Chapter 5; The Time Traveler's Reflection.
Silence reigned for a heartbeat.
"Haha, nice one," Kael chuckled, his carefree tone masking any suspicion.
"I'm serious," Azrael said, his voice steady.
Kael's smile faded, his brows knitting together. "What?! Why are you quitting now, especially now that we're so close to our dreams?" His voice rose, each word heavier with disbelief.
Not a dream, Azrael thought. A nightmare.
"I have a lot to figure out for now," he replied, trying to sound neutral, though his chest tightened under Kael's scrutiny.
Kael's expression hardened. "What damned things? You were still excited about this last week!"
"Plans changed," Azrael muttered, avoiding his friend's gaze.
Kael fell silent for a moment, the tension thick enough to cut through. Then, he exhaled sharply, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something more serious. "What's going on, Azrael?"
The sound of his name spoken so solemnly hit harder than any blade. Kael never called him that—not with this weight, not with this worry. For the first time in a long time, Azrael saw his friend as more than a fellow dreamer; Kael was genuinely concerned.
And yet, how could Azrael explain? How could he tell him that their shared ambitions were destined to end in ruin? That their hopes of joining the army and fighting for salvation had led to nothing but horror—a future Azrael had seen with his own eyes?
"It's... it's hard to explain," Azrael finally said, his voice barely audible.
"I'll listen," Kael replied, surprising him. This wasn't the usual Kael, the one who teased him out of his darkest moods. This was someone willing to shoulder the burden, if only Azrael would let him.
But words failed him. Instead, Azrael reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden medallion he'd found earlier. The artifact gleamed under the faint moonlight, the engraved symbol of the winged beast standing out as if it held secrets he wasn't yet meant to uncover.
"What's that?" Kael asked, his curiosity piqued.
"An artifact," Azrael said, handing it over. "I found it in the claws of a dead aurum goblin. At first glance, it looks like any other treasure. But look closer."
Kael examined the medallion, his fingers tracing the intricate design. "A winged beast? It's strange, but it could just be some old currency or something."
Azrael shook his head. "I don't think so. Aurum goblins hoard treasures, but they don't carry them around while hunting. This was different. Why would a goblin die clutching something like this?"
Kael shrugged, passing the medallion to Leona, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. She stared at it, her expression unreadable.
"You're overthinking it," Kael said. "Goblins are obsessed with shiny things. Maybe it's just luck for them, a trinket they stole from some traveler."
"Luck?" Azrael muttered, his gaze darkening. "Or a connection. What if the goblins revere these creatures? What if this medallion is more than just a random artifact?"
Leona finally spoke, her voice low but certain. "I've seen this symbol before."
Azrael's heart skipped a beat. "You have? Where?"
"It's the ancient emblem of the—" Leona's words were cut off by a sudden, high-pitched noise.
Azrael winced, the sound slamming into his skull like a battering ram. He clutched his head, his vision swimming.
"Azrael! Are you okay?" Kael's voice seemed distant, muffled by the relentless hum drilling into his mind.
He staggered, pressing his palms against his ears in a futile attempt to block out the noise. It wasn't just sound—it was something more, something invasive.
His knees buckled, and the world around him blurred. His friends' worried faces faded, replaced by a swirling darkness.
Why am I the only one hearing this?
A cold dread washed over him as his consciousness began to slip. His body felt heavy, as though it was no longer his own. The last thing he saw before the void swallowed him was a shadowy figure lurking at the edge of the forest.
"Azrael!" Kael's voice echoed faintly, like a distant memory.
---
Azrael's eyes snapped open to the gentle warmth of daylight. His head throbbed, but the familiarity of his surroundings grounded him. He was in his room, the modest wooden structure unchanged by the chaos in his life.
The system interface blinked before him, its cold, mechanical tone a stark contrast to the serenity of the morning.
[DAILY QUEST.]
[Defeat an Imitation Dungeon.]
Azrael frowned. An imitation dungeon? What's that supposed to mean?
[Player's decision is bound to affect fate.]
[ACCEPT/REJECT]
He sighed, leaning back against the wall. The system wasn't just a guide—it was a relentless reminder that every step he took could alter the future. But what was this imitation dungeon? He had about dungeons and gates and how they held magical entities. But what then was an imitation dungeon?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. His mother entered, holding a pile of laundry.
"You're awake," she said, relief softening her features.
"Yeah," Azrael replied, though his voice carried an edge of confusion.
"What happened to you?" she asked, placing the clothes on a nearby chair. "Your friends said you passed out suddenly."
Azrael's brow furrowed. "My friends?"
"Kael carried you back. Leona looked like she wanted to stay and make sure you were okay, but I told her you'd be fine."
The words hit him like a blow. He didn't remember any of that—he hadn't even seen Kael or Leona since... since when? The gaps in his memory sent a shiver down his spine.
"What's wrong?" his mother asked, noticing his troubled expression.
"Nothing," Azrael lied, his voice cold. "Can I have some privacy?"
She hesitated, then nodded, leaving the room quietly.
Alone, Azrael closed his eyes and focused. He knew this wasn't normal. Memory manipulation—he'd heard of it before, but only in the future. Yet someone was using it on him now, distorting his thoughts, stealing pieces of his reality.
A faint hum broke the silence, coming from the walls themselves.
"I can hear you," he said, his voice cutting through the stillness. "There's no point in hiding."
The air shimmered, and a figure began to materialize. Azrael's heart raced as he took in the stranger's form: a man with a trilby hat and an overcoat, his presence radiating an unsettling familiarity.
"Who are you?" Azrael demanded, his hand inching toward his sword. "And what have you done to my memories?"
The man tilted his hat, revealing a face Azrael knew all too well. His own.