Eryx gasped awake, back arching off a hard mattress as breath tore into his lungs. His hands clawed at sheets he didn’t remember. He jerked upright—then froze.
A pale blue screen floated in the dark above his bed displaying silvery shimmering letters.
"Respawn in 3...2...1...Cycle 3...Initiated."
The words pulsed once, softly, then vanished.
Eryx sat confused in the silence of the room, heart thundering. He looked down at his chest, expecting blood or wounds or the feel of crushed bone. But his body was whole. Clean. He touched his scalp. No pain. No blood. Just short, sweat-damp hair.
He narrowed his eyes as he tried to focus, tried to remember.
Everything came back in flashes. The beast. Yara’s scream. His blade cutting deep but not deep enough. The moment the world turned sideways and his skull was crushed beneath the weight of something vast, something that didn't fit on a level he couldn't explain.
He should be dead. Not just dead. Gone. Nothing left to bury, just a smear on the ground.
Another screen flickered into existence.
System Directive: Priority Quest
Classification: Solo
Objective: Re-enter the Unstable Zone and locate the breach.
Additional Notes: Do not engage with locals regarding Cycle data.
That... wasn't normal. He’d never seen a Quest like that. Hell, he’d never seen any System screen up close, only heard descriptions from Jorrin or watched a Resonant click through menus from a distance.
But now?
Now he understood it. Instinctively. Like the words were speaking directly into something behind his eyes.
“Do not engage with locals...” he muttered.
He glanced around. His room was small and clean, the same one they'd rented before the mission. But it felt... emptier. A single candle flickered low in the holder beside his bed. No sound from outside. No Tarn or Mira or Kallen joking in the hallway.
Gear laid neatly over the chair by the wall.
Not the radiant full plate from his dream. No gleaming crest or white cloak. Just a short sword with a plain grip, a round iron-banded shield, and a chestpiece of lamellar—stiff plates sewn tightly into a vest.
He reached for the chestpiece.
Before he could touch it, a translucent inventory screen appeared in front of him. Eryx staggered back at the sudden intrusion. The same gear was listed there, hovering in silver text.
Lamellar Vest (Worn)
Short Sword (Worn)
Iron-Banded Shield (Worn)
Except—he wasn’t wearing anything yet. He blinked, looked back to the chair.
Gone.
Only empty wood and dust.
He focused on the Lamellar entry. A sub-menu opened: Equip / Inspect / Discard.
Eryx clicked Equip.
The armor settled onto his torso instantly. Not with a flash or shimmer, but a quiet sensation—like it had always been there. The leather straps tightened, perfectly snug.
He reached down. The short sword was sheathed at his side. The shield hung from his back. He checked the inventory screen again.
Lamellar Vest (Worn)(E)
Short Sword (Worn)(E)
Iron-Banded Shield (Worn)(E)
"Ah" Eryx said in understanding. "So the "worn" tag is the item condition."
The door creaked. He moved and the screens disappeared. Eryx opened the door and stepped forward, cautiously. No one was there. Only the darkness remained. And a cold feeling that the system knew of him and was watching closely.
———
The inn hadn’t changed.
That was the first thing Eryx noticed as he stepped into the hallway. Everything was exactly as he remembered it. The faded rug beneath his boots. The warped wooden planks. Even the faint scent of pipe smoke and old pine.
He descended the stairs cautiously, half-expecting them to shift beneath him or drop him into some unknown dark. But no—each creaked in the same place it had before.
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Downstairs, the common room buzzed with familiar voices.
Derin leaned over the hearth, poking at coals. Kett lounged near the window, boots kicked up, laughing at something Yara said as she sipped from a chipped mug. Tarn sat nearby with a plate balanced on his knee, half-listening while he etched something in his ledger. Kellen stood by the bar, chatting with the innkeeper, but turned as Eryx entered.
They looked up—smiling, waving him over.
“There he is!” Kett called. “Sleep through the godsdamn decade, did you?”
“You’re lucky Derin didn’t fry your door off the hinges,” Yara added with a smirk. “We were this close to sending in a retrieval team.”
The words hit wrong. Eryx blinked at them, unease growing. Those exact words. The same phrasing. Tone. The same pause before Yara’s grin.
