“How did you know that dummy would detonate?” Mali’s voice, usually a melodic cascade, had sharpened into granite. Her eyes, usually warm like sun-drenched river stones, were now cold, demanding. Tawan felt a familiar clenching in his chest, a deep-seated panic at being cornered. He was Tawan, the chronomancer who routinely stared down time-warping abominations, but as Niran, he was a stammering, cowardly mess. The urge to explain, to unleash a fraction of his true self, was overwhelming. But that would betray everything. He needed to be Niran.
He swallowed, the lie already forming a dry knot in his throat. “W-w-well,” he began, his voice cracking on the first syllable, “I, uh, I just… saw it wobble! You know? A-a bit! Like, a… a jiggly wobble! And then I thought, ‘Oh, that’s going to… go boom, probably.’ So I just… said so! You know, a guess.” He gestured vaguely at the smoldering pile, then shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant, but his fingers were twitching with the effort of holding still. His eyes darted everywhere but Mali’s, fixing on a distant, flapping jungle bird.
Mali’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. Disbelief? Frustration? “A jiggly wobble?” she repeated, her voice laced with skepticism. She took a step closer, her scent – wet earth and the sharp tang of jungle blossoms – reaching him. “And your hands weren’t shaking, Niran. Not a twitch.”
He forced a laugh, high-pitched and strained. “O-oh, that! No, no, I was just… too scared to shake! Y-you know, fear paralysis! Happens to the best of us! Er, the worst of us! Like me! Heh.” He winced internally. It was a terrible excuse, but it was *Niran’s* terrible excuse. He could almost hear the Dharma Wheel snickering.
Arthit, still fuming from his humiliated display, stomped over. “Enough of this drivel! He got lucky, Mali! The universe, in its infinite wisdom, occasionally throws a bone to even the most undeserving! He’s still Niran, the Coward of the Cascades! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual heroic deeds to attend to.” He puffed out his chest and strode off, presumably to find another helpless creature to incinerate.
Mali sighed, the tension in her shoulders deflating slightly. “Just… don’t be late for the Mantra Manifestation class tomorrow. And try not to make a fool of yourself. Again.” With a final, weary shake of her head, she turned and followed Arthit, leaving Tawan alone with the lingering smell of ozone and his racing thoughts.
[“A convincing performance requires conviction. A lie told poorly is truth revealed.”]
“Oh, shut up,” Tawan muttered, massaging his temples. He’d barely held it together. The image of Mali’s disappointed face, the ghost of her scent, twisted a pang of bittersweet longing in his gut. He had to save her, even if it meant remaining the person she despised.
He waited until the last of the students had dispersed, then slipped away from the main academy grounds. His new body, Niran’s body, was surprisingly agile once he got past the slouch and the forced clumsiness. He navigated the winding, vine-choked paths towards the hidden entrance of the sunken catacombs, a place rarely visited by students, its maw shrouded by the constant mist of the towering cascade.
The air grew heavy, humid, as he descended the rough-hewn steps. The rumble of plunging water became a deafening roar, shaking the very stones. Luminescent moss clung to the walls, casting an eerie, phosphorescent glow on ancient carvings of serpentine deities. He paused at a familiar juncture, a section where the humid air usually held only the scent of damp rock and decaying flora. But now…
A bitter tang, like overripe metal and stagnant water, pricked at his nose. A jolt, sharp and unwelcome, shot through him. He recognized it instantly: the divine rot. It was a subtle, insidious corruption, a miasma of decay that seeped from corrupted idols, tainting everything it touched. But it shouldn’t be here. Not yet. This section was pristine, according to his previous timeline. The rot should have only breached the *lower* levels, the ones closest to the idol, and not for another three years.
His heart, Niran’s heart, thumped a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This was worse than he thought. Kalagya’s influence was spreading faster, far more aggressively than it had in his past life. This meant the entire timeline was unstable, a direct consequence of the regressor’s interference. Panic, cold and sharp, began to set in. He needed to find the idol. Now.
He pressed on, the air growing heavier, the luminescent moss pulsating with an unhealthy, purplish hue. The roar of the waterfall faded, replaced by an unsettling quiet, a stillness that felt like holding one’s breath. He turned a final corner, stepping into a cavernous chamber, and froze.
In the center, bathed in the sickly purple glow of corrupted moss, stood a massive, many-armed idol. It was Kalagya, the Serpent Deity, once revered, now a twisted mockery of its former glory. Its smooth, obsidian-like surface was veined with hairline cracks, through which pulsed a faint, malevolent red light. And there, before it, was Arthit.
Arthit was chanting, his voice a low murmur, his hands outstretched towards the idol. A faint, shimmering vapor, almost imperceptible, was flowing from his palms in wisps of golden light. Tawan recognized it instantly: stolen chronomantic force, the very essence of time manipulation, the fuel Arthit had siphoned to reverse his years. He was *feeding* the idol. What in the blazing Vongsa sun was he doing?
“Yes, yes!” Arthit hissed, his face contorted in a fervent grimace. “Feel the power, Kalagya! Consume this stolen essence! Grant me the strength, the *destiny* of a true protagonist! Let me reshape this pathetic timeline into my glorious saga!” He laughed, a manic, triumphant sound that echoed off the cavern walls. “With this, the Mid-Term Festival will be my coronation! Mali will finally see! No more fumbling, no more close calls! Only overwhelming, unassailable power!”
Tawan’s stomach dropped. Arthit wasn’t merely repeating the timeline; he was actively empowering the source of the curse, believing it would benefit him. This was beyond arrogant; it was suicidal, for everyone. If he continued to feed the idol, the curse would accelerate, the rot would consume Mali even faster. Tawan wanted to scream, to lash out, to lock Arthit in an anchor-field and rip the stolen power from the idol’s grasp. But he couldn’t. He was Niran. He was a coward.
Arthit’s head snapped up, glare burning with feverish ambition. “Niran? What in the blazes are you doing here, you pathetic slug? Are you trying to steal my moment of apotheosis?” He sneered, his hands dropping, the stream of power momentarily ceasing. “Lost your way, did you? Couldn’t find the latrines?”
Tawan's pulse spiked against his collarbone. His training urged him to act, to fight, but his cover was everything. Mali’s life depended on it. He forced his body to slouch, his gaze to drop. He began to stammer, his voice thin and reedy. “I-I, uh, I was… I was looking for… for a quiet place! You know? To… to think! And I just… I got turned around! This place is so… dark! A-and damp! So I just… ended up here. S-sorry! I’m really, really sorry! I’ll just… I’ll just go now!” He shuffled his feet, his hands wringing together, playing the role of the terrified, apologetic slacker to perfection. The humiliation was a bitter taste in his mouth, but the intel was vital.
Arthit threw his head back and laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that grated on Tawan’s nerves. “Pathetic! Even in the presence of a burgeoning deity, you grovel like a worm! Get out of here, Niran, before your cowardice pollutes this sacred ritual! Begone!” He made a shooing motion with his hand, then turned back to the idol, resuming his chant, the golden mist beginning to flow again.
Tawan, seizing the opportunity, practically scuttled out of the chamber, his every fiber screaming in protest. He allowed Niran’s characteristic clumsiness to make him stumble on the steps, fumbling his way back into the slightly less oppressive atmosphere of the upper catacombs. He didn’t stop until he was well clear of the hidden entrance, gasping for breath, the image of Arthit feeding the idol seared into his mind. He had to stop this, and fast.
[“Karma plummeting; the Idol has tasted a regressor’s arrogance, and the curse will trigger in exactly three days.”]