After Maxpretends sang Isabel into the dark of the Mire of Hollow Songs, the Orb of Blockchain carried that melody. But not all who heard it were given hope. And when the last werewolf fell at his feet, John Karp knelt among the bodies, cleaning his hammer in silence. Far from the swamp, beneath a moon sharp as a hunter’s blade, the most dangerous werewolves of the realm came upon Oakhaven, a weary human town of crooked roofs, chapel bells, and doors barred with prayer. They had heard whispers of the Orb. They had heard that hope still moved among men. So they came to destroy it. All night, the beasts tore through fire and blood, clawing through doors, prayer, and flesh. Yet at the heart of the burning town stood John Karp, a stubborn-hearted cleric with blood on his hammer and no fear left to spend. He fought until the chapel bell cracked and the moon began to pale. Then pink light gathered in the smoke. The Orb appeared before him, hovering above the blood-dark stones. The cleric looked up. “If you have come to judge me,” he said, “stand in line. The dead were here first.” Then he drew a slow breath through the ash. “I have not come to judge,” said the Orb. “I have come to remember.” He tightened his grip on the hammer. “Remember what? A town half-burned? Beasts at the gate? Hope torn open before dawn?” The Orb pulsed once. “No,” said the Orb. “I remember those who stand when hope has no walls left.” For a moment, the fires bent low, as if bowing. The Orb within its silver skin the cleric saw halls not built for kings, but for artists. He saw strangers from distant lands gathering beneath one roof, sharing visions, stories, grief, laughter, and strange impossible light. “One of those who follows your line,” the Orb said, “shall gather creators from across the world. Not with sword or axe, but with welcome. They shall build a place where artists meet, where souls remember they are not alone, and where creation becomes a kind of shelter.” He stared into the Orb. “It will touch more lives than your hammer ever could,” said the Orb. “For some battles are won by steel. Others by bringing the scattered together.” The cleric looked around at the burning town, at the bodies of monsters, at the first pale wound of morning. He lowered his hammer. “Then let it be remembered,” he whispered. “Not that I killed beasts, but that something survived them.” The Orb glowed brighter. And there, in the ashes of Oakhaven, another block was sealed, not for victory, but for gathering.