— "Dreams are not an escape. Dreams are the place where you can no longer lie to yourself." —
That night, Aeon did not dream.
Or perhaps he did dream, but he didn't remember it. All he remembered was thick darkness, the sound of wind whispering between the trees in the park, and the faint warmth from the blue stone at his neck that seemed to pulse gently in time with his heartbeat.
When dawn broke, he opened his eyes.
His body still felt heavy. His head still throbbed. The three healed scars on his arm itched, as if something were moving beneath the skin. But he could stand. He could walk. That was enough.
He opened The Hollow Tome. The pages were blank as usual, but this time something was different. In the bottom right corner of the first page, small writing appeared in silver ink that was almost invisible:
"Distance to Whispers Forest: 38 km. Travel time on foot: 8 hours. Travel time using transportation: 2 hours. Suggestion: Do not walk. You will be caught."
Aeon frowned. "Transportation? With what money?"
As if answering his question, the writing changed:
"The Market Visitor Card can be used as payment at the East Gate Station. One trip to Whispers Forest: 1 card usage."
Aeon took out the silver card given by the Archivist. The card felt warm in his hand, and when he flipped it over, new writing appeared on its surface: "Remaining credit: 3."
"The Archivist gave me more than just a membership card," Aeon thought. "He gave me currency."
He didn't know if it was out of kindness or because the Archivist had other plans. But he didn't have many choices.
He stood up, straightened his shabby jacket, made sure the green book and The Hollow Tome were safe, and walked toward the East Gate.
The East Gate of Veriditas was the busiest gate in the city. Unlike the tightly guarded North Gate for military traffic or the South Gate dominated by agricultural traders, the East Gate was the exit toward the forest and mountain regions—where adventurers, monster hunters, and wanderers set out to seek their fortune.
Aeon arrived there as the sun had just risen to spear height. The gate itself was a grand structure of white stone with pillars carved with dragons and griffins. Above the arch, a statue of a female knight with spread wings gazed eastward, her sword raised to the sky.
Below the statue, crowds had already begun to fill the gate area. There were groups of adventurers with gleaming weapons, merchants with carts full of goods, and a few noble families with golden-plated carriages.
Aeon walked past them toward a small building on the left side of the gate—the Transportation Station. The building was made of dark wood with a green shingle roof, and in front was a large wooden board listing destinations and prices.
He entered. The atmosphere inside the station was warm and busy. Several staff in dark blue uniforms were serving passengers. In the corner, there were wooden benches where passengers waited.
Aeon walked to the counter.
"Destination?" the staff behind the counter—a young man with a thin mustache and a friendly smile—looked at him.
"Whispers Forest."
The thin mustache rose. "Whispers Forest? That's a dangerous area. Are you an adventurer?"
"No."
"Then?"
"I just want to go there."
The staff studied him carefully. Shabby clothes, pale face, strange black book in hand. He probably thought Aeon was a reckless madman. But in the end, he shrugged.
"The fare for one person to the last post at the edge of Whispers Forest is two silver coins. The journey takes about two hours with a special carriage."
Aeon took out the silver card. "I don't have money. But I have this."
The staff took the card, flipped it over, and his eyes widened.
"This… this is a Black Market Silver Card. Level three." He looked at Aeon with a new expression—no longer dismissive, but wary. "Where did you get this?"
"From a friend."
"A friend…" The staff sighed. "Fine. This card can be used for payment. But since it's level three, you have credit for three trips. Are you sure you want to use one for this journey?"
"Yes."
The staff nodded. He took a stamp from under the counter, pressed it onto the card, and returned it to Aeon. On the card's surface, the words "Remaining credit: 2" appeared.
"The carriage departs in fifteen minutes from platform three. Over there." He pointed to a door on the right. "Be careful in the forest. Many strange things happen there."
Aeon took the card and walked toward platform three.
Platform three was an open area behind the station where several carriages of different sizes were being prepared for departure. But these carriages were not ordinary.
Aeon saw them and stopped for a moment.
The carriages were not pulled by horses, but by creatures he had never seen before. They were the size of horses, but their bodies were sleek and gleaming like liquid metal. Their legs were long and slender, with faintly glowing hooves. Their eyes—large and round—were glowing blue, staring blankly forward without blinking.
"What are those?" Aeon thought.
