After my breakdown, though it brought a sense of calm and release, my emotions remained tumultuous. I needed to step back, breathe, and find my footing. Frankfurt turned out to be the ideal place to regain my balance. As I road the city and took in its sights, the blend of the new and the old slowly drew out of myself. The jarring contrasts mirrored my inner turmoil, forging a sense of connection—or maybe solidarity—with the city.
In the Bankenviertel district, sleek modern skyscrapers rose like glass-covered blades, each pane reflecting shards of clouds and sunlight. Nearby, the Rör stood with centuries-old elegance, its weathered gables and stone walls a testant to past lives. The contrast was surreal—towering steel giants juxtaposed against an ancient, unshakable monunt. The city felt like a perfect reflection of my ntal state: shattered, drowning in grief and pain, scared, and uncertain. Yet, at the sa ti, I was excited, curious, slightly optimistic, and holding on to a sliver of hope.
While I sat there, the cool stone beneath and distant voices grounding the mont, a wave surged through my diaphragm. My chest tightened, vision blurred, and tears welled up, spilling in heavy, silent streams—a relief in each drop. The ache in my chest crested sharply before subsiding, leaving behind a strange calm, like the stillness after a storm. My hands pressed firmly against the cool bench, its solidity anchoring , a reminder that I was here, still standing amidst everything. I had thought my breakdown at the hotel marked the end of this strange phenonon, but it wasn’t. Throughout the day, small surges of energy still rose from my diaphragm, flooding my chest and bringing tears to my eyes. Thankfully, they were brief, passing in seconds, and the calm that followed was a blessing.
I sat on another bench by the Maine River, where the water mirrored the city skyline in rippling, silvery shades. Spring ward the air, though a lingering chill crept through my jacket, prickling my skin. In the distance, the hum of voices and the soft rush of the river filled the surrounding space, an urban symphony. My vision surprised . I could see people far off on the Eiserner Steg bridge—clearer than I should have been able to. Soone was waving, a woman’s hair was flying in the wind, a family stood for a photo, and a kid was tugging at his mother’s coat and saying sothing. I couldn’t hear what he was saying but saw everything clearly from a few hundred feet away.
I kept moving from place to place, losing myself in the city. The Eschenheir Tower lood ahead, a dieval relic surrounded by sleek glass and steel. Its pointed turrets and weathered stone looked like sothing out of a forgotten age, standing stubbornly against ti. For a mont, I paused, thinking about the centuries it had watched over the city, from knights and rchants to the endless rush of modern life. The streets buzzed with people, and the air slled of grilled sausages from a nearby stand. Sowhere in the distance, the bells of St. Paul's Church rang, a soft echo threading through the hum of the city.
In Sachsenhausen, the old part of town, I wandered down cobblestone streets lined with Äppelwoi bars. Though I didn’t drink much, I ducked into one for a quick glass of the local apple wine. The cider was sour, but it ward inside.
When I returned to the hotel, I was exhausted, and my feet hurt, but my mind felt clearer. Frankfurt had done its job, keeping the worst thoughts at bay for a while. Each twist in the city felt like an echo of my tangled past—polished and calm places sat beside rough patches that held stories of upheaval.
On the second day, after spending the morning wandering through crowded streets, I went to Frankfurt’s botanical park, the Palngarten. It hadn’t been part of my plan, but the need for quiet was too overwhelming to ignore. The city’s noise lted away when I stepped inside, replaced by a soothing stillness. Only the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional distant birdcall interrupted the tranquility—a hidden paradise among the concrete.
The air in the Palngarten was fresh and sweet, with hints of damp soil and flower perfu. Each breath brought a calm energy, a welco contrast to the city. I wandered down winding paths, losing myself in the gardens' serene embrace. Each section felt like a different world—the humid, plant-filled Tropicarium, the stark desert house with alien-like cacti. I let myself simply exist, allowing the Gates, the stats—everything—to fade into the background. During those hours, I wasn’t concerned about my past or future. Instead, I anchored myself in the here and now, the present mont around , letting the quiet work its way into my bones.
Finally, I felt balanced and in control, no longer shattering emotionally—whether from my own problems or the strange surges from my diaphragm—and my thoughts stopped scattering in every direction. I began to focus on the other side of my journey—the side that demanded more from than just emotional balance. The stillness of the gardens was perfect for planning what ca next, so I checked my mana.
It was disappointingly low at 76 out of 3000. That made huff in irritation; the issue had to be addressed in a more active fashion. I stocked up on supplies–a few takeaway als, drinks, a sleeping bag with a yoga mattress, a couple of paperbacks for the quiet hours, and an oil lamp. With my gear in Storage, I headed to the Gate. I wanted to raise my mana back to sothing useful.
