Vol3 chapter 41 Left?

The left passage went on.

And on.

And on.

Amos led the way, his gaze shifting between the floor, the walls, and the darkness ahead.

Nothing.

No monsters.

No traps.

No turns.

Just a single corridor sloping steadily downward into the depths.

Harold checked the walls now and then for markings, but eventually, he gave up.

"This is getting ridiculous."

Daren grunted.

"How long have we been walking?"

"About an hour I think," Tessa answered.

Vena frowned.

"Still nothing?"

Harold shook his head.

"Nothing."

Amos looked ahead.

The corridor came to an abrupt end. Not in a chamber, nor another passage—just a wall. He halted, and the others almost collided with him.

Amos stared at the stone.

"...A dead end."

Daren looked around.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Harold approached the wall and ran his hand over it.

"Nothing."

Tessa examined it with magic.

"There's no hidden passage."

Vena checked the surrounding walls.

"Nothing here either."

He glanced back at the path they’d taken. One long corridor. No turns. No doors. Nothing at all. What a waste of time. He let out a sigh.

"Let's go back."

Harold nodded.

"Agreed."

They turned back, Amos taking the lead once more. In his mind, he pieced together the route, certain they would soon arrive at the resting chamber. He remembered it vividly—a spacious room.

Three passages.

Left.

Middle.

Right.

The group had taken a break there before heading out. He could picture exactly where everyone had been— the ranger by the entrance, the fighter next to the fallen pillar, the cleric tending to their injuries, and the mage leaning against the wall. He remembered the stone he’d sat on, the faint crack in the floor, every detail etched clearly in his mind.

There was no reason he shouldn't.

Amos slowed his pace, glancing over his shoulder to see the others still trailing behind. Nothing out of the ordinary. He turned his eyes forward once more.

Another few minutes.

Then—

A familiar crack spread across the floor, and Amos froze. His eyes narrowed—there it was, the same crack he remembered. Good. They were back on the right path.

He continued.

After a few more minutes, the corridor opened, and Amos stepped through—then froze. The chamber lay before him, unchanged. The same crumbled pillar. The same three passages. The same cold stone floor. The very spot where they had once rested. Daren let out a weary sigh.

"Finally."

Vena smiled faintly.

"We're back."

Tessa walked toward the wall.

"I was starting to think we'd never see this room again."

Amos stood still, eyes fixed on the chamber. Something was off, though nothing seemed visibly wrong—and that was what unsettled him. Everything appeared in place, almost too perfectly so. His gaze drifted slowly across the room: the collapsed pillar, the thin crack, the three passages, the wall, the stone—every detail, all of it.

He started piecing the route back together in his mind. He’d already mapped it out—not perfectly, but well enough. There was no doubt. The left passage had been a straight corridor that ended at a wall. They’d turned around and walked back along the exact same path. There was only one place they could end up: this chamber. So why did it feel off?

Amos looked at the three passages.

Left.

Middle.

Right.

He stared at them for several seconds.

Then casually asked:

"Which way did we take?"

The question was simple.

Meaningless even.

Harold answered immediately.

"The middle."

Amos froze.

"..."

Daren nodded.

"Yeah. The middle."

Vena looked at him strangely.

"Why are you asking?"

Tessa shrugged.

"The middle passage."

Amos didn't respond.

His gaze stayed locked on the three corridors. Middle—no, that wasn’t it. They’d gone left. He was sure of it. He’d chosen it. He’d even said so himself.

We'll continue through the left passage.

He remembered saying those exact words. Harold had asked if he was sure, and he’d said no. They’d gone left, walked for twenty, found the dead end, and turned around. That was how it happened.

So why—

Amos looked at Harold.

"You remember the middle?"

Harold gave him a confused look.

"Of course."

Daren chuckled.

"You were the one who picked it."

Amos's expression didn't change.

"I was?"

"Yeah."

Daren pointed toward the middle passage.

"You said the middle looked safer."

A chill crept up Amos’s spine. He stayed silent. Vena gave a small nod.

