Chris opened his eyes with great difficulty.
At first, he thought he had failed to open them at all. Darkness clung to his vision, thick and heavy, pressing against his mind like wet cloth. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as though they no longer belonged to him. When he tried to blink, pain flared faintly behind his eyes, a dull ache that made him groan under his breath.
Sound came next.
A steady, rhythmic beeping echoed somewhere close. It was slow, consistent, artificial. There was also the faint hum of machinery, low and constant, blending into the background like white noise. The air felt cool against his skin, dry and sterile, carrying a faint scent of disinfectant that stirred something unfamiliar yet oddly grounding in his chest.
He forced his eyes open again.
This time, the world did not dissolve into darkness.
White ceiling panels stared back at him, harsh and bright. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. Tubes and wires entered his field of vision as he shifted his gaze downward, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. A transparent tube ran from his arm to a hanging fluid bag. Thin cables were attached to his chest, leading to a heart monitor beside the bed. A pulse line clipped to his finger glowed faintly red.
A hospital.
The realization struck him so suddenly that his breath caught.
He lay flat on a narrow bed, thin sheets pulled over his body, his limbs heavy and weak. When he tried to move his fingers, they responded slowly, trembling as though they had forgotten how to obey him.
His mind reeled.
This made no sense.
He was dead.
He knew it with terrifying certainty. He remembered the desert. The pillar. The screams. The way his body had dissolved, erased piece by piece until nothing remained. He remembered the void. The crowned entity bathed in divine light. The golden radiance piercing his forehead.
He had died.
So how was he here?
His gaze drifted to the left.
Someone lay curled up on a small couch beside his bed, wrapped in a thin blanket. Long dark hair spilled across the pillow. Her breathing was shallow but steady, exhaustion etched into every part of her posture.
Phoebe.
His sister.
Chris froze.
His chest tightened painfully as he stared at her, disbelief flooding his mind. She looked pale, her eyes shadowed, her face drawn with worry even in sleep. One of her hands rested on the edge of his bed, fingers curled as if afraid he might disappear the moment she let go.
His throat constricted.
Was this real?
Or was this another cruel trick?
His thoughts spiraled. He replayed everything in fragments, trying to piece together something that made sense. The demon. The games. The slaughter. The entity that had spoken of choices and strength. An existence that could erase lives effortlessly and another that could restore one just as easily.
An existence that had brought him back.
But why?
He had demanded answers. He had been given none.
An entity capable of pulling him back from death itself. That alone made his skin crawl. What kind of power was that? What kind of price followed such interference?
His breathing quickened.
Phoebe stirred.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she shifted slightly, mumbling something under her breath. Then her eyes opened.
For a split second, confusion crossed her face.
Then she saw him.
Her breath hitched violently. Her eyes widened, and before Chris could even speak, tears welled up and spilled over.
"Chris?"
Her voice shook as though she was afraid it might break if she spoke any louder.
"I'm here," he rasped, his voice dry and weak. "Phoebe… you're awake."
She stared at him as if she were seeing a ghost. Then she surged forward, wrapping her arms around him with desperate force, burying her face against his chest.
"You're awake," she sobbed. "You're really awake. I thought… I thought I lost you."
Her shoulders trembled as she cried, gripping him as though he might vanish if she loosened her hold. Chris winced faintly from the pressure but lifted his arm slowly, awkwardly, resting it against her back.
"It's okay," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm fine now. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Her sobs only intensified.
"You were like that for three days," she cried. "Three days, Chris. You wouldn't wake up. The doctors said you were in a coma. They didn't know if you would come back. I sat here every night. I talked to you even when you didn't answer. I thought… I thought I was talking to nothing."
His chest tightened painfully.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to scare you."
She pulled back just enough to look at his face, her eyes red and swollen. "Does anything hurt? Are you dizzy? Do you remember who I am? The doctor said sometimes people forget things when they wake up."
"I remember," he said quickly. "I remember everything."
Too much.
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, forcing a weak smile through the pain. "I should have called the doctor earlier. I was so focused on you that I forgot."
She hurried out of the room, her footsteps rushed and uneven.
Chris lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling again.
Three days.
He had been unconscious for three days.
But how?
What had happened after the desert?
His thoughts tangled further as the door opened again and a middle aged doctor entered, clipboard in hand. The man moved with professional calm, checking the machines first before approaching the bed.
"Good to see you awake," the doctor said. "Let's run a few checks."
He examined Chris thoroughly. Checked his pupils. Tested his reflexes. Listened to his breathing. Monitored his heart rate.
After several minutes, the doctor frowned slightly.
"This is unusual," he admitted. "Physically, you're perfectly fine. No neurological damage. No muscle atrophy. Your vitals are better than most patients who were never in a coma."
Chris remained silent.
"You'll need to stay for another forty eight hours for observation," the doctor continued. "But based on what I see, you should recover fully."
"Okay," Chris replied quietly.
The doctor hesitated before leaving. "Gate inspectors came by earlier. They wanted to question you, but you were unconscious at the time. Since you're awake now, they may arrive soon. I thought it was better to warn you."
"I understand," Chris said.
Once the doctor left, Phoebe returned and sat beside him again.
"How did I get here?" Chris asked finally.
Phoebe swallowed.
"I was called from school," she said softly. "They said you were hospitalized. The gate investigation team explained some things to me."
She took a breath.
"They said your squad entered the gate for cleanup. About an hour after entry, the gate turned black. That's never happened before. Entry was forbidden completely. No one could go in."
Chris's fingers twitched.
"After another hour, the gate changed back to yellow," she continued. "An investigation team entered. An S rank hunter went in too, just to be safe."
Her voice trembled.
"They only found you. Unconscious. The rest of your team… they were gone. No bodies. No traces. Nothing."
Chris closed his eyes.
"They brought you out immediately. That's when you went into a coma."
Phoebe looked at him, fear and confusion swirling in her eyes. "They said you're the only one who can explain what happened in there. That's why the inspectors are waiting."
Silence filled the room.
Chris felt something cold coil in his stomach.
The demon had erased them.
And now the world was asking him to explain the impossible.
As if summoned by the thought, the air beside his bed shimmered faintly.
So faint that no one else noticed.
But Chris did.
A translucent window flickered into existence before his eyes, words forming slowly, deliberately, as though reality itself were rewriting something long overdue.
[ System Initializing… ]
Chris's breath caught.
The window pulsed once.
Then went dark.
And somewhere deep within him, something ancient stirred, waiting to awaken.