Andrew Rich and Temple of Doom

"I knew the mission was crap the moment that spook, Specter, showed up. A CIA guy, all secrets and shadows, slithering like a well-fed snake. They said the job was simple: just follow the spook right into the jungle."

His tone was coarse, each word etched with the grime of the war he'd lived through. "First night was quiet, just the jungle noises and us trying to pretend we weren't spooked. But by the second night, things went south. Harris, the kid who always had a joke, just up and vanished during his watch. Not a trace. We searched at first light, found nothing but more jungle."

There was a pause, the sound of a man lost in his own memories. "Next night, it was Martinez. Tough as nails, that guy. He wouldn't just wander off. But he did. Or something took him. That's when we started to really lose it. Fear does funny things to a man's mind."

He spat out the next words with a venom that seemed to transcend time and space. "Specter? Useless as a screen door on a submarine. He just kept pushing us deeper into that green hell. After Martinez went missing, we split up to cover more ground. Bad idea, but we weren't thinking straight. I got stuck with Specter. Trusting that guy was like trying to dry off in the rain."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "We hadn't gone far when I realized he was gone. Just me and the trees and... something else. Eyes, man. I saw eyes in the dark. Not human, not animal. Something else. Snake eyes."

"Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Bennett," I replied into the smartphone, the line between the living and the dead bridged by technology. "It will help bring the perpetrator to justice."

"Justice, what need dead for it? Still, it was nice to talk to you."

As the connection to the afterlife faded, I turned to Archer, who examined the fresh bones of the soldier we had just spoken with. "You were right," I conceded. "Giving my smartphone another try was a better idea than just sticking to the older methods."

"You did give up rather quickly," Archer remarked, his tone distracted as he remained focused on his task.

"Well, it did not work, when I tried before in this Word. I assumed that it was lack of accessible afterlife to blame," I replied. Frowning I added. "But with this new information that failure could be due to subjects I used. If the smartphone works as intended, the reason I could not contact Andrew Rich in the future was that he might be alive in our time. This may mean that we have two survivors and not one. Hitler too may be alive, but he's of less concern. What trouble could a geriatric cause?"

"Why do I think you will eventually regret that?" my companion mused, his fingers tracing the contours of the soldier's bones with a clinical detachment. "No matter," he continued, his voice taking on a more urgent tone. "These bones were gnawed. Bennett wasn't just killed; he was eaten. And whatever did this was ravenous. I can feel the hunger. It won't stop with one. If we want survivors, we must hurry."

"Well, since the smartphone works, I can use it to locate where the squad was last," I offered a solution. It was not the only one available to us, but it was the easiest and fastest to implement. And if failed, I would know it quickly enough, to move to the next one.

"Just one problem. At least one more of them has to die for you to contact them," Archer pointed out, standing up. He took out a canteen and methodically poured water over his hands, washing away the remnants of his grim examination. It was an unfortunate fact that gloves, or anything like them, would interfere with his psychometry.

"Unnaturally, I don't think that would present any difficulty," I replied, my mind racing with the grim possibilities.

... And I was right. And it was more than one.

Pvt. Lucas Grant's voice crackled through the smartphone, thick with the accent of a young man from the rural South, unpolished and raw. "Man, I don't know what's goin' on out here. Harris just... gone, like smoke. And those eyes, man, in the dark, watchin' us. It ain't right. It's like the jungle's alive. You hear things, you see things. I swear, last night, I saw that spook starin' at us, like we were his next meal or somethin'. It's gettin' to all of us," he said, his voice tinged with a mix of fear and disbelief.

Pfc. Ethan Walsh's voice came next, tinged with the unmistakable lilt of a city dweller, perhaps from the East Coast. His words tumbled out in a rapid, almost frantic pace. "Everything's twisted here. You can't tell what's real. Last night, I heard whispers, like voices callin' from the ground. Then King, he screams, just gets yanked into the dark. I saw it, those snake eyes, glintin' like evil. This place, it's cursed, man. We ain't supposed to be here," he said, his voice rising and falling in a cadence shaped by urban streets.

Then came Spc. Brandon Myers, speaking with the measured tone of someone who had seen more of life, perhaps from the Midwest. "Rich found somethin', some kinda entrance, buried under vines and roots. Looks old, like a temple or somethin'. We're goin' in at dawn. Maybe it's a way out, maybe it's somethin' else. Who knows in this hell? I just hoped... And then I head the sound. Like somethin' clickin'—"

Finally, Pvt. Aaron King, whose voice bore the rough edges of an inner-city upbringing, perhaps from somewhere like Detroit or Philadelphia. "They're droppin' like flies, man. Bennett, he didn't even scream, just... gone. One second he's there, the next, nothin'. This jungle, it eats you up, spits you out. You can't trust nothin', not even the shadows. And those eyes, always watchin'. Feels like we're bein' hunted, like we're just... prey," he said, his voice a mix of anger and despair.