An old man with a farmer's hat and a small whip approached him.
"Are you a passenger for Whispers Forest?"
"Yes."
"Board carriage number three. The green one."
Aeon walked to the indicated carriage. It was simple—like a wooden wagon with a canvas roof, equipped with wooden benches inside. There were only two other passengers already seated: a man in a green robe with a wooden staff—probably a mage—and a woman in leather clothing with a bow on her back—a hunter, perhaps.
They glanced at Aeon briefly and then ignored him.
Aeon sat on the rearmost bench, placed The Hollow Tome on his lap, and waited.
A few minutes later, the carriage began to move. The metal creatures ran at extraordinary speed—faster than the fastest horse—but their movement was smooth, as if gliding above the ground. Aeon could feel the wind hitting his face, the smell of soil and grass, and from afar, strange sounds growing louder.
Whispers.
Whispers Forest.
The two-hour journey felt like a blink. Or perhaps it felt like forever. Aeon could no longer tell. All he knew was that when the carriage stopped, he was at the edge of a forest very different from any he had known.
The trees here were not green. Their bark was pale gray, like ash, and their leaves were silver, trembling even when there was no wind. Every tremble produced sound—not the usual rustle of leaves, but whispers. Soft voices, like people speaking from far away, or like memories echoing in an empty room.
"Whispers Forest," Aeon thought. "Now I know why it's called that."
"Final stop. Whispers Forest." The driver's voice came from outside.
Aeon stepped down from the carriage. The other two passengers also got off—the mage and the hunter. They glanced at Aeon briefly and then walked into the forest without speaking, as if they were used to it.
Aeon stood at the edge of the forest, staring into the darkness between the trees.
The Hollow Tome in his hand vibrated. He opened it:
"The Sleeping Gate is located at the center of Whispers Forest, about 5 km from here. But be careful. This forest is alive. It listens. It sees. It remembers. Do not trust the whispers. They will try to persuade you, frighten you, or lead you astray. Focus on your goal. And never—under any circumstances—answer the whispers."
Aeon closed the book.
He stepped into the forest.
The first step inside Whispers Forest felt like stepping into another world. Sounds from outside—the wind, birds, carriages—vanished instantly, replaced by the constant hum of those whispers. Now that he was inside, the voices were clearer. Not one voice, but thousands, all speaking at once in a language he didn't understand.
Or perhaps he understood, but his mind refused to process it.
Aeon walked straight ahead. There were no paths here, only mossy ground that felt soft under his shoes. The trees around him towered high, their branches intertwining to form a canopy that filtered sunlight into moving silver dots like fireflies.
He walked for ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour. Everything was the same. Gray trees, silver leaves, constant whispers.
But then he saw something.
Among the trees, about fifty meters ahead, a small child stood with his back to him. His hair was blond, his clothes shabby, and in his hand… in his hand was a red book.
Aeon stopped.
"Leo," he thought.
The child didn't move. He simply stood there, back turned to Aeon, holding the red book.
The whispers around Aeon changed. No longer chaotic. Now they merged, forming one clear voice:
"He is waiting for you. He wants to talk. He wants you to know—"
Aeon covered his ears with his hands.
"Do not trust the whispers," he reminded himself. "They will try to persuade you."
He walked past the figure without turning. He didn't check if the figure was still there or had disappeared. He just walked.
But the whispers didn't stop. They changed voices. A woman's voice. A voice he had heard many years ago. A voice that made his heart—which had long stopped beating fast—thump harder.
"Aeon…"
He stopped.
"Aeon, where are you? I've been waiting for you…"
That voice. The voice he had tried so hard to forget. The voice that haunted him every night for years after the building collapsed.
The voice of his fiancée.
The voice of the woman who died in front of him, crushed by rubble, while he could do nothing.
"Do not trust the whispers."
Aeon bit his lip until it bled. The pain helped him focus.
He kept walking.
Behind him, the voice continued calling. It grew fainter. It grew softer. Until it finally sank back into the indistinct hum of whispers.
Aeon didn't turn. But his hand—the hand holding The Hollow Tome—trembled.
"It's not real," he thought. "It's just the forest. It reads my mind. It takes the most painful memories and uses them."
But even though he knew it wasn't real, it still felt real. The pain remained, gaping in his chest like a wound that had never healed.
