They followed Veran through the mist for nearly fifteen minutes, the world narrowing to the sound of their boots and the hush of the forest. The fog seemed reluctant to let them pass, fingers of vapor closing and opening around low branches, but Veran walked with the easy certainty of a man who knew every step of the ground. Elias kept his eyes fixed on the dark silhouette ahead, feeling both guided and watched.
When at last the trees broke and a shape rose out of the gray, Elias stopped dead. The ruined tower loomed above them — taller and more whole than he had expected. It punched up through the fog like a monolith from another age: several storeys of stone, arrow slits, moss-curled balconies and a battered spiral stair that ran the length of the structure. For a second his breath left him unbidden.
"Whoa," he heard himself shout before he could stop it. The cry broke the quiet like a thrown stone.
Veran smiled faintly, as if the reaction pleased him. "Impressive, isn't it?" he said. "It has survived worse than weather."
Elias stared at the tower, incredulous. For a frantic moment his mind did a strange calculation — a dizzy, out-of-place comparison that made him half-laugh and half-weep. Seven stories. This is like a seven-storey building back home, he thought, picturing concrete and glass rather than crumbling stone. The image of modernity in that ruined landscape made his stomach twist with sudden nostalgia.
They climbed. The spiral steps were uneven and slick with moss; it took them almost twenty minutes to reach the top, breath coming quick in the thin air. At each landing, Veran paused to point out small things — a carved sigil half-worn by time, a narrow window that still held a sliver of glass — as though he were giving them a private tour.
When they stepped into the central chamber, the tower opened into a series of rooms that could have once been a small city. Veran moved with easy familiarity, and Elias found himself greedily taking in the place: shelves that ran like ribcages across whole walls, cases filled with curious instruments, bundles of maps rolled and tied, chests with rusted locks, and — most startling — a low rack lined with knives. They ranged from dagger-length to long, thin blades that could have been short spears. Each one gleamed with an unearthly polish.
Elias' first impression was of craft so fine it ought not to belong to any simple smith. The edges looked absurdly sharp, and the surfaces bore a faint, inner shimmer as if the blades held their own, tiny stars. He reached out — only briefly, because manners still held something of him — and traced the hilt of a short blade with his fingertips.
"What are those made of?" he asked, voice small in the vast room.
Veran watched him with the same calm he'd shown since morning. Then, as if amused by the question or pleased by the curiosity, he came closer and laid a hand on Elias' shoulder. The touch was odd — warm and unexpectedly grounding.
"These," Veran said, with a little smile, "are fashioned from a rare crystalline ore. It takes a master's temper to make a blade from it. They are sharper than plain iron, and kept with great care." He led them further in, past racks of gear and cases of curious trinkets, to a tremendous set of shelves that curved like a cathedral.
With deliberate ceremony he opened a heavy, dust-burnished chest resting there. Inside lay a cache of stones so green and bright that for a heartbeat Elias thought a piece of the forest had been trapped and polished. The gems shone like captured sunlight. Veran lifted one, letting the light slide across its facets.
"This," he said softly, "is Dianol."
Lyra snorted, the sound half-derisive and half-wondering; she stepped forward, eyes narrowing as she recognized the stones for what they were.She glanced at Elias with suspicion, then she said, "Dianol is a stone that can be exchanged for money, don't you know that, Elias? Even a 4 year old knows that!" she barked, incredulous. Then, as her gaze flicked to Elias again, her voice sharpened in the way that only someone used to reading faces could do. "Wait — are you from another world?"
Daren laughed openly at that, one hand going to his swordbelt in a relaxed gesture. Elias's heart dropped into his stomach. For a second panic rose — raw and hot — the old, immediate terror of exposure. Does she know? his mind scrambled. Will they know I wasn't born here? Will they cast me out, or worse?
Words tumbled before thought could catch them. "N-no," he stammered, voice higher than he meant. "I— I grew up here. Alone. In the woods. Never saw cities." The lie felt brittle and strange in his mouth, and every lie always felt worse than the truth.
Before Elias could curl inward over his sudden, shameful fabrication, Veran stepped forward smoothly and placed himself slightly between Elias and Lyra. The motion was uncalculatedly protective — a little guard raised without pomp.
