My feet carried me to the gate for reasons I couldn’t quite name. It loomed ahead, blackened and jagged like the teeth of some ancient beast. That was when I realized she was no longer by my side. The emptiness gnawed at me immediately, though I knew she was never confirmed. It was just a figment of my desperate mind—a character I’d conjured to help me navigate this hellish landscape. Yet, now that she had winked out of existence, the void she left behind felt sharper than any blade I’d faced. Funny, isn’t it? To miss the company of your insanity.

  Perhaps it was for the best. Illusions were fragile companions, and I’d become anything but delicate. I’d entered this nightmare as a teenage boy, not long past my freshman year of high school. Thirty years later, I was a weathered old man, each wrinkle and scar a testament to a hundred lifetimes' worth of suffering. The memories of the world before this one had faded like dust scattered in the wind. Uptown Manhattan, a bustling city of noise and light—was that real? Could I trust even the fragments? I’d once believed I had a mother, a father, and two younger sisters. Their faces were reflections on rippling water, shifting and unclear. I’d clung to those memories for as long as possible, a tether to a life that might never have existed.

  But the tether frayed with every passing day. The iron tang of blood had long since drowned out the smells, the sounds, the tastes of that other life, the acrid stench of burning, and the relentless silence of this broken world. I think I once was a spoiled rich kid—soft hands, sharper tongue. How I survived that first year here remains a mystery. My mind has sealed it away, like a box of horrors buried deep where I can’t touch it.

  The ax in my hand was my only constant. It had grown heavier with time, the weight no longer just in its iron but in the memories tied to its use. My hands bore calluses so thick they no longer felt pain, and my mind, too, had developed its form of armor. Layers upon layers of numbness protected the fragile pieces of what remained. I swung that ax for decades, carving out survival one brutal stroke at a time.

  Still, the gate ahead unnerved me. It wasn’t the monstrous spires or the eerie stillness beyond it—it was the promise it carried. Was this an ending? A beginning? Or was it merely another cruel twist in a world that had already twisted me beyond recognition?

  Somewhere deep inside, a part of me—a part I thought I’d buried—whispered. It urged me to turn back. To abandon the gate and everything it represented. But there was nothing to turn back to. Not even her. She was gone.

  And so, I pressed on, my ax at my side and my fractured sanity as my only companion.

  I was surprised I had retained even fragments of my past. Maybe those fleeting glimpses—snapshots of laughter, of a family I might have loved—were the only reason I’d made it this far. Or perhaps it was her. The construct. My mind’s desperate invention. She was a beautiful, delicate, radiant fairy, always appearing when the darkness threatened to swallow me whole. She’d whisper encouragement in those moments, her voice lilting like the song of a forgotten dream.

  But then, as quickly as she had come into existence, she was gone. One moment, her luminous wings reflected the dim light of this dying world; the next, there was only emptiness. Her absence lingered like a dull ache, a ghost that refused to fade.

  Shortly after her disappearance, I first heard the whispers of the gate. A myth, they said. A legend. But wasn’t that enough? In a world where even survival felt meaningless, the promise of the gate was a spark in the void. The stories claimed it opened to other worlds, other dimensions—places where I might find peace or perhaps even my old life.

  Driven by that fragile hope, I hunted for the three artifacts that would serve as its key. It was no small task. The first was buried beneath the bones of a long-dead city, its crumbling towers reaching futilely toward a sky that had long since turned gray. The second was hidden in a forest so twisted that the trees seemed to breathe, their bark pulsing like flesh. The third… the third had nearly cost me my life, guarded by a creature whose name I still cannot speak aloud.

  With those relics in hand and the fractured shards of my memories clinging stubbornly to me, I found myself here. At the gate. My salvation—or my doom.

  Yet every fiber of my being screamed at me to turn away. My gut twisted with primal terror as if my very soul recognized something I could not yet see. I felt the air thrum with malevolence, as though this world itself wanted me to stay, to absorb me into its desolation. The urge to turn and run surged through me, so strong I nearly dropped the artifacts immediately.

  But I resisted.

  Step by step, I trudged forward, the jagged earth scraping against my boots. The gate loomed more extensive with each passing moment, its surface shimmering like oil on water, reflecting shapes that shouldn’t exist. I tightened my grip on the artifacts, their weight a physical reminder of how far I had come and what I stood to lose.

