—When the past stirs in your hand, the future begins to tremble
He jolted awake.
A cold bead of sweat slid down his forehead, soaking the back of his neck.
His vision blurred briefly, then sharpened—no longer that palace surrounded by stars, but... his own desk.
The warm yellow glow of the desk lamp was still on.
Stacks of study materials were scattered across the surface, a black gel pen lying across the middle of a half-finished test paper. The edge of the page had curled, damp with sweat.
The room was filled with the scent of paper and ink.
The wall clock ticked steadily—its hands had just passed midnight.
He was back.
But his heart was still racing.
Shawn looked down, tugged at his collar.
The pendant against his chest was cold and heavy—a fusion of metal and jade, its center etched with a pulsating 'V'—like a wound in reality.
He could still feel the energy lingering inside him, like a lightning bolt that hadn't fully dissipated—still whispering through his veins.
Not a dream.
Dreams are supposed to disappear when you wake up, shattering like glass.
But this... this stayed.
The pulse of the Core of Thunder.
Kyng's gaze—deep, unreadable.
Quinn's Nine-Core Array, slowly rotating in midair.
Earth veined in red.
Every image seared into memory.
He scanned the room for an anchor—some proof that this was reality.
But the silence pressed in unnaturally, thick and unsettling.
He crossed to the window.
The light in the study was still on. No surprise. Grandpa always stayed up late, surrounded by his books on ancient culture and forgotten histories.
Shawn turned toward the hallway.
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.
A slow pressure coiled in his chest.
"Meta I Ching…" he murmured, stepping closer. "Is it related to the Meta-Origin Sect?"
The old man's fingers froze mid-page, as if the air itself had solidified. 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."
A sudden stutter in Shawn's breath caught in his throat—like a thread yanked taut before it could unravel.
"So it wasn't a dream."
"No."
The room's shadows lengthened, walls breathing in time with the pendant's glow, its atmosphere thickening — with the weight of something unspoken pressing slowly into the space between them.
Shawn hesitated. "What was that place?"
The old man reached out, his fingers brushing the pendant with quiet reverence.
"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, his eyes focused not on Shawn, but on a point just beyond—as if seeing through him to a memory not yet finished speaking.
"Some answers don't arrive until you're ready to hear them."
Shawn's nails bit into his palms, the sting anchoring him. 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. 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?"
A pause expanded like a event horizon—silent, but dense with unspoken mass, but watchful.
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 sentence settled between them like a closing door—soft in sound, but final in meaning.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Only the hum of the lamp and the slow ticking of the clock filled the space, stretching the moment into something suspended.
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.
A moth crashed into the lamp, its wings casting jagged shadows—like a soul taking flight.
Shawn's heart lurched.
He asked again. "Who was she?"
The air between them held steady—not silent, but expectant.
Then, 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."