Footsteps echoed as he moved away from the center of the altar.
At the edge of the plaza, near the exit, a slanted slab of stone caught V's attention—something he could only now see clearly.
Not because it was different in shape.
But because carved into its surface were markings that did not belong to the city's spiraling, repetitive architecture.
Letters.
Not large. Just thin lines etched deep into the stone, as though they had been carved long after the structure was completed—or long before, and nearly erased by time.
The symbols on the watch.
Not the full pattern, but enough to confirm they belonged to the same system of glyphs. It could not be coincidence. It could not be random.
Curious, V placed his hand against the stone.
No reaction.
Between those familiar symbols was another cluster of text—shallower, fainter, as if whoever carved it had hesitated… or been forced to stop.
Not a complete sentence.
No clear grammar.
Only fragments.
Atlan…
Glory.
The space changed abruptly.
The blue light around the island didn't dim—
It was torn away.
As if a sheet of paper had been ripped from reality.
Weight crashed down on his body in the same instant—violent and overwhelming, leaving no time to react.
Like a door slamming shut.
—
Consciousness was thrown straight back into reality.
V opened his eyes.
There was no sensation of falling.
No lingering shred of a dream being torn apart.
No suspended moment between sleep and waking like people often described.
He simply… opened his eyes.
The familiar ceiling came into view immediately—the small crack running along the corner of the wall, the fluorescent bulb trembling slightly from wind slipping through the window gap.
No frozen sunset light.
No curved stone.
No encircling sea.
No roaring waterfalls.
V inhaled deeply on instinct, then slowly exhaled.
No dizziness.
No headache.
No "just woke from a long fever" sensation like other Awakened often reported. If anything, his mind felt clear—almost excessively so. As if someone had just wiped clean a pane of glass long accustomed to dust.
And his body responded instantly. None of the usual morning heaviness. His joints moved smoothly, strength transferring from muscle to bone with unusual precision.
He frowned.
Something was… off.
He stepped out of bed. His bare foot touched the floor. The coolness of tile traveled upward—sharp. Too sharp. As if every minor signal was being received in full, unfiltered.
He glanced at his phone.
09:17.
Tuesday.
The last thing he remembered clearly—Sunday evening. Near the northern wall, finishing an extended shift. The sky had already darkened; city lights were just coming on.
No vague memory gap.
No transition.
Just… Sunday → Tuesday.
So he had been unconscious for two days.
V moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The city stretched below—layered architecture, traffic lights, people moving in familiar rhythms. Everything functioned as if no one had ever been missing.
He looked down at his wrist.
No strange patterns.
No glowing marks.
He reached into his pocket to check the watch—
It wasn't there.
The mana stone, too.
Gone. As if dissolved into nothing.
"And the injuries… almost nonexistent."
There were no obvious signs of awakening like in the reports he had read—people rising with aching bodies, racing hearts, memories of long, vivid dreams.
Everything was… quiet.
Strangely gentle.
"…Alright."
He returned to the bed and grabbed his battered old phone.
Turned it on.
The screen lit up—followed by a flood of notifications.
Missed calls: 17
Messages: 23
Emergency calls: 3
The first name was no surprise.
Hoob.
V opened the call log.
First call from Hoob: Sunday, 22:41
Last call: Monday, 03:12
The gap between them was dense. Excessive.
He opened the messages.
"V, where are you? I came to check your injuries but you're not in your room."
"Contact me immediately."
"If you see this—reply."
Nothing after that.
V set the phone down and rushed to the sink.
"Gag—hurk—Bluargh—"
He vomited violently, emptying his stomach as nausea flooded his body.
Two days.
No one had seen the awakening process.
No witnesses.
No "man who just woke from a dream."
Just someone… who vanished.
And maybe he had truly killed three people.
No matter how harsh his childhood had been, he had never intended to kill.
"I really did kill…"
He lay still for a while, letting the shock pass.
Then he put on his jacket and left the room.
The hallway was quiet. The elderly neighbor downstairs looked at him with mild surprise.
"Ah… you…" she hesitated. "You're back?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"The building manager came to check, but you weren't in your room."
"I see."
She didn't ask more.
But her gaze followed him until he turned down the stairs.
Outside, Hoob stood beside his familiar old car, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
He stepped forward quickly.
"You…" Hoob stopped half a step away, scanning V from head to toe. "You alright?"
"I'm fine," V replied. His voice sounded… normal. "Just—"
"You disappeared for two days. I went to your room. You weren't there," Hoob cut in, exhaling. "No one found you. No camera footage. No signal. No entry or exit record."
He looked directly into V's eyes.
"You weren't dreaming. Were you?"
V was silent for a moment.
Then he shook his head.
"No."
Hoob didn't look surprised. His eyes simply darkened slightly, as if confirming a theory.
"The others," Hoob said slowly, "when they awaken… they all go through the same process. A dream. Long or short."
He studied V carefully.
V lowered his gaze to his hands.
Then looked back up.
"It seems I've become an Awakened now," he said. "Looks like it."
Hoob was quiet for a while.
Then he gave a faint, dry laugh.
"I think," he replied, "I started believing that the moment you disappeared."