  Maybe the whispers were right. This gate could lead me back to my world. Or it could lead me somewhere even worse. But standing still wasn’t an option, and turning back was a death sentence.

  I hesitated as I reached the gate, the silence pressing down on me like a living thing. This was the moment, the culmination of years—no, decades—of struggle. I took a breath, heavy and sharp, and reached out.

  And then the gate… moved.

  It felt like I was trudging through thick, cloying mud, each step heavier and more excruciating than the last. The air itself seemed to congeal around me, resisting my every movement. Each inch closer to the gate felt like a battle, like the world pulling me back, anchoring me to its desolation.

  I couldn’t understand why I hesitated. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? I want to see my mother again and smell the rich aroma of her cooking wafting through our Manhattan apartment. Hearing my sisters' playful shrieks as they bickered over something trivial. To feel the steady warmth of my father’s presence when he returned home from a long day at the office.

  But the truth clawed at the edges of my thoughts: perhaps I’d been here too long. Maybe I no longer knew what living outside this shattered, unforgiving world meant. Maybe I didn’t belong anywhere else. Perhaps I had become a part of this place, its darkness fused to my soul.

  “NO!”

  The word tore from my throat like a primal scream, shattering the stillness around me. It echoed back, hollow and alien. My hand trembled as I reached into my satchel, pulling free the first of the three artifacts: a small, squat emerald monkey.

  The figure was deceptively simple at first glance, its gleaming surface marred only by tiny paws covering its eyes. But its weight in my hand was immense, not just physical but laden with memory. My mind was dragged back to the moment I had taken it, wrested from the grip of the F’zil demon.

  I could still see its monstrous form, half-smoke, half-shadow, towering over me as it hissed in rage. The monkey idol had been clutched in one of its clawed, skeletal hands, and in a desperate gambit, I had lured it into a narrow crevice. When the boulder slammed shut, its howls reverberated through the chasm. Only one of its hands had remained outside the trap, still clutching the idol. I had hacked at the demon’s unyielding claw with my ax, blow after blow until I pried the emerald free.

  The memory gripped me, the adrenaline, the fear, the taste of ash in my mouth. It had been so close to killing me. But I had survived.

  A sudden noise broke me from my reverie—a man’s scream, sharp and guttural. My ax was in my hand before I realized I had moved, my body twisting to face the threat. But there was no one behind me, nothing but the bleak horizon and the faint hum of the gate.

  The scream came again, raw and desperate, and I froze as the realization hit me. It was my voice.

  I was yelling out—not in fear, but in defiance and yelling against the weight of the doubts pressing on me, against the pull of this cursed realm that tried to claim me as its own.

  The sound of my voice grounded me. I tightened my grip on the monkey idol, its emerald sheen catching the faint, unnatural glow of the gate. With a sharp breath, I shoved the memory and the doubt aside and took another step forward. Then another.

  The final few feet were agony, the gate’s energy a swirling maelstrom that seemed to push against me, testing my resolve. But I pushed harder, clinging to the thought of home, to the faces I could barely remember but refused to forget.

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  At last, I stood before the gate. Its surface shimmered like liquid metal, reflecting distorted, shifting images that felt alien and familiar. For a moment, I hesitated, the idol's weight heavy in my hand. But there was no turning back now.

  I raised the emerald monkey toward the gate, bracing myself for whatever came next.

  I lay sprawled on the ground before the massive wrought-iron monstrosity, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The gate loomed above me, its dark, intricate bars stretching skyward like skeletal fingers grasping at the heavens. It stood alone in the center of the barren field, a paradox as strange as the world itself. Through the bars, I could see the same endless expanse of desolation stretching out on the other side as if mocking me.

  The gate wasn’t affixed to any wall, no fortress or structure to define its purpose. It simply existed, anchored in defiance of logic or reason. My gaze drifted to the center of the gate, where a large medallion hung, roughly a foot in diameter. Beneath the grime and years of neglect, I could make out the gleam of solid gold. The edges were marred by deep scratches, crude reminders of those who had tried—and failed—to steal the coin-like object from its bindings.