"What are you afraid of, Aeon?" another voice whispered, this time one he didn't recognize. Old. Wise. Terrifying. "You're afraid of your past. You're afraid of your future. You're afraid of yourself."
Aeon didn't answer.
"You're afraid you'll never feel anything again. That you died inside long before you died physically. That you're just an empty husk walking, pretending to be human."
Aeon kept walking.
"But you're wrong. You can still feel. You felt it when Leo died. You felt it when Lilia gave you that necklace. You feel it now. You're afraid. You're afraid you'll lose again. That you're not strong enough to protect anyone. That in the end, you'll be alone again."
Aeon stopped.
He stood in the middle of the forest, surrounded by gray trees and silver leaves, with whispers swirling around him like a whirlwind.
"Do you want it all to end?" the voice whispered. "You can stop here. Sit down. Be still. Let the forest take care of you. No one will blame you. You're already dead, remember? The dead have no obligations."
Aeon looked down at The Hollow Tome in his hand.
The book was open. Its pages were blank. Waiting.
"Write," the voice whispered. "Write 'STOP'. And it will all end."
Aeon raised his hand. His finger touched the blank page.
Silver ink began to flow.
He wrote:
"I AM NOT AFRAID."
The whispers stopped.
Not all at once, but slowly, like receding water. The voices grew fainter, more distant, until only silence remained.
Absolute silence.
Aeon stood in the silent forest. No whispers. No wind. Even the silver leaves above him stopped trembling.
And in front of him, where there had been nothing before, there was now a door.
The door was not attached to any wall or building. It stood alone in the middle of the forest, a dark wooden frame with intricate carvings, without a door panel—only an empty opening in the center that revealed… darkness.
Not ordinary darkness. Moving darkness. Breathing darkness. Darkness that stared back.
"The Sleeping Gate," Aeon thought.
He stepped closer. Every step felt heavy, like walking through water. The air around the gate was different—colder, thicker, and the smell… it smelled like morning after rain, but also like something rotting. Two smells that shouldn't exist together.
Aeon stopped one meter from the gate.
He opened The Hollow Tome. No new writing. Only blank pages.
"You have to decide for yourself," he thought. "No book will tell you."
He stared into the darkness beyond the gate. There, he could see something—not a clear shape, but movement. Like shadows moving behind a curtain. Like something waiting.
"The Fifth Layer," Aeon thought. "The world of The Unseen. A world where logic doesn't apply. A world of dreams and nightmares."
He wasn't afraid. Or perhaps he was afraid, but he was too tired to feel it.
He stepped through.
The moment his foot touched the other side of the gate, the world around him changed.
It didn't just change—it inverted.
He was no longer standing in the forest. He was standing in… a room. A familiar room. Too familiar.
White walls. Marble floor. Large windows with a view of a city he hadn't seen in a long time.
His apartment living room. In his old world.
Aeon turned. Behind him was a black leather sofa, a coffee table with stacks of books, and on the wall, framed photos.
The photos… were blurry. The faces in them were unclear, as if covered in mist. But he knew who they were. He knew there was one photo that should have shown him and a woman with a wide smile. But the woman's face was blank. Only a shape, without features.
"This isn't real," Aeon said.
"Of course it isn't real." The voice came from behind him. A woman's voice. The same voice he had heard in the forest. His fiancée's voice.
Aeon turned.
The woman stood in the kitchen doorway. She was shoulder-height to Aeon, with long black hair, and her face… her face was still blank. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just smooth skin stretched where features should have been.
"But you still want to see it, don't you?" the voice came from the blank face. "You want to see me. You want to remember me. But you can't. That black book has already taken your memories of me, hasn't it?"
Aeon clenched his fists.
"I don't need this."
"But you do. That's why you're here. The Fifth Layer is the world of dreams. And dreams aren't about what you want. Dreams are about what you need." The woman stepped closer. "You need to remember, Aeon. Not to return to the past. But to move forward."
"You're not real."
"I'm not real. But your pain is real. Your loss is real. And as long as you don't face it, you will keep carrying that burden. The burden that makes you unable to write in that book without losing more memories."
Aeon fell silent.
The woman stopped in front of him. Only one step away. The blank face stared at him—or at least, he felt stared at.
