I was thirty-eight now. Not exactly old, but not getting any younger either. My life had become a balancing act between fate and survival. Any time now, the novel Hunterworks would kick off its main storyline—Leon sneaking past the World Wall to begin his blind exploration of the forbidden regions, searching for his family. Searching for her.


    Leora.


    In the story, that moment marked the beginning of Leon’s journey as a hero. The tragedies he would endure, the people he’d lose, the growth he’d achieve—it all started with that reckless decision. And I knew, in my gut, that he was close to making that choice now.


    I sat in my office, fingers grazing the stump where my left arm used to be. It ached sometimes, phantom pain that never let me forget how fragile I was. How human I still was, despite everything.


    The question nagged at me, louder than ever. Should I let the story continue as written? Let Leon go and allow fate to play out? Or should I confine him, keep him safe, and risk angering the narrative? The latter was dangerous. I knew firsthand how cruel fate could be to those who resisted it.


    The door opened, pulling me from my thoughts. Sarah entered, a folder clutched tightly to her chest out of habit, though I knew there were no physical documents inside.


    Sarah had grown so much in the past five years. The timid former cultist who once called me “milord” had blossomed into someone confident and capable. Emotionally, she was stronger, too—though she still had her quirks. The Elsewhere Cult had been dismantled, but Ulrich, their so-called Saint, remained missing.


    A small part of me—a foolish, wishful part—held onto the hope that he was alive. Because if Ulrich lived, maybe Leora did, too.


    Sarah made her way to the sofa, and I followed, settling into the seat across from her. Therapy. Session three. I wasn’t sure if it was helping yet, but I owed it to myself to try.


    Sarah fidgeted, brushing her hair back nervously. “S-so, boss, this is our third session now. This therapy thing. I’m still getting the hang of it.”


    I gave her a small smile. “Have more confidence in yourself. You’ve had your training, and with the recent advancements in aura methodology, you’re more than qualified. What’s your Gift’s name again?”


    “Movie Reel,” she replied, her voice steadying. “It allows me to view another person’s memories. When I was just using raw aura techniques, I could only see glimpses—flashes, like shattered glass. I never thought something as simple as giving my Gift a name would make such a difference. Now I can peer into someone’s memories with ease.”


    The Gift Theory had changed everything. I had played no small part in its manifestation. Behind the scenes, I’d gathered researchers, scientists, and scholars, investing everything I had to push the world forward. I even published theses—anonymously—supporting technologies and techniques that were supposed to appear decades later.


    The GRD, the Hunter Academy, the spread of aura knowledge—none of it was supposed to happen yet. This world was supposed to remain a dystopia, a shadowy mess of secrets and fear. But I had accelerated its timeline. I didn’t regret it, but it made me wonder: Was I helping or just speeding toward disaster?


    Sarah straightened up. “So, should we start?”


    “What do you think?” I asked.


    She nodded, her confidence returning. “I’ve compiled data on the issues you’ve raised. Don’t worry, there’s no physical copy. Everything’s recorded perfectly in my head. The results of your brain scans also came back.”


    I raised an eyebrow. “And?”


    Sarah hesitated, as if unsure how to deliver the news. “There’s something wrong with your brain, boss.”


    I froze, my heart sinking. “What is it?”


    “The symptoms you’ve described—missing memories, skewed self-awareness, blackouts—they match the damage we saw in the scans. Your cerebral cortex is injured. It’s… it’s bad.”


    I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temple. “How?”


    “It’s theorized the injury comes from your aura usage,” she explained carefully. “It’s like this: The more you use your abilities, the more aura is required. But because you have too little aura to begin with, your mortal flesh—your brain—compensates instead. And it’s tearing itself apart in the process.”


    The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I’d always known I had far less aura than the average Hunter. Mundanes could mistake me for one of their own, and even fellow Hunters often underestimated me. But I had always pushed past that limitation, forcing my abilities to work, no matter the cost.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    It seemed the cost had finally caught up to me.


    Sarah’s voice softened. “When did you first realize you had missing memories?”


    I thought back, the answer coming easily. “During the Hunter’s Licensure Exam. Around the middle portion of it, I started abusing my aura usage too much. I felt it then. Like something was breaking inside me.”


    Sarah frowned, her brows knitting together in concern. “That lines up. From what you’ve told me, you were pushing your abilities far beyond what your aura capacity could handle. And you kept doing it.”


    I chuckled bitterly. “What choice did I have?”


    Sarah looked at me, her eyes sharp. “You still have a choice, boss. You can’t keep ignoring this. If you keep using your abilities like you have been, the damage will get worse. There’s a limit to what your brain can endure.”


    Her words lingered in the air, heavy and unshakable. I looked down at my hands—one flesh, one phantom—and felt the weight of my decisions pressing down on me.


    Fate had been cruel to me, and now my own body was failing. My mind was fracturing, piece by piece.


    And yet, even now, I couldn’t stop.


