Chapter 13 — Grandfather's Notebooks II
Soma put down the leather notebook, his hands still tingling from the weight of its revelations. Slowly, he reached for the second one. Its cover was plainer, but on the front page, in bold letters, stood a name that made his chest tighten:
"Haris Jaswan — August 2001."
His grandfather.
Soma's breath caught. His fingers trembled as he opened the notebook. Between the first pages, something was folded. He pulled it free carefully. The material was strange—thick, smooth, almost like plastic.
When he unfolded it, his eyes widened.
A map.
Drawn across the sheet was a vast island, roughly oval in shape. Thick black paint outlined its edges, the dark borders like the marks of a prison wall. At the center of the island, twin mountains rose, their peaks inked with sharp, jagged strokes like fangs biting into the sky.
The more Soma studied it, the more details emerged.
To the north and south, mountain ranges coiled like spines, their slopes wrapped in dense forest. To the east, desert sands stretched outward, vast and unforgiving, painted in long streaks of ochre and gold. In the northeast, a giant lake glittered in pale blue, its rim etched with rocky wastelands that looked barren and lifeless. A river cut through the western edge, splitting into tributaries that wound like veins through lowland marshes. In the far south, canyons split the earth, deep gouges like scars carved into the land. Near the central mountains, jagged black lines marked volcanoes, their peaks capped with smoke-like shading, warning of fire beneath the ground.
Soma frowned. Something was missing.
He checked again. Where is the red mangrove forest? It should have been there, smothering the northern swamps—but on this map, there was none. His pulse quickened. Has the landscape changed? Or did Grandfather see a different world than I did?
At the bottom of the map, a line of bold capital letters jolted him:
"APPROXIMATELY 3,000,000 SQUARE MILES."
The scale left him dizzy. This world wasn't just a pocket realm—it was the size of a continent. A horizon that mocked escape, stretching into an unchanging sun.
He flipped the page in excitement.
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Page One
The handwriting was sharp and focused.
> I decided that I will make a watch.
A healthy human breathes approximately 12–20 times in one minute. Using this as a measurement, I began working. I created a large glass container, carved a dent into its base so water could drip out. Then I matched the rhythm of each drop with my breathing. Twenty drops equaled one minute. Twelve hundred drops equaled one hour.
Next, I created a second glass container and filled it with water. At the waterline, I marked a black horizontal line, then added twenty-four more, evenly spaced.
I built a stone frame to hold both containers, placing one above the other. Water poured into the second container, falling with steady precision.
Seeing my creation working wonderfully, after so long, I laughed.
Soma lifted his head toward the shattered contraption inside the dome—the broken glass containers stacked within stone grooves. His throat tightened. Now I understand… this was Grandfather's clock.
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Page Two
The second page stopped him cold.
A painting, faded yet unmistakable, stared back at him. A couple stood hand in hand, and beside them—two boys.
Soma's vision blurred. He didn't need to guess. The man and woman were his grandparents. The children—their sons—were his father, Arjun, and his uncle, Rajiv.
His chest ached with a raw, unexpected longing. He reached out, tracing their faces with trembling fingers, as if the fragile paint might answer him. Memories rushed in—his father's tired smile, his grandmother's warm voice, the faint smell of incense that clung to their home. All of it here, trapped inside this world like echoes in a jar.
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Page Three
The handwriting grew frantic.
> Once again, a blinding light burst from my body. In that instant, for a fraction of a second, I saw the same silver rune I had found carved in the ancient temple in South America.
Soma's pulse quickened. So Grandfather had seen the rune too…
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Page Four
The fourth page bore another painting. Rough strokes, uneven rings—seven circles drawn imperfectly. At the center, a closed eye.
Soma exhaled sharply. He knew it instantly.
The silver rune.
---
The next page was blank.
He flipped again. Another—empty.
One by one he turned the pages, his movements growing more frantic. The rest of the notebook was bare, silent.
Soma closed his eyes, clutching the book against his chest. Why? Why is it empty? Did Grandfather stop writing… or did something happen to him?