"What are you afraid of, Aeon?" the woman asked. "Not me. Not the past. You're afraid of yourself. You're afraid that if you start feeling again, you won't be able to stop. You're afraid that the pain will destroy you. But you forget one thing."
"What?"
"You're already dead, Aeon. What can be destroyed in someone who is already dead?"
Aeon stared at the blank face. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and touched the woman's cheek.
Her skin was smooth. Warm. Like real human skin.
"I've forgotten your name," Aeon said. His voice was hoarse. "I've forgotten your face. I've forgotten your voice. I only remember that you existed. And that you left."
"That's enough."
"No. That's not enough."
"For now, it's enough. Later, you will remember more. But not now. Now, you must focus on what lies ahead."
The woman stepped back. Her body began to blur, like ink dissolving in water.
"I'm leaving now. But I will always be here." She pointed to Aeon's chest. "Not as a memory. But as a wound. And a wound… a wound is a sign that you once lived."
Her body dissolved into swirling points of light, then vanished.
Aeon stood alone in the room that was beginning to collapse. The walls cracked. The floor shook. The photos fell and shattered.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was no longer in the apartment.
He stood in a large room. A room without walls, without a ceiling, only a floor of black glass that reflected light from an unseen source. Around him, objects floated in the air—books, weapons, strange objects with indescribable shapes—all rotating slowly like planets in a miniature solar system.
And in the center of the room, an old man sat on a simple wooden chair.
The old man was ancient. Very ancient. His white hair reached the floor, his beard was also white, and his skin was wrinkled like old paper folded thousands of times. But his eyes—his eyes were still sharp. Bright blue, like winter sky, and filled with something Aeon couldn't read.
"Welcome," the old man said. His voice was weak, like a whispering wind, but every word was clear. "It has been a long time since anyone came here."
"Who are you?" Aeon asked.
The old man smiled. "I am the gatekeeper. Or more accurately, I am the gate itself. This body is only… a vessel. So visitors like you can speak to something that has no mouth."
"You are the Sleeping Gate?"
"Part of it. I am the consciousness that guards the door between the Fourth and Fifth Layers. I have been here since the Layers were created. Or at least, since the great war that separated them."
Aeon stepped closer. Each step on the black glass floor created ripples, like stones dropped into water.
"Do you know about The Hollow Tome?" Aeon asked, raising the book in his hand.
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Of course. That is one of the reasons I am still here. Waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"Waiting for its owner to return. Or waiting for a new worthy owner." He studied Aeon carefully. "You are not its owner. But you… you are interesting. A dead soul, living again in a body that shouldn't exist. Just like the book itself."
"What do you mean?"
The old man didn't answer directly. He extended his wrinkled hand.
"May I see it?"
Aeon hesitated for a moment, then handed over The Hollow Tome.
The old man took it gently, like someone receiving a baby. He opened the book, turning page after page, even though they were all blank. His bright blue eyes moved quickly, as if reading something invisible to Aeon.
"This is not The Tome of Realities," he said finally.
Aeon frowned. "But the book—"
"It is a fragment of The Tome of Realities. One of seven." The old man closed the book and returned it. "When the Second One was shattered, His soul broke into seven parts. Seven parts scattered across the seven layers of reality. Seven books, each with the power to rewrite certain aspects of reality. Your book… this is the part from the Fourth Layer. The physical world. That is why you can write simple commands—fall, slow, push—but nothing more."
"So there are six other books?"
"Yes. Scattered across the other layers. Some have been found. Some are still missing. Some… have already been destroyed." The old man sighed. "But that is not the most important thing."
"What is the most important thing?"
The old man looked at Aeon. His bright blue eyes now seemed deeper, like an abyss with no bottom.
"The most important thing is that The Synod of Eyes already possesses three of those seven books."
Aeon fell silent.
"Three books," the old man continued. "From the Second, Third, and Sixth Layers. They have already mastered the power to rewrite certain aspects of reality. And with three books, they can already… manipulate."
"Manipulate what?"
"Everything related to the soul. They can steal souls, transfer souls, even create new souls. That is why they kidnap children with Soul Weaving. That ability is the key to uniting those three books with the others."
Aeon remembered Lilia. The little girl with pale blue eyes and the blue stone necklace.
"Lilia," he said.
"Yes. That little girl is a Soul Weaver. And you… you are a Reader. The combination of the two of you is what they need to access the full power of those books."
