Approaching Fort step by step, his face hidden in shadow, he sprinted toward the fort, his hands raised high.
The ground beneath Fort began to tremble, the vibrations intensifying with each passing moment.
Suddenly, a sharp stone erupted from the earth, shooting upward with alarming speed.
"Earth manipulation!?" Fort thought, his pulse quickening as he remained vigilant, tracking every movement of his opponent.
the figure watched as Fort dodged his first attack with ease, Fort then observed as the figure's hand disappeared into his pocket.
With the figure momentarily distracted, Fort saw an opportunity. He swiftly drew his revolver and fired four silver bullets in quick succession.
The figure deftly evaded each shot, his movements smooth and calculated, as he continued rummaging in his shirt pocket. After a tense moment, he finally extracted two dark blue cards.
"Mantras?" Fort murmured, recognizing the symbols on the cards. His eyes narrowed in concentration.
The figure's lips curled into a knowing smile as he threw the cards into the air. They fluttered briefly before transforming into two humanoid figures, their forms materializing with an unsettling solidity. They charged at Fort with frightening speed.
One of the figures threw a punch with such force that it demolished the old building Fort had been using for cover. The walls crumbled in a shower of debris, but Fort narrowly evaded the blow. Meanwhile, the figure pulled out a third card, placed it deliberately on the ground, and began to read aloud in a language Fort couldn't decipher.
A surge of danger prickled at Fort's senses. He knew he had to neutralize the two creatures quickly or face certain defeat.
As he continued to dodge their relentless attacks, Fort aimed his revolver at the head of one of the creatures. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, but he steadied his hand and fired.
Bang!
The creature's head exploded in a shower of dark, jagged fragments. "One more left," Fort muttered through clenched teeth, his voice strained.
Gasping for breath, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, Fort prepared for the final confrontation. His revolver held just one remaining bullet as the second creature lunged at him with renewed fury. Fort barely managed to sidestep its powerful attack, the creature's ferocity echoing through the shattered remnants of the old building.
Fort gave himself a moment to keep his distance before shooting the creature, blowing its head into a thousand pieces. The sight left him disgusted.
"Now it's just him," Fort said to himself with high confidence, having managed to defeat two strange creatures alone.
When Fort turned around, the person threw the card he had used earlier. As it hit the ground, the card transformed the surface into a dark creature that crawled rapidly toward Fort.
The person had vanished, and Fort ran in the opposite direction to escape the creature, which began devouring nearby buildings.
Panting and running with all his might, Fort struggled to stay ahead of the creature. Sweat drenched his body, and his energy was rapidly depleting.
Eventually, a building blocked his path. Panicked and exhausted, Fort's chest pounded as the black moss surrounded him at an alarming speed.
In the midst of this dire situation, Fort suddenly heard a voice whisper in his ear, "Binding Time..."
The voice echoed ominously. Fort hesitated, recalling the pain he had endured the last time he used Binding Time. But with no other options, he clutched the emblem and prepared to act.
As the black moss closed in, Fort smashed the emblem into the ground. Blue magma erupted from the soil, setting the moss ablaze and keeping it at bay.
Fort felt a surge of relief, but the pain in his head returned with a vengeance. It drove him to his knees, and he finally collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed by agony.
As Fort's vision dimmed, he noticed the fog swirling thicker around him, its tendrils creeping closer, swallowing the world in a heavy, suffocating mist. Somewhere in the distance, the haunting toll of cathedral bells echoed, their chime deep and slow, like the heartbeat of a hidden world.
---
"Hah…" Fort gasped for air, his breath ragged and labored, as though something had pressed on his chest, suffocating him even now.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself sprawled in a narrow alley, hemmed in by tall, shadowed buildings. The ground beneath him was damp, cold, and the scent of wet stone filled the air. He pushed himself up with trembling arms, his body protesting with every movement.
Staggering to his feet, he stumbled toward the alley's mouth, squinting as the light of day pierced through the thinning fog. His disorientation grew when he saw familiar surroundings—there, just a short distance away, stood the library he had visited yesterday, its tall, grim facade looming over the street.
"Ugh... my head..." Fort groaned, a sharp pain throbbing in his temples, a remnant of the Binding that twisted time itself. His mind felt muddled, memories slipping through his fingers like sand.
