BO'SHLIQ: IBTIDO — UVORT QONLI SIRLAR SHAHRI
Story: In this world, everything has its own story.
No matter what happens — before it exists or after it's gone — it continues without a trace.
Some stories… die before they are even born.
By Rustam Tursunov
Chapter 1: Another World — A New Day
A dark room. Silence.
This silence wasn't just in the air — it was in the very act of breathing.
As if the room itself couldn't breathe.
A candle flickered — dim, cold.
Its flame danced along the wall, casting uneven shadows.
But this dance was no laughter.
It was silence — quieter than a heartbeat.
The smell of burned fat lingered in the air. The bitter scent of rusted iron mixed with it.
No "tick-tock" from the clock.
Only the heartbeat — yet even it seemed pressed by the silence.
Dust-covered books, old sketches, symbols on the table…
Symbols drawn in ink — faint, yet their silence spoke louder than words.
Somewhere, someone laughed.
Outside, the laughter of drunkards echoed.
But it was cold.
A strange force awakened within — as if falling from the sky, yet frozen in place.
Then a voice…
"Ruvan Astrelius, wake up."
The voice — dream or reality — was indistinguishable.
It went through him, yet it wasn't a heartbeat.
He feared opening his eyes.
Because he knew: if he did, there would be no turning back.
He felt something with his fingers — cold, hard, not alive.
As if his body had turned to stone.
It looked like wood, but it wasn't wood.
He opened his eyes.
The candlelight played across his face.
With every flicker, the room seemed to breathe — quiet, heavy, cold.
This wasn't warmth.
Cold sweat ran down his face.
It streamed along his cheeks, turning to ice in his throat.
The biting air spread through his body.
Every cell trembled.
Breathing was heavy.
Each inhale — foreign.
As if he wasn't breathing in his own body, but someone else's.
He was awake, yet his heart remained in a dream.
Its beats were restless, strange, angry.
The candlelight dimmed, and his eyes did not adjust to the darkness.
Pain surged at his head — as if something inside was trying to get out.
The air had frozen.
Breathing was laborious.
A hiss in his ears — the only thing piercing the silence.
He gasped.
The air was thick, heavy, dust and silence fused together.
And he seemed to fade slowly into that silence.
The candle flame didn't dance on the surface — it trembled within him.
With every flicker, it seemed to recall something… or someone.
This was no ordinary dream.
It was awakening — but not in his own body.
Rustam lifted his head slowly.
He looked around — everything was strange.
This place was completely foreign: old wooden furniture, dirty and worn carpet, outside the window a city drowned in darkness, the blood-red moon, still yet restless sky.
He felt like he had fallen into another world — like in a webtoon.
"Where am I?.. No, I don't recognize this place."
He didn't hear his own voice.
Thoughts only, echoing loudly in his head.
His eyes fell on an old diary on the table — the pages open, letters and symbols seeming to move on their own.
Look — the writing paused for a moment, then stirred again.
"What… damn thing is this!"
He whispered in fear.
He pushed back the chair. Falling, he struggled to breathe, gasping:
"H-hah…"
His blood pressure rose. His heart raced unnaturally fast.
Time slowed — everything seemed to lag in an instant.
"I'm falling… yes, I can feel it.
My body feels the weight, yet I have no control… Falling is certain."
His head hit the carpet hard.
Eyes squinting from pain, he grabbed the diary.
Not knowing what was happening, he threw it. The diary hit the wall, shaking the table.
Then he looked at his hands.
His fingers… didn't feel like his own.
They moved as if controlled by someone else's will.
"Where am I?!" he shouted.
"Who brought me here?!"
But his voice vanished into the room.
As if the air had swallowed it — no answer.
Only a faint, whispering sound, like someone murmuring behind him.
Rustam grabbed his throat and looked toward the window.
Jaw aching, pain radiating to his head.
His eyes filled with blood; the outside view darkened.
Behind the glass — nothing: no moon, no stars, only darkness that seemed alive.
The window trembled as if someone was trying to get in.
Pain weighed on his voice.
A knife-like sharp pain pierced his throat.
Unable to endure, he collapsed to the carpet with the chair.
This pain — real.
As if walking through the gates of hell.
He wanted to scream, but no sound came.
Only shivering and tears.
Endless pain in his head.
"What is this?.. It hurts… my soul feels like it's leaving my body… I have to endure…"
He held his throat, hair tangled in his hands as the pain climbed to his head.
