The silent field slowly lost the whispers of spirits, once sated by illusions. All that remained was the wind's breath… and the faint sound of footsteps, blending with the dust of a lifeless earth.
Cael stood amidst the ruins of an ancient battlefield— where thousands of souls vanished, and none were ever remembered.
Before him, the spirit being appeared once more. Its form was a trembling cluster of mist… its face ever-shifting, yet its gaze—eternal.
> "You did not reject the illusion," the being whispered,
"because you know that illusion is a tool. And only those who know how to wield it…
are worthy to walk forward."
Cael did not answer. His eyes held steady.
The being drifted closer. From its formless body emerged a small, gleaming object— a compass. Old. Cracked on the right side. And its needle did not point north, but moved slowly… following something unseen.
> "This compass," said the spirit,
"does not show the world's direction. It shows the path of the soul…
a path drawn by your deepest will. You cannot deceive it."
Cael took the compass. Cold. Heavy.
> "Is this a tool to return home?" he asked.
> "No," the spirit replied.
"But it will lead you to where your next question awaits.
The world does not care whom you sacrifice,
only how far you're willing to sacrifice."
> "And my friends?"
"Some still live. But they waver. Their souls will be tested again and again.
If they wish to endure, let them chase you."
The being began to fade.
> "And you, human who seeks no place to return to…
will keep walking.
Because you know: it is not this world that shapes you—
but you who will shape the meaning of the world."
Silence returned. The compass now trembled in Cael's hand, its needle drifting slowly… toward the northeast—beyond the ruins, past the horizon, beyond the desert and the mist of time.
The sky did not change— still grey, still reflecting a silence no world could hold.
Cael stood in the middle of a soul-field just ended. Wind swept fine sand across his face, but his eyes did not blink. He did not move. He only watched… waiting.
Around him, bodies still lay. Some twitched. Some shed tears. And the rest—too silent for too long.
He did not wake them. He merely… waited.
One. Two. Five. Seven. Ten. Thirteen… Eighteen.
Eighteen of those still breathing rose from dreams that nearly buried their souls.
> "You… Cael?"
A male student's voice broke the silence, trembling.
Cael turned slightly, then gazed once more at the distant sands. As if he wasn't waiting— but giving time.
> "What happened…?" asked another.
"I… I dreamed. But I didn't want to leave the dream…"
> "That wasn't a dream," Cael said softly, voice flat.
"It was a snare. And only a few of you escaped it."
No one spoke. They didn't fully understand, but they knew: something within Cael had changed.
Some began to stand. Some looked at Cael with gratitude. Others—with doubt.
But Cael didn't care. He looked at the compass gifted by the spirit being. Its needle still pointed northeast— as if time itself was calling.
> "We can't stay here," he whispered.
"This place… is not safe."
> "Do you know where we should go?"
asked a girl, despairing.
Cael showed the compass.
> "No. But it does."
No one replied. For them, anything was better than lingering in a place where many of their friends would never wake again.
And finally, without a signal, that small group began to walk— leaving the land of illusion, stepping into silence, guided by a youth whose gaze no one could reach.
Cael held the compass, warm and cold in his hand. The needle moved slowly, trembling with hesitation. Then it pointed—clearly northeast. Not toward a cardinal direction, but toward something they could not yet comprehend.
> "What lies there…?" someone behind Cael murmured.
He answered without turning,
> "I don't know."
"But this compass doesn't seek a place. It seeks possibility."
Someone swallowed hard.
> "Possibility?"
> "Yes. The possibility to live… or to die with meaning."
And so their steps began, not toward a city, not toward hope, but toward something that could only be found by those brave enough to walk, even with no end in sight.
The sky still hung in bronze tones. As if dawn had never come. Only a dim light spread wide—enough to see, but not enough to grow hope.
They stood—fifteen… eighteen… perhaps more. Some still silent, faces pale, eyes hollow— traces of illusions still clinging to what remained of their souls.
They sat upon the sand, surrounded by stillness. No sound, except the wind's breath carrying whispers like songs of forgotten spirits.
Cael stood slightly apart, gazing at a horizon with no edge. His hand still gripped that broken sword, now feeling more like a burden than a weapon.
> "Where… should we go?" Ms. Alea's voice cracked from dry air. "Do you know anything, Cael?"
He did not answer at once. His gaze didn't shift from the north—where the compass pulsed like a heartbeat, as if alive.
> "This compass moves… not by wind or stars, but because something is waiting."
> "Something?"
asked Rian, one of the few boys still aware.
"You speak as if we're in a fairy tale."
Cael turned slowly.
> "Perhaps this is no tale. But neither is it reality."
"One thing's certain—staying here… is not an option."
One by one, they rose. Slow. Heavy. As though the world clung to their shoulders.
Their journey began.
Day one was… disbelief. They still hoped to find trees, rivers, a road home. But found only sand. Sand, and a sky that never changed its hue.
Day two was… hunger. Dry mouths. Cracked throats. Someone tried licking dew from a stone— but there was no dew.
Day three was… silence. No one spoke. Even tears had dried. Only labored breaths and dragging limbs remained.
Day four… the storm came.
Without warning. The first wind came like a whisper, then a whip, then a shriek of hell.
> "Cover your faces! Find low ground!"
someone shouted—no one knew who.
They flattened themselves, wrestling the sand. Some vanished from sight. One sobbed, another… never moved again.
Cael stood in the center of the storm. His eyes were covered with torn cloth, yet his body stood firm. As if the storm was only a minor delay in a path already chosen.
> "We must keep walking,"
he whispered, to no one in particular.
"If I'm to die… let it be in motion, not stillness."
When the storm subsided, they remained—eighteen. The rest swallowed by the desert.
No time to cry. No strength to pray.
Only new silence. And one compass, trembling once again.
The sand wrapped around them like an unnamed shroud. And when the storm finally withdrew, only eighteen souls remained— half of them worn thin by time, thirst, and despair.
Their steps were weak. Bodies limp, nearly skeletal. Tongues dry—no longer tools of speech, just dead flesh that knew only quiet.
> "I… I'm thirsty…"
Mia's voice cracked, like a brittle branch breaking.
> "Don't speak.
We need breath more than sound."
Rian lowered his head, voice barely a groan.
They all knew: if they stopped now, they would become part of this desert. Not as bodies, but as dust.
But Cael… He walked with the same cold eyes. Not from strength, but because his thoughts were bound to one thing:
the compass still beat. And he knew, as long as it moved, as long as it pulsed with life, something waited at time's end.
Their steps sank downward.
Someone gasped—a crevice, behind a towering stone like the spine of a dead god. There, hidden by the desert's shadows, they saw something…
Cael stepped forward. The compass in his hand ceased its beating. Its needle pointed straight into the cave— as if time itself had stopped with it.