"Mayers is the last," Archer deduced calmly, having absorbed the haunting testimonies of the deceased soldiers. "No one else mentioned going underground."

"I agree," I replied, my attention momentarily drifting to the voice only I could hear. "I know where we need to go."

Archer cast a sceptical glance my way. "I'm not entirely sure I can trust your sense of direction," he remarked dryly.

"It's not just my direction," I quickly clarified. "Boaz has calculated the most probable route based on the information we've gathered." I reached into my bag and pulled out a pouch filled with several cut and mana-imbued gemstones. Looking over the lush jungle, I found a suitable spot—a large, flat rock, akin to a small table. Holding the gems in my hand, I murmured a quiet incantation and tossed them onto the rock's surface. The gemstones scattered, creating patterns and alignments. I studied their spread closely. "The lithomancy reading confirms Boaz's calculations. It's favourable," I announced. "But it's a two-day trek on foot. We need a faster way."

With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and focused. The air around us grew heavy with anticipation as I chanted softly, yet with clear intention, "Recall: Khenumra."

Space itself seemed to twist and warp. For a fleeting moment, there was the ghostly image of an ancient Egyptian chariot, drawn by two black horses, too large and grandiose to fit into the small clearing within the jungle. But as quickly as it appeared, the vision resolved into something more practical, yet no less extraordinary—two pieces of rope, with sturdy handholds, dangled from the canopy above.

"Come," I urged Archer, grasping one of the ropes. As my hand wrapped around it, the rope immediately began to pull me upwards. The journey through the dense vegetation was swift, and within moments, I was rising above the jungle canopy, the origin of the ropes becoming clear.

Hovering silently above us was a sleek, black helicopter, looked like it had leaped straight out of an urban legend. Which I suppose was where my familiar had gotten that shape. Or rather from dreams about such.

The rope swiftly pulled me inside the helicopter, which was adorned with decadent black cushions. At the front, wearing a helmet and pilot gear that seemed painted onto his form, revealing every perfectly sculpted muscle, was Khenumra.

"Take us to these coordinates," I instructed, mentally transmitting the destination – the location of the opening in the ground that Rich had found – through the karmic bond we shared. "And be swift."

"As fast as a nightmare, Master," the incubus replied, his voice a seductive purr, as Archer was pulled into the illusion of the helicopter.

There was no sensation of inertia, no sound of rotors – nothing to indicate we were moving, except for the blurred jungle canopy underneath us. The vision of the movement, unaccompanied by any physical sensation, was almost dizzying. It was a surreal experience, being transported at such speed without the usual cues of motion.

And like in a dream, we moved with incredible speed, far surpassing what any helicopter had the right to achieve. We were traveling faster than a plane, perhaps even outpacing a jet. The velocity at which we moved was so intense that, had the rotors been real, the wind would have sheared them off in an instant.

The world outside blurred into streaks of colour, the jungle below a mere wash of green and brown.

"We should have arrived earlier," Archer commented, settling onto the plush cushions.

"Originally, I aimed for us to arrive a week before the squad set out on their last mission," I replied, stretching out on the soft surface and resting my head in his lap. "But this was only a test run."

"Perhaps you could have tried for even earlier?" he mused, his fingers gently running through my hair.

"We don't have the luxury of that much time to waste," I murmured, relaxing into his touch. After the day's unexpected shocks, his presence was a welcome comfort.

"How can we be short on time when we're time traveling? Can't you just adjust how much time we have left?" Archer inquired, his voice laced with curiosity.

"It doesn't work that way," I explained. "Anchor Gates are anchored to what we consider our present. Time passes now in sync with then. On one hand, it allows me to monitor what's happening to the Aperture in the future, but on the other, the time we spend here is time lost. Besides, this might not be a mistake. We arrived at this moment because we were always meant to arrive now. To preserve the timeline, the events recorded in the document you stole must unfold as they did."

"Predestination? I don't like it," Archer grumbled, his fingers momentarily pausing in my hair.

"What is, is," I responded, a tinge of resignation in my voice. "There's no point in liking it or not. If we stray from the path, we'll end up in a parallel universe. For our purpose, we need to stay within a contained time loop."

His fingers resumed their soothing motion, but his voice carried a note of melancholy. "So, every action we take here has already been accounted for? That's a tightrope walk across history."

"Exactly. We are constrained by what we know, and freed by what we don't," I explained. "The events must transpire exactly as they had, so that the report you stole would eventually be written. Our knowledge of what should happen guides us, but it's our ignorance of the finer details that gives us room to maneuver."

"We have arrived, Master," the pilot, Khenumra, interrupted our contemplation. I stood and peered outside, noting that the helicopter was stationary, hovering in place. Below us, the jungle stretched out in a dense tapestry of varying greens.

"There's no place to land. You'll have to rappel down using the ropes again," Khenumra informed us.

"Wait for us here," I instructed him firmly. "Monitor the situation and stay in contact. Be ready for a swift extraction if necessary."