  I couldn’t help but smirk. Those thieves had been doomed to failure without the three artifacts now in my possession. They had moved on—or more likely perished—without ever knowing how close they’d come to unlocking the secrets of this place.

  Pulling a cloth from my sack, I began wiping away the years of caked-on grime. The medallion initially resisted, the filth clinging stubbornly, but I was patient. Slowly, the surface was revealed, and my efforts exposed three oddly shaped indentations in the gold.

  Satisfied, I tipped the contents of my sack onto the dirt. My provisions, camping gear, and tools tumbled out, but I focused on the three objects that landed among them. Each artifact glinted in the dim light, their precious stones catching a faint glow from the gate.

  The first was familiar to me: the squat emerald monkey whose paws covered its eyes. I cradled it in my hands, feeling the smooth weight of the stone as memories of the F’zil demon flickered in my mind. With reverence, I slid the emerald figure into the similarly shaped slot on the medallion. It snapped into place with a satisfying click as though the gate was eager to receive it.

  I didn’t hesitate. Time was not my ally in this place. My hands moved swiftly, sorting through the pile until I found the second artifact: the sapphire monkey. It was nearly identical to the first, except its tiny paws covered its ears as if shielding itself from unbearable noise.

  I paused, my thumb brushing over the surface of the stone. A phantom sensation stirred within me, and I realized my hand trembled slightly, not from fear but from memory.

  Saneen. Her name came unbidden, a whisper that rippled through my thoughts like a drop of water disturbing stillness. The sapphire monkey had been hers, a token of gratitude—or perhaps pity—after we’d fought side by side against the feral abominations that stalked the moonlit swamps.

  I closed my eyes, her face rising to the surface of my mind. Her dark eyes, fierce and unyielding, softening only in the quiet moments we’d stolen together and the night we’d shared had been brief, passionate, and fleeting—like a flame burning too brightly to last. Saneen was the only woman I had ever been with, and her absence had carved a hollow in me I’d never managed to fill.

  The memory of her blood—her sacrifice—was vivid, and I reflexively wiped the sapphire with my thumb as though removing invisible stains. It was an act of respect, of mourning, for the life she’d given so I could survive.

  Steeling myself, I lifted the sapphire monkey and fit it into the slot on the medallion. It, too, snapped into place with a magnetic finality. Two down. One to go.

  The third and final piece remained: the ruby monkey. Its form was almost identical to the others, except for how its tiny paws covered its mouth as if silencing some forbidden truth. But the ruby wasn’t just crimson—deep, dark, and unsettling. In the faint light of the field, it looked like solidified blood.

  I hesitated, bile rising in my throat as my fingers closed around the artifact. The sensation was immediate and visceral, the memories slamming into me with the force of a tidal wave.

  The screams.

  They weren’t mine, but they might as well have been. The crimson monkey had come from a pit that wasn’t meant for the living. I had gone in blind, desperate, and almost didn’t come back out. I could still feel the squelch of the blood-soaked floor beneath my boots, the walls of the pit shifting as if alive, the hands—God, the hands. They had reached for me, countless and grasping, each one desperate to pull me down, to join them in their torment.

  The ruby figure had been buried in the center of that pit, nestled in a skeletal hand that clutched it like a treasure. The hand had resisted, tightening its grip as I pried the artifact-free as if the soul behind it refused to let the monkey go.

  And now, as I held the ruby monkey, its paws seemed less like a gesture of secrecy and more like an attempt to hold back a scream—a scream that echoed in my mind.

  I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to wretch, and forced myself to slot the ruby into the final space on the medallion. It snapped into place, completing the emerald, sapphire, and ruby triad. I stepped back, muscles taut, bracing for what I thought was inevitable.

  But nothing happened.

  The gate stood silent, motionless as if mocking my expectations. My pulse pounded in my ears as the seconds dragged into an eternity.

  Finally, the frustration—no, the rage—boiled over. Thirty years of anguish, loss, and futile struggle surged to the surface like a volcano erupting.

  “OPEN!”

  I grabbed hold of the gate, the cold iron biting into my palms as I shook it with every ounce of strength I had left. My voice cracked as I screamed, raw and primal, releasing every emotion I had buried for decades.

  But the gate did not move. It didn’t rattle, groan, or even acknowledge my existence. It stood there, unmoving and indifferent, as though it had been waiting for this moment to deny me.

