「Broken Compass」The Waiting Door

Chapter 23

The eerie silence of this old, yet unsettlingly unchanged, environment engulfed Hoku as if time had rewound in a single, disorienting moment.

As time blurred, passing without measure, his senses slowly crawled back to him. First, the feeling of something cold, almost sludgy, soaking beneath him.

Is this… water? No, it was too shallow for that. A puddle at best.

His fingers twitched, brushing the surface beneath the cold liquid.

His disorientation was only getting worse with each time he inexplicably sank into his surroundings.

It had finally reached a point where his own body refused to respond to quick movement.

He squinted his eyes slightly open, blinking through the daze.

The light... appeared wrong.

He had been in the middle of a glum forest just moments ago, surrounded by trees and frenzied voices.

But it seemed now—he was inside.

He lay there for a moment, fixated on a low ceiling, uncertain if making the slightest movement would stir another unseen presence.

His breath caught; there was a heavy unease resting atop his chest.

Gradually, he forced himself to inhale deeply, willing the creeping paranoia to perish from his heart, and eventually, he eased himself into an upright position.

He was by himself inside of a room.

The walls were riddled with cracks, their surface worn and weathered, tangled with snaking vines.

It wouldn't surprise him if he was the first person to "step foot" here in years.

There was an unnaturally bright light that poured in through a door standing slightly open, as if waiting for him.

He tried pushing himself the rest of the way to his feet.

He couldn't avoid focusing on the way his own heart was thumping so strongly against his chest, and how it emphasized the confusion and dread that hadn't left him since he awoke in the manor.

"This is technically my own fault," he huffed, placing his hand on his knee for balance.

He glanced down, realizing his old clothing had been placed back over his body, though unfortunately, the entire back of his coat and pants were soaked with the water that trickled back into the immensely large puddle on the floor.

"What was this place?"

He ran a hand through his damp hair, the air heavy with a smell he couldn't quite place—earthy, yet sterile.

This environment felt... off. Time itself seemed to be in limbo—like it wasn't flowing right here.

"I don't like this… it's-it's too quiet," he whispered, tucking his arms under his hands to squeeze them closer to his sides.

He gazed at the door, squinting against the harsh light spilling through the wide gap.

It wasn't the soft sunlight he'd seen filtering through the trees before.

It was sharper, cutting through the gloom, almost too perfect for this dilapidated room.

He swallowed hard, trying to calm his breathing, but the silence... it was crushing. No wind, no rustle of leaves, no distant murmur of life. Just... stillness.

Loneliness had been such a constant in that house, it made up most of his memories before all this 'Sequel,' Timestream—whatever the hell it is.

So... why now do I suddenly—

"You have quite an unpredictable nature."

He nearly leapt out of his skin as the familiar voice reverberated from somewhere disturbingly near.

Panic flared for a moment, but it quickly faded as recognition settled in—he knew that voice.

You again? He didn't bother saying it aloud, but his surprise only intensified when the voice answered, as if it had heard him anyway.

"You remember me?" the voice drifted in again, mysteriously shredding through from no direction.

"Huh? How did you hear me?"

The voice went dormant again.

He furrowed his expression. "Ah-"

It wasn't coming from around him; no, it seemed to rise from the corners of his mind, threading through the cracks in the walls.

"..."

"Of course, I believe you've already spoken to me more than once," he responded after a moment.

"Correct, I've spoken thrice, but you have never been alone once," she said.

"What is going on? Did I die?" Upon asking, he was startled by his composure.

A momentary pause hung in the room, punctuated by the nearly indistinct sound of a muffled giggle.

"Are—are you laughing?" he asked, his cheeks warming for some unknown reason.

"Oh… you heard that? Please forgive me, I meant nothing by it. I simply find so much irony in your cluelessness," the voice replied slowly. It continued in a steady tone, "You are not dead. This space is your immunity—I suppose you could consider it like a waiting room with only you, but it always changes to reflect a part of your memory."

"Perhaps this is why you don't have an astrapie," she murmured after a pause, though he could tell easily that she had intended that for herself.

Immunity? Immunity from what? Can I leave? A whirlwind of questions rushed through his mind, making it difficult to keep them in check as he realized she was capable of hearing what he did not convey beyond thoughts.

A faint comfort settled in when the voice answered with a gentle understanding of his situation, as she proceeded to politely reply.

"The 'tax' your companions endure when they traverse epochs or mantras doesn't affect you. While their realities shift, a powerful defense within you awakens instantly. This realm mirrors a part of your consciousness called 'dream.' It protects your memories, cloaking them in an illusion to guard against alteration," she patiently explained.

"'Dream?' If this is a dream, why is it so bare? There's nothing here but peeling walls with a greenish tint."

"Well, there is something. It's precisely because you harbor so much guilt that you see nothing but a room of your repression. You and I are experiencing two different atmospheres in this moment."

"Do you see something beyond this dingy room?"

"I do. I see the tragedy that sealed your memories in your first sequence."

The warmth that bloomed in his cheeks dispelled as his concern about their knowledge of his predicament—which he was unable to recall—dawned.

...You know what happened? He resorted to asking in his head after being unable to form words aloud.

"Given this place, like the first, may have been a traumatic commemoration for your past to bear, it is only reasonable that this 'dingy room' is what you would dream of," the voice answered.

"It is not too different from what it would look like had it been left alone," she added with a solemn drop in her volume.

