Much to my dismay, the answer was yes.

  I was alone.

  The ruins of the city loomed around me like the remains of some fallen titan, skeletal buildings jutting toward the ashen sky. The streets were littered with corpses, their forms twisted in agony—some charred beyond recognition, others half-eaten as if something had feasted upon them. Some bore the distinct perforations and shattered bone of gunfire, while others had been sliced apart by weapons far more archaic—blades, pikes, maybe even something more savage.

  I crouched beside one of the bodies, my fingers hesitating above the tattered uniform. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, its emblem burned away by heat or time. This didn’t align with what I had read. The Siege of Pendell was fought with gunpowder and magi-tech, not swords and tooth-marked flesh.

  “Was this really the gunpowder age?” I muttered to myself, frowning as I glanced down at my uniform.

  It certainly didn’t match.

  The book had forced an outfit onto me, something between an archmage’s robe and military fatigues, but it felt closer to space-age than anything tied to gunpowder. The heavy fabric carried an odd weight, as if layered with hidden protections. My fingers traced the reinforced stitching along my sleeves, and I caught sight of the bracelet strapped to my wrist—a thin band with a dull, uncut gemstone embedded in its center. As I moved, the stone flickered faintly, reacting to something unseen.

  I scanned my surroundings again. The city’s architecture, while ruined, showed clear signs of technological advancement; electrical wires, shattered glass from once-intact windows, and most tellingly, the remains of communication relay antennas. Some had been snapped like twigs, their bases blackened from an explosion. Others still stood, battered yet defiant, their runes flickering with whatever residual energy still clung to them.

  This place had Artes, Skillcubes, Providences. Providi? Whatever the plural was.

  I exhaled, taking stock of my equipment again. My robe was long and gray, its pattern oddly mixed with splashes of white and red—urban camouflage, but poorly executed, as if whoever designed it had read about military tactics rather than understood them. My gloves were dark, made of some rough, durable leather that sacrificed fine motor control for protection.

  Then there was the bandolier.

  I ran my fingers across the pouches strapped to my chest, my breath catching for a moment before I unfastened one and peered inside.

  Paper.

  Not just paper—bullets made of paper.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Whatever dictated fate in this world, whatever force had woven this narrative into the book, had at least acknowledged my Arte.

  A small comfort in a place that reeked of death. And flies.

  Flies.

  They were everywhere.

  A black, buzzing tide, shifting and swirling in lazy spirals over the corpses and remnants of what was once a thriving city. They crawled over sightless eyes, darted in and out of half-rotted mouths, and feasted on flesh too long left to the elements. Each step I took disturbed them, sending a ripple of motion through the otherwise stagnant air.

  The alleyways were filled with broken remnants—shattered wooden beams from collapsed homes, torn fabrics of once-bustling market stalls, and overturned carts now coated in dust and dried blood. This city had once been alive, filled with voices, trade, and movement. But now, death had settled on Pendell like an unchallenged tyrant, ruling in silence.

  And yet, the only life that remained?

  Flies.

  No dogs, no cats, no vermin scuttling through the debris. No domesticated farm animals cowering in the shadows. Just the dead, the ruin, and the relentless buzzing of carrion flies.

  I exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of my neck.

  "The way you conquer a historical tome is to let history happen," I reminded myself. "But this... this wasn't in the synopsis I got from my skill. Nothing even close. The siege was there, but not the aftermath…"

  I grimaced. And now you're talking to yourself out loud, Alex. Stop that.

  I clenched my jaw, pushing the habit aside, and pressed on through the ruins of Pendell. If this was the world the book had cast me into, then I needed to understand why it had deviated from the known history.

  Eventually, my aimless wandering led me to what was once a well—one of the few structures still standing. Unlike the rest of the city, it hadn’t been reduced to rubble or decay. A test crank of the bucket revealed that it was still in working order, the rope creaking as it descended.

  That was... unexpected.

  I took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The air here wasn’t thick with the scent of rot like the rest of the city. No, it reeked of acid and decayed meat, a biting, acrid stench that clung to the back of my throat. My eyes scanned the area, and the realization settled over me like a weight.

  This had been a tannery. Or maybe an entire tanner’s guild.

  The blood, the chemicals, the sickly stench of treated hides—it had all mingled with the carnage of whatever had happened here. Death had tainted everything else in Pendell, but here, the reek of industry had left its own unique signature.

  I swallowed hard, peering down into the depths of the well.

  The water was dark.

  Too dark.

  Either some of the rot of the tannery had mixed and merged into the water, or the water was not pure of any shape of the imagination. In either possibility, I was not risking my body with the acrid display of sludge and sewage that could have contaminated the water supply. Moving on from the well, I started searching the building. If I was going to…

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  I felt my neck slowly detach from my body. As my head and body evaporated into dust.

  ***

  Demeterra's voice was sharp enough to cut through stone.

  "You really had him go into that?"

  Her words carried the weight of something far greater than mere disapproval—this was fury restrained by the thinnest thread of patience. The very air in the chamber grew heavy, thick with unspoken threats.

  Morres, in stark contrast, barely seemed fazed. He let out a long, drawn-out yawn, stretching his arms as though he had just awoken from a pleasant nap. Only when he was finished with his leisurely motions did he finally turn his gaze toward the Dominus.

  "You suddenly care about what happens to Bibliokinetics, Bookdwellers, and Tomewalkers? Since when?" His tone was casual, almost mocking, but his eyes held a glint of something far sharper.

  Demeterra’s lips pressed into a thin line, but it wasn’t anger that flashed in her gaze—it was something colder. Calculated. Dangerous.

  "I care about people violating the laws of time, Morres." Her voice was quieter now, but all the more dangerous for it. "You threw him into a temporal anomaly. Do you even understand what you've done?"