As I prepared to descend, I reflected on the inconvenient side effects of this method of time travel. The main entrance to the Otherworld was locked in its current spatial location, rendering its ability to relocate to any door or even just near me or Archer unusable. I was well-versed in other techniques to access the Otherworld, like vehicle gates or overlaying local reality with a segment of the Otherworld. However, these methods had not been tested under the conditions of active time travel, stretching the Otherworld across time. This was not the right moment for such experiments.

Thus, our return would be to the point where we first entered this period. All things considered, it was a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of our mission.

"There is little doubt. We are in the right place," Archer dryly commented as we landed, his gaze fixated on the sight before us.

Enshrouded by the untamed emerald tendrils of the Vietnam jungle stood a daunting entrance, a silent sentinel to a bygone era. It resembled the gaping mouth of the underworld, framed by roots and vines that clawed at its ancient stonework. Gothic in its majesty, the gateway seemed a misplaced fragment of a European cathedral, an unsettling beauty out of place among the whispers of the Asiatic forest.

Intricate carvings adorned its surface, depicting carnal scenes of devilry and witchcraft. These eerie forms, etched with the precision of a craftsman's hand, had surrendered to nature's relentless grasp. At its heart, a grand arch, ribbed and guarded by nearly nude statues with stone-cold gazes, beckoned the brave or the foolish to step within.

Grotesque gargoyles leered from above the arch, their faces frozen in silent screams, as if to warn those daring to cross the threshold into the abyss below. The earth opened up at the entrance, a dark maw leading into the unfathomable depths, whispering secrets and peril from the bowels of a forgotten sanctum.

"Strange place to seek shelter when one is being hunted," I mused, my eyes captivated by the macabre entrance. "If Rich is Jane's father, it's clear where she got her reckless streak. And Terry is not any better. I'd say she inherited it honestly from both sides."

Archer chuckled softly. "Now, now, be honest. If you stumbled upon something like this while being hunted in the jungle, could you really restrain your curiosity?"

Having a choice between admitting it and resorting to obvious lies, I chose neither. Instead, I deftly switched the topic. "The left statue looks a bit like you," I quipped, nodding toward the ancient figure.

Archer's amused smirk showed he was well aware of my diversion tactic, and he seemed to count it as a point in his favor. "And the one on the right to you. Shall we enter? Remember, we don't have unlimited time."

"Yes, let's proceed. But from here on, let's walk unseen," I replied. Drawing upon my brief stint as a ghost, I became invisible, inaudible, and intangible. Archer quickly matched my state, rendering himself just as undetectable.

Together, we stepped forward, moving towards the gaping entrance, like a pair of formless wraiths.

The tunnel's descent culminated in a large, ominous stone chamber. As we entered, the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood immediately hit us, its sharpness mingling with the putrid scent of decaying offal. The chamber, though slightly cooler than the jungle outside, was oppressively warm and moist, the air thick with the stench of death.

The source of this macabre aroma was gruesomely evident ahead of us. A body, clad in a soldier's uniform, lay crushed beneath a massive stone pillar. As we drew closer, the morbid symphony of the jungle's insects became pronounced. Swarms of flies buzzed feverishly around the corpse, their black bodies darting over the skin in a frenzied dance. Carrion beetles, adorned in their shiny, iridescent carapaces, scuttled in and out of the shadows, voraciously partaking in the grisly feast.

Beneath the weight of the stone, Mayers' body was a grotesque tableau of the jungle's unforgiving law. The pillar, clearly part of a deadly trap, had dislodged from the ceiling, evident from the jagged hole above and the way it had mercilessly pinned the soldier.

Archer placed his bare hand on the pillar, his eyes closing in concentration, while I scrutinized the vicinity.

Carved into the stone were Latin inscriptions, but their execution was chaotic and violent. The letters were poorly formed, the words jumbled, and the grammar atrocious.

"False angels of god, or is it angels of false god?" I muttered, trying to decipher the meaning. "Bearing iron rods? Is this some kind of taunt? A satanic sex joke?"

"Sometimes an iron rod is just an iron rod," Archer commented, his focus unwavering.

"I suppose," I said, pondering. "There are mentions in the Bible of angels bearing rods, but..."

"Not that," he interrupted.

"Right, you mean our reptilian friends," I realized. "Given their penchant for authority, masquerading as angels isn't a stretch. And we know from fake Sullivan, that he at least was a witch hunter. This trap, then, might have been meant for them. Mayers was just an unfortunate casualty."

Pity that their bodies decomposed so fast. By the time I had got to examine the head, it was mostly useless. I was still uncertain whether they were humans mutated by exposure to alien technology, actual aliens, or perhaps some sort of hybrids.

One thing I knew was that the reptilians were closely connected to the Stone Grail and had mastery of the ether variant found within. A knowledge that I hungered for.

"Or humans they duped," Archer added, his eyes still closed. "This trap, and I suspect the entire temple, was crafted by a mind, not by hand."

