Chapter 1: The Temple of The Lost
Michael paused, wiping the sweat from his brow as
the thick, humid air pressed in on him from all sides. The Amazon was a living,
breathing entity, one that seemed to pulse with its own ancient rhythm. The
sounds of unseen creatures echoed through the dense canopy, a constant symphony
of calls and rustling leaves. The air felt dense, laden with moisture, the heat
stifling. He could feel it seeping through his clothes, trickling down his
spine in rivulets.
He adjusted the straps of his backpack, his mind
wandering away from the oppressive heat and back to a distant memory, one that
had been haunting him ever since he left the quiet comfort of his mother's
library all those months ago. The memory came unbidden, rushing over him like
the floodwaters of the nearby river, flooding his senses.
Michael remembered the days after his mother passed.
The silence in their home had been deafening, her absence leaving a gaping hole
in every corner of the house, in every room that once held her voice and her
presence. He could still see her, sitting by the firelight, her glasses perched
on the tip of her nose as she flipped through the pages of yet another obscure
manuscript. A historian, a scholar, and, above all, a seeker of truths. She had
been obsessed with the mysteries of the ancient world, collecting books and artefacts,
chasing after fragments of forgotten civilisations. Michael had inherited that
obsession, that unyielding thirst for knowledge. Her legacy—those crumbling
volumes of ink and parchment—had become his lifeline, the only tether that kept
him connected to her after she was gone.
The books she left behind were more than just words
on a page. They were her voice. In their pages, he could still hear the passion
in her voice as she spoke of ancient cultures and hidden histories. She had
always said that the answers to life's greatest mysteries lay in the forgotten
corners of history, in the dust-covered tomes that few had the patience to
uncover. In those books, Michael had found solace, a means of keeping her alive
in some small way. But even the most obscure texts couldn't fill the void left
by her death. They were mere fragments—pieces of the greater puzzle that he
felt he was meant to solve.
His mother had never told him everything. There had
always been whispers, half-finished stories, and vague hints about a secret
she'd discovered in the farthest reaches of the earth. Her journal was littered
with cryptic notes, references to ancient temples and forgotten gods. She had
hinted at something greater, something that could change the course of history.
But then she died—suddenly, unexpectedly—and the answers she had uncovered
slipped beyond his reach.
Now, as he trudged deeper into the Amazonian jungle,
Michael couldn't shake the feeling that this was what she had been leading him
toward. The temple that lay hidden somewhere within these untamed wilds, lost
to time and decay. He didn't know why, but he felt an unshakable certainty that
this was the answer to the questions that had tormented him for so long.
His boots sank into the spongy earth as he navigated
the thick undergrowth, every step taking him further from civilisation, deeper
into the unknown. The jungle was alive with sound now—the buzzing of insects,
the low growls of unseen predators, the rustling of leaves above him as a
shadow passed swiftly through the canopy. Yet, in his mind, it was quieter. His
thoughts were elsewhere, fixated on the temple that awaited him. The stories
he'd heard from local guides swirled in his mind. Whispers of ancient forces,
of explorers who'd entered the jungle and vanished without a trace. Some had
called it cursed. Others spoke of a force that had remained hidden for
centuries, waiting for the right person to uncover it.
Michael had heard these stories, but he didn't
believe them. He couldn't. Not when the answers lay so close, just within
reach. But there was something else gnawing at him—a vague sense of unease, a
feeling that he wasn't alone in this journey. It was as though the jungle
itself was watching him, waiting for him to take the next step. He shook the
feeling off. There was no time for doubt. His mother's work had led him here,
and he wasn't going to turn back now.
The closer he got, the quieter the jungle became.
The rustling of leaves faded into a profound stillness. It was as though the
very air had thickened around him. His breath caught in his throat as he
suddenly felt it—an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. He wasn't
alone. He had never truly been alone.
He turned a corner in the underbrush and froze.
There it was. The temple.
The sight before him took his breath away. The
ancient structure loomed in front of him, partially obscured by thick vines and
moss, like a forgotten relic of another age, its dark stonework weathered by
centuries of rain and neglect. The stone walls were jagged, their edges
softened by time, yet the temple held an undeniable majesty. It seemed to rise
out of the earth itself, a fusion of natural rock and carefully hewn stone,
shaped into a monument that defied the passing of centuries. Its carvings—deep
spirals and interwoven symbols—were unlike anything he had ever seen before,
seeming to shift and change when viewed from different angles, as though alive.
