John had lost track of time.

  The convulsions had stopped.

  The phantom fire licking at his legs had finally faded, replaced by something worse—emptiness. A void where pain had been. But the memory remained, carved into his nerves, his muscles, his soul.

  Chase. Tyler. Carter.

  Gone.

  His breath came in short, ragged bursts as he clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp. “T-That… that can’t be happening,” he muttered, his voice thin, distant. His hand trembled as it reached for a cigarette on instinct, clenching it between his teeth like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. The flare of the lighter shook in his grip before a flickering orange glow bathed his face.

  A slow, acrid swirl of smoke filled the air. Then, he saw the screen. The Bazaar was still selected, as if to mock him.

  A tremor ran down his spine. His gut twisted. "Fuck." John’s fist slammed onto the console. The cigarette barely clung to his lips as he gritted his teeth, his knuckles white.

  "FUCK!" The scream tore out of him before he could stop it. His pulse roared in his ears, his body shaking with something between fury and helplessness. He barely had the strength to stay upright, and finally, he let himself collapse into his chair. His anger burned out, leaving behind only an aching weariness. His legs felt heavier than lead.

  A blue flickered in his vision, triggered on instinct by his weary mind.

  John stared at them, his thoughts sluggish, tangled, like they didn’t belong to him. “I died,” he murmured. The words tasted foreign. Distant. His lips barely curled into something resembling a smile—except there was no humor in it, only a hollow, bitter edge. “Twice. In the same damn day.”

  His fingers clenched. Carter’s death replayed in his mind.

  The beam of magma. The roar of defiance. The way he was there—and then he wasn’t.

  John shivered. “That can’t happen again.”

  His breath hitched as he dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “I need to warn Chase. If Ninth Street has this kind of weaponry, then—” His throat tightened. “Then we’re already dead.” He forced the thought away, swallowing against the cold pit in his stomach. “We need help.” John turned to the Emulator Station. His fingers hesitated over the interface, expecting to see a blank slate—another thing he’d have to redo from scratch. But—

  The files were still there. His scripts. His spells. Exactly as he had left them.

  A slow chill crept up his spine. “…How?”

  The machine, of course, gave no answer.

  John exhaled sharply. “Saves me time.” He spoke just to fill the silence, pushing down the gnawing unease as he set to work. The motions felt disjointed, mechanical—a repeat of something that shouldn’t have happened yet. But he did it faster this time.

  Thirty minutes.

  Not enough Improbability Factor to redo everything. Vacuum Burst would have to wait.

  His fingers hovered over his Terminal. He didn’t hesitate.

  Thomas: We need to meet. Now.

  Thomas: It’s an emergency. Hot Spot ASAP. Be there.

  No explanations. No waiting. They had no time. The second John stepped out of the Ship, the sky split open with a thunderous boom.

  Chase.

  The werewolf burst onto the sidewalk, his face lined with tension, his pupils blown wide with panic. His eyes immediately found John, raking over him, as if searching for something—some kind of confirmation that he was actually standing there.

  “I’m here,” John called, lifting a hand in acknowledgment.

  Chase strode toward him, but before he could speak, John cut him off. “Not here.” His tone was flat, clipped.

  Chase blinked, catching the shift in his demeanor. He flicked his gaze downward—lingering for half a second too long on the guns strapped to John’s legs. But he didn’t ask. Instead, he raised a hand, and thick layers of Glamour enveloped them both. The air around them shimmered, warping, as they descended into the humid tunnels. The moment they crossed the threshold of the decrepit safehouse, Chase finally let out a long breath. The Glamour peeled away like mist dispersing in the wind, and he staggered slightly, rolling his shoulders.

  “Man, Glamour like that really takes it out of me.” His voice had the ghost of a chuckle, but the tension in his posture remained. Then he got a proper look at John’s face.

  His smile faded. “…Shit,” Chase muttered, lowering himself onto a chair. “It’s serious, isn’t it?”

  John didn't respond right away. He only stared. His fingers twitched at his side. His mind screamed of death, of burning flesh, of suffocating water and crumbling bodies. Of a fight they never had a chance to win.

  Finally, he forced himself to breathe. "You need to call off tomorrow’s raid." John’s voice was tight, controlled—but just barely. His fingers dug into the edge of the table as if bracing for impact.