He looked to Derin, who added, “Next time I’m turning the knob to ash. Just a warning.”
Exactly the same. A shiver ran down his spine. Not just déjà vu. Something deeper—like the world had rehearsed this moment.
Tarn looked up from his notes. “You missed the briefing, but I penciled you in as ‘fashionably late.’ So you’re covered.”
Even Kellen grinned. “Why Tarn, was that a joke I just heard? From you?" He then spoke to Eryx as he sat with the group, grabbing a bread roll andnstuffing it in his mouth. "We almost placed bets. I had you at twenty minutes before dusk.”
Eryx forced a chuckle. “Guess I needed the rest.”
“Don’t we all,” Kett said, rising to clap him on the shoulder.
It felt real. Solid. But too clean, like a loop repeating itself with perfect fidelity.
“Breakfast?” Yara asked. “Cook’s got some kind of stew again. You’ll hate it.”
“I—” Eryx started, then hesitated. “Actually, I’ve got something I need to do first.”
Kett raised a brow. “What, skipping food? You really were replaced with a doppel.”
“Let him be,” Yara said, though she gave Eryx a sidelong glance. “He’s probably still shaken. Those things nearly gutted us all.”
Eryx turned, heart thudding. “Wait… what do you mean?”
She frowned. “The dungeon? We took a beating, but we sealed the breach. Lost half the militia, few Resonants, but we got it done.”
He stared. “No. That’s not… that’s not what happened.”
“Sure it is,” Kett said, voice calm. “We pushed through. Boss never even showed. Just waves of those crawlers and the split-mouthed brutes. You really don’t remember?”
Eryx shook his head slowly.
Yara's face pinched with concern. “Maybe you should eat. You look pale. Did the healers check your head after the retreat?”
Retreat.
He stepped back from them, the room suddenly colder. They weren't lying. Weren’t even trying to hide something. They believed what they were saying.
Just like the Quest had warned:
Do not engage with locals regarding Cycle data.
His gaze lingered on Yara’s smile, warm and familiar. On Kett’s lazy swagger. Tarn’s meticulous scrawl. Kellen’s easy posture near the bar. That's when he noticed something missing. Or someone rather. Where was Nialla?
Was any of this real?
"What happened to Nialla?" Eryx asked looking around to make sure he hadn't simply missed her.
"Who?" Mira asked
"Nialla? Archer, 5'4", stands there. Menacingly?"
Mira raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing.
"Looks like we over paid those healers, is your head ok?" Kellen teased.
Whatever he was stuck in wasn't as perfect as he originally thought. Obviously once Eryx went off script, insisting the battle was different, what the others said changed too. But besides that, a whole person was just...gone, erased from existence as far as he could tell.
He glanced around at his team, really taking them in for the first time. Like him, they didn't wear the flashy enchanted gear of expert high ranked Resonants. Thier weapons and armor were fairly basic.
He wondered how the battle could have been any different considering thier obvious lack of power, let alone how they beat back the hoard and sealed the breach. He had to see for himself.
“I’ll be back,” he said, voice more brittle than he intended. “Just need air.” They didn’t stop him, just nodded, concern evident on a few of thier faces.
———
Outside, the world remained the same. The square beyond the inn was loud with the normal goings-on of the morning. The stone road was clean—no scorch marks, no bloodstains. Just sun cutting through a thin layer of morning mist.
And there—just beyond the trough—stood the cart. Rough-hewn, iron-bound, a little crooked on its rear axle. He’d know it anywhere.
Jorrin was bent over the rear, tightening a strap around stacked crates. Bren stood beside him, gesturing with both hands as he made a point that Jorrin clearly wasn’t buying.
“No, I’m saying if we’d loaded the oil after the rations—”
“Then we’d have oil-soaked bread and no way to get it out without a siphon, you idiot.”
Eryx’s breath caught in his throat.
They were supposed to be dead. He’d seen it—felt it in his bones. But there they stood, arguing like nothing had happened. Like none of it was real.
They were alive.
He walked toward them without thinking, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You two arguing over crates again? Some things never change.”
