The man leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of wood breaking the silence that had settled over the room. His sharp eyes studied Waylon for a moment longer before he spoke, his voice gruff but measured. "We'll talk more in a bit. First, you're a mess. Go clean up and change into something that doesn't stink of death."
Waylon opened his mouth to protest—he wasn't exactly sure what to say—but before he could, the man flicked his wrist. A faint shimmer rippled through the air, and a bundle of clothes materialized in his hand. With a casual toss, he sent them sailing across the room. Waylon fumbled, barely catching them against his chest, the fabric soft and worn under his fingers.
He glanced down at the bundle—a simple tunic and pants, faded brown and patched in places—then back at the man's hulking frame. The guy was built like a bear, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, towering over Waylon even while seated. "Uh, Sir—" Waylon began.
The man's brow twitched, and he raised a hand to cut him off. "Don't call me 'sir.' Name's Gorrin," he said simply, voice like gravel dragged over iron.
"Right, uh… Gorrin. I don't think I'm gonna fit into these," Waylon said, a half-laugh slipping out as he held the tunic up, eyeing it skeptically.
Gorrin's expression softened, just for a heartbeat, a shadow passing over his weathered face. "They were my son's," he said quietly, his tone flat but heavy. "They'll fit you well enough."
Waylon froze, the words sinking in. He didn't know what to say to that—didn't even know where to start—so he just nodded awkwardly, clutching the clothes tighter. Gorrin stood, his stool scraping against the stone floor, and jerked his head toward a narrow doorway at the back of the room. "This way."
Waylon followed, his bare feet padding softly against the cool stone as they stepped into a smaller chamber. The air here was damp, and a faint hum vibrated through the walls. In the center stood what looked like a shallow basin carved into the floor, its edges lined with faintly glowing runes that pulsed with a soft, bluish light. Above it, a crystal—similar to the one Waylon had pried from the ant's skull—hung suspended from a thin chain, dangling over the basin.
Gorrin pointed at it. "Rune formation. Keeps the water warm. Put that crystal you've got in your hand into the slot there." He gestured to a small indentation in the basin's rim. "It'll start flowing."
Waylon hesitated, then fished the pale-white crystal from his pocket, its soft glow catching the lantern light. He stepped forward and slotted it into place, mimicking Gorrin's earlier demonstration with the ring. The runes flared briefly, a ripple of energy humming through the air, and then warm water began trickling from the crystal, pooling into the basin below.
Gorrin gave a curt nod. "Wash up. Don't take forever." With that, he turned and disappeared back into the main room, leaving Waylon alone.
Waylon stood there for a moment, staring at the water as steam curled upward, the warmth beckoning him. He set the clothes on a nearby ledge and stripped off his tattered, blood-crusted shirt and pants, wincing as the fabric peeled away from his still-healing wounds. The gash on his thigh throbbed faintly, but the scab held firm. Stepping into the basin, he let out a shaky breath as the water lapped at his ankles, hot enough to sting but soothing all the same.
He crouched down, cupping his hands to scoop the water over his arms, watching as dirt and dried blood swirled away in dark streaks. The heat seeped into his muscles, loosening the tension that had knotted them for days. He scrubbed at his skin with his fingers, working through the grime caked into every crevice—his forearms, his neck, the hollows of his collarbone—until the water ran clear. Tilting his head back, he let it cascade over his face, running through his matted hair, washing away the sweat and fear that clung to him like a second skin.
For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes and just stood there, the steady trickle of water drowning out the world. It was the closest thing to peace he'd felt since waking up in that damn cave. His golden eyes flickered beneath his lids, the faint warmth in his chest pulsing in time with his heartbeat—a reminder of whatever had changed inside him.
When the water began to cool, he stepped out reluctantly, shaking droplets from his arms. The air was chilly against his damp skin, raising goosebumps as he grabbed the clothes and pulled them on. The tunic hung a little loose around his shoulders, the pants slightly long, but they were soft and clean, smelling faintly of earth and smoke. He rolled the cuffs up, feeling oddly human again, and ran a hand through his wet hair to push it back.