"You said there were no signs of movement."

Tessa added:

"And you thought that was a good thing."

Amos stared at them, replaying those words, that explanation. It sounded convincing—too convincing. It was exactly the kind of thing he might have said himself. Except he hadn’t. He was sure of it. He’d chosen the left because it showed signs of disturbance, while the middle had been left completely untouched. He had specifically decided that the lack of information was less useful than evidence that someone—or something—had actually passed through.

He remembered thinking it, remembered saying the left was worth trying. He remembered every detail. But the other four recalled something entirely different—and all in exactly the same way. Amos dropped his gaze, a chill settling into his hands.

"You're sure?"

Harold frowned.

"Yes."

Daren nodded.

"Pretty sure."

Vena looked at Amos.

"Eoghan, are you feeling all right?"

Amos didn't answer.

He glanced at the middle passage, then to the left, and finally down the corridor behind them. His mind started working through the calculations—the route, the distance, the turns, the angles. He replayed the entire journey in his head, over and over. Nothing was different. They had gone left.

He was certain.

The chamber looked exactly as he remembered, which left only two possibilities: either his memory was wrong, or theirs was. Amos glanced around at the others—four people, all with the same memory that clashed with his. It should have been comforting. One person remembering differently could be a mistake. Two might be a misunderstanding. But all four? They weren’t hesitating, uncertain, or debating. They simply remembered it that way, as if no other version had ever existed.

Amos swallowed.

"Right."

He forced the word out.

"Okay. Of Course."

Harold looked at him.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Amos nodded.

"I'm just thinking."

He turned away before they could see his expression.

His gaze landed on the wall, where a faint mark caught his eye near the floor—three short scratches. Amos froze, heart skipping a beat. He recognized it instantly. He’d made that mark himself—a navigation sign—scratched into the stone before they’d left.

His gaze traced the wall, and then it hit him.

The mark was on the wrong side. Amos glanced toward the entrance, then back at it. He walked closer, crouching, his fingers hovering over three identical scratches. He was sure he’d made them somewhere else. Standing, he scanned the opposite wall—nothing. He turned to the entrance—still nothing. His mental map insisted the mark should be there, but it wasn’t. Yet when he looked back, the mark stayed put.

Amos felt goosebumps spread across his arms.

He hated this. Monsters, traps, magic—those he could handle. At least they followed rules. This didn’t. There was no enemy in front of him, no spell circle, no magical fluctuation—nothing he could pinpoint. Just a room. A perfectly ordinary room. One that shouldn’t have been there, not the way he remembered it. And everyone else seemed completely fine.

Daren sat down.

"Finally. I'm exhausted."

Vena started going through their supplies while Tessa leaned casually against the wall. Harold shrugged off his pack. Everything seemed normal. Amos stayed on his feet, his gaze drifting back toward the three passages once more.

Left.

Middle.

Right.

The middle passage seemed darker than before.

He stared at it.

For a moment, he thought he saw movement at the far end. Amos blinked. Nothing. Just darkness. He glanced away, then back again. Still nothing. His breathing slowed slightly.

I'm imagining things.

That had to be it. He’d been underground far too long, and everyone was worn out. The ruin was playing tricks on their senses. There had to be a reason—there always was. Amos drew a slow breath, then another.

He closed his eyes.

Think.

He reconstructed the route again.

Left.

Straight.

Dead end.

Turn around.

Straight.

Resting chamber.

Simple.

His eyes opened.

The room was still there, but a new thought crept into his mind, making his stomach drop. If the room was real, and his memory was real, then what on earth had happened during the middle passage?

Amos looked at it.

The others remembered going through it, remembered him choosing it, remembered his reasoning, and even recalled words he had never spoken.

Amos's fingers slowly tightened.

He thought about asking another question, but didn’t. He already knew what scared him the most. It wasn’t that they remembered things differently was the idea that, somewhere in this ruin, there was a version of events he’d never lived through, but everyone else had. And he had no clue which memory the ruin wanted him to believe.