Still, Fort willed his feet forward, unsteady and weak, toward the nearest horse-drawn carriage waiting by the street. The city around him bustled with life—people in thick wool coats hurried past, their boots clicking on the cobblestones, unaware of the strange ordeal he had just escaped.
---
Inside the carriage, Fort collapsed onto the velvet-cushioned seat, sinking deep into its softness. He let out a shaky breath, unsure if he was truly safe now, or if the dream—or vision—would pull him back into its depths.
He glanced down at his hands, which were still trembling. His heartbeat hadn't slowed since the chase in that distorted world. Something about it had felt so real, far too vivid to be dismissed as a mere dream.
He let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing his hands together to stop the shaking. "Heh... I was really that scared?" His voice was barely a whisper, as if saying it aloud might solidify the fear.
Fort leaned his head back, his thoughts swirling, trying to recall more details about the figure he had encountered. The fog had been thick, dense like smoke, and yet… there were fragments of a person.
"Straight brown hair… glasses…" Fort muttered, his brow furrowed in concentration. He scratched at his scalp absentmindedly, frustrated by the lack of clarity. The fog had clung to the man like a second skin, and the cloak he wore had obscured nearly everything else.
His face… completely hidden. That damned fog made him a ghost, and the cloak—just a shadow. How could I recognize him in the real world when I barely saw him at all?
The city rolled by outside the carriage window, bathed in the muted gray light of the overcast sky. The streets were crowded, carriages weaving in and out, the rhythmic clop of hooves blending with the chatter of the bustling Victorian-era city. People moved in a steady flow, unaware of the strange, intangible forces that lurked just beneath the surface of their seemingly mundane lives.
Fort exhaled slowly, disappointment sinking in. The figure he'd seen was more elusive than he realized, slipping through his memory as easily as he had appeared in that strange dream.
And yet, the feeling lingered—like an itch he couldn't scratch—that whoever this was, he hadn't seen the last of him.
---
When Fort reached the heavy, weathered door of his house, he wasted no time stepping inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft thud. The air inside was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of old wood and leather-bound books. He moved through the dimly lit hallway with familiarity, his feet carrying him swiftly toward his bedroom. The weight of the recent events still hung over him, but it was not fatigue that gripped him—it was the restless energy of unanswered questions.
Without pausing, he threw himself onto the bed, his body sinking into the soft mattress. He lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, the events of the day swirling in his mind. Every muscle ached, but his mind refused to allow him the solace of sleep.
He turned onto his side, his brow furrowed as his thoughts circled back to the mantra he had seen—the way it had cut through the air, sharp and precise, the energy tangible, almost alive. He could still feel the residual hum of it vibrating through his bones.
"Impressive… very useful," he muttered to himself, the words barely audible in the quiet of the room. "In a fight, a mantra like that would be invaluable."
The idea of harnessing that kind of power stirred something in him, igniting a curiosity that refused to be ignored. With a sigh, he pushed himself up, his body protesting with dull aches. His stomach growled in the silence, reminding him that he had neglected to eat anything substantial.
He glanced toward the small table by the window, where a piece of bread from yesterday sat, half-stale and unappealing. But hunger was hunger, and Fort couldn't afford to be picky.
He reached for it, breaking off a piece and chewing slowly. The bread was tough, its edges hard, but it was enough to stave off his hunger for the moment.
"Well… food is food," he muttered with a wry smile, swallowing the last bite.
As he ate, his mind drifted back to the spell once more. A thought sparked—something he had read before. There was a book, an antique volume, that might hold the answers he sought. The memory of it came rushing back—an old tome he had been translating, painstakingly slow, its pages filled with cryptic symbols and forgotten knowledge. He had barely scratched the surface of its secrets, but something told him that it held more than just old legends.
Pushing the plate aside, Fort stood and crossed the room. His eyes landed on the cabinet in the corner, a small but sturdy piece of furniture that had been with him for years. He reached up to the top, feeling the rough, dusty surface until his fingers brushed against the leather-bound cover of the book.
