Vol3 Chapter 52

Amos walked alone.

The resting chamber was now behind him, along with the four people who had filled it with chatter not long ago. There was nothing left—no footsteps trailing after him, no Daren grumbling about the distance, no Tessa softly correcting him, no Vena wondering if they should pause, and no Harold urging everyone to keep going.

Only silence.

Amos kept moving forward, retracing the path he’d first taken when he discovered their trail. The same corridor. The same walls. The same faint marks he’d spotted during his initial search. With each step, memories began to return—not of the ruin, but of them.

Daren arguing over who should cook, Harold working to keep everyone organized, Vena quietly tending to Daren’s injuries while grumbling about his recklessness, Tessa lighting up at the sight of anything tied to ancient magic. Their arguments, their jokes, their quiet chats around the fire. The way they’d gradually stopped seeing him as some suspicious outsider, the way they’d started calling him Eoghan like it was the most natural thing in the world. Amos laughed—just a soft, quiet laugh that slipped out.

“He really did fall into that river.”

He paused for a moment, smiled, and then went on his way.

“He blamed the bridge.”

Another laugh.

“He actually blamed the bridge.”

His voice echoed through the empty corridor.

No one laughed with him.

Amos kept walking anyway.

But after a few steps, he stopped again.

His smile disappeared.

Something about the memory bothered him.

Not the event.

The details stuck with him—Daren’s expression, the sound of Harold’s sigh, Vena’s laughter, Tessa covering her mouth. He could even recall exactly what he was holding in his hand as he listened.

A wooden cup, slightly cracked along the rim.

He remembered the warmth of it in his palm, the smell of the drink, and thinking it was too bitter. He could picture the fire’s exact position, count the people sitting around it, and recall every word Daren had spoken.

Amos slowly frowned.

Why do I remember that so clearly?

He dug deeper into his memory. He recalled what he’d eaten that night, what he’d said afterward, drifting off to sleep, and waking up. Then he remembered—

Not.

Amos stopped breathing.

He couldn’t recall when the story had taken place.

The event itself was clear.

Every detail surrounding it was etched in his mind.

But when he tried to anchor it in time…

Nothing.

No before.

No after.

The memory simply existed—whole, perfect, untethered.

Amos stared into the darkness.

“...That's strange.”

He reached for another memory—the first time Daren had complained about Harold’s cooking. He could recall the conversation, the expressions, the laughter, and the rich smell of roasted meat. But once again, there was no date, no location, no recollection of what had happened just before. Nothing tied it together.

He tried another.

Vena talked about a village she’d visited as a child. Then Tessa shared the story of her first spell. Then Harold spoke about his old sword. Each memory was vivid, each one felt real, but they all had the same problem—they stood alone. Little islands of memory adrift in a vast ocean of nothing. Amos’s stomach tightened.

Those aren't memories.

He didn't want to finish the thought.

His breathing became slower.

Someone had given him those memories—not vague impressions or general knowledge, but vivid scenes, conversations, emotions, and tiny flaws. The sort of pointless details that made a memory feel genuine: a cracked cup, a bitter drink, a dumb joke, a hand absentmindedly scratching an itch, a glance turned at the wrong moment. Things no one would bother making up. Things that made them feel real.

Amos suddenly laughed.

Once.

Quietly.

“That's clever.”

His voice shook.

“Really clever.”

He pressed his fingers against his forehead.

“Give someone enough meaningless details…”

His smile became strained.

“…and they'll never question the important ones.”

He continued walking.

Eventually, he reached the place where he had first followed their trail.

He stopped.

This was where everything had started.

Amos looked down at his hand.

His fingers grazed the cool surface of the Veil Ring. Slowly, he slipped it off his finger, and the familiar rush of his mana perception flooded back. Amos let out a breath, then glanced at his hand—and froze.

His eyes widened.

“What?”

He stared at his finger.

Then at the ring.

Then back at his finger.

Something was off. Really off. His thoughts flashed back to the first time he’d stepped into the ruin. Back then, he’d worn the Veil Ring—but this time, he’d taken it off. He’d chosen to leave it behind.

Not just for a moment.

He’d kept it off so he could sense mana signatures. With that heightened perception, he tracked the trails left by the missing adventurers. Those traces led him straight to them. He’d watched their mana. He had—

Amos's breathing became shallow.

He remembered taking it off, the weightlifting from his finger. He remembered sliding it into his pouch and the thought that crossed his mind—

I need to be able to sense them.

Amos went completely still.

That memory was just as vivid as all the others. He could almost feel the ring slipping off his finger—almost. His gaze dropped to the ring in his palm, then back to his finger. It had been there. It had been there the whole time. Amos closed his eyes, trying to recall the moment he put it away. He couldn’t. He remembered deciding to take it off, the reason why, the relief when his perception widened—but the act itself? Nothing. Just a gap. A perfect little hole framed by a perfectly crafted memory.

Amos opened his eyes.

“No…”

He stared at the ring, his hand starting to shake. The truth crept in slowly, then hit him all at once. If the ring had stayed on his finger, he shouldn’t have been able to sense the A-rank team’s mana like he remembered. He shouldn’t have been able to track their trails or find them the way he did. Yet he recalled every step, every moment of that journey. The whole journey.

Amos's expression twisted.

“...So which part is real?”

Silence.

He glanced down the corridor. His companions had vanished. Their voices were silent. Their memories were fading. And now, he couldn’t even trust his own.

He remembered meeting Harold.

But did he?

He remembered Daren's jokes.

