Caspian had been thinking for hours, eyes fixed on the ceiling as his thoughts spiraled endlessly. Every plan he conjured fractured under its own weight—too risky, too vague, too reckless. The pressure coiled around his chest, suffocating in the stillness of the makeshift medical ward. But as night crept in, with shadows stretching across the sterile floor and the sounds of the island settling into uneasy sleep, he knew it was now or never. If he could just sneak out—even to scout, to trace a viable path—he might be able to do something. Anything.
He turned his head toward the digital tablet on the side table—his only portal to the outside world. The screen still glowed faintly, left on from earlier. He tapped it, and there it was again: a recently uploaded satellite-sourced map from Polaria.Global.Blog.NAV, one of the few remaining digital cartography feeds powered by a signal-weaver in Polaria. The map was stitched together by fragmented surveillance data and thread-imbued tech, glitchy in some corners, but mostly intact. Their island—once a university block in Seoul—was a single speck, nameless and barely visible. To the east lay the splintered remains of Japan, now a jagged archipelago dubbed "The Drift Isles." It was the closest viable destination, though treacherous to reach. Northward was out of the question: what used to be North Korea had become a festering biome of colossal insects from the Hollow Earth—buzzing, burrowing nightmares that had claimed the land as their hive.
As Caspian stared at the blinking red markers on the map—warning zones, safe zones, unidentified anomalies—the door creaked open.
Bagas Aryasatya stepped inside for the nightly medical check.
Bagas stepped in with a clipboard tucked under one arm, the gentle rustling of sterile gloves filling the quiet air. The overhead bioluminescent thread-lamps—woven by Haebin herself—flickered slightly as he approached.
"Evening," he greeted Caspian calmly, eyes scanning a worn chart before glancing at the monitors attached to the thread-integrated vitals web.
"Let's go over your metrics."
He clipped on a small fiber-optic node to Caspian's index finger—an improvised pulse oximeter—and noted the reading.
"Heart rate's steady. Oxygen saturation: 97%. Good."
He moved to the side, gently checking Caspian's pupils with a tiny beam of concentrated threadlight. They reacted sluggishly.
"Still some mild dilation… residual neurotrauma most likely. Do you still feel dizzy?"
Caspian shook his head slowly. "Just a headache. But not spinning anymore."
Bagas nodded, scribbling onto a digital slate.
"Mild cerebral hypoxia, maybe triggered by stress-induced vasovagal syncope."
He paused to translate. "You probably fainted from extreme nervous system overload. Could've been from the hallucinations… or the strain on your thread-linkage points."
Bagas then reached for a vial of clear ichor suspended in a cold-thread casing. He didn't inject it—only held it to the light, observing Caspian's reaction. "Still not responding to ichor-stimulation. Your thread compatibility is... unusual."
He placed the vial back and unwrapped a small sterilized bandage from a pouch of self-cleaning thread. "No fever. Reflexes intact. Blood pressure's back to normal too. But—if your vomiting returns or you black out again, I'm reporting it to Haebin. Understood?"
Caspian nodded. Bagas affixed the bandage to a vein line that had bruised up. "Try not to think too hard tonight. Neurological overstimulation's not something we can afford right now. Alright?"
He glanced back once more before stepping out. "Get some rest. I'll be back before sunrise for the final check."
Caspian nodded. "Okay, thank you."
As he stepped out of the medical ward, he checked the clock on his phone—9:32 PM. Sunrise wasn't until 7:43 AM. He had time.
Thirty minutes passed. He waited, eyes flicking to every sound, rehearsing his excuse one last time before quietly slipping away into the night. He'd removed the bandages too. He didn't need them—physically, he was fine—and they only slowed him down.
The medical ward was stationed in the heart of the island, the safest zone they'd designated. When the island first formed after the catastrophe, it spanned a rough three square miles, but now? It had shrunk to two and a half. Something was chipping at its edges, eroding it away—so gradually that no one noticed. Or maybe… no one dared to.