"Lyra," Veran said"He came from the jungle and grew up without going to school, so how would he know?"
Lyra's jaw worked. For a long moment she glared, then the sharpness in her face softened into a reluctant acceptance. "Fine," she muttered. "But if he so much as sneezes on the Dianol, I swear—"
Daren chuckled and shook his head, stepping back as if this was exactly the kind of morning he expected. Elias felt an odd, warm flush spread through him. Veran's defense had not been grand or showy; it had been a small, immediate decision to make space for him. The effect of it was disproportionate — a single handshake of trust where Elias had expected suspicion.
Veran is not quite what he seems, Elias thought, astonished. Not as cruel as my nerves kept insisting. Maybe not cruel at all.
Veran gave Elias a brief, comforting squeeze on the shoulder. "Rest here," he said. "The tower will shelter you. There is food below and a place to sleep. Take what you need tonight, and tomorrow we can speak more."
They were offered lodging for the night — a corner on one of the tower floors with a pallet and a blanket. Once the others busied themselves with settling in and stowing gear, Elias slipped away toward the gargantuan library Veran had mentioned. The shelves ran taller than his head and deeper than his armspan; rows and rows of tomes breathed dust and histories. He could smell leather and old paper and something else beneath it: the faint, clean tang of magic.
He found a book tucked in an alcove where light pooled, the spine worn with use. Its title was written in a script that pulled at the back of his mind. With a small, reverent hesitation, Elias opened it. The pages smelled like ash and rain and the faint copper of iron — not quite ordinary. As he scanned the lines, he read of sigils and runes, of the way words could bend intent if one learned the careful art of application. The simple instruction set made his eyes widen: a primer on elemental shaping, written for beginners.
Elias read late into the afternoon, fingers tracing diagrams of flame and wind. For the first time since the looping began, he felt a small, dangerous curiosity bloom alongside the old dread. If the world held rules — if Dianol, blades, and books of craft stitched this place together — then perhaps the clock that rewound him was not merely an instrument of cruelty. Perhaps it was a problem that could, one day, be studied and understood.
He shut the book only when the light thinned and the tower's long windows threw blue into the stacks. From the topmost window, the forest looked endless and patient. Inside, for now, he was not alone — and he had a volume that promised something like an explanation, or at least a way to begin asking the right questions.
Elias sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, the heavy tome spread open in front of him. The lantern beside him flickered, casting shifting shadows across the page. As he flipped to the next section, the script grew tighter, more deliberate—almost as if the author feared being misunderstood.
> "Innate abilities granted at birth are divided into two categories: Active and Passive."
His eyes followed each word hungrily.
Active abilities, the book said, were the overwhelming majority. Those born with them were able to manipulate mana consciously, shaping spells, channeling elements, or enhancing their bodies. Most mages and warriors in the world belonged here.
Passive abilities, however—
There were fewer than a handful in a thousand who possessed them. They could not be called upon at will, nor shaped like regular magic. A passive ability only awakened under specific, extreme, or life-threatening conditions. Once triggered, it would act by itself, unaffected by the user's command.
And unlike active magic…
> "Passive bearers often cannot use standard magic at all."
The words struck him like a blow.
Elias felt his breath hitch.
"So… everyone has magic?" he whispered to the empty room. "Then why don't I? Why can't I do anything?"
He pressed a hand to his chest, as if trying to feel mana that refused to answer. A hollow ache spread through him. Lyra could summon flames without thinking. Daren summoned blades of wind with a gesture. Meanwhile he—
He couldn't even spark a candle.
"So Lyra's affinity is fire… Daren's is wind…"
His voice cracked slightly.
"Then what about me?"
For a long moment he simply sat there, jaw clenched, fingers digging into the edges of the book. A sinking feeling tugged at him—fear, frustration, and that pathetic, awful doubt that he didn't belong in this world the same way they did.
But then—
A thought jolted through him so sharply he almost gasped.
"Wait…"
His heartbeat quickened.
The tower.
The forest.
The monster.
The fire.
Each time—
Each time he had died.
And each time… he had returned.
That image burned brightest in his mind: the clock, its hands spinning backward, dragging time with it.
