Recent times have made it clear that this world has reverted to its former state—survival of the fittest. In the past, only those brave enough to endure survived.
Now, it's Elios's turn to prove that he is one of those survivors.
Elios doesn't truly know how long he has intended to enter this cave. After all, his perception of time has been heavily tampered with.
I don't know if this is a step toward my death or my future, but I need to be brave. I can't let cowardice take control.
One step. Then another. And another. Before he realized it, he was already at the entrance of The Cave. He could feel the flow of time, like wind in the air—always just out of reach, slipping through his fingers whenever he tried to grasp it.
Yet, unlike before, when time had always felt like a constant gust moving in a single direction, here, it was distorted, uncontrolled, flowing in every direction at once.
By now, he had fully entered the cave. Darkness enveloped him—only pitch-black emptiness remained.
At first, it was frightening, but soon, the fear faded, leaving only a lingering sense of unease.
In reality, Elios had no idea what he was doing. He was relying entirely on dumb luck, hoping that somehow, this would help.
I know this place is dangerous, but I'm desperate. Anything could help—anything.
Time here was so distorted, it felt like it was pushing him back—like fighting against a strong gust of wind.
The deeper he ventured into The Cave, the unease persisted. The emptiness surrounding him grew deeper, like an infinite void. He could barely make out the rough outlines of stalagmites rising from the ground and stalactites hanging like jagged teeth from the ceiling.
Then, a familiar sensation—the same feeling that had made him forget about this cave so many times before. Like a brush sweeping away dust, it tried to wipe away his memories of this place. But now that he could feel time itself, he could sense the remnants of ages long past. He couldn't hold them in his hands, but he pushed forward, refusing to let them slip away.
The pull of forgetfulness was strong, pressing against his mind. But his hardened will, strengthened by the unlocking of his specter, would not allow something so simple to erase his purpose.
Then—a noise. Distant. Constant. Soothing.
Time swirled around him—distorted and untamed—as if, for just a moment, it had gained consciousness. Or had it been eternity?
It guided him forward, toward the sound. He had no clue what it was, but he trusted it—the force that had kept him prisoner yet remained his only hope for survival.
"This noise... it sounds familiar. Isn't that rushing water?"
*"Oh, please don't tell me this place has a waterfall rushing downward. Those are always so creepy."
As he said this a small shiver run down his spine and a drop of cold sweat falls from his brow unacknowledged.
Despite his reluctance, he knew he had to continue. This place was his last chance. If it held nothing that could guarantee his survival, then he would die.
The sound grew stronger. There was no doubt now—Elios could say with certainty that it was rushing water.
The closer he got, the more defined it became. But what met him was not the waterfall he had expected. Instead, before him lay a great lake, illuminated by glowing algae that thrived in the darkness. The rushing water? It came from a waterfall that fed into the lake.
"How the hell does all of this fit on such a small island!?"
He had completely forgotten his unease. Yet, though it had faded, it had not disappeared. And as he turned his head to the left, that feeling only grew stronger.
A ship.
Crafted from beautiful red wood.
Its sails, though tattered and abandoned, contrasted with the ship's pristine condition. From the mast to the bow, the vessel had remained here for an unimaginable length of time, yet it looked almost new. The remnant energy that surrounded it spoke of its history, though its body did not show its age.
What stood out the most was its figurehead—carved with what seemed to be divine precision by an unknown master. It depicted a roaring Western dragon. Unlike the rest of the ship, painted in brilliant red, the dragon's form was an abyssal black. Yet its eyes gleamed like deep, radiant gems—burning with an unnatural crimson light.