  Morres shrugged, unbothered. "Yet it was not the laws of your domain that were violated. Therefore, you have no power over it." He met her gaze unflinchingly. "Until he answers the question he needs to ask, he will be there."

  A silence stretched between them, taut as a wire. Then—

  "The only reason I’m not burning you alive and feeding your ashes to the harvest is because if I do," Demeterra said, her voice like a slow-moving storm, "Pandora’s Box would devour me and my faction alive."

  Morres smirked, leaning back ever so slightly. "Then, like all, you must obey the only law that this universe has."

  His voice dropped to a whisper, yet it echoed through the chamber as though carried by something far older than either of them.

  "Power respects power."

  ***

  [Loop 2, Initiate]

  I found myself standing once again in the middle of the ruined city, right where I had started. My breath came in ragged gasps, my heart hammering against my ribs as though it sought escape. The remnants of fear and confusion from what had just happened coursed through me like venom. My hands trembled as I instinctively reached for my neck, fingers skimming over unbroken skin. Still attached. No sign of a wound. No scar. No lingering pain. And yet, I knew, with absolute certainty, that I had just died.

  "What in the five hells just happened?" I whispered to no one but myself.

  I forced my breathing to slow, steadied the rising panic, and tried to piece it together. I had been at the well, examining the water. Had something crept up behind me? Cleaved my head from my shoulders in one fell stroke? It was possible. But unlikely. My instincts weren’t dulled enough to miss something like that—not here, in this city that reeked of death and decay.

  Morres had sent me here as a test. That much, I understood. It was the final step before I could claim my first Shell’s Cubes and ascend to Soul Realm 2. Almost anyone could reach SR2 with enough effort. The challenge wasn’t the process—it was the parity of the cubes, finding the right ones to match my core. That was the true test. And yet, none of that explained this. A reset? A rewind? A temporal anomaly? I ground my teeth. I hated time-based nonsense.

  A sharp whisper of air was all the warning I got. I rolled to the side, barely avoiding the sickle-like object that cut through the space where I had been standing. The blade sank into the stone road, splintering it with a sharp crack before it was yanked free.

  I sprang to my feet, my eyes locking onto my attacker. What stood before me was a grotesque hybrid—a fusion of mantis, carrion fly, and something else I couldn’t immediately place. It had four arms, each ending in curved sickle-blades that gleamed in the dim light. Its chitinous body pulsed with unnatural motion, the flickering remnants of something half-decayed and half-reborn.

  I reacted instinctively, raising my hand and sending a paper bullet flying toward it. The creature's leg shot out, slicing through the paper mid-flight, reducing it to a flurry of confetti. Too fast. Too precise.

  I adapted. I didn't need singular bullets—I needed swarm tactics. The shredded confetti responded to my call, shifting in the air, weaving itself into the form of an insect to mimic my assailant. But the moment I began shaping it—I felt the bite of steel piercing my back.

  My breath hitched. I looked down to see the blade protruding from my chest, slick with my blood. And as my vision darkened, I finally understood.

  The flies.

  They weren’t just scavengers.

  They were them.

  I snapped back into existence at the same starting point, my lungs heaving, my heart still echoing the agony of my last breath. My hand went to my chest, expecting to feel the warm slickness of blood. Nothing. Just fabric and the steady rise and fall of breath that I no longer trusted.

  Think. Adapt. I wasn’t just fighting one enemy—I was fighting a hive. Each of those flies was a fragmented piece of the larger predators. They weren’t just watching. They were hunting, waiting for the right moment to coalesce.

  I had to change the battlefield.

  I pulled at my Arte, sending out a storm of paper in all directions, flooding the alleyway in a blinding flurry. If I couldn’t outfight them directly, I’d outmaneuver them. The flies responded instantly, converging toward me, but this time, I was ready.

  Paper wasn’t just paper—it was mine. The moment they swarmed, I twisted my fingers, reshaping my conjured storm into a shifting dome, a makeshift barrier of layered paper. The creatures crashed into it, their momentum driving their bladed limbs through the material, but I didn’t stop. My control extended beyond just forming paper—I could weave it.

  I wrapped them in ink and fiber, forcing the pages to constrict around their bodies, to bind their limbs, to suffocate the swarm before it could fully reform. A screech filled the air, high-pitched and grating, a death cry shared by a dozen throats as my paper crushed them into dust.

  The remnants of their bodies collapsed, turning into a sickly, decayed mist. The flies that had once buzzed through the streets fell silent.

  I exhaled, steadying myself, but I knew better than to relax completely. This wasn’t over. If this was a test, then Morres wouldn’t let me pass just for handling one ambush.

  I glanced at the ruined structures around me, taking in the destruction with new eyes. The reset wasn’t just my body—it was everything. The moment I died, the city reverted to its initial state. Which meant every time I failed, I would be thrown back to the beginning, forced to fight through the same horror again and again.

  I pressed my fingers against the ring that had formed on my left hand when I arrived. The Evoker. I didn’t know its full purpose yet, but it had to be part of my kit for a reason. If this battlefield was locked into a cycle, then maybe…

  I raised my hand and focused. The ring pulsed. The world shuddered. The streets flickered, momentarily overlayed with what seemed to be another version of the city—a brief glimpse into the past. I saw movement—civilians running, soldiers forming makeshift barricades, the city still alive.

  And then it faded.

  A temporal echo.

  I clenched my fist. If I could tap into that, I might be able to break the cycle. Find a way to outmaneuver the loop entirely. But I needed more information, and I needed to survive long enough to get it.

  I turned my gaze back toward the ruins, steeling myself. The city of Pendell held answers. And I was going to tear through time itself if I had to in order to find them.