I am sorry, Arnel wrote on the piece of paper. It is all my fault.

His hands trembled as he put down the old-fashioned pen and then picked up the gun. Strangely enough, his hands stopped trembling when he handled the weapon and chambered the bullet.

He pressed the barrel against his temple.

Slowly, he squeezed the trigger.

___

The ringing echoed in his mind seemingly forever. It blew out all his senses — the light, the sound, the smell, the sensation of warmth against his skin. There was nothing save for that ringing in his mind — the echo of life and death.

Then he heard waves as the ringing receded in volume. He heard the static washing over his hearing, and, as if submerged, he heard muffled voices. Conversational volume. Amiable cadence.

Slowly, the room came into focus. The walls were lined with torches — the wooden walls — and at their table was food and alcohol. It was a feast. No, it was a celebration.

What they were celebrating? Aren’s return to fighting condition. His arm was restored and the hole in his back was also erased — thanks to Estella.

This was a new construction; the builders put up a tavern in virtually no time. With the power of magic, hammering nails and carrying heavy resources was trivial. Also, when pressed for the need for socializing and drinking, one should not underestimate what people are capable of.

Aren looked at his hands, which once again trembled. He could still hear the faint echo of the gunshot. He could still smell the fire and brimstone. He could still hear the pulsing waves of fear and determination in his heart, and endless desperation.

Why?

The question churned in his mind like a riptide hiding beneath the surface of his conscious thoughts.

It was a premonition. Without a shred of doubt, Aren knew that this was true. But it was different. He could not remember anything other than that moment, from just before he squeezed the trigger. His mind forgot something important, but his heart did not.

His heart screamed at him to run.

Run from who?

He closed his eyes, trying to remember. He heard Nissa laughing at Fang’s joke. Aren couldn’t remember what the joke was, but he remembered something else.

He remembered when he was.

After the joke, Fang would admit that even though he made Ytra’s curse sound like a blessing, in truth, he thought that they were finished. Even though Aren could not die, the margin of error — with his physical condition back then — was practically non-existent. No one in their right mind thought that it was possible to make no mistakes whatsoever, forever. He thought that defeat was inevitable.

As if right on cue, Fang put down his glass of beer, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “To be honest,” Fang said, smiling brightly. “I know I made a big deal out of it back then, but I thought we were done for.”

Suddenly, Aren climbed to his feet. The sense of desperation took root deeper in his heart. He wasn’t just imagining it. It really was a premonition. Something was going to happen, and he could not remember what it was.

Why? Why did he do such a thing?

“What’s the matter, Aren?” Estella asked him.

They all looked at him, their expressions twisted into a mask of worry.

Cassandra, in particular, looked at him with a mixture of both sorrow and worry.

Aren stared at Cassandra. A memory stirred in his mind.

They were not only celebrating the end of their worries; they were also celebrating a feat that was unheard of. Estella was a High Bishop of Aurora now — something that seemed to be exceedingly special. Estella told Aren that advancing in Aurora’s Faithful was very difficult, if not impossible, so becoming a High Bishop must’ve been an incredible feat.

This also meant that Estella’s healing magic was far greater than Cassandra’s.

Cassandra would suggest, later that evening, that it would be for the best if she left the Clan. She simply had nothing more to offer. Estella would counter her argument, and lie that she could not use her healing magic freely.

Aren realized, then — the first time this happened — that this was the main reason why Estella did not want to share the fact that she could heal and perform tasks any Priest could. She didn’t care about the Unique nature of her class.

Was this it? Was this the reason why he wrote that it was his fault? Did he somehow ruin the Clan by asking Estella to heal him?

“Aren?” Estella asked again.

“Are you all right?” Nissa asked.

“Is it the Predator skill?” Fang asked — his mind more devoted to military matters.

“I have to go,” Aren said and pushed his chair back towards the table. “I will see you later.”

“Wait… we still have…” Fang trailed off when he realized Aren was not going to stop or listen to him.

In a hurry, Aren left the tavern.

