—When the past stirs in your hand, the future begins to tremble
Shawn sat motionless.
The desk lamp cast a dim halo over the cluttered tabletop.
Outside, the night pressed in, still and heavy.
He held the pendant tightly.
Cool jade. Subtle weight.
The dragon's swirl still moved—slow, deliberate, like a whisper unfinished.
The images replayed in his mind:
Earth veined in red.
Nine points pulsing.
Kyng's urgent voice.
But beneath it all was something deeper—it had begun.
No longer a theory. No longer a myth.
That light—it hadn't just shown him something. It had chosen him.
He let out a slow breath.
He glanced at the clock.
Past midnight.
A faint hum broke the silence.
Unread messages—Dan had sent a string of them.
"Shawn! Did you see it? Man, it's real!"
"Pure Ark—this isn't a drill. AGI-ST, final phase!"
"They've started the Fusion Oath! It's broadcasting live in the auditorium—faculty are calling it a milestone!"
"Where'd you go, man? This is history. You coming?"
The sky halo? Pure Ark?
Absurd.
He set the phone down and didn't reply.
His gaze returned to the parchment.
The ink wasn't just flickering anymore—it held a steady glow.
Not from light, but from something deeper. Like it meant something.
He crossed to the window.
A light still glowed in the study window—no surprise. Grandpa often stayed up late... buried in his books on traditional culture and obscure histories.
Shawn turned. He had to see him.
The outside air chilled his skin as he stepped into the night.
He knocked. Once. Then again.
The door creaked open.
Shawn stepped inside, the floorboards groaning faintly beneath his shoes.
His grandfather, Elias Mercer, sat hunched at the desk, lamplight pooling over the aged wood. A thick, cracked-spine book lay open in front of him.
As the pages shifted, Shawn caught the title:Meta I Ching Research, its faded gold letters barely legible.
His chest tightened.
"Meta I Ching…" he murmured, stepping closer. "Is it related to the Meta-Origin Sect?"
The old man's fingers froze. The page stilled.
A long pause.
"Yes," he said at last, voice low. "But that name—Meta-Origin Sect—must never be spoken outside this room."
Shawn frowned. "Why not?"
Elias sighed, closing the book with a soft thud.
"Because some truths aren't just dangerous—they're forgotten for a reason."
Shawn reached into his pocket and placed the pendant on the desk.
It lay between them, glinting faintly under the lamplight.
Elias's gaze fell to it. His eyes did not move.
"You've stepped into something far older—and deeper—than you realize."
Shawn's breath hitched. "So it wasn't a dream."
"No."
The air thickened. Shadows at the edge of the room seemed to draw closer, leaning in.
Shawn hesitated. "What was that place?"
The old man reached out, his fingers brushing the pendant with quiet reverence, as if confirming its weight in the world.
"You were called," he said. "And calls like that don't come without purpose."
Shawn leaned forward, voice low. "What purpose?"
A flicker crossed the old man's face—grief, perhaps, or memory.
He didn't answer.
"Why won't you tell me?" Shawn pressed. "If something's happening… I deserve to know."
Elias looked at him, gaze steady but distant.
"Some answers don't arrive until you're ready to hear them."
Frustration built in Shawn's chest, but he pushed it down. He steadied himself. Tried another approach.
"Then at least tell me this," he said. "The paper—the one with the Thunder Core symbol. Where did it come from?"
Elias's expression shifted. His hand moved slightly, resting on the edge of the aged parchment tucked beneath the book. The motion was small, but protective.
"It was entrusted to me," he said slowly. "By someone I once trusted with my life."
Shawn narrowed his eyes. "Who?"
Silence.
The old man's fingers grazed the parchment again, this time slower, more deliberate.
The symbol of the Thunder Core shimmered faintly through the paper's worn surface — angular, ancient, almost alive.
"Grandpa," Shawn asked, "Are you… part of the Meta-Origin Sect?"
A pause.
"No," he said. "But she was."
Shawn blinked. "She?"
Elias's gaze drifted to something far away.
His voice dropped.
"Eighteen years," Elias said softly, as if the number itself carried a sacred weight.
Shawn frowned slightly, curiosity stirring beneath the surface.
Eighteen years.
His whole life.
His thoughts raced. Every memory—every strange coincidence—suddenly felt like part of a hidden pattern, as if he'd been walking a path quietly laid out long before he knew it existed.
Elias's gaze dropped again to the slip of paper. His voice grew lower, more certain.
"Eighteen years ago… she gave me this paper. And..."
Shawn leaned forward, his voice tight. "And what?"
The old man looked down, running a thumb along the edge of the paper with something like reverence.
"To what was lost. And what's coming."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Only the hum of the lamp and the slow ticking of the clock filled the silence.
Shawn opened his mouth to ask more—but something in Elias's expression made him stop.
It wasn't just remembering.
It was mourning.
"She can finally rest in peace," Elias said quietly.
Shawn's heart lurched. He asked again.
"Who was she?"
Elias's face turned solemn.
The air between them stilled—charged, as if touched by something ancient and unresolved.
Then, in the hush, Elias spoke the words that broke it all open:
"Let me tell you a story, Shawn. The story of Lucy—the one who risked everything for a truth no one else dared to hold."