He pulled it down with care, the weight of it heavy in his hands, the old leather creaking as he moved. The book was ancient, its edges frayed, the pages yellowed with age. It had the scent of time about it, a mix of dust and parchment, as if it had been sitting in forgotten corners for centuries, waiting to be discovered.
Fort carried it over to the dining table, placing it gently in the center. He lit a nearby lamp, the soft glow casting long shadows across the room, and then opened the book. The pages crackled under his fingers as he flipped through them, the symbols and strange language staring back at him, daring him to decipher their meaning.
He began reading, his eyes scanning the text rapidly, his mind working to piece together the fragmented bits of knowledge. Each page seemed to pull him deeper, the words whispering of forgotten spells, lost magics, and ancient power.
October 26
He reached out to me again today, but this time, his message carried something far more unsettling. He spoke of a secret—one that lingers in the shadows of the unseen world.
The Act Card.
An anomaly within the fabric of that hidden realm, rarely used by novice pioneers, but frequently sought by those more experienced, those who've delved too deep into the abyss.
The informant warned me—these cards are dangerous. They siphon not just energy, but consciousness itself. The user becomes drained, leaving them exposed, vulnerable to the lurking forces of evil spirits that roam unseen. Yet, there is a safeguard: a chant, a spell of sorts, known as Înger Cântând. He told me it was one of the few spells that could protect the mind from unraveling under the weight of such power, like a shield woven from the songs of angels.
No one knows the origin of these cards, not really. There are rumors, whispers of their creation in forgotten times, perhaps forged by celestial hands. But one thing is certain: whoever is destined to receive an Act Card will first be touched by a revelation—a sign, a vision, something that shakes the soul. Only then will the card make itself known.
That's all he said before leaving, his promise hanging in the air like smoke. He would return tomorrow, he claimed, with more.
---
October 27
He arrived late to our meeting. His steps were unsteady, his eyes darting with a strange intensity. As he spoke, his words tumbled out in fragments, disjointed, almost incoherent. For a moment, I thought he'd lost his grip on reality. His sentences didn't connect—he seemed lost in some invisible labyrinth of his own mind.
But just when I began to doubt him, he delivered the revelation he had promised.
The Act Cards, he said, are no mere tools. They are relics—sacred, ancient, and powerful. Each one is a piece of the divine, a representation of the strength and dominion of the celestial beings that once walked this world. Every god, every higher being, has their own cards, each carrying a fragment of their might.
These cards cannot be acquired by just anyone. They choose their bearers. Only those marked by fate, by destiny, will ever hold one in their hands. And each card carries with it levels of power—six levels, he explained, each more perilous than the last. The higher the level, the more dangerous the card becomes, but also, the more potent.
His voice began to falter again as he muttered nonsensical phrases under his breath. Then, just as abruptly as he'd arrived, he vanished, leaving me alone with his cryptic words.
---
October 28
Înger Cântând.
He spoke of it again today—this mantra, this sacred spell. It is said to contain the songs of heavenly angels, ethereal beings whose very voices could calm the storms of hell. The melody within the spell is not of this world; it can soothe even the most violent of evil spirits, quelling their rage and malice with a single note.
The power of Înger Cântând is immense, but its true value lies in its ability to protect. For those who use the Act Cards, it offers a lifeline—a way to shield the soul from the destructive forces that come from wielding such tremendous power. Without it, overuse of the cards could tear a person's very essence apart, leaving nothing but a hollow shell where once there was life.
I find myself endlessly puzzled by how these cards function. How can something so thin, so deceptively fragile, carry the weight of the spirit world? How can a card—a mere object—allow a person to manipulate forces that have existed since the dawn of creation?
October 30
He mentioned a new spell today, one even more sinister and obscure.
Void Moss.
This mantra, he said, taps into something much darker than the angelic hymns of Înger Cântând. It calls upon the power of black moss—an ancient entity that thrives in the deepest corners of the unseen world. The Void Moss mantra allows the user to manipulate this living, breathing darkness, commanding it to bind malevolent spirits and drain their energy. The black moss spreads like tendrils, creeping into the cracks of the spirit world, entwining itself around those who dwell in the shadows.
But there's a cost.