This was not it. First of all, the Clan wouldn’t fall apart over something like that. They were practically a family now. So what if Cassandra’s healing was less valuable than Estella’s? Who cared if someone was less valuable than someone else. That is not what Exalt was about.

Besides, Aren would not stop looking for Priscilla even if he was alone. Yes, he needed their help, but even without it, he would keep going. The Clan falling apart was not the end of the world, even if that did happen.

Outside the tavern was a noticeboard with several quests posted. They were mostly of low-rank — Iron and Silver — and revolved around collecting resources from the nearby area.

Thanks to Exalt’s many patrols, most of Rakab was safe. Orcs and goblins, if they were present, were mostly driven to the northeast and southeast sections of the city. Considering the fact that there were no extermination quests posted, it was more than likely that any survivors have long since abandoned the ruined city, or taken to the tunnels underneath.

However, tomorrow, there would be a new quest posted, and it would be of Emerald rank.

Emerald was a special rank given to adventurers and quests. Along with the other Gems, like Ruby and Diamond, it was not directly connected to the normal Iron, Silver, Gold, Platinum progression of difficulty. It was special. Generally, an adventurer could only officially accept a quest that was one rank higher than their rank. They could complete quests that were far higher than their rank, but they could not reserve the quest — which they did by accepting it.

The special ranks were an exception. It was an all-hands-on-deck type of deal. Everyone could accept it. Everyone was required to accept it. It was an order from the Coalition Army. This meant that the quest in question had a difficulty that was beyond the normal progression system.

Calamity subjugations quests, Invasions, Crusades, all had one of the special ranks.

That evening, a Merchant’s Guild survey party sent to the Catacombs would be exterminated by a Calamity, and the presence of Orkin — the original race of demons that invaded this continent and later became orcs and goblins — would be discovered in the Catacombs.

But Aren would only see the notice the next day.

His lips felt dry. His tongue felt like sandpaper. This premonition… how far into the future does it happen?

What was he missing? What was he forgetting?

The creaking sound of the tavern sign swaying in the wind drew Aren’s attention and as he stared at it, he felt a bottomless pit open in his stomach.

He remembered.

___

Arnel rolled off the Pod’s bed before it had fully extended. His legs felt weak and numb after spending so many hours in Singularity. It was very similar to sleep — his body would become paralyzed while diving, and expecting much mobility from someone who just woke up was a bit too much.

But Arnel wasn’t just someone. He didn’t have to feel his body. His artificial eye could make profane calculations and simulate the feeling. As long as he looked at the ground, the information he needed about his environment — slope, surface grip, etc — could be obtained that way, even if the more ordinary methods were unavailable.

In fact, as Arnel dashed through his room, he felt his movements become more streamlined and optimized — as if the eye’s suggestion was better than what his body had learned through practicing something as simple as walking for its entire life.

This implant truly was a terrifying weapon. It was, after all, research performed by the military, in association with the Departments of Health and Science.

He did not stop to answer Thomas or Isobell when they saw Arnel rush out of his room like a man possessed. He didn’t have time for any of that. He certainly didn’t have time to question the safety considerations of getting into an APV — something he had sworn off from ever doing again after one nearly killed him.

There was only one thing on his mind.

“Section eight-dash-eleven,” he ordered the onboard AI.

“Purpose of visiting restricted Section?” the AI asked.

“Just go!” Arnel shouted.

The light flickered within the cabin. “Override accepted. Speed limit released. Diverting traffic.”

Without a warning, Arnel’s body was subjected to such G-forces that his body was pinned against the seats. He watched the velocity on the display in front of him increase to 100 kilometers per hour within a second — almost 3 Gs of acceleration. It felt like Arnel slammed into a wall.

Then he was thrown across the seats as the APV turned onto the main lane, where the columns of traffic parted for his vehicle.

Even blasting at nearly 300 kilometers per hour, it took more than five minutes to reach his destination, which, as the eagle flies, was merely 600 meters away. This was because the lanes designated for motorized traffic followed a spiraling path, near the walls of the Arcology. Elevators were available, but they had such heavy traffic that it was generally faster to just drive.