"Interesting application of telekinesis," I mused, contemplating the implications. "I'll be sure to add a stone carving to the lesson plan for my apprentice. It could come in handy." My gaze then shifted to the only passage leading deeper into the structure, away from the surface. "If we want to find the rest, alive, we can't afford to linger here."

I moved towards the passage. Archer followed, his steps silent.

As we ventured further into the depths, the path became a treacherous maze of traps. Some had already been triggered, while others lay in wait. We navigated through a gauntlet of dangers: sharp pendulum blades swinging rhythmically in the dim light, deep pitfalls that opened suddenly underfoot, and braziers filled with noxious substances, poised to ignite. Fortunately, there were no new corpses.

Our immaterial state allowed Archer and me to pass through these hazards unimpeded. We continued onward, our steps confident yet cautious, descending deeper into the earth's bowels.

The further we progressed, the more apparent it became that the path wasn't just winding – it was a long, deliberate spiral.

A spiral finishing at a dead end.

"A final trap," Archer observed, his hand skimming the surface of the stone slab that blocked the end of the tunnel. "I can feel the maker's gleeful malice. It's as if he's saying, 'If you've come this far, there's no need to leave. Let's be buried together.'"

"But it's no obstacle for us," I commented, reaching out to push against the stone. My hand met no resistance; it was like diving into a pool of lightless water, silent and dark. The sensation lasted only a moment, and then I was on the other side.

The other side of the stone slab revealed a starkly different scene. The air was thick with tension, reverberating with the low, serpentine hiss of a voice filled with malevolence. "...humans so easily turn on each other. It's your kind that helped us burn them all," the voice taunted, dripping with disdain.

Illuminated by the faint, eerie glow of bioluminescent moss clinging to the chamber walls, the figures of three bound men in American soldiers' uniforms were visible. Their faces, etched with fear and confusion, turned towards their captor – a tall figure clad in a well-cut black suit, who was gleefully monologuing at his captives.

In his hand, he held an iron staff, its tip adorned with a twisted shape resembling a contorted letter 'V'. The artifact piqued my interest; it was something I had been seeking, an item of power I longed to study.

Archer, having materialized beside me, assessed the situation with a warrior's eye. Time for intervention, his thoughts echoed in my mind.

Not yet, I replied telepathically. The soldiers aren't in immediate danger, and this one likes to talk. We should observe more.

"Inquisition, gulags, concentration camps, even this little war… How does it feel to know that you fought for nothing else but to murder your fellow man?" the figure in the black suit sneered, his voice a blend of mockery and contempt. His words seemed designed not just to taunt but to unnerve, to stir the darkest depths of human history and guilt.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of amusement mixed with a grim understanding. In other timelines I knew, humanity's capacity for atrocity needed no external provocation. It was a dark aspect of human nature: there is no act so inhumane that a human wouldn't commit it. Yet, this captor's disdainful perspective was enlightening. It revealed their strategies, their values, and, more importantly, their refusal to see themselves as human.

Amid the tension, Andrew Rich, the brown-haired soldier on the left, found his voice, his tone imbued with newfound determination. I recognized him from the pictures Terry still carried, decades later. "I knew this war was wrong, even before I was drafted," he declared. "Why are you doing this?"

The captor, seemingly pleased with the question, replied with cold pragmatism. "Efficiency. It's easier to make humans kill each other than to do it ourselves. Life-bearing worlds are precious and rare. In truth, humans are the least valuable asset on Earth. Think of this as clearing our property of vermin."

"I can be valuable," the soldier in the middle pleaded, "Here I can prove it. Just let loose. I will show you."

The soldier on the right, his demeanor suggesting a position of authority, responded with a mix of anger and authority. "Shut up, Fisher!" he barked, revealing the pleading man's identity. His tone was commanding, resonating with a sense of betrayal. "That's treason!"

Fisher, now identified as Nathan Fisher by the rebuke, continued undeterred. "Does it matter?" His voice was a mix of fear and resignation. "I didn't want to be here in the first place. Please, I can be useful."

By process of elimination that meant the last one was Corporal Ethan Thompson. But the next part would provide an answer to an interesting question. Do they accept willing human collaborators or unknowing dupes?

With amused his, the man in black fiddled with his iron rod, and bonds on the Fished fell apart. "You have one chance to convince me that you will be of use in serving me, or you will be served. Try anything tricky, and I will have my meat properly tenderized."

Fisher, now unbound, stood hesitantly, casting a glance towards his comrades. His decision at this moment could seal not only his fate but potentially that of his fellow soldiers.

Thompson and Andrew Rich, bound and facing an unimaginable reality, watched with horror and disbelief. The idea of one of their own succumbing to the will of an entity they perceived as pure evil was a profound betrayal, shaking the very foundations of their beliefs and values. To them, this was not just a surrender to the enemy; it was an alliance with an unequivocal evil.

