleton, taking up the space where an endoskeleton would be. Perhaps his muscles had a structure almost like a combination of striated muscles found in normal insects and perhaps inheriting some plant-like traits from the White Lady.
Importantly, he could still breathe. Or, at least, he had a respiratory system, as indicated by the vents and spiracles below his arms on his shell. Breathing through what would have been his ribs would take a while to truly get used to. However, that wouldn't really be a problem, because he didn't actually need to breathe. Like, at all. Consciously holding his breath resulted in no strain on his part.
He guessed that Void beings didn't need oxygen, which was overpowered as fuck by the way, or they somehow made their own. Wait. Could he photosynthesize? Did his black shell absorb all light and use that to photosynthesize? Perhaps he needed specifically the pale light of pale beings to grow larger, and that's why Ghost never truly grew as tall as the Hollow Knight?
Anyhow, he didn't need to breathe for whatever reason despite having the ability. Maybe he could even try figuring out some breathing techniques? Maybe those existed here.
Moving on, he quickly glossed over that the process of the Void hollowing out a vessel clearly resulted in the loss of a digestive and reproductive system. No dick. No balls. And probably no butthole.
Probably.
However, this had a hidden benefit. Having no biological sex or reproductive organs meant Vessels were effectively free to choose their own gender identity and pronouns, even if they chose to be agender like the canonical Vessels. For him, he always felt comfortable with being a male, so it would feel odd to change now. The loss of bio-sex wouldn’t change that.
Wait, does that mean he couldn’t have sex? Oh well, it would be kind of weird with bugs anyway. He’s not a monster-fucker. Perhaps the loss of libido was also a blessing in disguise. It was always kind of distracting anyway.
He would miss his dick though. Sue him, who wouldn’t?
He then moved onto his mask. He was unlike the vessels he remembered, because he simply had so many horns. On his left, a horn that curled inwards and then up in a neat wavy fashion, almost like calligraphy. On his right, a longer horn that went up and up, almost like Lost Kin's longest horn. In between the two, there were two symmetrical bumps either side of a spike of sorts. On the right side, a short horn curved downwards, while on the opposite side, another asymmetrically curled upwards. Below each was another bump, similar to the ones on the top. The final set stood out in particular. Behind the front horns were a symmetrical set of back horns that curved in from the side in a fashion similar to the Knight's, only that they met in the middle, and then extended upwards while staying parallel. It almost made it look like a funny little hat.
Now that he had finished looking over himself, he took in his surroundings. The room before him was covered in the fossilized remains of bug shells shaped like spirals. The architecture was clearly reminiscent of the Ancient Civilization. Void still dripped from the ceiling, and pooled into the room in a shallow layer of liquid. Looking up, he saw the opening of the egg he fell from. The egg was lodged in tight between other eggs, holding it up and not crushing him completely. Always good.
In the game, there were millions, maybe billions of siblings making up the Abyss floor. If the Pale King did throw the eggs into the void, then what was there before was probably another Void lake, which simply got soaked up and into the eggs like water into a sponge.
Speaking of eggs…his siblings. He looked back at the pile that fell on top of him. Their masks were dulled, not pale or white, but more like charred bone. He had before theorized that not all of the corpses from the Abyss were from living vessels. Based on the calculations from the community, he remembered there were up to around 1 billion bodies in the Abyss. Since each egg probably housed multiple vessels, it was most likely that the equilibrium of Void meant that 99.9999999% of beings inside were hollowed out fully, meaning they would die before they were ever born.
He ignored the stabbing shame that pierced him when he thought of his two siblings of his past life.
Well never mind that! Luckily for him, there was a perfectly placed bench in the room before him. Thank you Ancient Darkness-and-Death-Worshipping Cults of the Ancient Civilization! Very chill of you.
Immediately, he sat down and felt himself calm. The burden of it all felt a little less overwhelming than before. He let himself rest. Speaking of…him, what should he call himself? His previous name didn’t really fit Hallownest naming conventions.
He always liked the Knight's fanon name, originating from the name given by Hornet, although 'Ghost of Hallownest' was more of a title, really, than a proper name. Plus he was always a fan of the supernatural and the undead.