Stepping back into the main room, he found Gorrin seated at the table, Waylon's letter spread out before him. The pack rested beside it, its damp fabric still intact despite everything. He glanced up as Waylon approached, his expression unreadable. "Sit," he said, nodding to the stool across from him.
Waylon obeyed, easing himself down with a faint grimace as his sore muscles protested. Gorrin tapped the letter with a thick finger, his gaze steady. "If I hadn't found this in the tunnels, you'd be dead right now. So relax already, kid. You're not on the chopping block."
Waylon exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He hadn't even realized how tightly he'd been holding himself until that moment. "Okay… good to know," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicked to the letter as the man pointed at it again.
"The Myriad Paths Sect seems to be the ones who handled the Transfer this time," his finger resting on the golden tree seal embossed at the bottom. "Their mark's all over this."
Waylon frowned, leaning forward slightly. "You keep talking about sects and stuff. What's that even mean? Can you explain it already?"
He nodded, settling back in his chair, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "Here, in this dimension, there are twenty-six planets. Twenty-five of 'em are ruled by the Great Sects—massive organizations with power you can't even fathom yet. Each planet's got countless smaller sects beneath them, vying for control, resources, whatever they can grab. The twenty-sixth? That's Emporoi, the trade planet. It's run by the Silver Sun Merchant Group—an interplanetary trade company that's basically a sect of its own. They, along with the other big merchants, monopolize all trade across the dimension. Nothing moves without their say-so."
Waylon's brow furrowed as he tried to keep up. "Okay… but what about those Paths people? The, uh…" He trailed off, already forgetting the name.
"Myriad Paths Sect," Gorrin corrected, his tone dry. "They're one of the twenty-five Great Sects. Their whole thing is fate and destiny—believing everything's already written, set in stone. They don't interfere with the 'mundane world,' as they call it. Even if their planet was burning down in a civil war, they wouldn't lift a finger to stop it. They'd just protect their own sect and let the rest play out."
Waylon snorted, crossing his arms. "That's stupid. If fate's real, then them not doing anything is part of it, right? So whether they act or not, it wouldn't change a thing. Hell, maybe their meddling's already baked into fate, so what's the point of sitting on their hands?"
Gorrin raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Don't belittle fate, kid," he said, his voice low but firm. "I don't live my life by it, but it's one of the hardest paths to walk—trying to control it, I mean. They've got their reasons."
Waylon tilted his head, unconvinced. "What reasons? You're losing me."
Gorrin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes glinting in the lantern light. "Imagine you could see the paths of a person's life—every choice, every outcome, laid out like threads in a tapestry. Say that person's a prince, next in line to a kingdom. What if he's supposed to pick a flower at a specific place and time, give it to a princess from a neighboring nation? That gift sparks a love that unites their countries, ends decades of tension. But what if you could see that future—and you crushed that flower before he ever got to it?"
Waylon blinked, caught off guard by the shift to storytelling. "Uh… okay?"
He didn't pause. "The prince picks a different flower instead—one he doesn't know the princess is allergic to. She dies. Her nation blames his, and war breaks out. Thousands die, all because of one tiny choice you altered." He tapped the seal on the letter again, his voice growing heavier. "The Myriad Paths don't interfere with anything outside their sect. Ever. But if they broke that rule—if they controlled the Transfer this time—then the world's about to get real interesting, real fast."
Waylon's stomach twisted, unease creeping up his spine. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Gorrin smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. "That's the question, isn't it? Last time they meddled with outside affairs was over two thousand years ago. Their actions back then triggered a chain reaction—wiped out more than half the Lower Sects across the dimension. Whole power structures collapsed overnight."
Waylon swallowed hard, his mind racing. "And… what about me? The others from my world?"
Gorrin's gaze sharpened, pinning Waylon in place. "Based on this letter, they sent everyone from your world to where they were fated to be. Scattered you across these twenty-six planets, each soul dropped into its 'destined' spot." He leaned back, folding his arms, his eyes narrowing as he studied Waylon. "Which makes me wonder all the more—why the hell were you sent here?"