From my perspective, however, the concept of 'evil' was layered and complex. Years of study, of mapping the discord that shattered the primordial harmony, of tracing the contours of malice and constructing geometrical proofs of sin, had taught me the nuances of such a term. 'Evil' was not a label I applied lightly or without deep consideration.

In the figure of Fisher, I saw a different, albeit tragic, narrative unfold. His actions were a reflection of a survival strategy ingrained in some men: the compulsion to worship and submit to power, to yield to an unrelenting force, however unjust. It was a tactic rooted in the primal instinct of survival, not always successful, and often morally ambiguous.

Fisher's decision, while disappointing, was not surprising. It was a manifestation of this survival strategy, a response honed by millennia of human evolution. His choice to align with power, even power so dark and destructive, was a path taken by many throughout history when faced with seemingly insurmountable odds.

We recognize heroes as heroes, not because they are common, but precisely because they are rare.

"I snitched this from that skeleton," Fisher said, rummaging through his clothes searching for something.

"It was you!" Thompson's voice was thick with rage, his eyes fixed on Fisher. "You triggered the trap. You got us into this mess."

The man in black, reveling in the discord, chimed in with a chillingly amused tone. "It would not have mattered anyway," he said. "I would have killed you the moment you saw this place. It is a part of history that we have carefully buried. Humans do not deserve such power."

Rich, still grappling with the reality of their situation, managed to ask, "Why did you bring us here then?"

"Snacks," the man in black replied casually, as if the lives at stake were mere inconveniences. "I wanted something tender while traipsing through the jungle."

His words hung in the air, a grim testament to his utter disregard for human life. Turning his full malevolent attention to Fisher, he demanded, "Now show me what you think is worth your life."

Fisher, still rummaging through his clothes, seemed to shrink under the weight of the captor's gaze. His hands, shaking, finally closed around something hidden within his attire.

Even in the dimly lit chamber, the ruby on the ring Fisher held in his trembling hand glittered with an almost unnatural beauty. Its radiance stood out starkly against the backdrop of the tense standoff.

A strange, unsettling sensation washed over me as I laid eyes on the ring. It was a sensation of temporal resonance, a subtle yet undeniable recognition. After all, the exact same ring was hanging from a chain around my neck, a familiar weight against my chest.

This ring was the very reason we had journeyed to the past, to ensure it would be found at a crucial moment in the future. The intricacies of time travel were as complex as they were confounding.

Yet, the sight of the ring here was not just surprising – it was a disaster. Not merely because it implied our journey was far from complete if the ring was already present in this time. It suggested that we needed to venture even further back into the past.

But the greater immediate concern was the resonance, the sound of drums that only I could hear. It disrupted my concentration, shattering the veil of invisibility that had concealed my presence.

As I materialized into visibility, all three soldiers gasped, their eyes widening in shock and disbelief at my sudden appearance.

The serpent-like man in black reacted swiftly, his body twisting as he turned towards me. His eyes, filled with a mixture of hatred and fear, locked onto mine as he hissed, "Master!"

Adopting an air of arrogance like a well-worn cloak, I responded with feigned nonchalance. "I wonder what malevolent star shines upon this meeting?" I mused aloud, my voice laced with a hint of irony and a deep sense of foreboding.

Mentally, I reached out to Archer, my thoughts a swift whisper in his mind. I will distract the little snake. Be ready to free the hostages. It was a plan formed in the heartbeat, a dance of strategy and intuition.

Archer, ever the adept warrior, acknowledged my message with a subtle nod, perceptible only to me. His focus sharpened, a predator ready to pounce, yet his movements remained a whisper of shadow, unseen by the others in the chamber.

"You are far too late, Master. Your pet witch is long dead. He died alone in the dark, waiting for a moment that never came," the man in black sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. He pointed the iron rod threateningly at me, his posture menacing yet controlled.

Meanwhile, Archer moved silently, unseen by all save me, towards the two bound soldiers. His actions were swift and precise, a stark contrast to the tense standoff unfolding in the center of the chamber.

Fisher, his back against the wall, stepped back further, his eyes darting between me and the man in black. His earlier bravado had dissolved into a palpable fear, realizing perhaps that he was caught between forces far beyond his control.

"I am neither late nor early," I responded calmly, my voice steady and confident. "I arrive precisely at the moment I am needed. As for the architect of this refuge, he did not die in vain. His purpose was fulfilled." As I spoke, my hand casually rested on the Spellweaver, a Mystic Code shaped like a gun, its presence a silent testament to my readiness for whatever might unfold.

Internally, I admitted to myself that I was bluffing. I had no real knowledge about who built this place or their fate, but the words felt right in the moment – this was how Master should act.

"You sacrifice your minions all too easily," the man in black remarked, his tone laced with a mixture of grudging admiration and scorn. "But then, they are only human. Whisper lies about the afterlife, and they are all too eager to embrace it. Did you even flinch when we burned all those who worshipped you?"

