CHAPTER 65 – THE FINAL TRANSIT
When he stepped out of the teleportation circle this time, he did not stop.
He took a step forward, felt the ground, assessed his direction, and kept walking. Unlike the previous transitions, he didn't weigh his surroundings or read the crowd. This city was not a stop. It was only a threshold.
The air was drier. The stone was lighter in color. The transit courtyard was smaller, but the order was stricter. Guards did not speak; they only gestured. Waiting areas were clearly marked. Whoever was going where stood exactly there.
Seryn joined the line.
This time, the wait was short.
The inspection was quick. When his name was read, the official's tone did not change. The name Daskal carried no echo here. Either these lands were too far removed for it to matter… or everyone already knew.
The circle activated.
This transition was different.
In the previous ones, there had been a bend—a brief heaviness, that familiar pressure settling in the stomach. This time it was deeper. It lasted longer. As if it wasn't distance being crossed, but layers.
The gray flow did not react.
But it did not withdraw either.
We're close, Seryn thought.
It knows it too.
When the world settled, the first thing that arrived was silence.
Not the artificial silence of transit cities. This silence was controlled. There was no noise, yet there was life. Distant metal sounds, steady footsteps, the rustle of banners carried by the wind…
He lifted his gaze.
The Daskal border city.
The walls were high, but not ornate. No decoration. Only the crest—repeated, simple, clear. The gates were thick. The guards were few, but sufficient. Their gazes were measured. No one shouted. No one hurried.
Here, speed did not matter. Stability did.
As Seryn left the circle area, two guards blocked his path. Their weapons were not drawn.
"Name."
"Seryn Daskal."
There was a brief pause. Only a moment.
Then one of them inclined his head. "Welcome."
Neither excessive respect nor insufficient distance.
Exactly as it should be.
He entered the city.
The streets were wide. The people were few, but orderly. No one stared at him for long. Here, the name Daskal was not a curiosity—it was a reality. Seen, acknowledged, passed by.
Two things caught his attention along the way.
First: The guards were strong, but not excessive. B level, perhaps B+. Enough. Sensible. No one stood at the peak, because the peak lay elsewhere here.
Second: The gray flow.
It was still silent. But this silence did not resemble that of the transit cities. Here, it felt not suppressed, but respectful.
He did not like that difference.
There was one more transition. The last.
An inner-city circle. Smaller. Older. The markings on it were worn, but well maintained. This circle opened directly into the inner lands of Daskal territory. Only for certain names.
The official performed a brief check. Then stepped aside.
"Safe travels, young lord."
The title did not feel foreign. But it did not feel warm either.
The circle activated.
This time, the world did not bend.
The world gained weight.
Seryn bent his knees slightly as he stepped forward. The ground was firm. The air was colder. The sky was clear, but the sun felt distant.
Daskal lands.
Wide fields. Ordered roads. Stone structures rising in the distance. Not a fortress… a center.
Everything here was in its proper place. And that did not bring comfort. On the contrary, it reduced the margin for error to zero.
A convoy was waiting.
Five horses. Two carriages. Four guards.
The man at the front was middle-aged. Old scars lined his face. His aura was controlled. At the upper edge of B level. But his stance was firm.
"Seryn Daskal," he said. "I am Harren. From the family internal transit unit."
Seryn nodded. "I know."
Harren raised an eyebrow slightly but did not comment. "Three hours to the center. We won't stop on the way."
"No need."
They set off.
The horses moved in steady rhythm. No one spoke. The convoy was quiet, but not tense. It was a trained silence.
Seryn leaned back, looking out the window.
The lands were familiar, but the memories were not clear. Because it was not him who had lived on these lands before—it had been another Seryn. Now returning was someone with the same name, but different.
The gray flow stirred.
Lightly.
Not a warning. Not a reaction.
Yes, he thought.
This is the place.
As the convoy advanced, the center came into view. High walls, interlocking structures, banners… All simple, yet imposing.
House Daskal.
Seryn exhaled.
There was no hiding here.
There was no waiting either.
Only position.
And now, he had returned to that position.
Did you know?
Although long-distance teleportation circles are technically possible in most worlds, the risk of soul–body desynchronization increases geometrically as layer-crossing grows—this is why empires prefer chained city-to-city transitions.