The last thing Toren remembered was Airen's cold, fragile fingers pressed on his forehead.
Next second, he was transported back into the darkness. There, he floated across the cold, black realm with no apparent horizon.
The only thing visible from his eyes aside from the black landscape was the crimson thread, still circulating him.
It seemed like the trail of time slowly weaving and fluctuating itself according to the space.
Soon, Toren was getting pulled at the hole of thread once again.
He was quite familiar with the sensation, yet it always feels new to encounter such a dominating force. He instinctively closed his eyes and knew ahead about the spectrum lights from beyond his sights.
And when everything returned to normal, he slowly lifted his head.
It felt like resurfacing from the undertow when he saw himself in the middle of a flourishing isle overflowing with diverse crowds and indistinct noises.
Toren hoped he could join his brother once more, even if it would just be a one-sided interaction as he silently observes.
He struggled to stand up with such a little ounce of strength, probably the toll of getting transferred from one realm to another.
He thought that if he does not exist as a ghost, yet his perceptions are present here, his soul must be staying in that dark realm with the red thread, locking him there, motionless and quiet.
It does sound dangerous, but it must have been for the best.
Toren thought that Airen would know about how things work within the premises of spiritual and otherworldly elements.
Thought unsure, he began looking for his own clues – as if a great mission awaits him.
He felt like some kind of a special emissary meant to connect some dots as if the stage he was getting on was similar to the constellations. When he passed by a bustling public market, he noticed from one of the merchandise a calendar.
It looked quite peculiar and new to him, but what shocked him most was the year embedded on it.
Toren felt chills run down his spine.
It was as if a block of ice fell over him, shocked his nerves, and froze his system. Questions sprang up from his brain one by one until the truth had finally been absorbed to him that he travelled a hundred years from his own timeline.
He suddenly recalled everything that Airen said about a world free from war.
However, he thought, "Coen could not possibly be in this place right now then. He would have died already from aging. Even if he had survived the prevalent war before, he would not be able to fight against nature."
And as if a divine intervention had answered his lingering ponders, the man he was looking for appeared right before him.
At that bustling city, in that certain isle of the market, Coen appeared as if his existence was not such a big deal.
Toren could not move from his place.
The people passing by went through him as no one could ever see or touch him.
Like how Toren saw him before, Coen still looked the same as he was several years ago, but now a bit cleaner and civilized. In his middle-age form, handsome and decent-looking.
It seemed like he had not aged or changed at all.
Toren tried processing it one by one – from the century skip where the world was free from both war and colonialism and how his brother survived against the war and defied nature itself.