Both Jean and Eugene sat at the dining table in the kitchen. The bowl of spaghetti sat between them—steaming, fragrant, nearly empty now. Jean had been hungry since the sandwich hours ago, and it showed in the way he ate, quick and eager, as if afraid the food might disappear. Eugene ate at his own pace, slower, his mind elsewhere.
The transparent silver glow from Jean's chest was still fresh in his thoughts.
Jean looked up from his plate.
"What type of monsters did you fight today, Uncle?"
Eugene blinked, pulled from his thoughts. "Hmm?"
"What kind of monsters?" Jean repeated. "I want to know what you faced out there."
"Oh, today..." Eugene set down his fork, considering how to describe the nightmare he had survived. "Well, how do I describe them? Think of dogs. Or wolves. But with horns curving back from their heads, and nails as long as knives. They were huge—as tall as tigers, maybe lions. There were two types. The normal ones were the lesser rank. The one I fought was Awakened rank, same as me. That one was as big as a lion."
He reached for his glass of water and drank, the cool liquid grounding him back in the present.
Jean's eyes widened slightly. He had seen wolves in documentaries, tigers in zoos. But a wolf with horns and knife-length claws? That was something else entirely.
"Were they strong?" Jean asked. "Like, could they tear through metal? Could they—"
"Yeah, they were strong," Eugene interrupted with a small laugh. "Strong enough to kill a person in one swipe. Strong enough to tear through car doors like paper. But don't worry, I'm still here."
Jean frowned. "That's not funny, Uncle."
"Wasn't trying to be." Eugene replied with a smirk.
Eugene's smirk faded.
"But you asked, and I'm telling you the truth. This is what we deal with now."
Jean processed that for a moment. "How many did you kill?"
Eugene shrugged. "Lost count after the first wave. The first one died by my hand. Then another, and another. The first wave was easy, honestly."
He paused.
"Then came the second wave..."
His voice trailed off. Jean noticed the shift—the way Eugene's shoulders tensed, the way his gaze dropped to the table, the way his fingers tightened around his fork.
'Did something happen?' Jean wondered. 'It looks like something bad.'
"Uncle?" Jean prompted gently. "What happened in the second wave?"
Eugene was quiet for a long moment. Then he forced a shrug, forcing lightness into his voice. "Well, the second wave was a little tough. A lot tough, actually. But we won. Reinforcements arrived just in time. Then the third wave came—the Rift Master."
Jean leaned forward. "What was it?"
"I'll tell you one thing, that creature was something to look at." Eugene's eyes gleamed with something between awe and disgust. "It was a werewolf."
Jean's eyebrows shot up. "A werewolf? An actual werewolf?"
"An actual werewolf. Bipedal. Massive. Fur blacker than night. Horns on its head like a mountain goat, curving backward. And its eyes..." Eugene shook his head. "Its eyes were black. But not empty black—there was a hint of yellow in them, deep down, like embers buried in ash."
Jean had seen werewolves in movies, in stories, in the folklore of the old world. The idea that one might be real now—that it could step out of a rift and walk among them—sent a chill through him. But the excitement faded almost as quickly as it came. Anything was possible in this world now. He had to accept that.
"The werewolf was strong," Eugene continued. "At least a rank above me—Fiend rank. I couldn't have taken it alone. I wouldn't have lasted five seconds against that thing."
"But you said you won," Jean said. "How?"
Eugene's expression shifted. "There was someone else on the battlefield. Someone stronger."
Jean leaned forward, his attention fully caught. "Who?"
"I don't know her name. But she was... incredible." Eugene shook his head slowly, still marveling. "I wouldn't even call it a fight. It was one-sided. She had a crossbow mounted on her arm—tribal looking, ancient, humming with power. She used it swiftly, elegantly, in a way I've never seen before. She danced around the beast like it was nothing."
Jean's eyes gleamed. "She must be really strong."
"She was. The werewolf charged at her like a siege engine, and she just... sidestepped. Fired bolt after bolt. Four shots. That's all it took. Shoulder, flank, chest, head. The last one went right through its skull."
"Wow," Jean breathed. "She sounds awesome."
"Yeah, she was." Eugene's expression darkened slightly. "But there's something about her that's been bothering me."
Jean frowned. "What do you mean?"