Banshee.
He was Banshee.
First things first, he had to establish an action plan. To do that, he needed to brainstorm. This isn’t a game anymore. It’s not entertainment, there are no good or bad endings, this is real. This is real.
He would not respawn on a bench every time he died. He would not instantly heal like Hornet and Ghost. Unless the theory that them waking up was an aspect of the Pale King's foresight, looking forward and living the future until death, wherein they woke up as if they were dreaming on the bench. Almost like how the Chronos drug works in Katana Zero.
But in that case, how did all the Wyrms die out with an ability like that? Or maybe they didn't have a way to resolve and absorb their past regrets like Ghost could with their Shade, and Hornet with her silk cocoon?
Either way, it didn't matter. He had no plans on dying, and he was not going to risk permanent death by experimenting.
Firstly, he was a Vessel. He had no voice to cry suffering. Check. He definitely had a will and a mind. That part always struck him as bullshit. Whether that made him impure, he didn’t care. He probably hatched first before the other vessels, signified by the lack of corpses burying him alive, so that meant he had time.
He had no idea how long it would take for other vessels to hatch and emerge to the surface, and for the Pale King to summon them up. He had until then to figure out a plan to avoid death and escape the Abyss, hopefully with the other vessels.
As for the Radiance and the Infection, he figured the endings of the game should be ignored. He’d find his own way to deal with the overgrown feather-duster. While keeping himself and his siblings alive, healthy, and happy.
For now, he should focus on his own abilities and figuring out how to tunnel to the top of the egg pile.
How was he going to get past the millions of black eggs above him? Tunnel through the eggs themselves? What about the siblings inside? He couldn’t wait until all of the siblings hatched, that would be too late. Plus, climbing out through all the corpses and spikes would be particularly unpleasant.
Never mind, he thought, I’ll figure that stuff out later, for now, I’ll focus on what I can do now.
He needed to test his abilities. With no idea how capable he was, he would be going in blind. He needed to train, experiment and figure out if he could do cool shit. He was never one for exercise or working out, although that was because he never really felt the need to. At least now he was required to get shredded and push his body to the limits or he'd die.
Good. He always worked better under a little pressure anyway.
Mothwing cloak. He had previously speculated the ‘mothwing’ was metaphorical, and some, if not all, vessels simply had the ability to dash naturally upon birth. Evidence: the Greenpath Vessel, who originally had the cloak, and the Broken Vessel and Pure Vessel being able to dash. The Knight must have lost this ability when falling from the top of the Abyss when his wings were damaged, and then finally repaired when he wove parts of the Greenpath Vessel’s cloak into his own.
Thankfully, it seemed like he was correct. He was able to dash, although nowhere near as efficiently as the Knight. To be fair to him, he was a newborn hatchling, and there was always room for practice.
Focusing. Despite having no UI, using it as a visual reference did help him feel for what he was looking for. Sure enough, full masks, no Soul. Luckily for him, the Ancient Civilization were kind enough to leave a Soul Totem next to the bench. His claws were new to him, so he was hardly an expert in forming a fist, and he had no clue if punching would be safe or efficient, or would stunt his growth.
Oh well, why not give it a go?
First, he clenched his two triangle-fingers together, bringing them downwards, before twisting the thumb to sit on the corner. Without any more hesitation, he punched the Totem with all his might, and sound echoed throughout the room as he absorbed the Soul. It was…really weird, in a good way. It felt like…having a really nice cool drink after a dry mouth. He kept punching the Totem repeatedly, as it didn't absorb Soul as quickly as striking it with a nail did in-game.
Right when he got to full Soul, he instinctively knew that the totem was out of juice. Bummer.
Since he currently didn’t need to Focus heal, he figured he’d try out the Focus Runes spell that Pure Vessel used in his Godhome boss fight. With the other spells in the game, you had to actually absorb the spells to be able to use them. Maybe to memorize what the spell felt like? Or was absorbing soul necessary for another reason? Groal the Great and the Soul Master were able to use spells by draining the Soul of other bugs. Snail Shamans probably accumulated their own Soul similar to the Kingsoul charm, thanks to the focusing crest on their shells. Oddly enough, snails also had an endoskeleton and exoskeleton. Yet another similarity between them and Wyrms. Perhaps there was once a snail Higher Being as well, maybe as part of the Ancient Civilization, since they built the soul totems in the first place.
