Voice of the Past. Part 2

Wild sat on the floor, his fingers still trembling over the scratched-out "Why." The letters from his past world stared back at him, mute witnesses to his futility, while the amulet in his pocket pulsed like a living thing, whispering of choice. Tekra stood beside him, her hand gripping his shoulder, her voice promising aid, but he felt the estate's walls closing in. The silence was deceptive—it masked the storm brewing in his chest. He wanted to understand. To know what this magic was that choked him, what this puppet was, what this amulet could offer. But understanding slipped away like smoke, and the more he reached for it, the more keenly he felt his weakness.

His gaze fell on Tekra—her resolve, her warmth, the only tether keeping him from the abyss. She spoke of teachers, of hope, but her words echoed distantly, like reverberations in a cave. The amulet, though, was close, real, tangible. "Squeeze it, and you'll be by my side." The puppet's voice rang in his head, mocking yet enticing. He recalled the dream—the bloodied god with his "Write it yourself." But how could he write when he was mute? How could he fight when he was weak? Tekra could find teachers, could save him, but how long would he wait? How much longer would he remain helpless as the world crumbled under Tarvek's weight, under the burden of his own deformity?

Resolve flared within him, a spark of mana—faint but stubborn. He didn't want to wait anymore. Didn't want to be a shadow cowering behind his sister. His hand slid slowly into his pocket, fingers brushing the cold metal of the amulet. Tekra noticed, her eyes widening. "Wild, what are you doing?" she asked, but he didn't answer. An invisible hand still gripped his throat, but it no longer mattered. He clenched the amulet—hard, until pain seared his palm, until his bones creaked.

And the world exploded.

It began with sound—a low, resonant boom, like thunder shaking the floor beneath him. The estate quaked, walls groaning like ancient bones, Tekra's scrolls scattering across the room. Then came light—blinding, sharp, slicing through the windows like lightning. Wild fell to his knees, his frail body unable to withstand the jolt, but he glimpsed Tekra lunging toward him, her cry drowned in the roar. Then the entire continent—no, the entire world—shuddered, as if struck by a colossal hammer.

The sky beyond the window blackened, clouds coalescing in an instant, unleashing storms—not ordinary, but ferocious, with lightning tearing the air like a monster's claws. Amid the chaos, a figure emerged—vast, spanning the horizon, a shadow eclipsing all light. Wild recognized it before the details sharpened. A quill in its hand—gigantic, glowing like molten metal—swept through the air, rewriting reality. It was the Author of the Apocalypse, the one from Tekra's tales, from his dream. But now he was here, real, and his quill shattered everything in its path.

The estate began to collapse. Stones rained from the ceiling, beams splintered, the floor beneath Wild cracked like glass. He screamed—a raspy, choked sound—not from fear for himself. Tekra. He saw her a few steps away, her hair whipping in the wind that roared into the room, her arms reaching for him. "Wild!" she shouted, and he lurched toward her, his feeble legs stumbling over fissures. He had to reach her, to pull her away, to save her. But before he could grasp her hand, the ceiling gave way.

The roof crashed down with a deafening roar, stones and timber burying Tekra beneath them. Wild froze, his eyes widening, his heart stopping. "No!" he croaked, lunging toward the rubble. His trembling, useless hands clawed at the stones, trying to shift them, but they were too heavy. He screamed, pounded the debris, his nails snapping, leaving bloody streaks. Futility wrapped around him like a shroud—the same as in his past life, the same whispered by the god in his dream. He couldn't save her. Couldn't do anything. Again.

Tears burned his eyes, but he didn't notice. The world crumbled around him—walls toppled, the sky thundered, the Author's quill traced lines of fate, erasing all he knew. And in this mayhem, amid dust and screams, she appeared—the puppet. Her black cloak billowed, her body creaked but held, sustained by the heavy magic spilling from her with each step. She stopped, her goggles glinting in the lightning, her wooden mouth stretching into a grin.

"Prove you're not useless," she said, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. Her hand—metallic, gleaming—rose, and a torrent of mana, thick and dark, surged toward the rubble. The stones trembled, lifted into the air, revealing Tekra—alive, but unconscious, blood streaking her forehead. Wild lunged for her, but the puppet halted him, her clawed hand resting on his shoulder. "Come," she said, her grin softening into something strange, almost gentle. "She'll be fine. I promise."

He looked at Tekra, her chest rising faintly, then at the puppet, whose words rang true yet reeked of deceit. The world was falling apart, the Author of the Apocalypse scripting its end, and he stood between his sister and the unknown. His hand still gripped the amulet, now hot as a coal. He wanted to stay, to ensure Tekra lived, but the puppet pulled him along, her magic enveloping him like a net. And he went—not because he trusted her, but because he didn't know what else to do. Futility gnawed at him, but now it mingled with hope—bitter, heavy, yet alive.