The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

The man watched her, and Mirian felt the intense power of his aura. The metal embedded in him glinted strangely in the arcane light of the internal sun, crawling with both a nacreous light and oily shadows. He looked at Mirian with his eyeless gaze. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

Then his aura surged. In the place where his eyes had once been, Mirian saw cracks in the skin swim with energy. The power swelled, then—he vanished.

He reappeared a moment later, except there were nine of him. There was no time to respond to his attack—he’d started casting the spells at some other point in time, and so as he appeared, all she could do was begin to respond.

But he hadn’t targeted her directly. Equinox’s defenses were useless here. Instead, he cut apart her ongoing spells, severed the steel containers, and then vanished again.

He’d taken her air. He’d also taken her containers with extra air.

Mirian switched to the Lone Pine form and held her breath. She looked around for something she could use. He’d even taken the container of water—otherwise, she could have run electricity through it to liberate breathable air. The Elder construction was resistant to her spells, so there was no material for her to use. She felt sharp pain through her body, and her vision was narrowing. Something to do with void exposure. She ran soul energy through her body to repair the damage.

Her eyes fell on the temporal anchors sticking out of the device.

But just as she was moving towards them, the man reappeared, looking more relaxed. Mirian felt the cool touch of air again, and her steel containers had returned.

“Apologies for the overreaction. I see now,” he thought. There was a casual, controlled tone to his mind-speech, even though she could feel from his aura that he was significantly stronger than Conductor. Fighting him would be suicide, even if she was at full mana capacity; he had demonstrated he could actually wield chronomancy, and there was simply no fighting against that. Just as Specter never had any hope of defeating her, she had no hope of defeating him.

Mirian tentatively extended her aura to touch his. “Who are you?”

“Unmoored. From time, from humanity. I had a name once, but to pledge yourself to Carkavakom as Herald is to give up such things.”

“Unmoored. A Herald. You help enforce the Pact, then.” Mirian let her amusement transmit through her aura. “It’s a pity I still don’t know what the rules of it are, and they can’t be explained to me without violating it. You must know why I’m here. It’s not to provoke anyone, or ruin Pact—it’s to do everything in my power to resolve the leyline crisis. To save humanity. To save Enteria.”

The Unmoored was silent. Then, with a slight gesture, two chairs and a table appeared in the middle of the room. He sat in one of the chairs. The furniture wasn’t what Mirian expected. It looked rustic and worn. There was scrollwork on the legs of the table she recognized. “Is that early Triarchy design?” she asked.

“I suppose you would call it that now. It’s been so long… sometimes I forget how fragile human collective memory is.” The gravity in the room changed, becoming much more like what she felt on Enteria.

“You are human, though,” Mirian thought to him, taking a seat. The cushions on the chair were worn, but comfortable.

The Unmoored shook his head. “I’m given leeway to communicate with humanity, but I haven’t been human in millennia. I’ve already told you that Carkavakom’s law is one of consequence. I exist to enforce that law. Above all, Carkavakom desires one thing: that there never be another Gods’ War.”

Mirian nodded. “So that was you who talked with the priest in Alkazaria. Just a few minutes ago, from your perspective, I imagine.”

She felt amusement in the Unmoored’s aura. “Yes. First, I had to make sure there was no interference from another Elder God—at least, beyond what Divitrius has already done. I am satisfied that what you did, you did on your own. Though it should have been impossible. No mortal should have been able to open the door here. And yet, I watched you open it. What made you look here? You didn’t discuss it with the others.”

Mirian looked towards the arcane sun behind the crystal window. “Jherica believed it might control the Labyrinth. But if that were the case, there would be matter or energy exchange between Luamin and Enteria. There was still an unsolved problem, though: the temporal anchors must be going somewhere if a Prophet dies before a cycle ends. And there must be a source of energy to move them through time. The temporal anchors in the Ominian are unreachable. But what about these?”

She gestured to the strange device.

“Causality protects them from a creature bound to linear time like you.”

Mirian stared at the glimmering needles. Strange light misted from them—or perhaps her mind just interpreted what she saw as light. “The past Prophets are still at work, then—at least, from some frame of reference in time that I don’t understand. This would be so much easier if I could add people to the loop. Except… that can’t work either.”

“Another idea you haven’t discussed with the others.”