The moss feeds not only on the energy of spirits but also on the vitality of the one who commands it. Prolonged use of Void Moss can cause the user's own life force to wither, leaving behind a fragile, hollowed soul, much like the spirits they aim to bind.
He warned me of its risks—how using Void Moss could corrupt a person, its tendrils twisting into their very essence, changing them. It was not just a mantra but a test of willpower, for those who gave in to its whispers would lose themselves to the darkness.
---[Fort translation ended]---
As he read, Fort's pulse quickened. There, buried in the dense text, were mentions of the kind of spell he had witnessed—something tied to the manipulation of space, a magic far more dangerous than he had realized. The more he read, the more he understood that the figure in his dream—or illusion—had not been using a simple mantra's. It was something darker, something far older.
His heart thudded in his chest as the implications set in. This was no ordinary magic. Whoever that figure was, they were wielding power that could unravel the very fabric of reality.
Fort leaned back, staring at the flickering light of the lamp as the weight of this revelation settled over him.
Leaning back in his worn wooden chair, Fort let out a long breath, his fingers tracing the deep grooves on the armrests. His mind wandered, replaying the narrow escape he'd just survived. The danger had been real—closer than ever before. He could've died right then and there, a thought that lingered uncomfortably in his mind.
But despite the fear, his resolve remained firm. Fort had a mission: to trace the cryptic painting of eight figures in the sky, with one standing above them all. He knew this was the key to finding his way back to earth, back to the reality he once knew.
His hands clenched into fists, then slowly relaxed. He sighed, the weight of his determination pressing heavily on his chest. His thoughts drifted to a distant memory, to someone he hadn't seen in years—an old friend, long lost to time.
Fort closed his eyes, letting the memory wash over him. In his mind's eye, he saw her: a girl with striking white hair, her voice soft but clear, calling out to him. Fort... The image was so vivid, it almost felt real. But when he opened his eyes again, the memory faded like smoke, slipping through his fingers.
His gaze shifted to the clock on the wall, hanging crooked above the door. It was an old clock, its hands ticking with a faint metallic sound. The time read 10:04.
"There's still plenty of time," Fort muttered to himself, though the words felt hollow. Time—he had learned—was a fragile thing in this world, and there was never as much of it as one might think.
He stood, grabbing his weathered jacket from the back of the chair, and walked out into the cool night air.
---
Outside, the world was quiet, too quiet for his liking. The streets were bathed in a bright, harsh light from the midday sun, casting long shadows that stretched across the pavement.. Fort scanned the empty road, his mind still replaying the events of the last few days.
(What happened last time...) he thought, his jaw tightening.
(It was because I wasn't prepared. I underestimated the dangers of this world.)
The world he had stumbled into was no ordinary place. It was a realm of shadows, where every corner hid unseen threats and strange anomalies. Fort knew better now. He had to be ready—there was no room for mistakes.
His pace quickened as he pushed forward, determination hardening into steel. (I will be ready next time.) he promised himself.
---
As he neared the small shop on the corner, Fort's eyes widened in surprise. Standing under the dim streetlight was a familiar figure—Mr. Alaric, his mentor and trainer. Fort's heart raced. He hadn't expected to run into him, especially not after missing Saturday's training session.
Instinctively, Fort tried to turn away, his mind scrambling for an excuse. But it was too late. Before he could slip away, Alaric's deep voice cut through the silence.
"Fortis!"
The name echoed in the still air, freezing Fort in his tracks. Slowly, he turned, his heart pounding in his chest. He had been avoiding Alaric, dreading this very encounter. Yet, as he faced his mentor, he found Alaric's expression was not one of anger, but curiosity.
"W-why are you here, sir?" Fort stammered, his voice betraying his nervousness.
Alaric didn't answer right away. Instead, he glanced around the deserted street, as if checking for unwanted eyes or ears. Then, with a measured tone, he said, "You missed training today."
(I knew it.) Fort thought, biting the inside of his cheek.
"That's why I came to find you," Alaric continued, his voice softer now, but with an edge of concern. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Next time, just send me a letter if you're going to be absent. Or if you're sick. It'll save me the trouble of coming all the way here."
Fort blinked, stunned.
(He's not angry?) he thought, disbelief coursing through him.
