As Ethan Kai choked off the last of his laughter he sagged under the weight of grief, guilt, and elation. It was a struggle now to remain standing, but just as he was wavering, he felt a cold pulse from the mark on his hand. It was not the burning heat from before, but something deeper, steadier. Images began to flash through his mind—a thousand books or so that he had read, hundreds of movies, cartoons from his childhood, anime from his later years. Worlds and stories layered one over another. The cold from the mark pulled at his hand like an unseen tether.
He followed the pull without giving himself time to think or to hurry. As he moved, he gathered loot. A long-scoped bolt-action hunting rifle came first, the kind meant for precise kills at range. He slung it over his shoulder, the barrel still carrying the faint tang of gun oil. Next came a pair of 9-millimeter Berettas, both with clean slides and smooth triggers. He checked their actions with quick, efficient racks before setting them on the counter.
Two large fixed-blade hunting knives followed, sheathed in leather and sharp enough to split hairs. He spotted a military duffle bag hanging near the counter, yanked it down, and began filling it without hesitation.
Boxes of 12-gauge shells and rifle cartridges went in first, followed by loaded pistol magazines. He added a compact field first-aid kit—bandages, clotting powder, tourniquets—and a folding entrenching tool. A waterproof flashlight, extra batteries, a magnesium fire starter, a coil of paracord, and a small hatchet followed.
His eyes scanned higher shelves and displays. He pulled down a rolled two-man tent in a compact compression sack, a lightweight sleeping bag rated for subzero nights, and a self-inflating sleeping pad. A stainless steel mess kit clattered into the duffle, followed by a collapsible water filter pump and two one-liter canteens with insulated covers. He found a tactical hydration pack with a built-in bladder and strapped it to the side of the bag.
From a glass case he retrieved a sturdy compass in a brass housing, a laminated set of regional topographic maps, and a pair of compact binoculars. He swept a set of waterproof matches, a flint striker, and a small bottle of fire accelerant into an outer pocket. A box of compact high-calorie field rations caught his eye—vacuum-packed protein bars, dehydrated meals, and foil packets of nut paste. These went in alongside a compact alcohol stove and a small fuel bottle.
From a rack near the front counter he took a tactical headlamp with red and white LED settings, an extra pair of fingerless shooting gloves, and a set of dark-lens ballistic sunglasses. He added a heavy-duty multitool—pliers, wire cutters, blades, screwdrivers—still sealed in its blister pack.
When he ducked behind the counter to check for more ammunition, his eyes caught a short shelf of survival manuals. The titles were blunt: Black Powder: The Old Way, Improvised Munitions for the Field, Homestead Firearms Construction and Maintenance. Prepper's Guide to Social Collapse. He paused only long enough to grab the first two and shove them deep into the duffle. It had been years since he had mixed black powder or shaped a proper charge, but the knowledge was still there, buried. These would be insurance, refresher material if he found himself truly stranded.
A camouflage poncho went in last, crammed over the rest. The duffle was full to the point of straining, and he slung it onto his back with the care of someone settling a pack for a long march. Through it all, the pull from the mark stayed steady, almost insistent.
He did not look at the bodies on the floor. He did not let himself think about how close he had come to joining them. The mark was leading him toward something, and he needed to be ready when it came.
The duffle was packed, but Ethan did not simply shoulder it and move on. Years of training refused to let him carry a load without order. He knelt behind the counter, the bag open in front of him, and began to arrange it for a fight and for the field.
He packed the heavier items—tent, sleeping bag, water pump—at the center and base of the duffle to keep the weight close to his spine. Ammunition went high on the left side for quick access with his dominant hand, the medical kit high on the right. The hatchet and entrenching tool were lashed to the outer straps where they could be pulled free in seconds. The compact stove, rations, and mess kit filled the lower outer pockets. Fire-starting tools and maps slid into a waterproof pouch along the top flap.
He laid the Berettas on the counter and took a moment to wipe their slides with a rag from the shelf. One went into a drop-leg holster he found hanging behind the counter, the other into a chest rig he strapped over his jacket. The hunting rifle he slung diagonally across his back, muzzle down, to avoid catching it on doorframes. The shotgun he kept in his hands.
When the weapons were in place, he scanned the store for clothing. His hoody and pants were saturated with the black, gelatinous gore of the things he had fought. The stink was thick enough to make his throat tighten. Dried blood would stiffen the fabric, and wet blood would make noise every time he moved. Worse, the smell would carry.
He found a rack of outdoor apparel—weatherproof jackets, insulated shirts, reinforced cargo pants. He stripped off his jacket and shirt without hesitation, dropping them in a pile away from the gear. Cold air hit his skin, carrying the metallic reek from the dried gore. He pulled on a clean moisture-wicking shirt, then a lined flannel for insulation, followed by a windproof shell in muted earth tones. His trousers went next, replaced with a pair of durable canvas cargos tucked into fresh socks and waterproof boots from the display rack. Moist towelettes from a pack on the counter took most of the blood from his face and hands, but there were not enough for a decent clean. He would just have to make do.
The discarded clothing he shoved into a plastic trash bag, knotting it tight. He was not going to carry that smell with him. He chucked the bag into a corner of the store.
When he was finished, the duffle rode high and balanced on his back, the chest rig tight but not restrictive. His spare pistol sat against his ribs, knives strapped to his belt on either hip. Every essential tool and weapon were placed so he could reach it under stress, in the dark, or while moving.
