Special Chapter: Dream Before the End

Wild lay on the cold stone of the cave, his body aching from the elves' training, his mind worn from the puppet's lessons. She stood over him—the same puppet from that alternate encounter, with gleaming metal and soft flesh, her goggles reflecting the flickering lights. Her presence was heavy yet enticing, and this time she didn't strike or push him away. Instead, she sank down beside him, her movements smooth as water flowing over glass.

"You're tired," she said, her voice soft and husky, sending shivers through him. She leaned in, her metallic hand brushing his face, tracing the crooked line of his mouth, while her other—living, warm—rested on his chest. Her fabric, thin and damp with mana, clung to her form, accentuating her curves, and she pressed against him, her chest grazing his through his rough shirt. Wild trembled, his frail hands instinctively rising to touch her waist, where metal met wood, smooth and warm.

She smiled, her lips—wooden yet soft—nearly brushing his, and the mana flowing from her wrapped around him like a blanket. "Sleep," she whispered, her fingers sliding along his neck, down to his collarbone, leaving trails of warmth and sparks. Her body pressed closer, her thigh settling over his leg, and he felt heat rise within him, mingling with exhaustion. Her breath-mana grazed his face, and he closed his eyes, sinking into sleep under her touch, her closeness, her strange, artificial tenderness.

But the sleep was no respite. The darkness parted, and he awoke—not in the cave, but in his past life. A small room cluttered with manuscripts, a monitor displaying his last novella, a blinking cursor on the screen. He was there—25 years old, hunched, with dark circles under his eyes. The clock showed ten minutes until the terrorist attack, the explosion that ended his life. Outside—gray city streets, the hum of cars, distant shouts. He knew what was coming, and terror gripped his heart, but now he had a chance—a chance to change it all.

He leapt up, his body—not weak, not deformed, just human—moving faster than he was used to. Manuscripts scattered to the floor as he lunged for the door, his trembling fingers fumbling with the lock. "I can get out," he whispered to himself, his voice clear, not raspy, and that frightened him more than he'd expected. He burst outside, the air cold, people passing by, oblivious to his panic. He knew where the blast would be—a café two blocks away, where the terrorists would leave their bomb. He ran, shoving through the crowd, his heart pounding, his mind screaming: I'll survive. I'll change this.

He reached the corner when the sky shifted. It started with a sound—low, buzzing, like a swarm of insects, but louder, deeper. People stopped, looking up, and Wild followed their gaze. Amid the gray clouds, a dot appeared—small at first, then growing rapidly. A missile. Not just a terrorist bomb, but something greater, something absent from his past. A nuclear strike. The terror that seized him dwarfed anything he'd known before—this was the end, absolute, unrelenting.

He screamed, his voice blending with the crowd's wails, but it was too late. Light flared—blinding, white, like the sun crashing to earth. Heat slammed into him, searing his skin, burning his eyes, and he fell, his body writhing on the asphalt. The pain was unbearable, but worse was the emptiness—he hadn't escaped, hadn't changed a thing. The blast roared, the ground shuddered, and the city vanished in fire and dust, taking him with it. He felt his flesh melt, his bones snap, and his final thought was of the puppet—her warmth, her whisper, luring him into this nightmare.

He jolted awake in the cave, drenched in sweat, his frail body quaking on the stone. The puppet was gone, but her mana lingered in the air, warm and heavy. He clenched his fists, a raspy groan echoing in the silence, and realized: this wasn't just a dream. It was a mockery—of his efforts, his hope, his futility.