THE STORY CONTINUES.
— The Weight Between Worlds
(Penultimate Chapter)
Armin woke before dawn.
Not because of fear.
Not because of pain.
Because his body had learned that peace was temporary.
The room in Fantasia was quiet—too quiet. Morning light crept through the cracked window of the inn, illuminating dust in the air like frozen stars. His armor lay folded beside the bed. His sword rested against the wall, humming faintly, as if disappointed he had slept at all.
He sat up slowly.
The world-switch always left something behind.
Tonight, it was the smell of moon-dust and blood.
He rubbed his palms together. The scars never faded anymore. They didn't heal wrong—they healed aware. As if his body remembered every place it had been hurt and refused to forget.
Outside, the town was waking.
Merchants shouted prices they didn't believe in. Blacksmiths argued with metal. Children ran with the reckless courage of those who hadn't lost enough yet. Fantasia looked alive.
And yet—
Armin felt like a visitor.
Simon found him near the well.
"You look worse than yesterday," Simon said, handing him a cup of water.
"That's progress," Armin replied.
Simon laughed, then stopped when he saw Armin's eyes. "Did you… switch again?"
Armin nodded.
"Same place?"
"No," Armin said. "Same night."
Simon didn't ask more. He had learned when silence was safer.
By noon, Armin stood before Alfred.
The gold-rank adventurer was training recruits in the courtyard, correcting stances with sharp words and sharper intent. When he noticed Armin, he dismissed everyone with a wave.
"You're drifting," Alfred said bluntly.
Armin didn't deny it.
"You fight like someone preparing to leave," Alfred continued. "That's dangerous. For you—and for those who stand beside you."
"I don't know where I belong," Armin said.
Alfred studied him for a long moment. "That's a lie."
Armin looked up.
"You know," Alfred said quietly. "You're just afraid of what choosing means."
The words struck harder than any blade.
That night, Armin returned to the other world.
The moon-world.
No dawn. No sun. Just an endless sky painted in silver and sorrow.
The youths were already waiting.
John.
Ethan.
Marcus.
Leo.
Ryan.
Noah.
Caleb.
Victor.
Lucas.
They stood straighter now. Less anger. More discipline. Pain had shaped them into something sharper.
Training had become brutal.
No mercy. No comfort.
Armin didn't teach them how to fight monsters.
He taught them how to endure.
"How many times did you fall today?" Armin asked.
"Thirty-seven," Marcus answered.
"Good," Armin said. "Fall more tomorrow."
They hated him for it.
They trusted him because of it.
Between drills, Armin watched them laugh—small, broken laughs that tried to pretend the night wasn't eternal. He saw his old party in them. The same defiance. The same doomed hope.
That terrified him.
When the bell rang, Armin felt it inside his bones.
He returned to Fantasia with blood on his knuckles and moonlight still clinging to his shadow.
The transition hurt more now.
As if the worlds were resisting his existence.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
People started whispering.
Some called him "the Walker."
Some called him "the Bell-Touched."
Some avoided him altogether.
Armin stopped correcting them.
At night, he began writing.
Not plans.
Not strategies.
Questions.
Why am I allowed to exist between worlds?
Why do I survive when others don't?
What am I supposed to become?
No answers came.
Only dreams—fractured, looping, unfinished.
On the final night before everything changed, Armin stood alone outside the town.
The wind carried distant bells.
Not ringing.
Waiting.
His shadow stretched unnaturally long, pointing not toward the town… but toward the road beyond it.
Toward wandering.
Toward purpose.
Toward something that did not yet have a name.
Armin tightened his grip on his sword.
And stepped forward.
To be continued.