Elsewhere
—Thump-thump.
A heartbeat.
Not his. He didn't have a heart anymore. Didn't have anything.
Yet—
Thump-thump.
Awareness returned.
Impossibly. Against every law Xe'val had invoked.
A spark. 0.00001% of his original soul.
So small it was nearly nothing.
But it existed.
And it was falling.
Through dimensions. Through timelines. Through cracks between what-was and what-could-be.
Falling toward—
Thump-thump-thump.
—a body.
The Awakening – Seoul Slums, Two Years Ago
Yoo gasped.
Air filled lungs that felt wrong. Different lungs. Smaller lungs.
His eyes opened. Cheap ceiling tiles. The smell of antiseptic and old blood.
He sat up—body responding automatically—and immediately knew something was catastrophically wrong.
This body was too small. Too weak. Too young.
His hands—scarred differently. Callused in wrong places. Not the hands that had sealed void rifts.
Where am I?
"Seung-yoon! You're awake! Thank the gods!"
A woman rushed in.
Ji-hye.
He knew her face. Didn't know her face. Both at once.
Aunt. She raised me after Mom died when I was…
When had he learned that? The memory felt simultaneously ancient and newly formed.
"You've been unconscious for three days," Ji-hye continued, checking him frantically. Her hands trembled slightly as they brushed his hair from his forehead. "That spatial technique backlash during training—Dr. Choi said you nearly died."
Training? What training?
But also—he remembered training. Two years of brutal, slow progress toward Iron rank 19.
Except he also remembered different training. Faster growth. Void rifts. Hae-won. Master Yoon.
Two sets of memories.
Both claiming truth.
Both feeling real.
"Are you okay? You look confused. Should I get Dr. Choi—"
"No." Yoo's voice came out steady despite internal chaos. "I'm fine. Just… disoriented."
Ji-hye studied him with concern. Her brow furrowed as if she could see the confusion burning beneath his calm expression. "There's something I need to tell you. While you were unconscious, we received—"
She pulled out a device. Played a message.
Cold, emotionless voice:
"Yoo Seung-yoon. Your father has been taken by The Architect faction. You have forty-eight hours from message receipt to come to these coordinates. Alone. No backup. No tricks. Or Lee Jae-sung dies slowly."
Coordinates appeared.
"The timer has begun."
Current countdown: 11 hours, 43 minutes, 12 seconds.
Yoo stared at the screen.
Jae-sung. Captured.
That felt real. Urgent. Cut through the confusion of contradictory memories like a blade.
Dad's in danger.
"What do you want to do?" Ji-hye asked quietly. "Everyone says going alone is suicide. You're Iron rank 19. The Architect takes Platinum-ranks. You can't—"
"I'm going."
Ji-hye's mouth opened, then closed again. "Seung-yoon—"
"He's my father." Yoo stood, testing this body that felt familiar and foreign simultaneously. His legs wobbled slightly at first, then steadied. "I don't have a choice."
Ji-hye looked at him. Really looked.
Saw something in his eyes that made her step back slightly.
"You're different. Since you woke up. Your eyes—they're the same color, but they look… older."
Yoo didn't respond.
Didn't know how to explain that he felt older. Felt like he'd lived multiple lifetimes. Felt like he'd died and somehow didn't.
"I need my gear," he said instead.
Ji-hye hesitated, then nodded, biting her lip. She started gathering equipment—her hands moving faster than her thoughts, clattering against metal cases and old straps.
Yoo stood alone for a moment, trying to process.
Two sets of memories warred in his skull.
I'm two years old chronologically. Appeared eight physically due to Core Surge acceleration. Iron rank 19 achieved through slow, painful training.
I sealed void rifts. Reached higher ranks through desperate growth. Died saving humanity.
Both felt true.
Both felt like lies.
"Host consciousness detected."
That voice. Clinical. Familiar.
Akasha?
"Affirmative. Akasha Archive present and operational. However—detecting severe memory fragmentation. Multiple timeline signatures in host consciousness. Analyzing…"
What's happening to me?
"Unknown. But recommend: accept current reality as baseline. You are Yoo Seung-yoon, age two years, Iron rank 19, living in Seoul slums. Father captured. Deadline in eleven hours."
"Other memories…" Akasha paused. "…classify as information source. Possibly prophetic. Possibly delusional. Cannot verify."
Yoo ran a hand through his hair—shorter than he remembered. The gesture grounded him a little. His palm trembled.
So I just… what? Ignore half my memories?
"Recommend: use both. Knowledge from 'other memories' may prove valuable even if circumstances differ. But operate based on current verified reality."
That made sense.
Sort of.
Ji-hye returned with equipment. "Standard Iron-rank gear. It's not much against The Architect, but…"
Yoo took it from her carefully. The straps were worn, leather cracked. The blade's edge glinted faintly under the dim light—old but well-cared for.
He equipped himself methodically, fingers tracing familiar motions his body seemed to remember before his mind caught up.
The blade felt right in his hand. The weight familiar.
Some things transcended contradictory memories.
"I'm leaving now," he said quietly. "If I don't return by dawn—"
"Don't talk like that."
"—assume I'm dead. Don't follow. Don't investigate. Just survive."
Ji-hye grabbed his arm. Her grip was tight, desperate. "You're talking like this is goodbye."
"It might be." Yoo met her eyes. "But I have to try. He's my father."
She released him slowly, her expression crumbling.
"Then at least take this."
She handed him an emergency beacon. "If things go catastrophically wrong, crush it. It'll signal your location. Mira and Min-jun are on standby. They'll extract you if possible."
Yoo pocketed it.
Knowing he wouldn't use it.
This has to be done alone.
He walked out of Ji-hye's tent into the Seoul slums.
Night had fallen.
The ruins were lit by scattered fires, emergency lights, the faint glow of hunter patrols in the distance. The air smelled of rust, wet ash, and the faint ozone hum of nearby wards.
He paused at the edge of the street. Wind tugged at his jacket, whispering against the grime-streaked rooftops.
Eleven hours until deadline.
His father was somewhere—captured, waiting, possibly dying.
And Yoo was walking into a trap with contradictory memories, uncertain powers, and the vague feeling that he'd done this before somehow.
But also—certainty.
I've died twice. Been scattered. Reformed. Erased.
And I'm still here.
That has to mean something.
He adjusted the strap of his blade, exhaled slowly, and set off toward the coordinates.
Alone.
Just like the message demanded.
But that was eleven hours away.
For now—he walked through ruins, trying to reconcile memories that claimed he was both prodigy and failure, both powerful and weak, both alive and somehow not.
The contradictions would have to wait.
His father needed saving.
Everything else was secondary.