Meanwhile, the Soul Navigator was opening Marcus 's coffin by order of the Sorcerer. Marcus sat inside his coffin, unusually silent. For what felt like an eternity, he hadn't said a word—he was simply grateful to finally be out of it. He was ready to watch the ritual mirror, where the echoes of his past were shimmering.
The soul navigator glanced at the Sorcerer and noticed a slight tremble in his stance. Curious, it leaned in. "Are you… nervous he might fail?"
The Sorcerer let out a low chuckle. "Nervous?" he echoed, almost amused. Then, with quiet confidence, he added, "Do you have any idea what a Tapestry of Fates looks like when it's been woven for a hundred years? I've obsessed over every tiny detail—refined, rewired, and reimagined—until perfection was the only thing left."
He paused for effect, eyes gleaming as he went on.
"Even choosing Soul 6—Ethan—was no accident. A military commander, a polyglot, a natural leader trained in both armed and unarmed combat. Tell me, what are the odds of finding someone like that? This ritual wasn't built to fail."
A spark lit up in the Sorcerer's eyes, his grin wide and unrestrained. "If anything," he said, voice brimming with anticipation, "I've waited a hundred years for this moment. The path to immortality has finally begun—and I've never felt more alive."
As the Soul Navigator and the Sorcerer spoke in the Ritual Room, Ethan had passed into Marcus's story—his soul seamlessly merging with Marcus's body. In an instant, he became him, ready to rewrite the regrets that still haunted Marcus.
As he began to move, he immediately sensed a difference—the body was unfamiliar, its movements slightly off from what he was accustomed to. He found himself standing on a dark street, the surroundings as disorienting as the new vessel he inhabited. The air felt distorted with noise—gunfire echoed loudly, and the shouting of attackers filled the space. Everything seemed chaotic.
He looked around quickly, trying to make sense of the situation. The translator had already fallen, his voice silenced in the first wave of gunfire. It was clear the assassins were in danger. The assassins were running in different directions, their faces showing tension and confusion. Some were holding their weapons tightly, ready to fight back if needed.
Each of them, including Ethan, carried small bags, likely to contain their passports and ammunition. Ethan quickly loaded the pistol, his eyes scanning the chaos around him. It was clear that they were all desperate to escape.
Ethan noticed Lucia Maren, the Spanish-speaking woman, near the edge of the street. She was looking over her shoulder, eyes wide as she tried to avoid the attackers. A loud sound from nearby made her flinch, and she clutched the bag she was holding even tighter.
Not far from her, Alina Vetrova, the Russian-speaking woman, ducked behind a parked car. She was trying to reload her weapon, her hands steady despite the chaos around her. She glanced over at Lucia Maren and tried to make a hand gesture, but the darkness made it clear they couldn't communicate properly.
Renji Takeda, the Japanese-speaking man, ran toward a dark, narrow alley—his steps quick but unsure. He glanced back, calling out in his language, but no one seemed to understand. He held his weapon close to his chest, eyes scanning the shadows for any safe way out.
Kaleb Tesfaye, the Amharic-speaking man from Ethiopia, stayed close to the building wall, moving carefully to avoid being seen. His face was tense as he gripped his weapon tightly. He tried to signal to the others, waving his hand, but the chaos made it nearly impossible for anyone to notice.
The attackers closed in, and the group scattered, confusion reigniting the tension of their fractured communication. The language barrier had once again proven to be their undoing. The night swallowed the group, and the deadly silence between them threatened to break them apart completely.