Without even closing the door behind him, Arnel ran towards the housing complex. The automated security system did not even question him, his credentials, or his citizenship, as he simply pushed the main door open and entered.

This complex was reserved for the rich and the influential. Security was so tight that even just visiting required thorough permission-fetching. As such, Arnel visited only a few times. For birthdays mostly.

He took the stairs to the third floor and pressed his hand against the sensor on the door he was looking for.

“Welcome, Arnel,” an automated, female voice spoke with a programmed familiarity. They added him to the list of special occupants and guests. He could come and go whenever he wanted.

The door opened.

His heart was like steel. He was prepared to see the same thing he saw then — Jennifer hanging from the ceiling with a rope tied around her neck. No note or explanation as to why she would do something like that. But Arnel would learn why. He would learn that it really was his fault.

But that is not what he saw when the door opened. The hallway leading to the living room was empty and dark. It was quiet. It was so quiet that Arnel’s heart began to pound. Even though he knew that these things would happen in the future, his mind couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he was too late again.

He strode forward, familiar with the layout of the apartment. He went past the living room and then into another hallway, before reaching the door to Jennifer’s room.

He knocked and prepared for the worst.

No reply.

He opened the door.

Jennifer’s room was very girly. The walls were pink and the furniture was pure white. Some posters on the wall depicted idols and Singularity legends. A few pictures of her and Arnel sat on her desk. But Jennifer was not there.

He went down the hallway and opened the door to her parents’ bedroom.

There she was.

Laying on the bed, and wearing only a t-shirt — one that she borrowed from Arnel, a while ago — was Jennifer. She looked like she had just woken up. Even in the darkness, Arnel could see her red, swollen eyes and red cheeks. He could see the damp spot on her pillow, from all the tears she had cried.

“Arnel…?” her voice was soft and her tone was tinged with heavy uncertainty. She could not see as well as Arnel did in the darkness.

“Hey…” Arnel softly replied. He didn’t actually think things through this far. What was he supposed to do now?

An awkward silence descended in the dark room, but even so, Arnel could see tears glimmering in Jennifer’s eyes. He hadn’t seen her or heard from her since she came to visit him, several days ago. It was difficult to tell how long that was ago. Spending most of his time at times two time acceleration made it difficult to associate with reality. There was a weekly, maximum allowance that someone could spend in Singularity or any cyberworld with time acceleration, but such restrictions were lifted for professionals or special cases like Arnel.

Maybe it was a week ago?

“Did…” A pause. “Your dad told you?” Jennifer asked.

“Told me what?” Now that he thought about it, he didn’t hear from his dad either. There was the occasional message like *“*get well soon”, or “I’ll be home soon”, but that was about it.

Unfortunately, Arnel knew what his father failed to mention. In the premonition, Arnel wrote that it was his fault in the note.

It was his fault.

“My parents…” Jennifer’s voice cracked and the tears spilled down her cheeks once again. “Icarus four… they… they…”

Arnel’s heart crumbled as each tortured word tumbled from Jennifer’s lips.

Arnel doubted that even an AGMI could come up with a perfect response in this situation. Arnel feared, for a while now, that he was becoming heartless — like a machine — but it was a modicum of solace to find out that this wasn’t true. With that solace, also came crushing guilt and sorrow.

“They are dead…”

That day, Arnel ordered a drone to smash into a building that proudly displayed an ad of the manufacturer of the APV that caused Arnel’s accident. On that same day, dozens of drones suffered identical malfunctions, and one of them damaged the fusion reactor of Icarus-4, killing over 400,000 people. And his best friend’s parents.

Arnel sat down on the bed, and he didn’t dare look at her.

“I am sorry,” he said.

Jennifer pulled him down onto the bed and cried against his chest. She wailed as hard as she could, while Arnel helplessly stared at the ceiling as if he could glimpse the yawning maw of the grim reality he found himself in — the fact that he was the root cause of all issues and the progenitor of all tragedies.

“I am so sorry…” he whispered.