Chapter 78
It ends (9)
...
A voice.
Soft. Distant.
It echoed from somewhere far away—too far for him to place. Like a breeze carried on the wind of memory, it barely reached him, like something slipping between the cracks of his subconscious.
He couldn't tell if it was real… or just a figment of a dream he no longer remembered.
It was calling to him.
But the words—it was hard to make them out.
Wak. Up. I…
What?
Wa… Up… Ple…
It was fading in and out, scattered like dying embers. Each word whispered like a forgotten name.
Then suddenly—
"Wake up, IAM. Please!"
Clarity. Like ice water down his spine.
A surge ran through him, and for a moment, the world sharpened. That voice—he knew it.
Wake… up?
What did that mean?
Who was IAM?
Who was that name meant for? Him? Someone else?
And more importantly—
Why?
Why should he wake up? He felt… so tired. Like his body was wrapped in a warm, weightless blanket. There was no pain, no cold, no noise. Just the comfort of stillness. Of peace. He could stay like this forever.
Just a little longer…
Just let him rest.
Another voice. Different.
Stronger.
"It's time to wake up, bro."
That one struck deeper. Familiar in a way that made something ache inside him. He didn't know why, but that voice sounded like it belonged. Like a brother's hand pulling you from the dark.
Still… he just wanted a little more time.
Just… a bit longer. A few more seconds. Just to rest.
But they wouldn't let him.
They would not let him rest in peace.
Those voices kept clawing at the silence, tearing it open with desperate cries. Disturbing his peace. Stirring something in him he didn't understand.
And then—he started to recognize them.
He leaned into the voices, trying to focus, trying to remember who they were. Who he was.
Who was calling for him?
Why was he needed?
And just as the haze started to clear, just as he began to stitch the pieces of the puzzle together—
Another voice. One he didn't recognize.
Wake up.
That was it.
That was the final pull.
IAM's eyes snapped open.
He gasped and jolted upright into a sitting position, adrenaline flooding his body. His heart pounded, muscles tensed.
Pain.
He braced himself for it instinctively—for the scream of crushed bones, for the agony of torn limbs.
But… nothing came.
He sat in silence, blinking.
Confused.
He waited.
But the pain… never arrived.
Slowly, with cautious fingers, he began inspecting his body. Hands moved to his legs, his arms, his chest. His movements were frantic at first, then slowed as the realization settled in.
"Wait… I'm healed…"
His voice cracked with disbelief. "Holy shit—how?"
His cargo pants had been cut short—roughly torn around the lower thighs. His left sleeve was gone, cut clean away.
But his legs… whole.
His arm… intact.
He could move everything.
It didn't even hurt.
He blinked down at his limbs again, as if expecting the illusion to shatter.
But it didn't.
He was truly healed.
The wreckage around him began to creep into his awareness. Rubble. Ash. Twisted steel. Shattered glass. Scorch marks. Silence.
"What… happened?"
He stood up slowly, his muscles stiff from disuse, his balance momentarily off. He scanned the area, turning in a slow circle.
No sign of life.
Just devastation.
Had someone healed him? Or… was it him?
Did he have some kind of latent ability?
The thought was absurd. He had never shown signs of a secret technique, no gift. And yet, here he was. Alive. Restored.
"And why?"
He placed a hand over his chest, feeling an ache there—not physical, but deep. Lingering.
It felt like he'd lost something.
Someone.
The grief was quiet, but heavy. A weight that didn't belong to his body, but to his soul.
His eyes narrowed.
He forced himself to focus, to assess the situation logically. They'd been attacked—he remembered that much. A sudden ambush. And Hen…
Hen.
He clenched his jaw.
He still couldn't believe it.
He had stabbed Ryan.
Hen was the mole?
None of it made sense.
The pieces didn't align. But the betrayal—that part was real. That pain couldn't be made up. And if Hen had betrayed them…
Then who else was left?
Where were the others?
He took a deep breath and began moving, stepping over twisted beams and cracked stone. He weaved through the wreckage with purpose, his instincts on high alert.
As he moved, he noticed something strange.
Bodies.
Or rather—what was left of them.
They were turning into golden dust. Slowly, steadily. Dissolving into particles that shimmered in the dim light. Each one drifted gently through the air, carried not by wind—but pulled.
Drawn toward something.
A direction.
IAM followed their path with his eyes, and his heart began to race.
What's going on?
Was this some kind of path method? A byproduct of death? Or something more symbolic?
He didn't know.
And worse, he didn't see anyone else.
Were they… all gone?
That thought hit him harder than anything.
His footsteps slowed.
He came to a halt.
His breath hitched in his throat.
No…
No, not yet.
He couldn't think that way.
Not until he was sure.
Even if his gut already knew the answer.
Even if the ache in his chest screamed it.
He couldn't accept it.
He forced himself forward.
He pushed his legs into motion and broke into a sprint, chasing the path of golden dust like it held the answer. It was all he had. The only trail.
And it led in one direction—
The dome.
What remained of it, at least.
He reached the clearing and finally saw it in full.
Or what was left of it.
The dome—once a proud structure, a symbol of unity and strength—was in ruins. At least eighty percent of the structure had been obliterated. Collapsed towers, shattered walls, exposed framework. A skeleton of its former self.
And the flag—red, emblazoned with the black satin H of HOPE—was gone. Torn from the sky. Trampled into the dust.
Gone.
HOPE was gone.
IAM stood there in silence, staring up at what remained.
Just emptiness.
He scanned the perimeter. He had no plan—just instinct. He started walking again, this time toward the ruins of the dome.
It went against his nature to walk toward something so obviously compromised. Any tactician would've told him to avoid it, to find a vantage point, to scout from afar.
But right now… he had nothing else.
There was nowhere else to go.
And if the golden dust was heading there—if it meant anything at all—then maybe that was where the answers lay.
Or the bodies.
Or the truth.
He kept low, weaving through the rubble as he closed in.
But something felt off.
He paused mid-step.
Too quiet.
No voices. No screams. No distant fights. Not even wind.
There was no sign of movement.
It was as if the entire battlefield had gone still.
As if there was no one left to fight.
No one left to scream.
No one left to save.
It didn't feel like a warzone anymore.
It felt like a graveyard.
It felt more like an aftermath of a battle that was already won.
A victory already decided.
And with each step toward the dome, IAM felt the weight of it all crushing down. The silence was suffocating, crawling beneath his skin like static.
Only questions.
And the final, dreadful truth that waited in the ruins ahead.
What would he find there?
What truths still lay buried beneath the rubble?
What lies had already claimed their final victims?
And most importantly—
Would he regret what he was about to find?
He stepped forward.
Toward the end.