Chapter 5: Echoes of the Past
John stood frozen by the doorway, his fingers hovering over the knob as if some unseen force was pulling him back.
"In this small town, in the far east corner of India, why is there such mystery?"
The thought echoed through his mind. Ukhrul—his birthplace, his childhood sanctuary—had never felt unfamiliar. But now, after mere hours, everything had shifted. The air tasted heavier, the shadows felt deeper, and his past suddenly felt woven into something much larger than himself.
He exhaled, his gaze falling to the doorknob.
A memory surfaced, vivid and aching.
His mother—smiling, her hand gently turning this very knob as she woke him up each morning.
That warmth lingered, fragile and distant.
Slowly, he pushed the door open.
Light from the window greeted him, spilling golden warmth across the room.
It looked unchanged—the bed tucked neatly in the corner, the bookshelf standing at the foot, a chair beside a modest desk. Everything stood where he left it, frozen in time for the past two years.
John stepped inside, his movements slow, cautious.
But his mind raced, still drowning in the events of mere minutes ago.
---
Holding the spear had been too much. It wasn't just the weight of its metal in his hand—it was what came with it. The moment his fingers curled around its shaft, reality fractured.
A shadow—an unnatural distortion, unfamiliar Facesand places, rushing past him like streaks of color as if he was in a fast moving vehicle—but his mind had been too overwhelmed to grasp its words.
Then, pain.
A sharp, excruciating pulse through his skull, like his brain was tearing apart under the strain of something it wasn't meant to witness.
His own voice had ripped through the silence, a cry he barely recognized as his own.
The spear had slipped from his grasp, colliding with the stone floor with a piercing metallic ring.
And his uncle had been there. John barely recalled his hands gripping his shoulders, the subtle panic in Haorei's usually composed face.
"Are you alright?"
The urgency in his tone had been impossible to ignore.
John had struggled to regain himself, pulling in ragged breaths before he finally spoke.
"I don't know," he had murmured. "Too many images—floating, rushing—I couldn't make sense of them."
His uncle had exhaled deeply, eyes searching his face for answers. Then, he had simply nodded.
"Alright. We'll talk tomorrow. Go Rest." And just look a the young man retreating in a silent.
---
John sank into his bed, staring at the ceiling.
His muscles ached with exhaustion. His mind was in chaos.
"Don't overthink it," he muttered to himself, forcing the thought into existence.
But he already knew he couldn't ignore it.
The visions weren't random.
The spear wasn't just a relic.
And somehow—somewhere—a piece of himself had begun awakening to something far beyond his understanding.
His breath finally steadied.
And soon, darkness took over.
---
The corridors echoed with hurried footsteps, each sound reverberating through the vast halls like a distant drumbeat.
A messenger moved swiftly, the weight of urgency pressing against his every step. In his grasp was an envelope—its seal marked by a crest, shaped like a crown, carrying significance far beyond mere correspondence.
Arriving at a large office door, he halted, exhaling quietly before announcing his presence.
"Sir, there's a letter for you."
A pause.
Then, a voice—calm yet commanding.
"Come in."
The messenger entered with unwavering composure, his movements practiced and disciplined. He strode to the desk, placed the sealed envelope before the man seated behind it, and retreated just as smoothly—his role was complete, his duty fulfilled.
The middle-aged man barely acknowledged the messenger's arrival, his focus consumed by the documents before him, his fine black pen decorated with gold pheonix resting between his fingers.
He finally set the pen down, eyes shifting to the envelope. His brows furrowed the moment he noticed the crest. A sigh escaped him—half frustration, half resignation.
Slowly, deliberately, he opened it, his fingers careful yet unhesitant.
The moment his eyes scanned the contents within, his posture stiffened.
Within seconds, he rose from his chair, his once-calm demeanor now burdened by purpose.
Without another moment wasted, he left the room.
The world outside would soon shift.
---
Across various locations, the same routine played out.
Letters were delivered.
Seals were broken.
---
Haorei sat comfortably in his office, leaning back into his chair with a practiced ease, fingers tapping absently against the wooden surface.
His eyes drifted toward the letter before him, the same crown-marked seal staring back at him. He chuckled, shaking his head.
"In this era, writing letters is getting a little ridiculous."
His words held amusement, yet beneath them, an unspoken weight lingered.
He glanced upward at the empty ceiling, smiling faintly—as if grasping onto an old, distant memory. Then, his expression shifted.
The smile vanished.
In its place—anger.