His words, intended to provoke, hung in the air, a challenge to my character and choices.

Meanwhile, Archer had stealthily reached the captives. With a swift strike, he cut through their bonds, liberating Thompson and Rich from their immediate restraints. Yet, the exit remained blocked by the massive stone slab, a silent sentinel barring their escape.

I met the man in black's gaze, unflinching. "Sometimes, fields need to be burned so they will be more fecund later," I responded coolly, my words a calculated echo of his own philosophy. I kept my eyes locked on his, hidden behind sunglasses, ensuring he remained focused solely on me.

As I engaged him in this verbal duel, I subtly adjusted the spell formula in the Spellweaver, shifting its elemental conversion from dry to wet, to coax the stone to remember an age when it was water.

Fisher, in a desperate bid to secure his own safety, betrayed his comrades once more. "They are getting free!" he shouted, his voice echoing with panic and treachery. In a just world, such betrayal would have sealed a grim fate, but in this world, he was ironically the only one among the three soldiers guaranteed to survive.

I preferred it that way. It would be terrible if we all got what we deserved.

In an instant, the man in black reacted to Fisher's warning. His body twisted in an eerily unnatural contortion, a clear sign of his inhuman nature. He pointed the iron rod at Thompson and Rich, and from the V-shaped tip, a bolt of fire erupted, aimed with deadly precision.

Seizing the opportunity, I drew my magic gun, and fired. My target was not the man in black, but rather the stone slab that blocked our only exit.

Not at the man in black, but at the stone slab that blocked the only exit.

I had faith in Archer, and it was rewarded.

"Trace on: Rho Aias!" Archer's voice rang out, strong and clear.

Seven ethereal petals, symbolizing the shield of the Trojan War hero Aias, materialized in front of Thompson and Rich. The fire bolt collided with the Noble Phantasm, dissipating harmlessly against the protective barrier. Not a single petal was stirred by the inferno's touch.

Simultaneously, the stone slab reacted to my earlier spell. It began to melt like a cube of ice on a hot stove, opening the way for escape.

"Run, you fool!" I shouted at Fisher, my voice imbued with Od, turning the order into an unbreakable hypnotic command. He had no choice but to obey, driven by the compelling force of my will.

He would probably run on his own, but why take a chance? If he died I would have to get really creative to avoid paradox.

With the same spell formula, I swiftly aimed and fired a second bullet. The bullets in the magazine were loaded with an experimental mixture of salt, quartz sand, and diamond dust, along with traces of other ground-up gems imbued with magical energy. It was an experimental mixture that I found that was not very good for any spell but also was not very bad. Versatile, generic ammunition.

My target was not the man in black, but rather the stone ceiling directly above him. I wasn't aiming to strike him directly; I was leveraging a more subtle, yet effective approach.

As the bullet made contact with the stone, the spell activated, transforming the solid rock into a liquid state. Importantly, this transmutation didn't alter the stone's mass or density. It was a strategic application of magic, allowing gravity to do the heavy lifting.

Chunks of the liquefied stone began to lose their form, becoming heavy, viscous droplets poised to fall. It was an efficient use of resources, a stark contrast to Archer's earlier, more extravagant display. There was elegance in simplicity, in using the natural laws to one's advantage.

The man in black, still reeling from Archer's sudden appearance, was caught off guard as the first heavy droplet of liquefied stone struck his shoulder with the force of a mule's kick. The sound of bone breaking resonated through the underground chamber.

Despite the evident pain and shock from the attack, the man in black swiftly activated another ability of his iron rod. With a deft flick, a translucent bluish sphere encased him, forming a protective shield just as another droplet of liquefied stone nearly struck his head.

He narrowly evaded the droplet, but his sunglasses weren't as fortunate. They shattered, yet he quickly recomposed himself, maintaining control over the rod with his unbroken arm.

The protective sphere shimmered with each impact of the falling stone, echoing with a sound like the striking of a heavy metal bell. The man in black, now secured behind his magical barrier, glared at me. Initially, his eyes were shadowed by the remnants of his sunglasses, but as they adjusted to the dim light, their true nature was gradually revealed. They were not human; they were serpentine, slit and yellow.

With his uninjured arm controlling the rod, he grimaced in pain as he used his broken arm to reach into his clothes. His movements were strained, each action a clear display of his resilience and determination. Wincing from the agony, he managed to pull out a small package and raised it to his mouth with his injured hand.

I recognized the item instantly – it was a special chocolate, a known byproduct of the Stone Grail. As he bit into it, a soft golden glow emanated from his throat, the healing properties of the chocolate visibly taking effect. His broken arm began to mend.

With a cruel smirk tugging at my lips, I aimed once more with the Spellweaver. This time, however, my target was not the man in black directly, but rather the stone floor just in front of him.

As the bullet left the barrel, transforming into a spell mid-flight, the man in black noticed the change in my aim. His serpent-like eyes widened slightly, a glimmer of realization flickering within them.