  Across from him, Chase exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "I told you already—I can’t just—"

  "The Ninth Street have some kind of military-grade weapon in that damn warehouse!" John cut in, his voice raw and desperate. "Some kind of— I don’t even know, an enormous beam of molten magma—"

  Chase's brows knit together. "What are you talking about?" He leaned forward, searching John's face. "Listen, I know you're scared, but making stuff up isn’t—"

  "For fuck’s sake, Chase!" John's fist slammed onto the table, rattling the chipped surface. His breath was ragged, chest rising and falling with barely restrained frustration. "Why the hell would I lie about this? It's a death trap! You can’t send a squad against that thing! Five people plus you and me aren’t enough to—"

  Chase's expression shifted. Suspicion. A slow, creeping tension filled the air as he tilted his head. "How do you know our squads have five people?" His voice dropped, the easy camaraderie vanishing in an instant. His sharp eyes locked onto John's, demanding an answer. "I never told you that."

  John exhaled through his nose, forcing a smirk onto his face. "Starting to believe me now?" He folded his arms, a forced, cocky tilt to his posture. "Garrett, Cole, Tyler, and Ethan. Ring any bells? Because they’ll all be dead by this time tomorrow if you don’t listen to me."

  Chase’s jaw clenched. His chair scraped against the floor as he shot up to his feet, the flickering light above casting deep shadows over his face. "How do you—"

  "Garrett and your brother are frontliners," John continued, voice steady despite the pit forming in his stomach. "You and Tyler hold the midline. Ethan and Cole hang back. And me—"

  A growl, low and primal, rumbled through the air as Chase’s body tensed. His nails lengthened into claws, crackling with raw energy, and his pupils narrowed into slits. "How. Do. You. Know. That?" The words dripped with restrained violence. Chase inched forward, his body coiled like a predator about to pounce. "Who the hell are you?"

  John stood his ground. His pulse thundered, but his hands didn’t shake as he pulled out his BFR. The weight of the oversized revolver was comforting, familiar. "For fuck’s sake, Chase!" he snapped, leveling the gun between them. "Stop your bullshit—I’m trying to save your ass!"

  Chase’s glare burned into him, but then—click. A sharp scoff.

  "You really are the real John," Chase muttered as his claws retracted, his form settling back to normal.

  John let out a breath, lowering the gun. "What gave it away? My dashing good looks, or my big gun?" He smirked, but his grip on the weapon remained firm.

  "Almost no one in the Hidden World knows what that is." Chase gestured lazily toward the revolver. "And only a dumbass like you would buy something so impractical."

  John rolled his eyes. "Hey, it works."

  Chase didn't return the humor. Instead, his gaze remained sharp, calculating. "I still don’t believe you," he admitted, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "You’ve been in the Hidden World for, what, two days? And suddenly, you’re spouting classified intel? You describe a weapon no one aside from a select few have heard of. You name my brother’s squad like you read it off a roster." His voice hardened. "How?"

  A thick silence hung between them.

  John reached for a cigarette. He didn’t need one, but right now, it was an anchor. Something to ground him as his mind raced for a believable story.

  "Definitely the real John," Chase muttered, wrinkling his nose as John lit up.

  "Fuck off," John grumbled, taking a long drag. "Had a rough day."

  "You haven’t answered my question." Chase’s voice was firm, unwavering. "Listen—I trust you. You’re my friend. And you saved my life." He leaned in. "But you need to trust me too."

  John hesitated. His fingers trembled, just slightly, as he tapped the cigarette against the ashtray. Telling the truth wasn’t an option. The Authority of Permanence wouldn’t let him. Hell, it’d probably kill Chase just for hearing it.

  "I—" He met Chase’s expectant gaze, then exhaled sharply. "Fine. I found the warehouse. Did some research. Sent a drone."

  Chase blinked. "You what?"

  John forced a grin. "A drone. You know, little flying thing with a camera? Spied inside through the windows. Saw things I shouldn’t have."

  Chase groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Of course, only a human-turned-mage would pull some dumb shit like that." Then, suspicion flickered across his face again. "Still doesn’t explain how you knew about my brother’s squad."

  John smirked. "They’re massive idiots."

  Chase narrowed his eyes.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  John shrugged. "I did some digging on the HiddenNet. Turns out, your guys aren’t exactly careful about what they post."

  Chase groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Every time, man. Every goddamn time. We go through a three-hour online safety course every time this happens, and these dumbasses still can’t keep their mouths shut."