The images of gods, animals, and strange creatures seemed to move beneath the
surface, their forms distorted in the dim light.
He stepped closer, his heart pounding in his chest.
The air around him seemed to hum with energy, thick with ancient power. The
vines that clung to the temple were massive, their twisted, gnarled forms
draping over the entrance like curtains. He reached out, his hand brushing
against the thick tendrils, which seemed to shudder at his touch. The door
creaked as if it had been waiting centuries to open, its stone surface cold and
unyielding.
The entrance itself was marked by towering columns,
their surfaces etched with worn inscriptions, nearly erased by the passage of
time. Above the doorway, an enormous stone relief depicted a figure—tall and
proud, with arms outstretched, as though calling Michael forward. The figure's
eyes, carved deep into the stone, seemed to follow him no matter where he
moved.
Michael's heart raced as the temple seemed to
breathe around him. It was both a beacon and a warning. He couldn't explain it,
but the air was thick with something beyond mere history. The temple was alive,
filled with secrets older than anything he could imagine. He had come here to
find answers, but now that he stood before it, those answers felt like a
distant, dangerous promise.
Taking a deep breath, Michael reached forward and
pushed aside the thick vines that hung across the entrance. The door groaned in
protest, but it opened slowly, revealing the dark interior. His pulse quickened
as he crossed the threshold, stepping into a vast chamber that stretched out
before him.
The air inside was cool and dry, the silence
absolute. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Michael's gaze was drawn
upward. Towering shelves lined the walls, crammed with books—endless rows upon
rows of ancient tomes, their pages yellowed with age. The scent of old paper
and ink filled the air, mingling with something else—something faintly
metallic, as though the library itself was made of more than just paper and
stone.
The vastness of the library was overwhelming. He
could see no end to the shelves, only darkened corners where the light did not
reach. And yet, in the center of the room stood a figure—a man whose presence
seemed to fill the chamber with an energy that was both serene and unsettling.
Michael stepped forward, his footsteps echoing in
the vast emptiness. The man turned toward him, and Michael's breath caught in
his throat. The man was tall, his robes deep blue and shimmering faintly in the
dim light, and his features were sharp, almost ageless. A long, flowing white
beard cascaded down to his chest, and his eyes—ancient and knowing—seemed to
pierce through the veil of time itself.
"You've come," the figure said, his voice rich and
deep, reverberating in the stillness.
Michael stood frozen. "Who… who are you?" he managed
to ask, his voice betraying his awe.
"I am Merlin," the man replied simply, his gaze
never leaving Michael's. "Guardian of this place."
Michael's heart skipped a beat. "Merlin?" The
legendary wizard—the figure who had lived through centuries, whose name was
etched into the annals of history. "The Merlin?"
"The very same," Merlin said, his smile faint but
knowing. "I have watched over this library for millennia. And now, it seems,
you are here for a reason."
Michael's mind spun. This wasn't possible. Merlin
was a legend, a myth. And yet, standing before him, Michael felt the undeniable
truth in Merlin's presence. This was no ordinary library. The walls, the books,
the very air itself hummed with an ancient power that made the temple outside
seem like a mere shadow of what lay within.
"I… I don't understand," Michael stammered, his
thoughts racing. "I thought this was a temple. But it's a library. Why? Why is
it here?"
Merlin's gaze softened, and for a moment, his eyes
seemed to look far beyond Michael, as though seeing something invisible.
"This," he said, his voice filled with quiet reverence, "is the Library of
Time. A place where all knowledge exists—past, present, and future. It holds
the records of every moment in history, every event, every choice made, every
fate sealed."
Michael's breath caught in his throat. "The Library
of Time?" He could scarcely comprehend it.
"Yes," Merlin continued, "and it is not a place for
the faint-hearted. The knowledge contained within these walls is not for
everyone. Only those with the courage to face the truths within it can truly
understand its power."
Michael took a hesitant step forward, his eyes still
wide with disbelief. "But why? Why would someone need all this knowledge?"
