Zain didn't remember falling asleep.
But he woke up choking on smoke.
Stone walls surrounded him. Firelight flickered from torches mounted on pillars. His hands were not his own—slender, veined, wrapped in leathered gloves etched with gold. The air reeked of burnt parchment and something bitter—blood.
He stumbled forward. Not in his apartment. Not in his world.
He was in someone else's memory.
Books were burning. Dozens of them. Whole shelves collapsed into ash. A figure in black robes ran past him, screaming in a language Zain didn't understand—yet somehow did.
> "They've breached the Vault! Burn the Seals! Don't let them take it!"
Zain turned. A large circular door loomed before him—glowing with familiar sigils. The same seal from the manuscript.
His hands moved on their own. He traced three patterns onto the stone. The seal responded with a pulse of red light, then cracked open with a deep rumble.
Behind it lay a chamber, dark and silent, with only one object inside:
A floating crystal, spinning slowly in the air, wrapped in tendrils of black mist.
Zain stepped forward.
His body—a younger man's, but not his—trembled. His voice echoed in the room, ancient and sharp:
> "If they take this... the Age of Truth ends tonight."
As he reached for the crystal, a sudden jolt ripped him from the memory like a hook in his skull.
Zain woke in his apartment, drenched in sweat, gasping for air.
He stared at his hands.
His fingertips glowed faintly with gold, lines burned into the skin like temporary tattoos.
He stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the light. The markings began to fade, but the echo of the voice still rang in his head.
> "The Age of Truth ends tonight…"
Was that a vision?
A memory?
A past life?
He didn't believe in reincarnation. He believed in math. In logic. But nothing about this was logical anymore.
He went back to the manuscript. The page with the seal had changed.
Now it read:
> "The first memory has awakened. Three remain."
Below that, a new phrase:
> "Only the Keyholder may unlock the Vault."
Zain whispered, "What vault?"
Before he could question further, a sound buzzed from his laptop—the one that had typed by itself.
The screen flickered back to life, displaying a single coordinate:
"36.1079° N, 117.5864° W"
He copied it. A quick search revealed the location:
Death Valley, California.
The Vault... was real.
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