  John forced out a chuckle, but inside, relief washed over him like a tidal wave. Chase bought it. It didn’t sit right—lying to him. Chase was his friend. But if John told the truth, they’d both die. John clicked his tongue as he took a deep drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the dimly lit room. The acrid smoke filled his lungs before he exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on Chase. "What about Carter?" he asked. "Will he back us up?"

  Chase leaned back against the rickety wooden chair, his fingers tapping idly against the table. “He will,” he admitted. “His squad is loyal to him, so they’ll probably follow his lead. But that still doesn’t mean we can convince the higher-ups—especially not my mom.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “She’s your mother, and she won’t listen to her own son?”

  Chase let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s… how werewolves do things,” he muttered. “The pack comes first. Family second.”

  “Sounds rough.” John offered a sympathetic smirk before leaning in, lowering his voice. “Still, you sounded like you knew what I was talking about when I mentioned that magma beam. Care to share?”

  Chase hesitated, his jaw tightening before he exhaled sharply through his nose. “If someone asks, this conversation never happened,” he said, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “It sounds like an experimental weapon developed by our biggest rivals—the Scalebound family. A bunch of arrogant dragon-blooded bastards.”

  “Dragon-blooded?” John echoed, arching an eyebrow.

  “Basically lizard people with superiority complexes,” Chase muttered with distaste. “They border our territory, and we’ve been clashing with them more and more lately. Our spies reported that they’re developing some kind of magma beam. It’s a crewed weapon, needs at least two operators, but it’s powerful. Overwhelms most shields. The only saving grace is that it melts down after a dozen shots.”

  John went rigid. A dozen shots. That was more than enough. His mind flashed back to the memory—the unbearable heat, the blinding light, Chase’s head disappearing in an instant, like a candle snuffed out. His fingers twitched toward his leg, which ached with the ghost of an injury he hadn’t suffered yet.

  Chase muttered, his expression complicated. “We can’t postpone the raid. We can’t ask for reinforcements. So what the hell can we do?”

  John shut his eyes, forcing himself to focus. He sifted through the memories—his memories. The chain-link fence, the way the walls buckled under the werewolves’ strength.

  He opened his eyes, a slow grin stretching across his face.

  “I might have an idea.” His tone was calm, but the sharp gleam in his eyes sent a shiver down Chase’s spine.

  Chase leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “That smile better not mean what I think it means.”

  “There’s a warded chain-link fence around the warehouse,” John said smoothly. “Ethan can bypass it, easy. Once we’re past that, we can move unseen. If we’re careful.”

  Chase blinked. “How the hell do you know—?”

  John just gave him a look.

  “—Never mind.” Chase sighed, already resigned. “I can already feel our online safety course getting longer.”

  “Like I was saying,” John continued, his mind working fast. “We can circle the warehouse and stay out of sight. Now, you and Carter have access to an armory, right?”

  “Sure, but everything’s logged,” Chase said warily. “We need permissions—”

  John smirked. “Chase, you were the one who told me your family still keeps everything on paper. Sometimes… accidents happen. Forms go missing.”

  Chase opened his mouth, then shut it, his expression twisting as he fought against the logic of it. Finally, he sighed in defeat. “What do you need?”

  John didn’t hesitate. “Explosives. As much as you can get your hands on.”

  Chase blinked. “You’re planning to—” He shook his head. “No. You don’t mean—”

  “The walls aren’t that thick,” John cut in. “And in this city, buildings plans are public records. I’ll look up the blueprints online, find the load-bearing areas. We’ll plant the charges, bring the whole damn thing down on them.”

  Chase’s face was a mixture of awe and horror. “You want to collapse the warehouse on top of them? That’ll take a ton of Glamour to pull off safely.”

  “Got a better idea?” John asked, his tone sharp. “You said it yourself—the Ninth Street is working with the Scalebound family. That means that magma beam might not be the only thing they have.”

  Chase clenched his jaw, then muttered a curse under his breath. “Fucking lizards.” His fists tightened. “Alright. I’ll talk to Carter. We’ll see what we can do. The raid starts at—”

  “Early morning,” John finished with a knowing grin. “We’ll meet at the safehouse across the street.”

  Chase let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing his temples. “I swear to god, John, every time you open your mouth, I can feel the mandatory training modules growing.”

  John grinned, but beneath it, his heart was pounding. He’d done it. He’d changed things. Chase was supposed to die in that raid—he had seen it. But now? Now they had a plan. Now there was a chance.