The spell made contact with the stone, and in an instant, the solid floor began to liquefy into a viscous puddle right where he stood. The spell worked just as I had anticipated, turning the solid ground into a treacherous trap.

With a sharp hiss, reminiscent of his serpentine nature, he reacted with remarkable speed. He leaped back, evading the newly-formed hazard with an agility that was both impressive and unsettling.

"You can stop toying with it," Archer said, returning to my side. "I have sent humans away."

And then he added mentally, Soldiers are safe.

I risked a brief glance at him and was met with a disconcerting sight. His face was smeared with blood, streaming from his nose, a clear sign of overexertion. "You've overdone it," I chided, a note of worry in my voice. "Have you forgotten the strict restrictions of this World? There was no need to use something so potent and risk such backlash." Hastily, I rummaged through my packets with my free hand and produced a piece of the special chocolate, similar to what the snake-man had consumed earlier. "Eat this," I urged, extending the chocolate towards him.

As we briefly paused to address Archer's condition, the snake-man seized the moment to interject. "So," he hissed, his voice a combination of intrigue and accusation, "the rumors are true. You have a source of Vril! That which belongs to us, and us alone!"

Vril. The word resonated with me. It was, admittedly, a more appealing name than the one I had initially assigned to this particular variant of ether – Aurum Vivum, which in hindsight, might not have been my best nomenclature effort. Not my worst either, but that was such a low bar.

"You are right," I said to Archer, my hand gripping a singularity grenade fashioned from the remnants of several dysfunctional Portal Guns. Typically, using such a device in this manner would be extravagantly wasteful, akin to using a tank as catapult ammunition. But these faulty quanta tunneling devices were otherwise useless, and if magecraft was proving insufficient, perhaps science would tip the scales. Would that reptilian's shield withstand a localized collapse of space-time? It was time for science to answer that question. "It's time to finish this."

Yet, as I prepared to act, a nagging sense of foreboding held me back. Instead, I addressed the man in black, "Unless you would like to surrender?"

The man in black, his voice tinged with resignation, hissed back, "I cannot fight you both. Not alone." With that, he casually tossed the iron rod towards Archer and me.

But his movements betrayed him. The coiling of his body, the glare in his reptilian eyes, the tone of his hiss – all suggested that his surrender was a façade.

Archer, too, noticed the deceit. "Trace on: Rho Aias II!" he shouted. This time, the translucent petals of the shield sprang forth like that of a carnivorous flower, ensnaring the rod in a floating sphere of layered Bounded Fields.

Just in time. The rod exploded within the sphere, a violent release of energy. Cracks appeared as each layer of the shield was obliterated, one after the other.

The sphere held, but at a cost. Archer, exerting himself beyond his limits, fell to his knees, a fresh stream of blood rushing down his face.

The man in black, seizing the opportunity, sprung back and clung to the wall lined with glowing lichen, much like a gecko. He was unshielded now, vulnerable to a well-placed shot from my magic gun.

As I stood there, my finger hesitating on the trigger of the Spellweaver, a sudden realization hit me with the force of a revelation. This man in black, this serpentine adversary before me, was the same one I had encountered and killed in the future.

The differences in their appearances were stark – Sullivan's darker complexion contrasting sharply with the man in black's pallor, a difference so pronounced it could satisfy even the most stringent of Nazi prejudices. But beyond the superficial, there was an unmistakable similarity that resonated deeper.

Their movements, their style of combat, and most tellingly, their presence – it was identical. The realization brought with it a sense of déjà vu, a connection across time that was both disconcerting and enlightening.

I could feel it then – the potential fracture in the timeline. One of the inherent problems with my version of time travel was the uncertainty of whether I was traveling within my own timeline or veering into a parallel one. Much like many measurements in quantum mechanics, it was an uncertainty that could not be resolved until I returned to my present and saw where this past led.

But in that moment, there was an intuitive sense, a feeling of boundaries being tested and possibly crossed. It was a sensation that went beyond mere logic or scientific understanding – it was a whisper from the fabric of time itself.

"Why did you let him go?" Archer groaned, struggling to maintain his balance as he stood up.

I handed him another bar of the Vril-laced chocolate, hoping it would ease his condition. "That was Sullivan. He is destined to die in Missing Mile, in his future and our past," I explained. A voice only I could hear whispered further information. I relayed it to Archer, "Khenumra just informed me. Fisher has emerged."

"Just Fisher?"

"He did go up first."

Archer sighed. "I hope the other two can escape before the snake catches up with them," he said, then added with a wry tone, "I know you had no choice, but I still don't like it. Time travel sucks."

"We are just getting started, although I have no idea of our next destination," I mused, looking around the now-empty chamber.

"I do," Archer replied, his gaze lifting towards the ceiling.

Following his gaze, I observed the entire ceiling covered in a massive carved mural depicting a witches' Sabbath. But what caught my attention the most was the center of the mural – the unmistakable depiction of a blue box, the shape identical to the exit form of our time travel device.