A thought flickered. He remembered a photograph—his parents' wedding anniversary in 2005. Grandfather had been there, smiling faintly in the corner of the picture.
Soma let out a heavy breath of relief. Yes. He must have escaped. Somehow, he escaped this world.
But his relief was short-lived. Neither notebook—leather or paper—revealed how.
No instructions. No way out.
Soma clenched his jaw. Then I have no choice. I'll follow in Grandfather's footsteps.
First, I need souls. As many as I can gather.
His eyes lit with a plan. And I know the perfect place to start hunting.
From the storage box, he gripped a stone dagger and soared into the sky, heading for the riverside.
From above, the landscape unfurled beneath him. There—an anthill, twice his height, jutting from the ground like a fortress tower.
Soma descended, landing silently. With the dagger, he carved a narrow channel, drawing water from the river and guiding it toward the anthill. Then he piled rocks and logs against the entrance, sealing it tight. At last, he stabbed another opening into the mound and connected it to the water stream.
A rumble shook the earth. The ground vibrated as if a hundred elephants were stampeding beneath the soil.
The anthill burst open. Thousands of ants exploded outward, desperate to escape the flooding water. Their chittering roars filled the air.
And with them—souls.
Hundreds of fist-sized white souls shimmered like fireflies, rising into the sky. Soma stretched out his hand, absorbing them one by one until his chest glowed with an euphoric chill.
Yet as he watched the survivors scatter, frustration burned in him. Too many are escaping. This method is clumsy.
His gaze shifted back toward the ruined dome. I need something better.
He returned to the igloo house, searching until he found a jagged shard of broken glass. Holding it up, sunlight refracted sharply across its edge. A smile crept across his lips.
After returning to the riverbank, he gathered dry wood and brush. Kneeling, he used the shard as a magnifying glass, igniting the tinder into flame. Smoke curled upward as the fire spread.
He found another anthill, larger than the first—over twenty feet long, towering near the riverside.
Working quickly, Soma blocked the entrances with branches and wood. Then he sent a stream of water snaking toward the mound. Finally, he tossed burning brush onto the barricade. Flames devoured the wood, sending waves of smoke into the tunnels.
Inside, chaos erupted. Ants screeched and fled deeper underground, fleeing fire and smoke. Soma stabbed a fresh hole into the mound and funneled the water inside.
The ground shook violently. A moment later, thousands of shimmering souls poured upward, scattering like sparks.
Soma opened himself to them. One after another, he absorbed them into his chest, filling himself with icy fire. His vision blurred—then a radiant brilliance burst from his skin, a flare of power that rippled through the air. The light was a beacon—an unspoken call.
At once, the scattered souls abandoned their drift and swarmed to him, drawn like iron to a magnet. They pierced into his chest in a flood of light until none remained.
Soma lowered his hands slowly, staring at his reflection in the river's surface. His arms shimmered faintly. His face glowed pale.
A strange laugh bubbled from his throat. The notebook was right. Like Grandfather… I can draw souls without even touching them.
He wasted no time.
One anthill after another fell to his relentless assault. Six mounds destroyed, rivers of ants drowned or burned. But soon the survivors adapted. Sensing smoke everywhere, they abandoned their nests and marched in disciplined lines toward the forest. Their rhythmic march made the ground tremble.
From the air, Soma hurled stones at their columns, scattering bodies with every strike.
Then, as he pursued, he noticed beneath a massive tree, seven colossal anthills rose like ancient towers. Around them, the ground was littered with bones and tufts of animal hair. These ants were different—larger, darker, their bodies gleaming obsidian black.
The black ants stirred. Their antennae touched, quivering rapidly, feeling the tremors of the approaching red army.
Sensing an intruder, the black ants poured forth. In a frenzy, they clashed with the fleeing red ants.
The battlefield erupted into horror.
Black ants slashed with sickle-like mandibles, ripping red bodies in half. The red ants fought back with desperate fury, raising their abdomens before death. They burst like bombs, spraying streams of green acid that hissed and melted the black ants' flesh.