Merlin's smile faded, replaced by an expression of
profound seriousness. "Because knowledge is not just power, Michael. It is also
a burden
Michael stood in the shadow of Merlin, the weight of
his words sinking deeper into his chest. The air in the library was thick with
the scent of ancient paper and ink, the atmosphere pulsing with something
beyond mere history. It was as though time itself had woven itself into the
fabric of the space, its threads alive and vibrating. The silence was almost
suffocating, yet strangely comforting—like the pause before a storm, where all
things hung in the balance.
Merlin's gaze never wavered. There was an unsettling
calmness to him, as though he had seen the rise and fall of empires, the birth
and death of civilisations, and had lived through all of it without flinching.
His age was unquantifiable—both ancient and ageless, his presence transcending
time in a way that made the walls of the library seem fragile by comparison.
"Burden?" Michael echoed, his voice barely a
whisper, as though the word itself carried the weight of an entire universe.
Merlin nodded slowly, his eyes softening, though the
depth of his gaze never dulled. "Yes. The pursuit of knowledge often comes at a
cost. Understanding the flow of time, the intricacies of fate—it can change
you. It can tear apart your sense of self. The deeper you look, the harder it
is to step away."
Michael swallowed hard, his throat tight. The
stories of his mother swirled in his mind, and he wondered—was this what she
had felt, too? Had she come to this same place, touched this same truth? And
had it broken her as it seemed to have broken Merlin?
"You said the library holds the records of every
moment in history," Michael said, the words tasting like a revelation on his
tongue. "The past, present, future—all of it?"
"Yes," Merlin replied, his voice steady but heavy
with something Michael couldn't quite place. "Every thread of existence is
woven here. Every choice, every destiny, every possibility. It is a record of
what has been, what is, and what might yet be."
A shiver ran down Michael's spine as he took another
step into the vast space. The shelves stretched endlessly, stacked high with
forgotten knowledge, all of it waiting. Waiting for someone to sift through the
pages, to unearth the truths buried within.
"How do you know what to look for?" Michael asked,
his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Merlin's smile was slow and knowing. "The library
does not simply present its knowledge to anyone. It chooses, in a sense, the
one who will uncover its secrets. And even then, you must be careful. The
knowledge you seek may not always be the knowledge you need. And once you
begin, there is no turning back."
The weight of his words settled heavily on Michael's
shoulders. He had come here seeking answers, seeking closure—seeking to
understand his mother's legacy. But the promise of this place, this library,
was vast and dangerous. The deeper he went, the more he feared what he might
uncover. Would he, too, be consumed by the knowledge it offered?
"Why me?" Michael whispered, almost to himself. "Why
did I find this place?"
Merlin's expression softened. "Because you are the
one who has been chosen to see what others cannot. The threads of fate have
converged on this moment, and you are here for a reason."
"But what is that reason?" Michael asked, the
question burning in his chest. "What am I meant to do?"
"You are meant to understand," Merlin said simply,
his voice carrying a deep, almost sorrowful weight. "But the understanding you
seek will not come easily. You must be willing to face the truth, no matter how
dark it may seem."
Michael's heart raced. "What if the truth is more
than I can bear?"
Merlin's gaze softened further, and for a moment, it
felt as though the centuries of wisdom he carried within him were laid bare in
those ancient eyes. "The truth, Michael, is not always kind. But it is always
necessary. And once you know it, there is no going back. The path you walk from
here will shape your destiny."
Michael's mind reeled as he tried to comprehend what
Merlin was saying. The weight of the decision he had unknowingly made, stepping
into this temple, into this library, now seemed crushing. He had come seeking
answers, but what would those answers cost him?
He could feel the pull of the library's power, its
ancient presence tugging at him, urging him forward. The shelves whispered to
him, though no words could be heard. It was as if the very walls of the library
were calling to him, drawing him toward something hidden in their depths.
Merlin's voice broke through his thoughts, steady
and calm. "You must choose, Michael. You can leave now, walk away from this
place, and return to the life you knew. Or you can stay and face what awaits
you here."
Michael's mind raced, his heart pounding in his
chest. He had spent so long searching for answers. But was he ready to face
whatever lay in wait? Was he ready to learn the secrets that had cost his
mother so much?