  I staggered back, my chest heaving, my hands trembling from exertion. My throat was raw, my screams dissolving into the oppressive silence of the field.

  The gate remained. Mocking me.

  I was done. The fight had drained from me, leaving behind only emptiness. I fell to my knees, the cold dirt biting my skin, and wept. My face was buried in my hands, and I sobbed like a child—raw, broken, and defeated. The tears came in waves as if years of repressed pain and rage had been waiting for this single moment to pour out.

  And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

  The silence felt almost deafening. I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my forearm, sniffling as I took a shaky breath. Slowly, methodically, I began to gather my scattered belongings. The motions felt automatic, my mind a dull haze. The monkeys—I didn’t even look at them. What use did I have for wealth? For power? What mattered even if they could set me up as a king in this cursed world?

  I shoved the last provisions into my sack, slung it over my shoulder, and sheathed my ax with a resigned click. Without a backward glance, I turned and began walking back where I had come.

  Not ten steps into my retreat, the sound came.

  CLINK.

  It was sharp, clear, and unmistakable. My breath caught in my throat as I froze mid-step, my heart pounding against my ribcage. I swallowed hard, the urge to run flaring like a primal instinct. Everything in me screamed to leave, flee before whatever made that sound revealed itself.

  But I resisted. Slowly, I turned, my movements deliberate and cautious, preparing myself for danger—or worse, disappointment.

  What I saw stole the air from my lungs.

  The gate. It was open.

  Both sides had swung inward, their motion silent and eerie, as if they had never been locked. The medallion that had once bound them together was now neatly severed in two; each half affixed to the gates like a crescent moon. The faint metallic glint of the broken pieces was almost taunting.

  I dropped my sack, my eyes fixed on the opening. My feet moved on their own, carrying me forward. Before I realized it, I stood at the gate's threshold, the jagged iron bars towering above me like sentinels. Beyond it, the dark field stretched on, unchanged, the cliff still miles in the distance.

  And yet, I knew.

  I didn’t know how or why, but I was certain: the field was no longer what it seemed. Once I crossed that threshold, I would be somewhere else.

  I stepped forward.

  The world shifted around me in an instant.

  I found myself in a dimly lit hall, the air warm and inviting yet strange in its familiarity. As I took in my surroundings, my boots clicked softly against the marble floor. A small staircase rose ahead, leading to a grand foyer. Beyond that, a glass door stood bathed in brilliant sunlight, the brightness making it impossible to see what lay beyond.

  The first thing that struck me was the smell.

  Bread. Freshly baked bread. The warm, comforting aroma flooded my senses, and my stomach growled loudly. The sound startled me, and for a moment, I stood frozen, unsure if I was still dreaming or if this was some cruel hallucination.

  Then came the sounds.

  Traffic. The unmistakable hum of cars moving, engines rumbling, horns honking in the distance. Traffic! I hadn’t heard it in decades. The realization hit me like a lightning, and my chest tightened with emotion.

  And laughter.

  The sound of giggling girls—bright, joyful, and unmistakably real—echoed above me. The sound tugged at my heart in a way I couldn’t quite describe, stirring a longing I had forgotten I possessed.

  Drawn by instinct, I moved toward the staircase. My hand reached out to grip the banister, and the smooth wood felt strangely unfamiliar. That was when I noticed it—my hand.

  It wasn’t mine.

  Or rather, it wasn’t the hand I had known for years. Gone were the calluses, the scars, the gnarled joints of a life spent in brutal survival. In their place was the soft, unblemished hand of a boy—a hand that had never swung an ax, spilled blood, or endured the horrors of the world I had left behind.

  I stared at it in disbelief, my mind reeling.

  The laughter came again, breaking my trance. Slowly, I looked up, and my breath caught.

  At the top of the staircase, two sets of wide, smiling eyes peered down at me.

  “Laura… Ashley…” I whispered, my voice trembling.

  It was them—my sisters. The faces I had clung to in my memories, the voices I had dreamed of hearing again. They were here, alive, unchanged, as though no time had passed.

  Their laughter filled the air as they beamed down at me, and for the first time in decades, I felt something I thought I had lost forever.

  Hope.