The cold pull from the mark had not lessened. If anything, it had grown more defined, like a compass needle that had found true north. Ethan could almost feel its direction in the bones of his wrist.
He moved through the back of the store, the duffle balanced perfectly against his spine, the chest rig hugging him like a second skin. The shotgun's weight was solid in his hands, each step measured and quiet.
The light in the store grew dimmer as he passed from the retail floor into the narrow storage corridor. Rows of boxed merchandise crowded close on either side, cardboard edges scraping lightly against his sleeves as he squeezed through. The smell of dust and old wood filled the air, mixing with the faint tang of metal from the racks.
The cold in the mark flared. He slowed. Ahead, half-hidden behind a display of collapsible camp chairs, was a door. It looked utterly ordinary—painted beige, with a steel knob and no signage.
Yet every instinct screamed at him that this was it.
He stepped closer, boots whispering against the concrete. The mark's chill seemed to seep into his whole arm now, up through his shoulder and into the base of his skull. The air before the door carried the faintest breath of something alien, a scent just beyond recognition.
Ethan set the shotgun's stock against his hip and reached for the knob with his marked hand. The instant his palm closed on the metal, the cold surged like ice water poured through his veins.
It was the same feeling as before stepping into the Robert Jordan world. The same quiet certainty that the door was not what it appeared to be.
He drew one slow breath, his thumb resting against the latch. Beyond this threshold was another place, another fight. He did not know if it would be better or worse than the one he had just left. But standing still was becoming less of an option by the moment. Ethan turned the knob.
The door swung inward to reveal nothing more than a broom closet. Shelves of cleaning supplies lined the walls—dusty bottles of glass cleaner, rolls of paper towels, a dented mop bucket resting on cracked tile.
Yet as Ethan's eyes adjusted, he saw it. A thin ripple in the air, barely visible, like heat waves rising from asphalt on a summer day. It hung just inside the doorway, shifting almost imperceptibly, distorting the shelves beyond.
He stepped closer, shotgun held low, his marked hand brushing the shimmer. The cold that had been gnawing at his bones sharpened into something almost painful. He remembered this. The faint haze had been there the first time, though he had missed it in the chaos of entering the world of The Eye of the World.
Now that he knew to look, he could see the depth beyond the haze was off. The closet was shallow, yet the air beyond seemed to stretch farther than the walls allowed.
A faint draft touched his face, carrying with it the scent of cold mountain air and pine. His pulse quickened. The smell alone told him where this led. Of all the stories he had touched, this one had stayed with him the most.
Somewhere behind him, faint but unmistakable, came the shuffling moan of the dead. The sound was getting closer.
He stepped forward without another thought, his boots crossing the threshold and into the haze. Crossing the haze was like forcing himself through a thin membrane, one that only resisted because of his reluctance, enough to make every step feel deliberate. The cold was not just in his skin now—it was in his lungs, in the blood pushing through his veins, a chill that seemed to strip away the warmth of the world behind him.
For a heartbeat, there was no sound, no light, only the deep pressure of the in-between. It had not been like this before, but the pull of the mark was absolute, a line dragging him forward.
He knew, with the same bone-deep certainty he had felt under fire, that the ordeal behind him was nothing compared to what might wait on the other side. Different enemies, different rules, a world he was intimately familiar with, but perhaps less forgiving than the one of shambling dead he had just left.
But he would go anyway. What else did he have back in the real world? Nothing but regrets and a life he had felt was wasted. If he believed in such things, he might have thought that Robert Jordan's Pattern was real, that some unseen weaver was drawing him through these places for a reason.
He stepped out of the cold into light and air, the weight of that thought still pressing on him. Light flared around him, sharp after the haze, and the cold in his bones gave way to a raw, biting chill in the air. His boots met packed earth, and the scent of pine was thick enough to taste.
He turned, closing the door behind him. As the latch clicked, the smooth steel of the mall's broom closet warped before his eyes. The paint faded to the uneven brown of weathered wood, the knob thinning into a rough-hewn handle. When the change was done, it looked like any other door in this place; part of a barn wall built from raw logs lashed together with hemp rope.
He turned back to take in the space. The barn was crude but solid, the gaps in the walls stuffed with straw to keep out the wind. The thatched roof sagged in a few places but held, muffling the sound of the breeze outside. The air inside was dry, carrying the dusty sweetness of hay. It was empty. No livestock, a few primitive farmer tools, a pitchfork that looked handmade, an old ax, a shovel, but no voices. Just the stillness of a place left alone for some time.
In the far corner, a ladder made from uneven poles led up to a loft. From below he could see the piled hay, golden and soft in the dim light. His body ached at the sight of it.
Ethan heaved the duffle higher on his shoulder and started across the barn. His legs felt heavy, every step an argument between will and exhaustion. The ladder creaked under his weight, but it held. He climbed, hands rough against the splintered rungs, the smell of hay growing stronger. At the top, he pulled himself onto the loft. The bag he dropped next to him. His knees sank into the hay, the stalks crackling under him. He had meant to shift the piles, to make a better place to rest, but his body gave out the moment he was off the ladder.
The shotgun slid from his hand into the hay, his breath slowing in the dark. For now, there was nothing but the quiet creak of the barn and the faint sigh of wind through the thatch.
Sleep took him before he could think of what might be waiting outside.