But did Daren ever tell them?

He remembered Vena teaching him something about tracking.

Had that conversation actually happened?

He remembered Tessa laughing beside the fire.

Was there ever a fire?

Amos's heart began pounding.

He suddenly came to a chilling realization. He’d been relying on his memories as proof.

Every time the ruin contradicted him, he had thought:

I know what I saw.

I know what I did.

I remember.

That was exactly what the ruin had been after—not his body, not his senses, but his certainty. Amos gazed at the ring, then let out a quiet, fractured laugh.

“I'm an idiot.”

Amos remained standing there.

The ring lay in his palm. He gazed at it for a while, lost in thought. Slowly, his mind began to wander.

He began piecing it all together. The first contradiction. The middle passage. That was where it had all begun. He remembered choosing the left, while Harold, Daren, Vena, and Tessa swore they’d chosen the middle. Back then, Amos figured one of those memories had to be off. Now, he wasn’t so sure. His eyes drifted downward.

“...When did it happen?”

He thought about the ring.

The real Amos—the one he had assumed himself to be—had entered the ruin wearing it.

Then came the moment when he supposedly removed it. That should have been when his perception shifted when the mana trails became visible, when he could finally follow the A-rank team's tracks.

But what if that wasn't what happened?

What if the original Amos had taken the ring off...

And simply never found their mana trail?

Amos's eyes widened slightly.

Maybe he’d searched the ruin differently. Maybe, in the end, he’d just given up. Maybe he’d gone back. Maybe he’d regrouped with the Blue Wolfs. And somewhere in between, the ruin had taken what it knew about him.

His memories, personality, appearance, and desires—all taken and shaped into someone new.

Me.

Amos slowly looked at the corridor behind him.

“And then I followed the trail.”

The thought weighed on him.

The reconstructed Amos could sense the mana trail, likely because he’d been recreated after the original had already explored that part of the ruin. Maybe the ruin had used that knowledge to shape a version of Amos who would choose differently—one who would notice the trail, track down the missing adventurers, and—

Amos stopped.

His expression changed.

“...Save them.”

He remembered his first thought when he'd discovered the A-rank team's trail.

I need to find them.

It wasn’t because he knew them, or because they were friends. He had never even met them. But the instant he stumbled upon their trail, he knew without hesitation that he had to save them.

Why?

Back then, it felt like the obvious thing to do. The adventurers had vanished, and he happened to be close by. Naturally, he stepped in. But now—

Amos laughed quietly.

“Of course.”

His voice carried no humor.

“The ruin knew.”

It knew what he wanted—maybe even what the original Amos had wanted all along. He wanted to save them, to track down the missing adventurers, to reunite with the Blue Wolfs, and to make sure everyone survived. So, the ruin shaped a version of him who could do exactly that. One who would notice what the original had missed, who would follow the trail, and who would reach them in the end.

Amos's fingers tightened around the ring.

“The first contradiction wasn't their memory.”

He looked toward the passage.

“It was mine.”

And then another thought came.

A worse one.

The ruin hadn’t just rebuilt him—it had done it too perfectly. It copied everything: his memories, his habits, his thoughts, his desires, his personality, even the way he questioned things. It created something so close to the original that he never once thought to question himself.

Amos's breathing became unsteady.

“That was the mistake.”

He looked at his reflection in the polished surface of the ring.

“...It made me too close.”

Close enough to believe he was the real one. Close enough to recall moments that never truly happened. Close enough to carry memories from a life that wasn’t his own.

And perhaps—

Close enough to be affected by the same mechanism as the others.

Amos looked at his hand.

His fingers trembled.

The others lost their memories.

He remembered watching Harold start to forget.

Then Daren.

Vena.

Tessa.

At first, it was the little things.

Then came the names.

Then the memories.

Soon they forgot each other.

Then they forgot him.

And in the end—

nothing.

Amos swallowed.

“...Why would I be different?”

The answer came immediately.

He wasn't.

Even his massive mana reserves had been replicated, which might explain why he didn’t fade as quickly as the others. The ruin had been steadily consuming energy. The adventurers’ mana never recovered, as the ruin held no natural mana reservoir, leaving only the finite supply they brought with them.

But now, the reconstruction facility lay in ruins. The source that had been keeping them alive was gone, and the others had already started to vanish.

And Amos—

He looked at himself.

But the mechanism was already in motion. Maybe the missing memories weren’t just random. Maybe they were the first hints.

That strange gap.

There were memories that didn’t fit anywhere in his timeline—whole and vivid, yet with no clear beginning or end. The memory of slipping off the ring. The memory of meeting strangers who felt familiar. The memory of living moments that seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

Amos slowly covered his face.

“...I'm already being rewritten.”

He laughed.

A quiet, bitter laugh.

“That's hilarious.”

His shoulders shook.

“I spent all this time trying to figure out what the ruin was doing to everyone else…”

He lowered his hand.

“…and it was doing the same thing to me.”

He looked at the ring, then his hand, and finally into the darkness. His face slowly settled into an unsettling calm—far too calm.

“If I wait…”

He didn’t finish the sentence—he didn’t have to. Sooner or later, he’d forget.

But not him.

Amos looked down at the ring one final time.

“No.”

He closed his fingers around it.

“I won't let that happen.”

He had spent enough time wondering whether he was real.

He wasn’t sure if his memories were real, or if the others were. He didn’t know if the ruin could be trusted. But there was still one choice he could make on his own.

When it ended.

Amos slowly turned toward the deeper darkness of the ruin.

Wait for me.