Eugene hesitated, swirling his fork in the remaining sauce. "I don't know how to explain it. She was perfect. Too perfect. The way she moved, the way she fought, the way she carried herself—it felt... off. Like she was wearing a mask."
"Maybe she's just trained a lot," Jean offered.
"Maybe." Eugene didn't sound convinced. "But I've been around long enough to know when something doesn't add up. People who are that strong usually have a presence—something that tells you they've earned their power. She had something else. Something colder."
Jean was quiet for a moment. "Was she a bad person?"
Eugene considered the question for a long time. "I don't know. But she's definitely not normal, that's for sure. If she was that strong, she must be from a high-rank sect."
"Sect?" Jean asked. "What's a sect?"
"It's nothing fancy. Just a word for a group—a large group of Pathwalkers who follow the same rules, the same leader, the same philosophy. Some sects are good. Some are... less good." Eugene's voice grew serious. "The high-rank ones, though? They play by their own rules. They answer to no one but themselves."
"And you think she's from one of those?"
"It would explain why she showed up out of nowhere with no government insignia, no sect markings, nothing." Eugene shrugged. "But who knows. Maybe I'm just being paranoid."
Jean stared at his uncle. "You're not usually paranoid."
Eugene smiled—a tired, worn smile. "Twenty-five years of looping through the same year will do that to you. You start seeing shadows everywhere."
Jean didn't know what to say to that. So he returned to his spaghetti.
"Eat up," Eugene said after a moment. "Tomorrow, we'll go to the local hospital and let them know you've woken up from Somnum. They'll want to run tests, make sure you're healthy."
"Tests?" Jean grimaced. "What kind of tests?"
"The normal kind. Blood work, physical exam, maybe some questions about your dreams." Eugene paused. "Don't worry. It's standard procedure for Somnum survivors."
"Okay," Jean said quietly.
***
After dinner, Jean washed his plate while Eugene arranged the bedroom. When Jean walked in, he found his uncle settling onto a makeshift bed on the floor—blankets and pillows pulled from a closet, arranged carefully to be as comfortable as possible.
Jean climbed into the actual bed. The mattress was soft, the sheets clean. It felt strange. Like borrowed comfort.
He stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
"Uncle?" he said quietly.
Eugene wasn't asleep yet. "Yes?"
"Do you ever miss it? The old world?"
Eugene was quiet for a moment. "Every day."
"Even with everything that's happened? Even with the Tempus and the rifts and—"
"Especially with all that." Eugene's voice was soft in the darkness. "The old world had its problems. Plenty of them. But at least we knew the rules. At least we knew how things worked."
Jean nodded, even though Eugene couldn't see him. "I miss my brother. And Mom. And Dad. And Julie."
"I know, son."
"I keep thinking about them. About how things used to be."
Jean closed his eyes and let the memories come. His younger brother and sister played with him—Ben was always competitive, always trying to win, while Julie laughed and cheated and somehow always came out on top, she was a cunning one. His brother hadn't been as close to him as he wanted, but Julie was different. Whenever she had a problem, she came to Jean first. Before their parents. Before anyone. She trusted him.
His mother always cared for her children. She gave them love freely, openly, without conditions. When they asked for things, she gave. When they needed comfort, she held them. She was the warmth in their home, the softness that made it safe.
And his father... his father was not like the other fathers Jean heard about from friends. He never ignored them. Never dismissed them. He listened—truly listened—to everything they said, no matter how small or silly. He never disrespected any of them. He played with his children, ran with them in the yard, carried them on his shoulders. He took them on vacations every month—at least once a month—to beaches, to mountains, to places where they could be together and forget the world outside.
And his parents loved each other. Fully. Deeply. Jean had seen it in the way his father looked at his mother, in the way she smiled when he walked into the room. There were fights sometimes—small ones, about money or chores or the normal things families argue about—but they never lasted. They always found their way back to each other.
They were happy. Not perfect. But perfect in their own way.
"They were good parents," Jean whispered. "They still are."
"They are," Eugene agreed. "And they'll wake up. I promise you that. We'll find a way."
Tears slipped from the corners of Jean's eyes. He didn't sob. He didn't shake. He just let them fall, silent and warm against his cheeks, and wiped them away with the back of his hand.
After a long while, his breathing steadied.
"Good night, Uncle," he whispered.
Eugene smiled in the dark. "Good night, son."