"So they will hunt us."
"They are already hunting you. And they will not stop."
Aeon sat on the black glass floor. He wasn't physically tired, but his mind felt tangled.
"Why are you telling me all this?" he asked.
The old man smiled. "Because I want you to win."
"I'm not a hero."
"I don't need a hero. I need someone who doesn't care about anything except the truth. Someone who won't be tempted by power, or fear, or false hope. Someone who is already dead, so there is nothing that can be threatened with death."
"I care about Lilia."
The old man raised an eyebrow. "You care?"
"I… don't know. But I don't want her to fall into their hands."
"That is enough. That is more than enough." The old man stood up—slowly, like an old tree moving against the wind. "I will tell you one more thing. But you must promise not to ignore it."
"What?"
"The books do not only rewrite reality. They can also open a path to the First Layer. Where the Slumbering King sleeps. If The Synod of Eyes gathers all seven books and combines them with a strong enough Soul Weaver, they can awaken that King. And if the King awakens…" The old man sighed. "You already know what happens next."
"All layers will merge. All consciousness will become one."
"Yes. And there will be no more death. No more birth. No more change. Only empty eternity. Boring eternity."
Aeon remembered the words in the green book. "The Second One was bored. The Third One was angry."
"Isn't that what the Slumbering King wants?" he asked. "Unity?"
"Forced unity is not unity. It is a prison." The old man looked at Aeon with eyes that suddenly seemed very old. "I have seen it happen, Aeon. Long ago, before there were seven layers, before the war, before everything. I have seen what happens when one consciousness tries to swallow all others. Nothing remains. No color. No sound. No stories. Only emptiness."
"You have existed since then?"
"I am one of the fragments of the Second One. Like those books. But I am not a book. I am… memory. Memory of what it means to be human. Of what it means to have a story." He smiled again, but this time his smile was gentle. "That is why I am here, guarding the gate. So that the world of dreams does not swallow the real world. So that stories can continue."
Aeon stood up.
"What should I do?"
"First, you must master your book. Not just write simple words, but understand the essence of the reality you write. It will take time. But you have an advantage: you are already dead. Time does not mean the same to the dead as it does to the living."
"Second?"
"You must find the other books before The Synod of Eyes finds them. There are six other books scattered. One in the Second Layer, one in the Third Layer, one in this Fifth Layer, one in the Sixth Layer (which they already have), one in the Seventh Layer, and one…" The old man stopped. "One that is lost. No one knows where."
"In the First Layer?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps it has already been destroyed. I don't know."
"Third?"
"Third, you must protect that Soul Weaver. The little girl Lilia. Without her, The Synod of Eyes cannot combine the books. She is the final key."
Aeon nodded. "Alright."
The old man chuckled softly. "You say 'alright' in the same way you said 'okay' when you first met the Keeper in the Library Between."
"You know about that?"
"I know many things, Aeon. But not everything. And that is what makes life interesting."
He extended his hand. Aeon shook it. The old man's hand was cold, like a stone at the bottom of a river, but there was a pulse inside it. A soft, steady pulse, like a heartbeat.
"This is a map to the book in the Fifth Layer," the old man said. In Aeon's hand appeared a small scroll—parchment like the one from the Archivist, but with different symbols. "This book is different from the one you have. This book is related to dreams. To master it, you must be able to distinguish between dream and reality. A difficult task, even for the wisest."
"And after I get it?"
"You will know what to do. Or at least, you will figure it out."
The old man stepped back. His body began to fade, like a shadow swallowed by light.
"I will return to my sleep now. But remember, Aeon: you are not alone. There are others like you. Other Transferred. Some have been in this world longer than you think. Find them. Ally with them. Because the war that is coming is not a war that can be won alone."
"Wait—who are they? Where can I find them?"
But the old man had already disappeared. The black glass room began to crack, its fragments falling into the darkness below, and Aeon felt gravity reverse, pulling him up, down, in every direction at once.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was back at the edge of the forest. The sun was already tilting westward—afternoon. He had spent hours in the Fifth Layer, though it had felt like only minutes.
The Hollow Tome was still in his hand. And in his other hand was a new map scroll.
