"Because you're stressed, sleep-deprived, and clearly losing it," she said with a smirk. "But hey, if this Thoth guy inspired you, maybe it's not all bad. Write something, genius. Prove it."
---
Back at his apartment, Aimi stared at the glowing scroll, the words and images flowing into his mind like a river. He grabbed his laptop and started typing. For the first time in ages, the story came naturally.
The next day, he showed the draft to Farah.
She read it in silence, her expression shifting from casual to serious. When she finished, she looked up, her eyes wide.
"Okay… this is actually amazing."
"Told you," Aimi said with a smirk.
3 days later,
Aimi stared at his laptop screen, his heart pounding. His latest chapter had finally gained traction. Views were pouring in, and the comments section buzzed with excitement. For once, it felt like he was doing something right.
"Maybe this is it," he muttered, leaning back in his chair. The old watch his grandmother had given him sat on the desk, its dull metal gleaming faintly under the light of his desk lamp.
As if on cue, the watch began to hum.
"What the…" Aimi leaned forward, eyes widening as the watch erupted in a burst of golden light. The glow filled the room, consuming everything. Panic gripped him as he tried to grab the watch, but his fingers went right through it.
The last thing he heard was his laptop fan shutting off, then silence.
---
Aimi's head throbbed as he opened his eyes, the sun beating down mercilessly. He groaned, shielding his face with one hand. The ground beneath him was hot and dry, the air thick with the scent of sand and something ancient.
"What… where am I?" he mumbled, sitting up.
The sight before him stole his breath. Massive stone structures loomed in the distance, their intricate carvings glinting in the sunlight. People dressed in flowing linen robes moved about, carrying baskets and tools. The sounds of chattering voices and livestock filled the air.
"This… isn't Malaysia," Aimi said, his voice shaking.
Before he could fully process the situation, a sharp voice cut through the air.
"There! Over there!"
Aimi turned to see a group of men in elaborate robes, their faces stern and wary. They held staffs adorned with golden symbols, their sandals kicking up dust as they approached.
"Who are you? How did you come here?" one of them demanded, his tone accusatory.
"I—I don't know!" Aimi stammered, holding up his hands. "I just… I was at home, and then…"
The men exchanged glances, murmuring amongst themselves. One of them stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he examined Aimi.
"His clothing is strange," he said. "And he bears no mark of the Pharaoh's people."
Another priest knelt down and picked up the watch that had fallen next to Aimi. The moment his fingers touched it, the watch glowed faintly.
"It is a divine artifact," the priest whispered, his eyes wide. "He must be a messenger of the gods!"
"A messenger?" Aimi blinked. "Wait, no! I'm just a—"
The priests didn't listen. They bowed before him, their heads touching the ground.
"Forgive us, O Messenger," the lead priest said. "We will take you to the Lady Isis at once. She will know what to do."
"Isis?" Aimi repeated, his heart racing. "As in… the goddess?"
---
The journey to the temple was surreal. The priests led Aimi through bustling streets, where people stopped and stared, some whispering and pointing. The towering buildings and intricate carvings were straight out of a history book, yet they felt alive in a way Aimi had never imagined.
"Stay close, O Messenger," one of the priests said, his tone reverent.
"I'm not—never mind," Aimi muttered, deciding it was safer not to argue.
The temple of Isis was an awe-inspiring sight. Massive columns rose into the sky, their surfaces covered in hieroglyphs that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the distant sound of chanting echoed through the halls.
The priests led Aimi into the inner sanctum, where a woman stood at the center of a grand chamber. She was draped in flowing robes of white and gold, her presence commanding yet serene. Her eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto Aimi the moment he entered.
"Lady Isis," one of the priests said, bowing deeply. "We have found a messenger of the gods, bearing a divine artifact."
Isis stepped forward, her gaze never leaving Aimi. She studied him with an intensity that made his skin crawl, her lips curling into a faint smile.
"You are not of this time," she said, her voice smooth and melodic.
Aimi swallowed hard. "Uh, yeah, about that… I think there's been a mistake. I'm just a guy—a writer, actually. I don't know why I'm here."
Isis tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "The gods do not make mistakes, mortal. If you are here, it is because you have a purpose to fulfill."
"Purpose?" Aimi echoed. "I just wanted to write webnovels. I'm not cut out for… whatever this is."
Isis chuckled softly, the sound both comforting and unsettling. "You will learn, writer. But for now, you must rest. There is much for you to see and understand."
Before Aimi could protest, two attendants appeared, guiding him toward a side chamber. As he was led away, he couldn't shake the feeling that his life had just taken a turn he could never have predicted.
"This is insane," he muttered under his breath.
---
That night, Aimi lay on a simple mat in a small chamber, staring at the ceiling. The watch sat on a table nearby, its faint glow a constant reminder of the surreal events of the day.
He couldn't deny the awe he felt at being in ancient Egypt, living among gods and legends. But the weight of it all pressed heavily on him.
"What am I supposed to do here?" he whispered.
As if in response, the watch flickered briefly, its glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Aimi sighed, closing his eyes. Whatever this was, he knew there was no turning back now.
...
Aimi woke to the gentle sound of flutes and the rustling of linen curtains. His makeshift bed, though simple, was surprisingly comfortable. For a moment, he thought he was back in his apartment, the events of the previous day nothing more than a strange dream.