The stillness in the air grew thicker, pressing down
on him like the weight of the world. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a
deep breath. The decision was his. The library, the temple, the journey—it was
all in his hands now.
He opened his eyes and met Merlin's gaze. "I'll
stay."
Merlin nodded, his eyes gleaming with something
Michael couldn't quite place. "Then follow me, Michael. And prepare yourself."
With that, Merlin turned and began to walk deeper
into the library, his robes flowing behind him like a shadow. Michael hesitated
for a moment, the gravity of his decision settling over him like a storm. Then,
with a steadying breath, he followed.
The shelves seemed to part before him as he moved
forward, the very air humming with a subtle, palpable energy. Each step he took
felt heavier than the last, as though he were descending into something much
greater than he could comprehend. He followed Merlin deeper into the labyrinth
of books, the walls narrowing as they went, until the light seemed to dim,
casting long shadows across the floor.
Finally, Merlin stopped before a massive stone door,
its surface covered in intricate symbols that seemed to shift and shimmer in
the dim light. He turned to face Michael, his expression unreadable.
"This is where your journey truly begins," Merlin
said, his voice echoing in the silence of the library. "Beyond this door lies
the heart of the Library of Time."
Michael stepped forward, his hand brushing against
the cool stone. He could feel the power that emanated from the door, an
overwhelming force that seemed to pulse with life. This was it—the moment he
had been waiting for.
As his fingers touched the surface, the door creaked
open, revealing a vast chamber beyond. The light inside was dim, but there was
something else—a glow that seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves.
And in the centre of the room stood an object, an artefact that hummed with an
energy so strong, it seemed to vibrate in his bones.
"This," Merlin said, his voice quiet, "is what
you've come for."
Michael stepped forward, his heart racing in
anticipation. He didn't know what he was about to face, but he knew one thing
for certain—there was no turning back now.
The artefact stood on a pedestal of polished
obsidian, its surface swirling with faint, iridescent light. It was spherical
in shape, no larger than a grapefruit, yet the energy it radiated filled the
chamber like the roar of an invisible tide. Symbols danced across its surface,
changing constantly—some familiar, drawn from ancient alphabets, others alien
and indecipherable.
Michael approached it slowly, each step echoing
through the vaulted chamber. The air grew colder the closer he came, not with
the chill of death, but with the sobering stillness of truth. The artefact
pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat—as if recognising him, responding to his
presence.
"What is it?" Michael whispered, his voice nearly
drowned in the chamber's hum.
Merlin stepped to his side, his expression grave.
"It is the Core of Chronos. A living record of time itself."
Michael's brow furrowed. "A living record?"
"Yes," Merlin replied. "This artefact is a conduit—a
vessel through which the Library accesses the flow of time. All that has been
and all that may come is filtered through it. It is both map and compass,
archive and oracle."
Michael stared at it, the flickering glyphs
reflecting in his wide eyes. "And what does it want from me?"
Merlin turned toward him. "It doesn't want. It
reveals. If you touch it, it will show you what you seek most… and perhaps what
you fear most. The truth it shows is never random—it chooses what must be
known, not what is desired."
Michael's hand hovered over the surface of the Core.
His thoughts swirled: his mother, the mystery of her death, the cryptic symbols
in her journals. Had she stood here once, like he was now? Had she touched the
Core?
His fingers brushed it lightly—and the world
dissolved.
In an instant, the chamber vanished. A blinding
surge of light enveloped him, followed by a rush of sensation—cold wind, the
scent of burning parchment, voices whispering in languages he couldn't
understand. He was no longer in the library.
He was in the past.
Stone walls surrounded him, torches flickering
against ancient frescoes. Figures in robes passed by, murmuring prayers to
forgotten gods. A man stood at a lectern, recording words into a scroll.
Michael recognised none of them—yet somehow, he understood all of it. The Core
wasn't just showing him history. It was letting him live it.
Then, the vision shifted.
He stood in a grand hall of crystal and light,
surrounded by strange figures—beings not quite human, not quite spirit. They
spoke of time as if it were clay, to be shaped and molded. One of them turned
to him, and though it had no mouth, he heard its voice clearly.
"You are the thread that binds the broken weave."
Michael tried to speak, but no words came. The
vision blurred again.