In an instant, everything subsided.
The air stopped moving.
Then —
"This is not your place."
A voice that cut through the silence.
Rustam turned.
"Who is it?" he said, trembling, his body heavy.
He looked in the mirror — no one.
But he knew: the words hadn't come from inside him.
He gritted his teeth and stood.
He felt the pain seeping into his heart —
as if his mind abandoned his body, and his body abandoned his heart.
"Now walk… just walk," the inner voice said.
"Yet… why this terrifying mirror?"
Rustam realized he was standing, but the movement wasn't his own — his body walked, but the will was elsewhere.
The mirror was in the far corner of the room.
No one was there — not even his reflection.
Darkness silent, yet something seemed to breathe inside.
Fear wrapped around him like cold threads.
With every step, his heartbeat quickened.
Approaching the mirror, he expected something — perhaps his brother's face, or a lost part of himself.
But the mirror was only black mist, as if devouring him.
He closed his eyes tightly, took a deep breath — one, two, three.
Then raised his left hand.
Index finger touched the cold surface.
For a moment… something seemed to move.
But it wasn't his motion.
"Nothing strange… just an ordinary mirror," he reassured himself.
His legs trembled with fear.
He pressed with his palm, then placed his right hand on the mirror too.
No warmth, but the cold — a pulling chill.
The scene reminded him of modern horror movies.
"This… is really strange," Rustam thought.
Nothing changed, he gritted his teeth.
"It doesn't matter now!" he said, opening his eyes.
The mirror was black.
Only mist, darkness — colorless void.
Rustam looked at its lower part, then opened and closed his eyes again.
"I can do this," he whispered.
He raised his head.
The mirror was now completely black.
Deep as darkness.
The room seemed to become like the mirror — walls, air itself darkened.
Nothing was visible besides nearby objects.
Rustam took a deep breath.
"That whisper… was in my mind," he thought, pulling his hands from the mirror.
Moonlight through the window suddenly vanished.
The moon was there, yet its light could not enter.
The drunken laughter outside seeped into the silence, then faded completely.
It felt as if this room was a piece cut off from time itself.
His vision blurred.
Head spinning, legs weak.
Unconscious, he touched the mirror.
The mirror came to life.
Rustam's reflection appeared — but not today's him.
The face… different.
Unrecognized, yet familiar.
Behind that gaze, someone else seemed to watch him — and that someone… was exactly him.
Rustam's heart clenched.
He stepped back, unable to catch his breath.
In the black darkness of the mirror, some light flickered — from it, Rustam heard the shadow of his voice.
It was him… yet slightly changed.
The mirror self did not smile.
"Rustam… you are now Ruvan Astrelius!"
The voice shook the room.
Rustam's ears rang, his head thundered.
He covered his ears with his palms, but it was useless.
The sound came not from outside — but directly from his mind.
"Stop it!" Rustam shouted.
But the face in the mirror only continued to smile.
Eyes met reflection.
A moment — silence.
Then his heart… started beating strangely.
Rustam felt this feeling — a final warning of evil.
The reflection whispered, low but clear:
Remember everything…
With those words, everything changed.
His body began to align with the trembling of a foreign spirit.
Breathing uneven, heartbeat in a different rhythm.
With each beat, memories — unknown, yet belonging to him — began to flood in.
Rustam had never lived these memories before, yet his body recognized them.
It was like pouring water into a full bucket, or uploading files into an already full phone memory.
His mind overflowed.
Information, memories, false lives…
All tangled together.
Rustam's scream echoed in the room:
"No! Stop!"
His voice was swallowed by the walls, as if the room itself breathed.
The clock's tick-tocks continued.
Every tick — not time, but torment.
Every tock — a new memory, every strike — pain.
As the pain intensified, he lost himself.
Feeling nauseous, he vomited, mixed with blood.
Crawling on his knees, he approached the mirror.
Time seemed slowed, air thickened — every breath, every movement heavy.
Candlelight caught dust particles like trapped stars.
They floated toward Rustam, sticking to his body — as if memories were taking shape.
Somewhere, a drop fell.
Slow, heavy, like blood dripping in slow motion.
A whisper came from the walls.
If you listened carefully — it sounded like human speech.
Someone… whispered from inside the wall.
Rustam reached the mirror.
He grabbed it firmly, striking it to the ground in anger.
The mirror cracked, but he didn't stop.