"Please tell me! Tell me how I can see what you are seeing!" His voice wavered, teetering on desperation.

He had done his best to brush aside her cryptic riddles and distinguish the most essential answers to this universe.

Wait... why does this feel dreadfully familiar?

He realized this wasn't entirely different from his experience before.

Even in his original world, he had always been disconnected—from the people, the surroundings, and even from himself.

"You referred to this illusion as 'trauma...' is it because you perceive that not remembering trauma is more sound when set at the side of lacking a place in reality??"

The waver of silence yielded for a bit longer before, finally, "My apologies... but I can't answer any more questions."

"Why? Why won't anyone tell me what happened? My uncle, the physicians—they're all so indifferent, just saying I nearly drowned, but they leave out the vital pieces: where was I when it happened, what decisions had I made that placed me there, and who the fuck I even am!" He wondered if his thoughts were somehow amplifying, or if his voice was naturally rising out of agitation.

"You misunderstand, Hoku. It is not a matter of me not wanting to tell you, but that I only know… what you've told me. We are out of time. You needn't burden yourself with these circumstances so soon."

His jaw tightened, and he could feel a vein pulsing on one side.

...

"Before departing this universe, you will have received all of the answers you seek. I can deliver that as a promise."

"How do you—"

Before he could finish asking how she knew, the voice began to reply, yet the words were abruptly lost to him.

"Lie down, if you want to wake up."

He hesitated, dumbfounded, like a sculpted prop in the center of the room.

"You must do it now if you want to leave this place!" her voice pressured, nearly matching the desperation he showed as she calmly conversed.

"Wake up? So this is an actual dream? You weren't using 'dream' as a metaphor?"

He glanced around, suddenly more aware of his surroundings.

The vines that had once looked dull, like the last remnants of a dying plant, now had flowers—roses, deep red, almost glowing on the dim walls.

They crawled up the walls, spreading in wild patterns, turning this broken room into something… different. Beautiful, even.

"Not completely, no. What you are experiencing is not the full extent of a dream, but— that's not important right now! Hoku, please take my instructions seriously," she pleaded, pulling him from his reverie of red flowers.

His legs felt weak nearly as if he were being drawn in by the consequences of abstaining from days of sleep—and before he could understand what was happening to him, he did what the voice told him to do.

He lay down on the water.

The flowers grew closer, their red petals brushing against his skin, soft like silk, but something was namelessly troubling regarding everything.

Hoku's head met the solid ground, closing near the surface of the puddle.

Slowly, the flowers covered him, spreading over his chest and arms, curling around him like they were latching onto their last origin of life.

He didn't resist it; he wasn't sure if he even could.

He stared up at the ceiling, at the light spilling from the door, and felt his eyes growing heavier.

The flowers continued to climb, and his vision blurred, the space fading into their veil.

Will you… still be here? Even what he could compose in his mind seemed to resonate through the thickening fog.

"To restore the original sequence, you must traverse the epochs chosen by its mysterious architect.

You should have grasped by now—

…that this Sequel is more than mere chance—it is intricately—

…bound—

..to your—

..very—

..essence."

The voice began to break apart, its resonance scattering into fragments, becoming distant and intangible within seconds.

Another versant pressure asserted itself from within him as if he'd been plunged into deep waters.

Pressure swelled around him, heavy and all-encompassing.

He became aware of the darkness behind his eyelids, and in that stillness, tiny, distant 'stars' flickered like glimmers of light beneath the waves, though he knew his eyes remained closed.

Terror gnawed at his chest as the heaviness pressed in tighter and started to suffocate him.

H-help me! It feels like... I'm—!

The plea reverberated, fading into empty space until it became nothing more than the echo of his own voice.

A sting flared across a different cheek, a vivid spark that pulled him back from the bane of a recurring 'dream.'

It was then that Hoku recalled—he was no longer in his uncle's library or the forest with Yu-ze. The last thing he had seen before his vision was shrouded was the door—still ajar, standing as though it had been awaiting him with an unnerving sense of expectance.

The Memoir Chapter 18

To Whom It May Concern,

This is to address 'Patient' 0000. An official death certificate has been issued for the witness who fled the facility, and it is presumed they drowned after their body was recovered twenty-three miles from RedQuadrant in Phanes. We have redirected most of our resources to Aion to preserve evidence for the successful formulas I intend to integrate into the Timestream.

Regardless of whether we come under investigation, we must proceed with code white. I will allow two days for your response; if I do not receive any communication by then, I will instruct the staff from YellowQuadrant to humanely euthanize the remaining patients. 

If all goes according to plan and we successfully manipulate a sequence, this will merely mark our first trial.

Weather Ann Mare.

To: "The Abundant Creator"

Rule 22

The Navigator insists he hears a voice that speaks to him at random instants. 'Reader', please don't be alarmed; we've ruled out any signs of psychosis. It seems to be a spectator who feeds off your presence in dreams. This ability is exclusive to the Sequels. Since Feiyu is a sequence, he cannot escape the erosion of his memories. I struggle to comprehend why you differ from... well, your former self, but it may be linked to why 'Zhou Fang' is hiding you from the Creator. While his methods are somewhat—harsh—they might be preferable to enduring another eighty thousand centuries of imprisonment.

Exchange trust and create a bond with the entity while you still can, because its sacrifice may become an imperative alternative in the future.

-The Second Quota's end-

To be continued…