Mirian looked back to the Unmoored. “A hunch, more than a full understanding. Both temporal anchors returned to the Ominian extended the cycle. For a long time, I didn’t have an explanation. How would they be affecting the leyline system? Then I realized, they’re part of a separate system. The stability of the leylines helps keep Divir aloft—but there’s a second system at play. The entropic antimagic around Divir—centered around the Ominian—fails too. It’s a separate failure. Merely stabilizing the leylines isn’t enough. The temporal anchors have to be returned to the Ominian, don’t they? They’re like the chthonic needles my father discovered. They stabilize Their soul.”

The Unmoored met her gaze. Even though he had no eyes, she could tell he was looking into her. Looking through her. At last he said, “Yes.”

“You can tell me that? Then… we have to wait for the other Prophets to return their temporal anchors. How do they even do it? I doubt any of them found my method, or tri-bond glyphwork would have existed before I was born.”

“They will return when they are meant to return. All but the last ‘temporal anchors’ of last Prophets. Causality is no protection for your companions.”

“But we don’t know how many cycles some of the Prophets went through. It could take decades. Centuries.” Mirian felt a chill run through her. The time loop was already weighing on her. Weighing on all of them. How many more times could she tolerate the flaws of humanity? How many more times could Ibrahim watch his wife die? How long could Gabriel persist without succumbing to pure hedonism to escape? How long could Zhuan last before her tests and experiments became unintelligible to anyone else? What if Ceiba Yan tired of his soul-companion? Celen had already been broken by the loop once. How long until we all go insane? she thought.

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“That is also for you to solve. Divitrius has put his last hopes in you.”

Mirian scowled. “Don’t read my mind.”

The Unmoored shook his head again. “It isn’t an optional sense. I can no more stop than you can stop your ears from hearing by thinking about it. Besides, that’s not really why you’re angry. Spit it out.”

“Why not help? Carkavakom could end the leyline crisis with a thought. Any of the surviving Elder Gods could. Why force us to suffer? The Cataclysm was that of the Gods, and yet, it was our civilizations that fell, cast into ruin. I’ve seen glimpses of the paradises we built.”

“Carkavakom can’t help. He’s busy fighting the Gods’ War right now—as are the others. It’s a conception of reality so far removed from human perspective that I don’t expect you to understand. Even the Gatelings—Elder creatures, you call them—can’t understand the Ascended. The oldest of them have lived the equivalent of a million lifetimes of a million years. You can no more relate to their reality than your friend Lily can to yours.”

Another chill passed through Mirian. She saw what the Unmoored Herald was getting at. Mere decades separated her from Lily. What would millennia look like? Multiple millennia?

“The only way I can explain it is that they are occupied. The Gods’ War is over—and yet it is still being fought. If Carkavakom could save you, He would have saved His sibling first. He would have saved Divitrius.”

“Then the Ominian truly is dead,” Mirian thought, her sorrow leaking through her mind-speech.

“Dead. And yet, alive, for a moment longer.”

Mirian thought of the Ominian, gently walking through the dreamscape. Their footsteps across ancient plains and across primordial mountains. A million lifetimes—lost. How much knowledge was lost? And how much compassion? Her eyes fell on the Unmoored again. “You can help,” she told him.

She felt the pity of the Unmoored move through her. “The advantage of living a long time is that you see further. Already, you’ve seen the pitfalls humanity blunders into. The flaws in the political and economic systems. The tragedies of history. The injustice. The Elder Gods have seen so far—and for all their wisdom, they still fought. Like you humans do now.”

The Unmoored stood and walked to the crystal viewing glass. The unnatural light shone through their flesh, and Mirian could see strange structures within their torso. The metal devices embedded in him were shadowed like snowflakes in the sun, and glimmered like the darkest shadows. “A philosophical question arises. Is the purpose of life to create, or to dominate?”

“Surely that’s an oversimplification.”

“Of course it is. But it aims at the crux of the problem, and why I cannot help you. Should life be allowed to grow and evolve? To spread out, interact, always an ever-changing exploration of possibilities? Is life’s value in its diversity and potential? Or is the purpose of life to reach an apex creation that is able to dominate all other life and create homogeneity in the universe?”

As Mirian stared at him, he turned from the window. In the light shining through him, she could see—not eyes. He had no eyes. But there was something there, something that reminded her of eyes. She could feel his gaze, and it reminded her of looking out as the horizon of stars in the great void. “The Akanans want to dominate Enteria. Tlaxhuaco would rather grow beside its gardens. Humanity is full of people who would choose either side, or find some middle ground.”