He hit it with a piece of the broken glass until it shattered completely.
Under the broken glass, he saw his fragmented face.
Each piece — another "him."
Each one stared and smiled at him.
Then darkness.
Pain fully consumed his body.
Foam formed at his mouth… and he lost consciousness.
Morning.
Amid the sound of bells, Rustam slowly opened his eyes.
His body frozen, his mind buzzing.
"What was that?.. A dream?" he muttered.
Yet the pain in his body said otherwise.
He rose slowly, head spinning:
"No… no… this is real!" he whispered.
A few steps forward, his legs aching, he stumbled over something.
He didn't even need to look — but he couldn't ignore it.
Under the carpet, a piece of paper protruded.
Rustam bent down. He picked up the paper and wiped his face…
A single line froze his heart:
"What is this now?"
Under his foot lay a torn, crumpled, yet heavy and mysterious diary.
He bent and picked it up, gently dusting off its cover.
Whispering:
"What is this? Such a heavy old diary…"
His eyes caught the writing on the top:
"I can't read this… what language is this? No, I've never seen this script before…"
He turned the pages slowly, reaching the last one.
A faded ink word caught his eye:
"Ruvan Astrelius."
A strange, cold shiver ran through Rustam's heart.
"I understand this word… but at the same time, I can't remember this body.
It's as if I borrowed… this body. That name — must belong to the original owner…"
He whispered softly:
"This isn't a diary… it's a journal. And it's not mine. No, this… belongs to this body."
After a moment of silence, Rustam smiled faintly, adding in a slightly cheerful tone:
"But I feel like a young man, full of energy!"
He pulled his hair gently, speaking more seriously:
"Hmm… the hair is a bit long."
He touched his face.
"The face isn't bad… natural, normal."
He looked over his body:
"Yes, the body is healthy and handsome."
He touched his teeth with a finger:
"Even the teeth are straight, healthy."
He scratched one nail and smiled:
"No injuries. Amazing, this body… healthy and whole."
He looked at the table by the window.
"This body… these memories — must belong to a man named Ruvan Astrelius. He looks about my age, yet… in this world, people's appearances are different, and time flows differently."
He approached the table and sat. Placing the journal on it, he took a deep breath while gripping his head.
"What should I do now? If I'm to stay here, I need to learn to live. I must understand how I got here… and find a way back," he said to himself.
He opened the journal again.
The writing seemed strange, even illogical. He couldn't grasp the meaning.
His eyes fell on a mechanical clock hanging on the opposite wall.
At first glance, the numbers were unfamiliar, but he felt them — the sequence of time same as in his world.
Rustam slowly opened the first page.
Following the letters, the chaotic symbols gradually formed meaning.
His heart raced.
These were words he had never read, yet his heart understood the language.
The ink was faint, spread lightly across the pages.
He remembered the moment last night:
"Ah, so when I broke that cursed mirror, the diary took the hit too…"
"Ugh, my head… I can't remember the pain from last night clearly. Why is this room so cold?"
He took a small candle from the table and lit it.
The pages trembled, the soft glow bringing the letters to life… then suddenly, it vanished.
Rustam slowly started to understand his situation.
He looked around — the room was strange, almost ruined.
He walked to the window and stared outside.
"The street is dim… I guess it's close to dawn, the sun is rising," he thought, speaking softly.
"Look at the houses here… all destroyed. What century is this? What year?"
The diary lay open on the table.
The pages yellowed, the letters familiar, yet strange.
"I can read this… so its memories are in me. But last night, when the mirror shattered, part of the memories disappeared," he thought.
Words in his mind slowly found a sound.
"This man is much more educated than me," he said, staring at the pages.
"He seems to have been a student, recently graduated as an archaeologist… knows several languages."
Closing the diary, Rustam remained silent.
He began comparing what he read with his own historical knowledge.
"The time in the diary is called the Seventh Age of humanity," he whispered.
"Ruvan Astrelius… archaeologist and historian. His writings mention the 'beginning age.' Each age has a separate name and year count."
He ran his finger across the lines.
"The current Seventh Age… the age of divinity," he recalled.
"Earlier ages lasted millions of years, later ones shorter. Yet in the world I know, such historical classification doesn't exist."
A sudden silence fell.
His gaze fixed on the darkness outside the window.
"Time… flows differently here," he whispered.
"If I truly fell into a parallel world… then the history we knew was just lies."