As we made our way back to the surface, Khenumra, my ever-vigilant familiar, relayed the movements of the man in black. Following my instructions, he had entangled the reptilian adversary in a nightmarish illusion, ensuring he was lost in the jungle and unable to track Fisher. Ensuring Fisher's survival – and his delivery of the ring to the Americans – was crucial to the unfolding events.

However, the fate of the other two soldiers remained unknown until we stumbled upon a grim scene. Near one of the triggered traps lay two bodies. At first glance, I feared the worst, but then I heard a faint groan. It was Rich, severely wounded, his intestines gruesomely spilled from a dire gash in his stomach.

"Was it the man in black?" I asked, kneeling beside him while rummaging through my pockets for the last bar of the Vril-laced chocolate.

"No. It was Fisher," Rich groaned weakly. "He ambushed us... triggered the trap deliberately. The sergeant tried to shield me. At least he got a quick death for his bravery. Tell Terry... I love her."

"Eat this, and you can tell her yourself," I said firmly, pushing the bar into his mouth. As he bit into the chocolate, a golden glow enveloped his body. Remarkably, the intestines retracted and began to mend, the wound healing rapidly under the influence of the Vril. His stomach, now smooth and unblemished, was a testament to his physical fitness and the chocolate's potent magic.

Archer watched in silent awe, the transformation before us was nothing short of miraculous. Rich's eyes fluttered open, a look of disbelief crossing his face as he realized he was not only alive but healing.

As Rich regained his strength, we helped him to his feet. The chamber, once a place of dark confrontation, now bore witness to a moment of healing and hope.

"We need to get you out of here," I said to Rich, supporting him. "And then, we have much to discuss."

Archer nodded in agreement, his gaze lingering on the empty trap where the sergeant had met his end.

Inevitable fate had taken its merciless toll. I knew him well enough, that the limitations of being out of our time were harder on him them on me.

Together, we all journeyed back to the surface, mindful of numerous traps where Knhumar was patiently waiting above in a dream of the black helicopter.

At my signal. The ropes descended, and we were gently pulled up to our ride.

"It looks begged on the inside," Andrew commented, as he sat on black cushions. "Are you working for the government?"

"Which one? You have so many on a small planet," I said implying things that were true from a certain point of view, "But I am self-employed. Those two." I waved my hand at Archer and Khenumra, "Work for me."

"Another alien then," Andrew muttered, "You did save me, but I still had to ask. Are you here to help, or do you just want the Earth like other ones?"

Archer cut in before I could respond. "That's a dumb question," he said bluntly. "You have no way to guess if we're telling the truth." Turning to me, he added, "So, we have an alien invasion confirmed."

"But not the one I'm most concerned about," I said, my thoughts returning to the broader picture. "If reptilians were present at the time of witch hunts, then they failed to do in seven centuries what others will do in seven hours. Unless we stop them."

Andrew's expression darkened at this revelation. "So, there's another race of aliens who think humans are worthless," he said, his voice heavy with resignation.

"Other aliens are not wasteful. They will find use for humans, but not one I think you would be comfortable with."

Andrew's young face morphed into a look of determination as he responded, "I want to help."

"Even if we also plan to conquer your homeworld?" Archer asked, his tone probing, testing Andrew's resolve.

Andrew's reply was pragmatic. "Well, if I'm working with you, I'd be in a prime position to find that out. And even if you are, you still want to stop the other two groups. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?"

Archer raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk on his face. "You need a better way to choose your friends," he retorted, but his gaze on Andrew suggested a begrudging respect for the young soldier's practicality.

"What about Terry?" I asked, "When you thought you were dying your last words were about him?"

"Her," he corrected. I already knew that. My mistake was deliberate but also understandable. "Not that anything wrong with that. I have gay friend. She would understand. My girl wants to change the world."

Still, I was in a mood to refuse. It would be easier to just return him to our present. Since in history, we knew he disappeared on this mission. He would be reunited with Terry. He would learn about the existence of Jane. A family reunited.

A human soldier, in the grand scheme of our travels, seemed like an unlikely ally for Archer and me.

et, as I pondered over the decision, there was a persistent feeling, a whisper from the recesses of my memory that I couldn't quite grasp in my current state.

Time travel, as I practised it, involved stepping outside of time and space, and observing the continuum as a singular, grand tapestry. While the full knowledge of this perspective was not something one retained fully upon re-entering the temporal flow, traces of it lingered in the subconscious. And it was this residual sense, this faint echo from my travels outside of time, that suggested Andrew's path was intertwined with ours.

"How do you feel about visiting a witches' Sabbath? It's a bit like Woodstock – sex, drugs, and wild music," I asked Andrew, implying allowing him to accompany us.

"I've been to Woodstock. I quite liked it," Andrew said pleased with the answer.

"Then you could give a comparison."