He opened The Hollow Tome. The last page wrote:
"Journey to the Fifth Layer: Completed. New information: Seven fragment books from The Tome of Realities. The Synod of Eyes possesses three. New objective: Find the fourth book in the Fifth Layer. Time: Unlimited, but The Synod of Eyes is also searching.
Warning: They now know you are here. They will come. Be prepared."
Aeon closed the book.
He looked eastward, where the sun was setting in orange and red, like fire burning the horizon.
"They will come," he thought. "But I will not run."
He held the blue stone necklace at his neck. The stone felt warm, pulsing gently.
"I made a promise to you, Leo. I will protect your sister. And I will stop those who killed you."
He didn't know if it was a promise he could keep. But for the first time in many years, he had something worth fighting for.
Not out of kindness.
Not out of a call of destiny.
But because he was tired of running. Tired of avoiding. Tired of being empty.
"Maybe this is what living is," Aeon thought. "Not about feeling happy. But about having something meaningful enough to fight for."
He walked away from Whispers Forest, heading in the opposite direction from Veriditas. He couldn't return to the city now. The Eye of Obsidian must already be searching for him. But he also couldn't go too far. Lilia was still there.
"I must find the book in the Fifth Layer. But I also must make sure Lilia is safe."
He opened the map given by the gatekeeper. On it, two points glowed: one red, one blue. Red was the location of the book in the Fifth Layer. Blue was… something else. No explanation.
"Maybe that's a clue about the other Transferred," Aeon thought. "Or maybe a trap."
But he had no other choice.
He tucked the map into his jacket, along with the green book and the silver card.
He walked along the edge of the forest, looking for a place to spend the night. In the distance, he saw a small hut—perhaps a hunter's or woodcutter's shelter. The hut looked empty and dusty, but the roof was still intact.
Aeon entered. There was only one room with a stone fireplace, a wooden bed, and a small table. On the shelf on the wall were several empty bottles and simple tools.
He sat on the wooden chair near the fireplace. There was no firewood, but he didn't feel cold. He no longer felt temperature, it seemed.
He took out the green book—"The Hidden History of the Seven Layers"—and began reading again. He had already read half of it. Now he wanted to finish it.
He read about the war between the gods in the First Layer. About how the Slumbering King was defeated not because he lost, but because he chose to sleep. About how he whispered before falling asleep: "I will awaken when this world is mature enough to accept the truth."
He read about The Unseen—parasites from the Fifth Layer that were originally guardians, but turned into monsters when the Fifth Layer was tainted by the nightmares of warring gods. About how The Unseen had now become slaves of The Synod of Eyes, used as weapons and tools.
He read about Soul Weaving—a rare ability that only appeared every few generations, in children born at the intersection between the Fourth and Fifth Layers. About how Soul Weavers could weave souls into reality, create beings from dreams, or open doors between layers.
And he read about The Hollow Tome—about how the book was not just a tool, but also a living being. About how the book chose its owner, not the other way around. About how the book drained its owner's memories and emotions not out of malice, but because it was hungry. Because it was a fragment of the Second One, and the Second One was the bored god, always thirsty for new experiences.
"The book is hungry," Aeon thought. "That is why it takes my memories. It wants to feel what I feel. It wants to remember what I remember."
He looked at The Hollow Tome on his lap. The book was open to a blank page, but now, in the corner of the page, small writing appeared:
"Sorry."
Aeon smiled. A real smile, though small.
"You can apologize?" he thought.
The writing changed:
"I have no choice. I need food. But I will try not to take the most important memories. Promise."
"You can promise?"
"I can try."
Aeon shook his head. A book that could speak. A book that was hungry. A book that apologized.
"Life is strange," he thought. "But maybe that's what makes it worth continuing."
He closed the book, placed it beside him, and stared at the nonexistent fire.
Outside, night had fully arrived. Whispers Forest became silent—even the whispers were quiet, as if respecting his rest.
Aeon closed his eyes.
No dreams. But for the first time, he didn't feel empty.
He felt… calm.
Not happiness. Not peace. But a silence that didn't suffocate. A silence that allowed him to think, to feel, to exist without having to run.
"Tomorrow," he thought. "Tomorrow I will search for the book in the Fifth Layer. Then I will return to Veriditas. Then…"
He didn't know what would happen after that. But that didn't matter.
What mattered was that the story wasn't over yet.
And Aeon, for the first time, did not want the story to end.