Alaric glanced at the yard behind Fort, which was in disarray—tools scattered, plants overgrown, signs of neglect everywhere. "Besides," he added with a faint smile, "it looks like you've been... busy."
Fort exhaled, tension leaving his body in a rush. Alaric wasn't here to chastise him, but still, Fort felt a pang of guilt. There was so much he couldn't explain, not to Alaric, not to anyone.
Fort shifted uneasily, his eyes darting from Alaric to the yard. "Ah, that... I haven't had much time to clean up the yard these last few days," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice had an edge of embarrassment, as if the mess reflected something deeper—his recent distractions, the growing dangers he was unprepared for.
Alaric's gaze followed Fort's, taking in the clutter of tools and the overgrown grass. He raised an eyebrow but didn't comment on it directly. Instead, he gave a slow nod, his face unreadable. "I can see that," he said, his tone neutral, though there was a flicker of something—perhaps amusement or concern—behind his words.
Fort shifted on his feet, biting his lip. He knew Alaric wasn't here to talk about the yard, and the question that had been gnawing at him since yesterday demanded to be asked. He hesitated only for a moment before the words tumbled out. "Sir... if I may ask," he began, choosing his words carefully, "yesterday… Ignis used a powerful spell during the attack. What was that? Do you know anything about it?"
Alaric's relaxed posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. His eyes darkened, locking onto Fort with a gaze that seemed to cut through the air between them. The weight of the question hung heavily, and for a moment, Fort regretted asking. The silence stretched, thick with tension.
"That's not something you should be poking around in, Fort," Alaric said finally, his voice low, almost a warning. His eyes didn't leave Fort's, and Fort could feel the shift in the air, as if the conversation had suddenly taken a dangerous turn.
Fort swallowed hard, but before he could respond, Alaric sighed and relented, his voice softening just slightly. "If you're that curious, you might find answers in the cathedral library. They keep records there—old records. Some of those books… they talk about spells like the one you saw." His voice dropped lower, as if sharing a secret not meant for others to hear.
Fort's heart raced. The idea of finding those answers made his pulse quicken, a spark of excitement flickering in his chest. But Alaric's next words extinguished that spark before it could take hold.
"But," Alaric said sharply, holding Fort's excitement in check, "access to those books is restricted. Only official members can get in."
Fort's face fell, his excitement fading as quickly as it had come. His shoulders sagged with the weight of the disappointment. "Oh..." he muttered, trying to hide the frustration creeping into his voice. "I see."
Alaric looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing whether to say more. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "As for you, well... you'll have to wait a few more weeks before you're granted permission to enter. It's not something they give lightly."
Fort's gaze dropped to the ground, his hands balling into fists at his sides. Weeks? It felt like too long to wait—too long to sit in the dark, with no answers, no understanding of the dangers he was facing. But there was nothing he could do. He nodded slowly, defeated. "...Okay."
The silence between them grew thick, neither saying what was really on their minds. Fort cast one last glance at Alaric before turning toward the house, his footsteps heavy as he opened the door. He paused for a second as if to say something more, but the words wouldn't come. The door clicked shut behind him.
Outside, Alaric stood still, watching the closed door. His serious expression melted into a faint smile. He chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head. "That kid's too impatient for his own good, " He lingered for a moment longer, the quiet afternoon air carrying his soft laughter as he turned and walked away, his figure disappearing down the empty street.
---
Inside, Fort leaned against the door, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts. The hope of learning more about the spell had felt so close, yet now it seemed farther away than ever. He pushed himself off the door, his body heavy with exhaustion.
His eyes flicked to the clock. It still showed 12:40, the slow ticking of the seconds suddenly grating on his nerves. Time felt like it had slowed, dragging endlessly, mocking his impatience.
Sighing, Fort collapsed onto the couch, sinking deep into the cushions. His mind swirled with thoughts of Ignis's spell, the cathedral library, the dangerous secrets he had yet to uncover. But the weight of the sleepless night before pressed down on him. The attack had taken more out of him than he cared to admit.
With nothing else to do and no immediate path forward, Fort closed his eyes. Sleep crept over him slowly, though the tension in his chest never fully left. His last thought before drifting off was a hope that the nightmares wouldn't come—not tonight