Chapter 9 – waking up

  Waking up as if from a dream, Bell was already used to that sensation.

  The fatigue from the previous night still weighed on him in the form of a persistent, albeit manageable, headache.

  He pressed his fingers between his eyebrows in an attempt to massage his temples. The events from before resurfaced within his mind.

  The encounter with Don Shapiro and his men.

  He had initially assumed they were dangerous, but mostly ordinary types of people. The existence of the soul-binding contract proved him wrong. These people had been linked to the supernatural world even before the start of the apocalypse.

  Until now, he had been timid—both in his research and in his investigations. But that approach had proven too passive. Even then, he had still been threatened by supernatural forces.

  “I can’t remain this passive anymore. Carefulness and timidity are not the same thing. I need to be more proactive,” Bell muttered to himself.

  The realization that he had to face both external threats and dangers from within had now fully dawned upon him.

  And then there was his decision to use the power of the dream dust to resist the effect of the contract. It had been less like resisting it and more like circumventing its rules.

  He had not been sure of the outcome, only reassured once it succeeded.

  The contract had recorded a fake strand of essence—a copy created through the power of the dream dust.

  Bell had been surprised to discover a feedback effect.

  It was like a universal law of attraction. At the same time the contract captured a strand of the dream dust’s essence, the dream dust had drawn something similar from it. A dark mist now floated ominously inside the strange hall of the dream domain, lingering beside the dust.

  Bell remembered a principle.

  The abyss had rules. Everything that stemmed from it had mechanisms. While these mechanisms were not always fixed—sometimes evolving—they could also clash with one another.

  And this seemed to be such an example.

  “I’ll need to study it sooner rather than later… but not now,” Bell thought.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He had decided not to be passive anymore—but now was certainly not the right time.

  “I overexerted myself, and now I’m paying the price,” Bell let out a mocking laugh directed at himself.

  At that moment, his thoughts became jumpy. Memories surfaced within his mind like a torrent—chaotic and disordered.

  The lines between past, present, and future blurred beneath the persistent headache.

  Fragments overlapped.

  The alley from last night. A possible confrontation that had not yet happened. Don Shapiro’s calm eyes—was that memory, or anticipation?

  Bell closed his eyes and focused on organizing his thoughts. Only then did he find a semblance of comfort.

  He could not help but wonder about the supposed effects of the contract if it had worked as intended.

  “Some soul bonds grant the holder rights over the life and death of the signer. They are literal slave contracts,” Bell frowned, trying to recall the details with precision.

  But even the memory of the contract he had signed the day before felt strangely blurred.

  “But I doubt it was that kind of contract. If they had such power, would they really need to cut someone’s hand to torture him when there are simpler methods?”

  Either way, he could not dwell on the modus operandi of those people for too long.

  Bell remembered the enigmatic, calm, almost scholarly Don Shapiro.

  “He’s the type who can thrive during the apocalypse—resources, subordinates, a base. As long as he isn’t too unlucky, and that power doesn’t bite him back… who knows? We might meet again in a month, and I might reimburse him with a hundred percent interest,” Bell thought jokingly.

  He had not forgotten the thugs he encountered on his way back.

  They had simply been unlucky enough to meet an exhausted and irritated Bell.

  He had overused the power of the dream dust, and the effects had still lingered in his eyes.

  Had he faced a true enemy, he would have been in grave danger.

  But ordinary humans? They had dared to look into his eyes.

  The dream dust was a cursed item through and through. In that moment, he had been its vessel, its power surging violently through his gaze.

  “The eyes are the windows of the soul.”

  The saying was well-founded. Something his future self seemed to have learned the hard way.

  By meeting his gaze, those men had experienced something akin to staring into the abyss.

  When you stare into the abyss, it stares back at you.

  Had the corruption emanating from him been stronger, they might have turned into bloodthirsty madmen over time.

  “They should have suffered nothing more than a mental shock… They’re not going to die, I think…” Bell hesitated.

  “Was I too heavy-handed?”

  As for revealing too much, Bell did not think he had. The night before had been an eye-opener.

  If others were already doing business using abyssal power and supernatural abilities, why couldn’t he?

  He also vaguely remembered the sensation of being watched.

  “It should have been one of Don Shapiro’s men… but I can’t be certain. My perception range had shrunk at the time,” Bell deduced.

  “Now, where is the money?”

  His gaze wandered around the room without success.

  Only after a moment did he look beneath the bed where he sat and find the heavy sports bag, still secured.

  “There you are.”

  He did not touch it.

  “I’ll need to secure it properly. I can’t carry it everywhere, and I can’t leave it unattended either. Luckily, most banks around here are lax when it comes to large deposits.”

  He continued thinking, but the feeling that he had forgotten something important refused to fade.

  Something was missing.

  And that unsettled him more than the headache.

  Alternative title : Broken memories