Vol3 Chapter 50 Find Out

Light spilled across the chamber—not like a torch, nor a magical flame, but shimmering from the very walls. The carved symbols Amos had been studying moments earlier came alive with a gentle blue-white glow. One by one, the hieroglyphs illuminated, their light spreading until every wall, pillar, and hidden groove was bathed in a radiant glow.

Amos froze.

His eyes widened.

And then—

Click.

Something clicked in his mind, then another piece fell into place, and another after that. His breath caught.

“...No.”

He slowly turned toward the mural, eyes tracing the first section—the settlement, the civilization, its growth, its prosperity. Then came war, famine, disease, monsters, the black phenomenon, and finally, the collapse. His gaze quickened, scanning the underground facility, the preserved knowledge, the crystals, the chambers, the figures within. One person. Then two. Two identical figures. Amos’s eyes fixed on that carving, and the color drained from his face.

“That's not...”

He stepped closer, and the blue light shifted. The mural changed—not physically, but as symbols began to project faint images over the carvings, the sequence became clearer. A figure entered a chamber, which then activated. Another figure appeared, yet the first remained. Two people. Same face. Same body. Same existence. Amos’s pupils quivered.

“...Reconstruction.”

The word slipped out before he could stop it, and his mind tumbled backward through the memories. The coin—his coin—missing from his pouch. The navigation mark. Three scratches carved into the wrong side of the wall. The middle passage, the stream, the bridge. The four remains: Harold, Daren, Vena, Tessa. His chest clenched as he recalled standing over their bones, recognizing their gear, and the impossible truth he’d fought so hard not to believe.

They had already died here.

But they were alive, just sleeping a few rooms away. Amos glanced toward the part of the mural that showed the reconstruction chambers, then shifted his gaze to the section with the duplicated figures. Slowly, his face transformed into one of dawning horror.

“...It isn't changing our memories.”

He swallowed.

“No.”

His eyes darted toward the entrance.

“It's making different versions.”

The thought hit him so hard he nearly stumbled. The contradiction suddenly clicked—not entirely, not the how, but the why. Why Harold, Daren, Vena, and Tessa could recall something Amos knew had never happened. Why his own memory clashed with theirs. Why there could be physical proof of things he’d never done. Why his coin could turn up somewhere he’d never consciously been. Why— His eyes drifted to the image of the duplicated person.

“...There can be more than one.”

His voice was barely a whisper. Different versions, different paths, different experiences—maybe even different endings. His thoughts drifted back to the four that remained.

Their original version died.

But another version—

Amos slowly closed his eyes.

“...is still alive.”

His stomach turned.

“So that's why...”

His thoughts snapped into focus. The ruin wasn’t just a place to step into—it was where existence could split apart. The paths weren’t always physical; they could be histories, possibilities, other versions of reality. And somehow, those versions were bleeding into each other. Amos glanced at his hands, and for the first time since arriving, he felt a real fear of himself. Because there was still one last piece.

One piece he had been avoiding.

The question that had been sitting underneath every other question.

If there was another Amos...

Then which one had entered the ruin first?

The chamber fell silent.

Amos stared at the glowing hieroglyphs, then spotted something he’d missed before. At the mural’s very bottom, beneath all the scenes of reconstruction, was one last sequence. First a single figure. Then two. Then four. Then many. But the final image wasn’t of a civilization rising again—it showed the figures leaving the facility, walking out into the world beyond.

Amos's expression hardened.

“...They're not only trying to preserving the past.”

He stepped closer.

“They're sending it back out.”

His eyes scanned the final symbols, and suddenly it all came together—the memories, the remains, the duplicate, the coin, the impossible routes, the reflection, the alternate histories. Amos froze, unmoving. For a few seconds, silence hung between breaths. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

“...How many of fake me are out there?”

The realization didn’t bring Amos any relief—it just made him feel sick. He stood in front of the glowing mural, eyes fixed on the scenes of the chambers, the figures, and the endless rows of identical silhouettes.

His expression slowly hardened.

“No.”

He glanced around the room—machinery, crystals, strange channels etched into the floor, and mana flowing steadily through the walls. Suddenly, it all seemed different. No longer ancient ruins, but a machine—one that had been running for who knew how long. And a machine capable of this.

Amos's eyes narrowed.

“This technology is dangerous.”

He walked toward the center of the chamber.

There.

Beneath the floor was a large circular structure. Mana flowed through it in several layers, feeding the entire underground facility. The same energy was running through the walls, the reconstruction chambers, and whatever mechanism had caused the impossible phenomenon throughout the ruin.

Amos stared at it.

He could probably study it, spending days trying to figure out how it worked—maybe weeks, maybe even months. Normally, the thought would have thrilled him. Not this time.

He remembered the four skeletons; their equipment scattered among the ancient remains. A strange thought crossed his mind—there might be another version of himself out there.

His hand tightened.

“No.”

He drew his sword.

The blade reflected the blue light.

“I don't care what civilization made this.”

He stepped toward the central mechanism.

“I don't care how advanced it is.”

His eyes became cold.

“I don't care how useful it could be.”

He raised the sword.

“If this thing can create another version of someone without anyone knowing…”

He swung.

CRACK!

“That thing must never come out of this place”

The blade hit the central crystal, and a fracture spread as the whole chamber shook. Amos hesitated for a moment, almost stopping, but the memory of the four remains pushed him forward. He struck once more.

CRACK!

The fracture spread.

Again.

BOOM!

The crystal shattered, and the reaction was instant. Blue light flickered wildly through the chamber as the hieroglyphs faded and the machinery groaned. Somewhere deep below, something began powering down. One by one, the glowing symbols went dark, the strange hum vanished, and silence filled the room.

Amos stood among the fading light. He looked at the broken crystal.

“...Good.”

He wasn’t sure if dismantling it had been the right move.

He didn’t even really know what it was he’d just destroyed.

But one thing was certain.

There was no way he’d let something like that continue.

Not now. Not ever.

Amos turned and walked away.

***

By the time he returned to the resting chamber, the others were still asleep. Harold was propped against his pack, Daren sprawled on the floor in a way that looked painfully awkward. Vena was cocooned in her cloak, and Tessa slept with one hand still near her staff. Amos paused at the entrance, taking it all in.

For several seconds, he didn't move.

What happens now?

He destroyed the source, and the reconstruction facility was no longer running. If those four had somehow been created by it—would they vanish? Would their bodies just fade away? Would their memories be erased? Or would nothing happen at all? Amos glanced at Harold, then Daren, then Vena, and finally Tessa.

He quietly walked over and sat down.

His back rested against the stone wall.

“...I suppose I'll find out.”

He rubbed his eyes.

He was exhausted—more than he cared to admit. His mind struggled to make sense of it all: the possibility of another Amos, the conflicting memories, the coin, the dead versions, the facility, the reconstruction. And now, the thought that the four people sleeping just meters away might not even exist when he opened his eyes. Amos gave them one last look.

Maybe they'll disappear.

His eyelids became heavier.

Maybe they won't.

He couldn’t be sure.

The decision was made.

All that was left now was to wait.

“...Just have to see.”

His head slowly leaned against the wall.

Within minutes, Amos finally fell asleep.

The chamber remained quiet.

Harold breathed steadily.

Daren shifted in his sleep.

Vena turned slightly.

Tessa murmured something unintelligible before settling down again.

And Amos slept.

But deep down, one thought remained.

Please still be here when I wake up.