Nagi sat at the small table in his room. The candle flickered in the draft from the window, casting dancing shadows on the wooden walls. He opened the folder slowly, his fingers brushing against the rough paper inside. It was not mission reports as he expected. It was a leather-bound journal, worn at the edges and soft to the touch. He picked it up carefully, feeling the weight of it in his hands. The cover had no title, only a faint stain that looked like old ink. He opened the first page and froze.
The handwriting was his own. He knew every loop of the letters, every sharp angle of the capitals. But he did not remember writing this. He looked at the date in the corner of the page. It was three years ago. He had not played NEXBOUND three years ago. He had only started one year ago, when the game launched globally.
Nagi said, "This is not possible."
His voice was quiet in the small room, barely louder than the crackle of the candle. He read the first entry closely. It described the market prices in Vel'Kara with precise detail. It described the smell of fresh bread from the bakery on Corner Street. Players did not smell bread in the game. They saw texture maps and stat windows. This writer smelled the yeast and the caramelized crust.
Nagi turned the page slowly, his eyes scanning the lines. The entries continued for months, detailing NPC routines not as code or scripts, but as habits and lives. The journal noted that the baker woke at four, hummed when he kneaded dough, and worried about his daughter's marriage prospects. Nagi felt a chill run down his spine. He had never noticed these things. He had rushed through quests, ignored the background noise, and treated the world as a series of objectives. This writer had lived here.
Nagi said, "Who wrote this?"
He knew the answer in his gut, but his mind refused to accept it. He turned more pages quickly, the paper rustling in the silence. The notes became more urgent as the entries progressed. They talked about system errors and glitches that should not exist. They talked about the logout button failing repeatedly.
Entry said, "It does not work for me. I have tried ten times, and each time the red text mocks me."
Nagi gripped the book tightly, his knuckles turning white. That was his exact experience, word for word. But this was written years ago, before he even created his account. He read further down the page, his eyes moving faster. The writer discussed the mobile stalls with technical knowledge that only a top player would possess. He mentioned the Sevenfold Gate specifically, describing its spatial anomalies.
Entry said, "The stall expands inward beyond its exterior dimensions. It should not be possible within the game's physics engine. Someone built this for me, or perhaps for someone like me."
Nagi stood up from the chair abruptly, the wood scraping against the floorboards. He walked to the window and looked out at the dark city. Lights flickered in the distance, and guards patrolled the streets below. He looked at his own hands in the moonlight. They were the same hands, but the memory was missing, replaced by a hollow space where years should be.
He returned to the table and sat down heavily. He needed to see the end. He flipped to the last page, his heart pounding in his chest. The ink was darker there, the writing hurried and jagged as if written in fear or haste. It looked like the writer had been interrupted.
Nagi read the final entry slowly, each word sinking into his mind. It said, "I am starting to think the door I found is not a feature. It is a mistake someone made. I am going to find out who."
Nagi closed the book slowly and placed it on the table. He sat back in the chair, his mind racing with implications. If this was his handwriting, and if this was his memory, then he had been here before. He had been trapped before. And he had forgotten everything.
Nagi said, "Why did I forget?"
He touched his temple lightly, searching for any fragment of recollection. There was no pain there, only a blank space where memories should reside. He looked at the journal again. It was proof of a past he did not own, a life he could not remember. He stood up and paced the small room, the floorboards creaking under his boots. He stopped near the bed and looked at the knife on the pillow. It was the only real thing he trusted in this uncertain world. He picked it up and tested the edge with his thumb. It was sharp and cold, a familiar comfort. He sheathed it back in his belt and walked back to the table.
He opened the journal one more time, searching for any name besides his own. There was nothing but his words, no signatures from other people, no indication of collaboration. He closed the book again and made a decision. He needed to hide it. The Guild knew about the stall, and they might know about this book too.
He went to the corner of the room where he had noticed a loose floorboard earlier. He pried it up with his knife, revealing a small hollow space beneath. He placed the journal inside the hole carefully, as if tucking a child into bed. He pushed the board back down, and it fit snugly into place, hiding the secret beneath.