Screeches filled the air. Ants writhed and convulsed as they dissolved, their bodies collapsing into steaming heaps.
Soma hovered above, stunned by the savagery. I don't understand why they're fighting… but this is good for me.
Souls burst from the carnage—hundreds, then thousands—rising in clouds of light. those Scattered souls flocked to him without resistance, and Soma absorbed them greedily, his body shining brighter and brighter. Another blinding surge coursed through him, leaving his skin buzzing, his veins alive with icy lightning.
This light…
He stared at his hands, almost laughing.
If the notebooks were right, then like Grandfather, I can bend the world itself.
To test it, Soma snatched a dry branch. Closing his eyes, he willed it into the shape of a sword. Slowly—impossibly—the wood stretched and hardened in his grip. Sketchy, uneven, imperfect—but unmistakably, it had taken the form of a blade.
His chest pounded. I can create anything.
He grabbed two yellow leaves from the ground, pressing them together. At once, they fused into a small pouch, seamless and sturdy. He tied it to his waist, marveling at how natural it felt—grown, not made.
After filling the pouch with stones, Soma flew back toward the igloo house, his eyes burning with new purpose.
After returning to the house, Soma sat in silence for a moment, his breathing steadying. The rush of absorbing so many souls still lingered faintly in his veins, but his body looked and felt normal again—no glow, no vibration. As always, the light faded quickly, leaving only the memory of power.
He clenched his fists. If he wanted to continue hunting successfully, raw strength alone would not be enough. He needed weapons.
Without wasting time, Soma stepped back outside. The air was heavy with the scent of damp soil and charred wood from the fires he had left behind. The forest loomed around him, silent except for the distant cries of unseen beasts.
One by one, he gathered what he needed: a thick tree branch sturdy enough to shape, several broad leaves still dripping with dew, and a handful of rough sand scooped from the riverside. Each material felt ordinary in his hands, yet he knew they would soon be something else entirely.
Back inside the igloo, he laid them out carefully. Drawing a slow breath, he reached for the branch. With his will alone, the fibers bent and twisted, creaking as if alive. The wood softened in his grip, curving until it took the shape of a bow.
A thrill sparked through him. It was crude, imperfect, but unmistakably a weapon.
Next, he turned to the leaves. Their green flesh shimmered faintly as his fingers traced their edges. Under his command, the veins stretched and tightened, weaving together into a strong, flexible string. He tied it across the bow, testing the tension with a careful pull. The faint snap of it under strain made him grin.
From the leftover wood, he shaped arrows—short, straight shafts tipped with hardened splinters. They looked rough, but when he held them in his hand, they carried weight and promise.
Finally, he opened his palm and let the sand slide through his fingers. Closing his fist, he willed it to change. The coarse grains pressed together, fusing until they hardened into smooth, translucent glass. Slowly, he shaped it into a small storage flask, its surface cold and gleaming. It would be perfect for carrying the ants' deadly acid.
When at last he finished, Soma sat back and studied his work: a bow strung with living fiber, a slingshot cut from leaves, a handful of arrows, and a glass flask that caught the dim light of the igloo. For the first time, he felt prepared—not just surviving, but planning, creating.
Then his eyes drifted to the side.
On his right stood the broken glass storage his grandfather had built, the stone frame still holding two stacked containers. Using his power, Soma repaired the cracked glass with sand, reshaping it until it gleamed whole again. He poured water into the top container. Slowly, the first drops began to fall, dripping into the basin below with a steady, patient rhythm. Soma leaned closer, listening to the sound, watching carefully.
A short while later, the waterline touched the very first horizontal mark.
A slight smile curved across his lips. The clock was working perfectly.
Grandfather's hands had once carved those lines, counting every drop to measure the passing of time in a world where the sun never moved. Now it was his turn.
Soma rested his bow across his knees and let the sound of dripping water fill the silence. He had weapons. He had power. And for the first time since stepping into this world, he had a way forward.