    Because if I stopped, I might lose the last threads holding me together. If I stopped, I might lose Leon. I might lose the chance to find Leora.


    And I couldn’t allow that.


    Not yet.


    “Is there a way to retrieve my missing memories?” I asked.


    Sarah frowned, her expression a mix of hesitation and pity. “Maybe if you had the assistance of a telepath, but I doubt that. Most telepaths or reader-class Gifts, like mine, are geared toward mind reading. Actual memory retrieval—true mind control—is the stuff of legends.”


    I leaned back against the couch, trying to hide my disappointment.


    Sarah continued, voice steady but apologetic. “If there’s anyone who could come close to mind control, it’s probably someone who belongs to the trickster-class. In a way, you’d have to be tricked into remembering the missing memories.”


    Tricked into remembering. It sounded ridiculous, but nothing about this world was ordinary. Still, the answer wasn’t what I wanted to hear.


    The therapy sessions had been my last resort—a desperate attempt to dig up the parts of myself I couldn’t reach. I had hoped, foolishly, that uncovering my missing memories would bring me closer to finding her. Leora.


    Now, it seemed like another dead end.


    “The missing memories aren’t even your biggest problem,” Sarah added, her tone sharpening. “If you continue the way you are, death wouldn’t be the least of your worries.”


    I looked at her, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”


    “Psychosis.” She met my gaze head-on, unflinching. “In our last session, you claimed you wrote this world and that we’re inside a novel you created.”


    I sighed, running a hand through my hair. I’d revealed that hideous truth—or what I believed to be the truth—after careful consideration. Whether it was something real or implanted into my mind, I couldn’t say for certain. But it was impossible to ignore.


    Sarah studied me carefully. “You mentioned suspecting that memory as something implanted into you.”


    “Yes,” I replied slowly. “But there’s another possibility.”


    “What’s that?”


    I hesitated, then said, “That it’s a byproduct of psychosis.”


    Sarah shook her head. “Is it? Think about it carefully. You told me that the memories of writing this world—of writing us—existed before you ever forcibly learned to use aura. That’s what you said, right?”


    I nodded. “Exactly. I remembered this world—Hunterworks—before I even knew aura existed. I remember the story. The timeline. The characters.”


    It was a truth that haunted me every day. I knew how this world was supposed to unfold. I knew the tragedies that awaited. I knew Leon’s story, because I’d written it.


    And yet, I was here now, existing within it.


    Sarah tapped her chin thoughtfully. “That means it couldn’t just be psychosis, then. There’s something else at play. A deeper connection.”


    “Like what?” I asked.


    “Is it possible your Gift has clairvoyant properties?” she suggested. “I read about something similar in the Elsewhere Cult’s archives. There are records of clairvoyants appearing throughout history—people who could see glimpses of the future or truths beyond their understanding. All of them eventually went insane.”


    I stared at her, silent.


    Sarah pressed on. “The Elsewhere Prophet was the only exception.”


    The Elsewhere Prophet. That name sent a shiver through me. Ulrich had claimed to be the Elsewhere Saint, but the Prophet? That was something far more ominous. A being who had seen beyond the veil and lived to tell the tale. The one guy that took three freaking years just to get a proper shot at him. And Ulrich was outliving that guy just by being an annoyance.


    “What happened to the others?” I asked.


    “They all succumbed to psychosis,” Sarah replied simply. “The visions were too much. They fractured their minds.”


    The room fell silent for a moment. I stared at the floor, feeling the weight of her words settle over me.


    “How long do I have left?” I finally asked, my voice quiet. “Before I die or fall into complete psychosis?”


    Sarah shifted uncomfortably, her fingers curling into the fabric of her pants. “It’s hard to say. If the damage to your brain continues at its current rate… maybe a few years. Maybe less.”


    The answer shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did.


    Years. Maybe less.


    Sarah’s voice softened. “But you can slow it down. Stop using your aura. Stop pushing yourself to the limit. You need rest, Reynard. You need to stop.”


    I scoffed bitterly. “Stop? You know I can’t do that.”


    “Why not?” she demanded. “Why do you keep pushing yourself to the edge?”


    “Because I don’t have a choice,” I snapped. “Because if I stop, I lose everything. I lose Leon. I lose the chance to find Leora. And I can’t let that happen.”


    Sarah’s expression faltered, but she didn’t argue.


    I stood up, pacing the room as my mind raced. My body was breaking. My mind was fracturing. And yet, I couldn’t stop.


    Because I had to move.


    I had to keep searching.


    For her.


    For answers.


    For a way to rewrite the fate I’d written.


    Sarah’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Reynard.”


    I stopped, turning to look at her.


    “You’re running out of time,” she said softly. “You need to figure out what you’re fighting for… and whether it’s worth the price you’re paying.”


    I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.


    Because I already knew the answer.


    And it didn’t matter what the cost was.


    I was willing to pay for it.