“Oh. Wonderful...,”

  Andika let out a long breath, forcing his thoughts to slow.

  Every desert story he had ever heard followed the same rule: if the traveler didn’t die of thirst, they found an oasis. That fragile logic became his anchor. He climbed the nearest dune, shielding his eyes.

  Water.

  It shimmered in the distance.

  But desert stories carried another rule just as cruel—mirages. False hope was as common as sand.

  Four pools glinted across the horizon.

  He narrowed his eyes and crossed out the widest one immediately. Even from afar, the reflection bent wrong—dunes hovering where they shouldn’t.

  Three remained.

  “Which one…?”

  No signs. No logic left.

  He pointed at one, almost arbitrarily.

  “Alright. That one.”

  Two hours passed.

  Still no water.

  “Huff…”

  He checked again—the pool still floated there, unchanged, eternally distant.

  His bread was gone. He rationed fruit sparingly, just enough to moisten his mouth. His remaining water was cut in half and guarded like treasure. The bag stayed on his head, shielding him from the merciless sun. Sweat soaked his face, evaporating almost instantly in the dry wind.

  The desert offered nothing but heat and silence.

  “Hah… hah…”

  His breathing grew shallow. His steps dragged. The horizon blurred.

  By now, everything was gone—water, fruit, reserves of strength. It was six in the evening, yet the sky burned as bright as noon. No clouds. No mercy.

  Disappointment faded into numb resolve.

  One more step.

  Just don’t stop.

  Find a gate… or die trying.

  He checked his direction again. And again. Over fifty times in the last three hours.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Something felt wrong—but the desert gave him no alternatives.

  No caravans. No bones. No ruins. Not even a dried riverbed.

  Only sand.

  Then—

  Thud.

  His legs gave out.

  Andika collapsed, sliding down into a shallow basin. Sand filled his mouth. All he could hear was his own ragged breathing clawing at the air.

  The sky changed.

  Blue faded to amber. Amber bled into crimson. Crimson drained into night.

  No stars.

  Just a pale glow, as if a hidden moon lingered beyond the clouds.

  Cool air brushed his skin.

  Hope returned—weak, but alive.

  He inhaled deeply, gathering what little strength remained. His phone flickered on: 19:00.

  Day-night cycles still follow Earth… at least loosely.

  He climbed the nearest dune again.

  This time, he saw lights.

  Small, distant points—one in every direction.

  The same four.

  His mind stalled.

  No answers. No clarity.

  He sat down.

  And remembered.

  Portals.

  The forest gates. The lift doors. The corridor that became an exit only when he wanted to leave—and when he carried the light taken from the totem.

  Every gate had one thing in common.

  A threshold.

  A passage.

  “What about a man-made one…?”

  The idea sounded foolish.

  But foolish was all he had left.

  He dug.

  Like a child playing in the sand—slowly, carefully. The night air was damp and cold, helping the tunnel hold its shape.

  An hour passed.

  A meter-wide hole formed.

  Ninety minutes more, and the tunnel stretched three meters deep.

  He crawled out, staring at it.

  Anxiety tightened his chest.

  This is it. My last idea.

  He focused on a single intent: somewhere with water. Food. Shade.

  He crawled in.

  Nothing changed.

  Sand. Darkness. His own breath.

  Disappointment burned.

  He tried again—from the inside.

  Out.

  Still the desert.

  That was enough.

  Exhausted, he retreated back into the tunnel and slept.

  Light woke him.

  Blinding, intrusive light.

  Andika groaned, checking his phone: 23:50.

  Morning? Somewhere else?

  He stepped outside.

  The dunes ahead glowed.

  The four lights had moved.

  They drifted—slowly, deliberately—toward one another.

  Heart racing, Andika climbed a dune to see better.

  The lights converged.

  Merged.

  Condensed.

  By 00:30, they collapsed into a single structure.

  A small dome of light.

  Eight doorways lined its surface.

  Three of them looked… damaged. Like cracked glass.

  “That’s it.”

  A gate.

  When he touched it, information flooded his mind—confirmation, not explanation. The same kind of gate as before. Different form. Same function.

  No rules. Only usage.

  He stepped through.

  Darkness.

  Then light.

  Andika stood inside a square chamber, every wall covered in murals. Bright illumination poured from above, leaving no shadows.

  Most images were abstract—shapes, fragments, motion without form.

  But some were clearer.

  Towering spires. Structures reaching skyward.

  One mural dominated the room.

  Perfectly square. Clean borders. Empty space above and below.

  It reminded him of a QR code.

  Curious, he placed his hand on its edge.

  Words exploded into his mind.

  Strike. White. Soft. Three. Take. Foam.

  “What…?”

  He touched another section.

  More words. No grammar. No order.

  His hand could only reach part of it.

  No starting point. No guide.

  Then don’t read it piece by piece.

  He pulled out his phone.

  00:54. Battery 83%. Screen cracked.

  He opened the camera.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Click.

  The image saved.

  He tapped the screen.

  This time, the information aligned.

  Became readable.

  And what he understood—

  Made his breath catch.

  “Ah…?”