THE STORY CONTINUES.....
Chapter — The Other Night
Armin thinking about a strange dream that he start having after the day he was captured restrained by the merchants during that time.
Armin did not fall asleep.
He collapsed.
His body gave up before his mind did—blood dried on his skin, mana scorched into his veins, the bell's echo still vibrating somewhere behind his ribs. When darkness took him, it was not gentle. It was violent, like being dragged underwater by something that knew his name.
And then—
Silence.
Not the swamp's silence. Not the suffocating quiet before death.
This was… empty.
Armin opened his eyes.
Concrete.
Cold, flat concrete beneath his palms.
He pushed himself up sharply, breath ragged, hand flying to his chest—no chains, no wounds, no blood. His Thunder Dragon Sword was gone. His shadow lay still beneath him, obedient. Normal.
Too normal.
He stood.
Around him rose buildings—tall, rectangular, glass-faced structures reaching into a black sky. Streetlights hummed softly, casting pale circles of light onto empty roads. Vehicles sat abandoned mid-lane, doors closed, keys still in ignitions. Shops were stocked. Vending machines glowed. Screens flickered silently, looping advertisements to no one.
There was not a single human in sight.
No corpses.
No signs of struggle.
Just absence.
Armin's breath fogged in the cold air.
"...Hello?" he called.
His voice echoed back at him—clean, undistorted. No illusion. No mocking laughter.
Above him, the moon hung enormous and bright.
Too bright.
There was no sun.
There had never been one.
Armin wandered.
Hours passed—or minutes. Time felt wrong here. His body did not tire, yet hunger gnawed faintly at him. He entered a convenience store and froze when he saw the shelves.
Food.
Packaged. Preserved. Edible.
He picked up a wrapped bread roll.
The moment it touched his hand, something shifted inside his chest.
A pressure—firm, warning.
Instinctively, he released it.
Nothing happened.
He picked it up again.
This time, a faint ripple passed through the air, like reality acknowledging the act.
Armin frowned.
He gathered food—only food—and stepped outside.
That was when the bell rang.
Clink.
The sound did not come from the sky.
It came from inside him.
Pain lanced through his skull. The buildings blurred. The moon fractured into shards of white light. The world folded inward like wet paper—
—and Armin slammed back into his body.
Mud.
Cold air.
Pain.
He woke screaming in the abandoned orc village, Simon's hands gripping his shoulders, Alfred's voice barking orders. The swamp stank. Blood was real again. The bell was gone.
But the bread—
The bread lay beside him.
Real.
Simon stared. "Where did that come from?"
Armin didn't answer.
Because he already knew.
It happened again the next night.
And the next.
Each time, when his body reached its limit—sleep, unconsciousness, collapse—he crossed over.
Always night.
Always empty.
Always the moon.
Armin tested the rules carefully.
Weapons?
The moment he tried to bring one back, his head split with pain and the object dissolved into light. In its place, symbols burned into his vision—angles, materials, steps.
A blueprint.
Not words.
Understanding.
Vehicles. Tools. Machines. Anything non-edible followed the same rule: denied passage, knowledge granted instead.
But food?
Food crossed freely.
Water. Bread. Fruit. Preserved rations.
The other world fed him.
And then—on the seventh crossing—he learned why it was empty.
He heard footsteps.
Not close.
Far.
Running.
He followed the sound to a high-rise overlooking the city.
There—between buildings—he saw them.
People.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
All moving in silence toward a mountain beyond the city's edge.
They did not look panicked.
They looked trained.
Prepared.
The bell rang.
This time, from the sky.
And the city locked itself down.
Doors sealed. Streets emptied. Lights dimmed.
The moon changed.
It grew closer.
Redder.
Armin smelled it then.
Spices.
Burning herbs layered thickly into the air—masking scent, choking, deliberate.
From the darkness below, howls rose.
Not beasts.
Not animals.
Something organized.
Hunting.
Armin followed the people through a hidden path—an opening in the mountainside revealed only by moonlight. Inside lay a vast underground complex carved with glowing inscriptions.
Sun-Fury Runes.
He felt them burn his skin just by standing near.
Outside, shapes slammed against the mountain.
Inside, no one celebrated.
They waited.
For thirty-six hours.
When the bell rang again, survivors emerged.
Fewer than before.
That night, Armin understood.
This world was not abandoned.
It was enduring.
A cursed world trapped in eternal night—feeding on preparation, ritual, and fear. A place where survival was scheduled by moon phases, where monsters ruled the surface, and humanity hid in the bones of the earth.
And every time Armin returned to his own world—
He carried the trauma back with him.
The swamp.
The bell.
The shadows.
Two worlds.
One body.
One soul being stretched thin between them.
And somewhere—between moonlight and mud—
Something was watching him learn the rules.
Something patient.
Something pleased.
The bell did not ring.
Not yet.
To be continued.