  Chase exhaled, then clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. “I don’t know how you did it, but… thanks. Probably just saved my ass again.”

  John forced himself to smirk. “You have no idea.”

  The memory of Chase’s headless corpse flashed in his mind. He took a deep breath, shoving it down, forcing himself to stay focused.

  Chase studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Be careful, alright?” His voice was lower now, edged with something close to concern. “I’ll admit, you’ve proved to be a hell of a lot more capable than I thought, but—”

  John scoffed, feigning offense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Chase rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Just—watch yourself, okay? Ninth Street isn’t a joke.”

  John’s smirk faltered for half a second. He forced his expression back into something lighthearted. “Don’t worry about me.” He gestured toward the door. “I know how to handle myself.”

  “…Right.” Chase hesitated, then nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

  And with that, he was gone, leaving John alone with the weight of his own choices. He exhaled, long and slow, before reaching into his pocket and lighting another cigarette. The ember flared, a brief, defiant glow against the dark.

  “We’ll see,” he said grimly. “We’ll see if I changed anything at all.”

  John leaned back against the peeling wallpaper of the safehouse, running a hand through his hair as he let out a slow, measured breath. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "Collapsing the building might work. But what if it doesn’t?" The thought gnawed at him, chewing through his earlier confidence. There were too many unknowns—too many things he hadn’t accounted for. If they were walking into a trap, there wouldn’t be a second chance to save this timeline. He needed more information.

  With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself off the creaking chair, grabbed his phone, and stepped out into the dimly lit Bazaar. The air in was thick with the scent of metal and smoke, a strange mix that clung to his clothes. John barely reacted as he bumped shoulders with a tired-looking dwarf, his long beard tangled and his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. "Sorry," he muttered. The dwarf grumbled something unintelligible but didn’t break stride. The street ahead was packed—workers in stained overalls, merchants with crates strapped to their backs, and the occasional robed figure whose presence made the hairs on John's neck stand on end.

  "Rush hour," he thought with mild amusement as he reached the portal. It didn’t take long before he stepped out into the restaurant above. The smell of sizzling meat and freshly brewed coffee hit him like a hammer. The chatter of patrons filled the air, a stark contrast to the eerie silence of the tunnel below.

  His stomach clenched, but there was no hunger. John frowned, pressing a hand against his midsection. It had been days since he’d eaten anything substantial. His body should’ve been screaming for food, but instead, there was... nothing. His gaze flicked to the beige elevator cabin standing awkwardly in the middle of the sidewalk. "Something tells me I got my answer."

  Suppressing a grimace, he stepped inside. The moment the doors shut, the noise of the outside world vanished, swallowed by an unnatural silence. It was like being trapped inside a vacuum. John slumped into the leather chair, tapping his phone screen. "Alright... the warehouse should be somewhere around here..."

  A few minutes later, he was staring at the building plans with a faint grimace. “I have no idea how to read this,” he muttered, letting out a humorless chuckle. So many annotations. So many lines. So many pages. He groaned and rubbed his temples, idly scrolling through the map of the building displayed by the Ship to compare. "Warded. Every damn inch of the interior is sealed tight."

  John clicked his tongue in frustration as the Ship’s map displayed a layer of static over the warehouse. But when he zoomed in on the roof— His brow furrowed. "Wait a second." His eyes darted across the screen, scanning the metallic surface of the warehouse. A small detail stood out. "These idiots didn’t ward the roof. And there are skylights."

  A few quick keystrokes, and the elevator let out a soft ding. When the doors slid open, John was met with a gust of cold air. He stepped onto the metallic rooftop, the city sprawling beneath him in a sea of people and flickering lights.

  The view was... surreal.

  Countless people walked the streets, moving through their lives unaware of the Hidden World that lurked just beneath their feet. Magic, monsters, secret wars—none of it touched them.

  John exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "How the hell did my life turn into this?"

  Shaking the thought away, he crouched beside one of the skylights, phone in hand. The optical zoom kicked in, sharpening the details of the warehouse interior. Rows of metallic crates were stacked haphazardly, their surfaces dented and scratched from frequent handling. There was no clear organization—just chaos. But it wasn’t the crates that made his blood run cold. Near the center of the warehouse, a group of fishmen sat around a makeshift table, their grotesque faces twisted in laughter as they threw down cards. Their gills flared with each breath, their webbed hands gripping battered mugs of something thick and dark.