“Precisely,” the Unmoored thought. “Despite all my long years observing it, despite my own journey as a Prophet, despite the vast knowledge I gained as a Herald, I couldn’t tell you what human nature is. Xylatarvia made a mistake, though. She granted humanity refuge, and it was her mercy that brought out the best in humanity. Then, the Cataclysm. Humanity is plunged back into a primal state. Only a fraction of its accumulated wisdom survives. Another aspect of human nature shows—its cruelty. Its shortsightedness. And its will to dominate—even to the point of burning down its own world. Tell me, Naluri—Mirian—whatever name is at the core of your soul. Should a humanity that destroyed Enteria be allowed to spread into the void? Should it be allowed to burn and pillage its way through the stars?”

Mirian—Naluri—swallowed, and looked away. There was a knot twisting in her stomach. A great fear she had. The same one that had fueled her rage in Palendurio. What if human nature is too cruel? Too greedy? She looked back at the Unmoored. “It’s a test, then. The time loops balance out the divine catastrophe to make the test more fair. If humanity can overcome the crisis it created, then it’s worthy of life. Otherwise… it’s a threat to life. The same kind of thing the Elder Gods fought to contain in Their own war.”

“You see more clearly than most,” the Unmoored told her. He took a step forward. “Carkavakom also offers you a choice. You alone need not suffer for the sins of humanity. You, who have opened an Elder door, have the potential to become a Herald. Accept, and you gain power. Knowledge. And a duty to keep the holy laws of the Elder Gods. The fields of time would be open to you. Insanity would no longer threaten you. In a sense, you would be embracing the steps you have already taken towards being inhuman.

“However, such power comes with a price. Should you accept, you must abandon Enteria. You would no longer be allowed to interfere in its affairs. You would be Carkavakom’s servant, like I am. Such service has its freedoms, but it is fundamentally constrained. Causality would need to be preserved.”

Part of her leapt at the idea. She had always been an explorer, and her ability to travel to new horizons and learn the secrets of the world would be unlimited. She could see into the forgotten corners of history—learn truths that were lost to everyone living. She could even see her mother again.

But she wouldn’t be able to touch her. Nor save her. All that knowledge would come at a terrible price. Her disconnection from humanity would be complete. “I’ve accumulated power to make a better world, not out of greed. I want to save those I love. To protect Enteria, and its beauty—a beauty born of its abundant life. What use is knowledge without the joy of being able to sit down for dinner with Grandpa Irabi? Of all the places in the fields of time I want to visit, the future I want to see is the one where Zayd grows up and lives a long, good life. One where his sister is there for him. Humanity… for all our problems, we have such potential. I want to see it fulfilled. My answer is no.”

The Unmoored nodded. The pressure of his gaze lifted.

“So it shall be,” he said. He turned to the device holding the temporal anchors. “You understand by now that these devices transmit your soul back to a marked origin point in space-time. Even if you could take these and give them to someone else—the soul inside would mix together with the soul you attempted to implant. Both would die in agony. A great many paths are open to you—but not all. You already have the knowledge to remove a temporal anchor, so granting you access to this place does not grant you something that I think violates the pact. That is my gift to you; leniency. After all, I sense the justice that burns in your heart. Carkavakom can respect that. However, what I’ve said has tempted you to spend more of your time here, so let me counteract that. If Enteria is to be saved, it will be saved by the people of Enteria—not technology that is beyond your comprehension.”

Mirian stood and walked past the Herald to gaze out the crystal window herself. “How much time is left?”

“Far more than you could ever use,” he said. “You already know what threat awaits from lingering in circular time longer than needed.”

She did. That was… good, though. For so long, she’d been worried they would run out of time, out of cycles. The feeling of needing to rush, the pressure of an unknown end—that had helped contribute to her break. “We’ll only have one real chance to get it right, then. The cycle we return our temporal anchors. But what if one of us doesn’t?”

The Unmoored glanced at the machine. “The failed timelines of Enteria all end in one thing: annihilation. It is still up to humanity to come up with a solution. There are those among the Unmoored and Gatelings that think you will not succeed. Lifetimes ago, I would have been one of them. But I think, perhaps, there is a chance.”

Carkavakom’s Herald stepped away, and the chairs and table vanished. Mirian turned, the arcane sun at her back.

“Goodbye, Mirian-Naluri. Our destined meeting has passed. We shall not meet again. There is no such thing as luck in the universe, but out of sentimentality, I shall wish it to you all the same.”

And with that, the Unmoored vanished.