A few days later
Jayar was walking through the woods and felt a strange burning sensation in his head.
It was lunchtime. After a while, he felt that someone was chasing him, but there was no one around. And the sensors don't show anyone within a kilometer radius.
It wasn't a dream, it was the reality that someone was there.
???:"Whoo~ Did I scare you?"
Jayar turned around at the familiar voice and saw Kiwooin.
Jayar in complete shock, could only say: "you?"
???:"Kiwooin? No. Let me get this straight."
It took on the appearance of a man that the circle officially accepted as dead. This is Dugan.
Jayar was more and more confused about what was going on. But I knew for sure that none of this was real.
"I'm imagining you. Is that right?" he said with disgust. "so who or what are you really?"
???: "I shall be your guide into the Fulchiva clan. You may address me as you will, and, should it ease your mind, I can assume his form."The words spoken in Dugan's voice and appearance don't inspire confidence in Jayar
"It's kind of weird to hear that from a pseudo-dugan, Too kind words... Dugan probably wouldn't have told me that." Jayar said.
A voice drifted through the silence, smooth and unsettling, as though it already knew the answer to the question Jayar hadn't asked.
"I can take the form of an old friend, if it makes things easier. Kayav? Or Felix?"
Before Jayar could reply, the air shimmered. A figure stood before him, brightening into Kayav's likeness. The face, the voice, even the tilt of the shoulders—it was all perfectly familiar, yet it rang false. The imitation howled of something almost real, but not quite.
Jayar's breath caught. "You… really?"
Kayav's mouth curved into a ghost of a smile.
"Not really. I'm in your head. But there are those who can see me, too—the Fulchiva, or the Ootsoro clan, or…"
Jayar winced, clutching his temples. "Is it because of that man I feel this burning in my skull?"
A faint beeping broke through the haze. His sensor flickered, painting a single point on the map, too close for comfort.
The figure of Kayav tilted his head. "No. And yes. He's… the K.L."
A chill tore down Jayar's spine. His body went rigid.
What should I do? Panic crashed through his chest, clawing at his lungs. I feel sick. He's K.L.!
And then, with a lurch that defied sense, Jayar found himself at home. The walls of his room surrounded him, too ordinary, too fragile. Yet the knowledge remained, gnawing: someone—that someone—was nearby.
Unease rooted itself deep in him, heavier than the mark on his arm.
After a time, the sound of footsteps reached the door, steady and deliberate, as though each tread carried intent.
Then, with a sudden crash, the door swung wide and slammed against the wall. Framed in the dim light of the threshold stood K. L.'s youngest son, his presence filling the space before he had even spoken a word.
Jayar blinked, confusion piercing through the haze. This wasn't his home. The walls were rough, timbered, smelling of damp and age. The floor beneath him was strewn with hay, scratchy against his skin. He lay sprawled there, his body unresponsive, heat coursing through his veins as though fire had been poured into them.
His head throbbed with a relentless buzzing; a sharp ringing crowded his ears until it drowned out the world. Every breath pulled in the acrid sting of smoke—thick, unfamiliar, and suffocating.
The barn seemed to tilt around him, shadows bending with the smoke, and in that distortion, the figure at the door loomed larger, darker, inevitable.
Jayar's vision swam, the edges of the world bending under the weight of pain. Through the haze he saw movement — the figure of Dunakai advancing slowly, each step deliberate, echoing against the wooden floor.
Something cold — or perhaps burning — touched his forehead. A small object, pressed gently yet firmly against his skin. For a heartbeat the world tore open inside him. His body convulsed. Heat surged once more, then shattered, vanishing as though someone had ripped the fire out by its roots. The agony collapsed into silence.
When Jayar opened his eyes again, the barn was gone. He was no longer lying on straw but on the familiar softness of his own bed. The dim outlines of his true home surrounded him, every shadow and corner exactly as he had left them. His chest rose and fell evenly, no longer burdened by the fire that had consumed him.
By his side sat a man in a long coat — a physician, his hands calm and precise, his gaze steady. Not just any doctor, but one with the quiet air of long practice and rare skill.
"You're awake," the doctor said, his voice low and professional.
Jayar struggled to form the question, his throat still dry. "Who… who sent you?"
The physician did not hesitate. "I was asked to watch over you. The request was made anonymously. Payment was generous, and in full. That is all I know."
Jayar lay still for a long while, staring at the ceiling as the physician quietly prepared his instruments. The familiar walls around him should have brought comfort, yet they only deepened his unease. His body was safe, the fire gone, but his mind… his mind refused to settle.
Was it truly a dream? The barn, the smoke, Dunakai's approach, the object burning against his forehead — had all of it been nothing more than a fevered illusion?
Or had he crossed a boundary too fragile to see, a line between reality and madness?
Jayar pressed a trembling hand to his temple. The ringing in his ears had faded, but the echo of that other world lingered like a shadow at the edge of his thoughts.
He whispered to himself, though the doctor did not seem to notice:
"Am I dreaming… or am I losing my mind?"
The silence that followed offered no answer.