  John’s pulse quickened.

  He scanned further.

  An open crate caught his eye, its contents laid bare.

  Inside, a long glass tube rested against a swiveling tripod. The glowing runes along its surface pulsed faintly, their golden light casting eerie reflections against the metal casing.

  John’s throat went dry. "That’s the weapon. The magma beam."

  He angled his phone to snap a picture, but his gaze lingered on one of the runes—a massive glyph, shaped like a crumpled polygon surrounded by a pyramid. The moment his eyes locked onto it, a sharp pain stabbed through his skull.

  His body seized. His breath hitched.

  Cold sweat poured down his back as unseen hands carved symbols into his mind.

  His limbs convulsed. His heart hammered against his ribs. The pain was unbearable—like molten lead being injected into his veins.

  Then, just as suddenly as it came, it was gone.

  John gasped, his fingers digging into the rooftop. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, his lips trembling as he sucked in ragged breaths.

  A notification flickered across his vision.

  John’s body stilled.

  His fingers twitched.

  His mind raced.

  He let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. "So I can learn Spell Components just by looking at them. Even when I don’t want to." He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead. "Fucking great. I better not stare at runes in the middle of a fight, or I’m screwed."

  Forcing himself to his feet, he raised his phone with trembling hands and snapped a picture of the weapon. "Chase is going to want to see this."

  His eyes flicked across the warehouse once more, and his breath caught when he spotted a black wooden box lying on its side. Gold inlays shimmered along its surface, intricate and precise. Inside, golden rings gleamed under the dim warehouse lighting.

  John whistled lowly. "All that security for a couple of rings? Must be some damn good shields."

  He snapped another photo before shifting his attention to the walls. As expected, thick steel beams lined the warehouse at regular intervals, rust creeping along their edges. "Bingo."

  He took note of the weakest points—where the beams met the concrete, where structural integrity was the lowest. Then something glowed at the edge of his vision.

  John’s breath hitched as he turned. On the warehouse floor, near the far wall, a faint metallic gleam pulsed from unknown runes etched into the concrete. The symbols twisted and spiraled, forming a massive, circular array filled with unfamiliar glyphs. "What the hell is that?"

  John snapped one last picture before forcing himself to look away from the glowing runes on the warehouse floor. His gut twisted.

  “Not looking at that.” Some instincts weren’t worth ignoring, and the wrong glyph could fry his brain again. He made a quick note of the circles’ locations, muttering under his breath, “Chase probably knows what it is.”

  A dismissive shrug, a flick of his fingers over the screen, and the job was done. But even as he turned away, his gaze lingered on the dimly lit warehouse below.

  His fists clenched.

  The memory hit him like a bullet to the ribs.

  The smell of burning fur. The sound of glass crunching under limp fingers. Chase’s body—motionless, blood pooling beneath him— John exhaled sharply, forcing air through his teeth. “That won’t happen again.”

  He stepped into the Ship, the metal doors sealing shut with a quiet hiss. The usual silence of the vessel settled around him like a heavy cloak, but this time, it didn’t bother him. He pulled out his Terminal and got to work.

  Thomas: Did some recon. Sending you the pictures on your regular phone.

  A quick tap, and the files transferred. Photos of the the weapons, the guard’s location and the odd glyphs, the annotated plan—all neatly labeled and annotated. John barely had time to lean back before the response came.

  Chase: Seriously?

  Chase: I leave you alone for fifteen minutes, and you send me pictures of their weapons, the location of their guards, and their traps?!

  Chase: It’s taken us months to find that warehouse!

  John smirked. He could practically hear Chase’s voice—half-impressed, half-exasperated, and entirely pissed off.

  Thomas: That's just talent.

  A long pause.

  Then—

  Chase: You piece of shit.

  Chase: Tell me how you actually did it before I start throwing spells at your smug ass.

  John barked out a laugh, tossing the Terminal onto the console. “God, you’re predictable.”

  The amusement faded as his gaze settled on the Emulator Station. He leaned forward, fingers hovering over the keys. “If I can get even a third of the power of that magma beam…” A slow, unnatural grin crept across his face. “Then I’m going to be unstoppable.” His fingers flew over the keyboard. The Ship was silent, save for the rapid clacking of keystrokes, each tap an echo in the empty space.

  Power hummed beneath his fingertips.

  And John intended to take all of it.