"Hold on." His voice trembled with something between dread and realization. "That… that clock that turns back time when I die… could that be my ability?"
He stared at his own shaking hands.
"If that's a power… then that would mean I'm… passive."
The word felt frighteningly correct.
A power that only triggered under extreme conditions?
He couldn't imagine anything more extreme than death.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
He turned the next page quickly, desperate for confirmation. The book continued:
> "Two individuals may share the same elemental or ability type, yet what they can do with it varies widely."
"Example: One person with fire may only cast sparks, while another with the same affinity may ignite whatever they desire."
"Training, stress, and life-or-death situations can drastically sharpen or expand one's ability."
Elias exhaled shakily.
"So even if someone has the same ability… it can be completely different?"
He leaned back, spine hitting the bookshelf behind him.
"And if this applied to me… if someone else had a passive ability similar to mine… theirs might not rewind time. They might… reset a minute. Or a day. Or maybe they heal instead." His voice softened as the pieces fell into place. "Our abilities wouldn't be the same."
He closed the book slowly, palms lingering on the smooth, worn cover.
His ability—if it truly was an ability—didn't make him strong.
It didn't protect him from pain.
It didn't give him spells or weapons or even the chance to fight like Daren or Lyra.
But it gave him something else:
A second chance.
And another.
And another.
A terrifying power… yet also one that could save not just him, but the people around him.
He swallowed, fingers trembling slightly.
"If I train… if I understand it… maybe this ability can become something more," he whispered to himself.
The lantern crackled softly beside him.
In the quiet of the vast, ancient library, surrounded by forgotten knowledge and the hum of unspoken magic, Elias finally understood—
He wasn't powerless.
Just different.
And maybe, in this world of monsters, magic, and mysteries, that difference was exactly what he needed.
Just as he closed the book, thinking he had reached the end, a flicker of uneven paper caught his eye. Several pages were still stuck together near the back. Elias blinked, heart jumping.
"I almost missed these…"
He hurriedly flipped them open.
The final pages were written in a firmer hand, the ink darker, the warnings clearer—almost as if the writer wanted to ensure no passive-bearer misunderstood their fate.
> "Passive abilities cannot be altered."
"No training, ritual, or magical enhancement can influence their function."
"They are immutable from birth to death."
Elias' stomach dropped.
He felt heat rising in his chest—not the warmth of magic, but pure, helpless anger.
"So that's it?" he whispered, voice trembling. "Everyone else gets to grow? Gets to train? Gets stronger? And I'm just—stuck?!"
He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing through the empty library. A sharp sting pulsed in his palms, but he barely felt it.
"This world really is unfair…" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Lyra can sharpen her flames. Daren can strengthen his wind. Anyone can train. But me? What do I get? A power I can't control and can't change?"
For a few long seconds, fury swallowed him whole. He wanted to scream. To crush the book. To punch the wall until his knuckles split.
But slowly—breath by breath—the anger loosened its grip.
Elias slumped back against the shelf, exhaling shakily.
"Wait… what am I even angry about?" he murmured. "What would training even do for a power like mine?"
His thoughts drifted back to the deaths—
The monster tearing him apart.
The fire burning him alive.
The pain.
The panic.
And then—
The clock, turning back time.
Returning him to life.
"Rewinding time…" he whispered. "Returning from death… That's not something training would help anyway."
He let out a dry, almost bitter laugh.
"What would I do? Practice dying?"
The question chilled him even as it made bitter sense.
If his ability obeyed its own rules, unaffected by effort or will, then training was meaningless. Painful, yes—but logically sound.
"It activates when I die… that's enough," Elias told himself, though the words felt heavier than he wished. "I don't need to change it. I just need to… understand it."
His tightening chest loosened.
His heartbeat steadied.
Finally, he lifted the book, placed it carefully back on the shelf, and rose to his feet.
"Fine," he whispered to the quiet stacks of the tower library. "If this world won't bend for me, I'll learn how to survive in it anyway. Ability or not."
The lantern burned low beside him, casting long shadows across the room.
And with that thought—equal parts fragile and determined—
Elias stepped away from the book, his mind weighed with truth but strangely clearer than before.