If a slug higher being existed, why not a snail as well? Praise Unn, the actual goat-
Regardless, it was unlikely that he could just perform the spells because he knew their names and what they looked like.
However, Focus Runes were different. Focusing was implied to be unique to beings like the Vessels and the Pale King, who had a pure focus as part of their nature. Runes, however, were utilized not just by Pure Vessel, but also by the Weavers. Thankfully, he died after completing Silksong at 100%. So, he knew that Weavers had the skill Rune Rage, first developed by the First Sinner, the first Weaver to realize they were actually Pharlids that Grand Mother Silk evolved using her powers, rather than her direct divine children.
Meaning, if he remembered the pattern of the runes, it could be possible to recreate the spell as it was. Now he just had to remember what the runes actually looked like!
Banshee focused with all his might. Even if he didn’t manage to perform the spell, at least he would be able to know he could focus on command. Hell, in his past life, that was a challenge of its own. ADHD. Love it. Thankfully, he found that it was quite easy. He guessed that since he had a more complete sense of self and identity, focusing was made easier thanks to his will, or maybe even his soul was easier to identify and focus. However, the runes did not appear.
That was fine though, he’d figure it out another day. He probably just lacked the knowledge of the rune language syntax. Anyway, just knowing he could focus increased his chances of survival by a large margin. Likely the vessels had no clue they could focus when they were born, unless they instinctively knew how.
Next, overall athleticism. He was in a newborn body, so he attempted to push himself with a few push-ups, found it excruciating, and eventually slumped into the void puddle in disgrace.
Jumping though, he found he was naturally adept at. Of course, Ghost was particularly good at jumping several times its own height. He even tried using the Monarch Wings, yet made no progress on that front, and called it quits.
Now, Banshee wanted to try something new. In the Pure Vessel boss, it used Void attacks. Meaning, that he should hypothetically, be able to use his inner Shade as a weapon without the Void Heart charm. Besides, he didn’t need to unite the Void, he only needed to commune with his own Shade. Easier said that done.
What is a Shade? Is it really akin to Jungian psychology of the inner shadow? Is it regrets manifested? If the Void truly is the power of post-mortem regret pooling into a basin, to command or manipulate the void is to have accepted and come to terms with those regrets. Hence why Confessor Jiji applauded Ghost for coming to terms with their regrets so completely when acquiring the Void Heart.
Banshee grimaced. It sounded way too Freudian for his likes, although there was a deeper meaning that he believed held some value. He was always warring against himself in one way or another in his previous life. To come to terms with them now was-
Grief felt like a pit in his form. It was like a weight that would not lighten, a dense rod of iron in his heart. He never meditated, but perhaps now it was the time. His mind could never quiet, thanks to the blessings of neurodivergence, but now hopefully, he could find some use out of it.
He sat there and meditated for a long time. His hopes, his fears, he did his best to express all of them.
‘Shade,’ he spoke internally, visualizing broadcasting his thoughts in communion, ‘My shade.’
Banshee felt the emptiness beneath his shell pulse. They were one. He never believed he was enough in his old life. Always lesser, always somehow inadequate. Inferiority plagued him from start to finish. Doubt, indecision, loathing, all of it. Perhaps that was what drove him to take the plunge that killed him.
‘No more,’ he thought, ‘I am done hating myself. I am done with blaming myself for everything that happened to me. No matter what happened, I always tried my best. Even if it wasn’t enough.’
He shivered. It was restless, writhing-
‘I am you. You are me. Together, we are enough. We are I. I am we. I…am…me. I am enough. I have…always, been enough. I’ve made it through tough times. And I will make it through this dark, damp place as well. I will get us out of here. I promise.’
Stillness. Contentment. A weight lifted. A burden eased. Banshee felt lighter. This...this would- will, be enough. Truly.
His thoughts paused as soon as he heard a deep rumbling, almost like an earthquake. The ground shook and the eggs above him seemed to vibrate with anticipation.
They were starting to hatch.
Shit.