Jorrin looked up sharply. Bren straightened, both staring at him. Bren blinked. “Sorry, do I... know you?”
Eryx stopped mid-step.
“It’s me. Eryx.” They glanced at each other. Jorrin’s hand stayed on the strap of his sword, like he wasn’t sure whether to draw his blade or keep tying it.
“Don’t think we’ve met,” Jorrin said slowly. “You from one of the guilds?” Eryx’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. “No,” he said finally, forcing a breath. “Just… thought I recognized you. My mistake.”
They watched him a moment longer, then went back to work. The moment passed. Not a flicker of memory in their eyes. Not even a hint of familiarity. He turned away, the ache behind his ribs was much deeper than he’d expected.
He looked again toward the east. Toward the Unstable Zone. The trail would still be there. Workers would’ve cleared it—or someone had. It didn’t matter. He had to go back. Had to see it again.
He glanced over his shoulder at the inn, where laughter echoed softly through the shutters. It sounded just like before.
He turned away and walked to the gate.
———
The trail into the Unstable Zone was like before. He knew from his time in the militia that militia men and laborers cleared the path. Hell, he HELPED to clear the path. Trees had been hacked back just enough to form a passable path to the dungeon for a cart, though the branches still leaned in too close, gnarled limbs twisting as if in quiet protest.
Eryx moved cautiously, one hand on the hilt of his sword. The air here felt different. He’d expected that. But not like this.
It wasn’t the smell or the temperature—though both had changed. The air was heavy with the scent of damp soil and iron, and the warmth of the morning sun hadn’t followed him beneath the canopy. No, it was the way the forest moved.
Leaves quivered without wind. Trunks bent subtly as he passed, like curious animals angling for a better look. Twilight clung to everything. Even at midday, only diffuse silver light filtered through, casting long shadows that didn’t always match their source. His footsteps made no sound. No birds. No insects. Just silence, thick and pressing, interrupted only by the soft beat of his heart.
He should’ve turned back. Every step hummed with wrongness. Like the forest was waiting for him to cross some invisible line he wouldn’t come back from. But the quest prompt nagged him in the back of his mind. It felt as if he was being encouraged to keep pressing on. It echoed in his mind:
"Re-enter the Unstable Zone. Locate the breach. Do not engage with locals regarding Cycle data."
He rounded a bend in the trail and stopped.
The path forked.
That shouldn’t have been possible. In both his memory and his dream—the one with Yara and the others—the path had only ever gone straight. Direct. From the forest’s edge to the jagged ruin where the dungeon had cracked through. But here?
One trail continued east, sloping into shadow. The other veered north, where trees stood thinner and the light was slightly brighter.
The system hadn’t offered a map or a choice.
Eryx hesitated, then followed the eastern trail, the one that seemed to call to him.
It curved tightly between trees whose trunks bore strange markings—clawed spirals, etched too precisely to be natural. He passed a splintered signpost with no text, its wood blackened and half...melted? The smell of old smoke clung to it, and something else beneath—something sour and wet.
He kept walking.
Eventually, the trees parted. Literally, the trees edged apart, revealing the dungeon. He hesitated to pass tree that just moved of thier own free will, but he pressed on.
Ahead stood the breach, pulsing.
The stone arch that framed the dungeon’s entrance had been cracked in several places, as if something had tried to claw its way back out. But the frame held, just barely. And inside it—utter darkness.
No flicker of light. No drifting mana wisps common in most dungeons, though not always present. Just a doorway of endless black that thrummed like a heartbeat.
Doom-doom. Doom-doom.
The sound was almost too low to hear, more felt than heard—like pressure against the inside of his skull.
He stepped closer. The ground here was soft, uneven. Pocked with shallow craters and long gouges, as if something had scraped its way forward, then been pulled back.
A breath caught in his lungs as another message appeared:
"You were not meant to return."
Not a quest. Not a prompt. Just... that.
The letters bled into view, dark against the air itself. The moment he blinked, they were gone.
Eryx stood at the threshold.
He drew his sword, though it felt like a child’s toy in his hand now. The pulse from the dungeon deepened in tempo, syncing to the rhythm of his breath. Or maybe his breath had synced to it.
He stepped through.
And the world vanished.