Most facilities were centralized to avoid proximity to the coast. The edge was feared—one wrong step, and you could be dragged into the abyss. And yet, Caspian did something reckless. He sat right at that fragile border.
At first, it was peaceful. Then—he felt it. A faint vibration. A slow ripple across the water. He instinctively lifted his feet from the edge just in time to see a massive silhouette glide beneath the waves. Moonlight and scattered starlight barely traced its outline. But what he saw made his stomach twist.
It looked like a crocodile. Bus-sized. Its movements were deliberate, its presence suffocating. But there was something off. The water barely rippled under its bulk. It moved like a ghost in liquid.
"So that's what's eating away at the island..." he murmured.
And then—realization.
"Wait... there aren't any crocodiles native to South Korea."
Whatever it was, it wasn't natural. A new breed? A mutation? One of the beasts from within the Hollow Earth? The shape alone hinted at reptilian origins, but the sheer silence of its motion—no splash, no snarl—was unnatural. He'd need to think about that later.
Quietly, he moved around the island's perimeter, placing circular stone markers with arrows pointing northeast—toward the Drift Isles, one of the nearest known landmasses still safe for human habitation. He worked fast, but methodically.
By 11:21 PM, his hands were scraped from the rocks and his breath puffed visibly in the cool air. He stared out toward the black waters again. If he could observe this predator a little longer—maybe figure out what it was or what it wanted—he might be able to craft a distraction when the time came to flee.
But then another problem surfaced in his mind like a bitter wave:
They'd need a boat.
A vessel strong enough to withstand whatever lurked in this new, violent sea. But how? With what materials?
The thought hit him like a stone:
Could they even escape at all?
Was this entire plan just a desperate dream? Was he clinging to the illusion of control in a world that had already decided how the story ends?
He stared into the waves. They didn't answer.
He kept thinking. Thinking too much.
It can't be the serpent from the circus… that thing was different...
He tapped his temple, as if trying to knock his brain awake.
Then—footsteps.
He tried to get up, but his legs didn't cooperate fast enough.
"Hey? Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"
That voice—familiar. Warm, but stern.
"Haebin?" he whispered. It was too dark to see clearly, but her voice was distinct.
"Yes, it's me." Her footsteps stopped just short of him. "Mind explaining to me why you're out here?"
He hadn't prepared for this variable. No excuse.
"You're dreaming, Haebin," he said flatly, standing up with a twitch in his neck like a broken puppet. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake u—"
Smack.
A slap cracked across his cheek.
"Ow..." he muttered.
"That's not gonna work," Haebin said. "Now—explain. Now."
Do I tell the truth? he thought. No... I should probably—
He stopped himself.
"…Haebin."
She raised a brow, barely visible in the dark. Her foot tapped the ground in a slow, rhythmic beat.
"Yeah?"
"How sturdy of a boat can you make?"
She blinked. "What?"
"I mean… hypothetically. Could you build something seaworthy?"
"Why are you asking?" Her tone was cautious.
He exhaled through his nose. "Don't you think it's weird I don't have an innate thread ability?"
Haebin paused, then gave a slow nod. "Go on."
He glanced toward the dark waves. "My Cordyx System is… different. It's linked to my brain. At least, that's how Bagas described it. I don't fully understand it, but—"
He turned back to her. "—I can see the future through my dreams."
She didn't interrupt.
"I had a dream—no, a vision—of a serpent. Huge. The size of this entire island. It destroys everything. It wasn't just a nightmare. I saw what's coming. I felt it."
He pointed toward the black horizon. "This island used to be three square miles. Now it's two and a half. Something in the water is eating it away. Slowly. But it's happening."
Silence fell. The sea murmured below them. Caspian's heart pounded in his throat.
This is it. She's going to call me insane. They're going to sedate me. I'll be locked away. And then I'll have to watch it all happen… helplessly.
But then—he heard her breathing pick up. Uneven. Panicked.
"Y-you mean… we'll have to evacuate?"
Caspian nearly smiled. He caught himself.
It wasn't a moment for joy. But still—
For once… someone believed him.
Finally, I have some progress..