He was falling—through stars, through ruins, through
lifetimes. A war raged in some distant future, cities crumbling beneath the
weight of forgotten sins. A figure cloaked in shadow reached for the Core, its
eyes burning with hatred.
And then—
Darkness.
When Michael awoke, he was on the cold floor of the
chamber. Merlin stood over him, concern etched into his ancient face.
"What… what was that?" Michael gasped, still
trembling.
"You touched the truth," Merlin said quietly. "Not
all can bear it."
Michael sat up slowly, still dazed. "I saw
things—places I couldn't explain. People I've never met. A war… someone
reaching for the Core…"
Merlin nodded grimly. "Then you've seen the danger
as well. You now understand why the Library must be protected."
Michael looked up at him. "Protected from what?"
"From those who would use it to rewrite time,"
Merlin said. "To unmake what is, and twist what will be. The Library is a
sanctuary, but it is also a battleground. And you, Michael… you are now a part
of it."
Michael's hands trembled as he pressed them to the
stone floor, grounding himself in something real, something stable. But the
images—the visions—still clung to the edges of his mind like fog refusing to
lift. His breathing was shallow, his thoughts chaotic. The figure he'd seen
reaching for the Core… It hadn't just been a stranger. There was something
familiar in that darkness, something that resonated deep in his bones.
"I saw a man—no, a presence," Michael murmured. "He
wanted the Core. He was… wrong. Like he didn't belong in the world I was
seeing."
Merlin gave a solemn nod, his face clouded with
unease. "Azreal."
The name fell like a stone into silence.
Michael looked up. "You know him?"
"I knew of him," Merlin corrected, his voice low and
distant. "Once a guardian of time, like me. But he grew ambitious—obsessed with
the idea of reshaping reality. He believed he could 'fix' the timeline,
eliminate suffering by choosing what should and should not exist."
Michael frowned. "That doesn't sound so evil."
Merlin's gaze hardened. "Until you realise that to
eliminate suffering, he had to erase entire histories—entire people. He
believed some lives were… inconvenient to the grand design he saw in his mind.
That is not creation, Michael. That is tyranny."
Michael lowered his eyes, the implications washing
over him like a cold tide. "And he's still out there?"
Merlin nodded. "He was banished, lost in a rift
beyond time. But something tells me he is returning. Your presence here… the
visions granted to you by the Core… they are no accident. The Library does not
call without purpose."
Michael stood shakily, brushing dust from his jeans,
but the weight of destiny pressed harder than any dirt or stone. "So what do I
do now? I'm not a warrior. I'm not a wizard. I'm a grad student with a laptop
and a bunch of my mom's old journals."
Merlin's eyes softened, and for a moment, the
ancient wizard looked not like a guardian of time, but like a weary father
speaking to a child caught in a storm. "And yet, you were chosen. Do not
dismiss the strength of what you carry. Knowledge, intuition, bloodline—all of
it matters. Your mother was one of the most gifted scholars the Library ever
accepted. She charted time with more grace than many of us who've lived
centuries."
Michael blinked. "She was part of the Library?"
"Yes," Merlin said. "Not just part of it. She helped
defend it. She fought Azreal when others faltered. She gave everything… to
protect what we still have."
Silence held the room for a long beat.
Then, softly, Michael said, "I never even knew her.
Not really."
Merlin stepped forward and placed a hand on
Michael's shoulder. "Then it's time you did."
The chamber darkened. The Core pulsed once, then
grew dim. Behind them, a tall wooden door—one that hadn't been there a moment
before—creaked open. Beyond it stretched a spiral staircase lit by lanterns
that burned with a blue flame.
"She left her legacy within the Library," Merlin
said. "And she left something else. A path for you to follow."
Michael glanced at the door, heart pounding. "Where
does it lead?"
"To her past," Merlin replied. "And to your future."
Michael squared his shoulders, took one last look at
the Core of Chronos, then stepped toward the staircase. As he crossed the
threshold, the temperature shifted again—not cold this time, but warm, tinged
with the scent of parchment and lavender. He could almost hear her voice in the
flicker of the flames.
He didn't know what he'd find at the bottom. But for
the first time since he'd stepped into the Library of Time, he wasn't afraid.
He was ready