Nagi said, "Safe for now."
He blew out the candle, and the room went dark instantly. He sat on the edge of the bed, letting his eyes adjust to the moonlight coming through the window. It cast a square of pale light on the wooden floor, illuminating dancing dust motes that moved like tiny stars. He thought about the door again, the Seventh Door that was supposedly a mistake. A mistake made by whom? The developers? The system itself? Or someone inside the code, watching and waiting?
Nagi said, "I will find you."
He spoke to the darkness, but the darkness did not answer. He lay back on the mattress, keeping his clothes on and his knife near his hand. Sleep was far away tonight. His mind was too active, replaying the journal entries in his head. The baker waking at four, the worry about the daughter, the fear in the final words. He had missed all of that before. He had been a tourist in a world that was real. Now he was a resident, or maybe a prisoner. The distinction was blurring with each passing hour.
He closed his eyes finally, letting exhaustion pull him under. He dreamed of writing, of ink staining his fingers black. He dreamed of a door closing slowly, the sound echoing like a tomb sealing. He woke up before dawn, when the sky was still gray and the city was quiet. He sat up and stretched, his muscles stiff from tension and poor sleep. He went to the window and looked down at the empty streets. Only the guards were moving, marching in pairs with spears on their shoulders. They looked tired and cold, their breath visible in the morning air.
Nagi said, "Morning."
He whispered it to the glass, then turned away. He needed to wash his face and prepare for the day. He poured water from the pitcher into a basin. The water was cold and sharp, waking him up fully. He dried his face with a rough cloth and looked in the small mirror on the wall. His eyes looked the same, but he felt different. He was older than he looked, carrying memories that were not his.
He picked up his coat and put it on slowly, checking his pockets for his tools. The brass token from the Guild was there, along with the gray badge. He was ready for whatever came next. He opened the door quietly and walked down the stairs. Maret was not at the counter yet, so he left a coin for breakfast and walked out into the street. The air was crisp and clean, smelling of rain and stone. He breathed it in deeply and walked toward the merchant district.
He needed to check the Sevenfold Gate again. The journal was a key, but he needed more locks to understand the full picture. He reached the district as the sun began to rise, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The stall stood where he left it, the lock still a smooth plate without a keyhole. He opened the door and went inside, the familiar scent of oil and metal greeting him.
The workshop was unchanged, the tools in their places, the silver tree still rustling in the windless courtyard. He walked to the workbench and ran his hand over the wood. He felt a faint vibration there, like a heartbeat beneath the surface.
Nagi said, "You are alive."
He did not know how he knew, but he felt it in his bones. He picked up a hammer and struck the anvil once. The sound echoed strangely, like a bell ringing in a distant tower. He put the hammer down and walked to the courtyard. The tree leaves rustled without wind, and the painted stars above remained fixed in place. He touched the bark of the tree, and it was warm like skin.
Nagi said, "What are you?"
The tree did not answer, but he felt a presence there, ancient and patient. He walked back inside and locked the door behind him. He stepped into the street and pulled his hood up to shadow his face. He needed to visit the Guild and keep his meeting. He walked through the waking city, watching people open their shops and greet each other warmly. He remained silent and unseen, a ghost among the living. But he was getting closer to the truth, closer to the exit, closer to the one who made the mistake.
He reached the Grey Dome as the sun cleared the horizon. He touched the badge in his pocket and walked inside. The hall was busy again, filled with hunters preparing for the day. He moved toward the side entrance and showed the token to the guard. The guard nodded silently and let him pass. Nagi walked down the corridor toward the iron door. He knocked three times and waited. The door opened slowly, revealing the clerk and the cloaked figure inside. They were ready for him. Nagi stepped inside, and the door closed behind him. The game was changing, and he was changing with it.
A/N: Thank you for reading Chapter 11. The journal reveals a shocking past. What do you think happened to Nagi before? Please add this to your library and leave a review. Your support keeps the story alive!