The first day passed in almost complete stillness. I stretched out on the cool ground, the roughness of the stone beneath the sleeping bag pressing gently against my back. Above, the fractured archway reached out in jagged lines, framing the soft, fading light that filtered through the dense canopy above. The air felt heavy, holding a profound silence woven into the ruins. I closed my eyes, breathing it in, letting the stillness soak through my skin, like sinking into deep, untouched waters.
Only an occasional breeze rustled the dry grass. The tension uncoiled with each exhale, releasing another layer of worry. My focus drifted. I slipped into a half-daze. My thoughts ebbed and flowed with my breath.
The next day, I checked eagerly to see if my patience had paid off. My mana increased to 384 out of 3000—over 300 regenerated overnight, far better than the 100 I’d expected from the Travelers’ account. This progress should have been encouraging. But it frustrated . The process was too slow.
Desperate to speed up my regeneration, I gave ditation a shot. All the books I read ntioned it as a thod to regenerate. Sitting cross-legged, I closed my eyes and focused on clearing my mind. Easier said than done. Stray thoughts barged in, stubbornly clinging to every corner of my mind. After a frustrating eternity—or maybe ten or twenty minutes—I finally found a semblance of quiet. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. I stayed in that state for an indeterminate amount of ti, but when I checked my mana, it was at 396.
Maybe I’m not doing this ditation thing right?
I tried sitting cross-legged, staring down at my navel, hoping so mystical clarity would hit . After a few awkward minutes, I mostly just felt ridiculous. When my mana hadn’t budged, I was relieved.
Next, I tried ditating on the beauty of nature. Trees rustled, and light filtered through the leaves—pleasant enough, but for my mana? No change.
I focused hard on my mana, ntally chanting, “Mana, go up.” There was not even a tick on the ter.
Still frustrated, I visualized my mana system, imagining currents flowing inside . But nothing clicked, no sudden surge, no insights. Each attempt left staring at the sa, almost unchanged numbers. It was as if the mana was laughing at my efforts.
What was I missing?
Then, an idea struck . I closed my eyes and concentrated, trying to sense the mana in the surrounding air. At first, it was a struggle. The air held a weight and texture, but nothing distinctly mana-like. Still, I Knew I was on the right path. I was so glad about this Knowing function. It didn’t give nudges in the right direction, which was annoying, but at least it did give a sense of acknowledgnt when heading there. So, I pushed on, and focused on finding that difference, that subtle quality in the air.
Three of four hours in, there was still no noticeable change. Walking back and forth in the main hall with the Gate, also didn’t yield any insights. Hm, how does mana feel? By this point, it was clear that the surges from my diaphragm were mana waves. They were responsible for the tears. I concentrated and recalled their feeling to the best of my ability. Their consistency.
Slowly, it ca into focus. There was an energy there—not only in the air but radiating from the trees, the ground, and even the vines and moss around . I could feel it, faint and constant, a hum beneath everything, connecting it all in a quiet, unbreakable way. I let myself sink into the sensation, absorbing the presence of this energy, letting it wash over . It was incredibly satisfying to tune into it, finally. Like finding a layer I didn’t know was missing.
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I stayed calm, reveling in the connection to the mana. Then, a flashing red dot blinked in my field of vision. It was annoying, insistent, and entirely out of place.
What now?
You have learned the Skill [Mana Sense]
Alright, I could forgive the interruption—this ti.
Mana: 439/3000.
I developed the ability to sense it, but still didn’t absorb it faster. It was still out of reach. I closed my eyes, reached out to that subtle energy again, and tried sothing new: willing it into my body. I focused hard, like I could coax the mana to flow into if I just thought it strongly enough. Naturally, nothing happened. If anything, I could almost hear the mana laughing at , calling an idiot.
Next attempt: I tried “grabbing” at the energy, like I’d manipulated blood before, hoping the familiarity would help . But the mana stayed stubbornly outside my reach, untouched by my efforts.
Maybe… breathing it in? I took a deep breath, slowly pulling it through my nose, and sothing changed. There was a faint, almost tangible difference. It was a sense of sothing else slipping into , carried on the air. Encouraged, I found a rhythm. I breathed in deeply through my nose, then exhaled slowly out my mouth. Each breath brought a faint sensation of mana entering . Just as I settled in, the red dot blinked back into view, interrupting the mont. I rolled my eyes, exasperated.
You have learned the Skill [Mana ditation]
Alright, I forgave it this ti as well.
Mana: 614/3000.
Now we’re talking!
I settled in for the day, focusing on each breath, letting the mana flow. Hours passed, and eventually, my legs went numb from sitting cross-legged. I flopped onto my sleeping bag and discovered that lying down also worked. No need for the lotus position, then. When I checked again, my mana was 1833 out of 3000.
Progress is the best.
I drifted to sleep when night fell, half-expecting my mana would keep regenerating. Morning ca, though, and my mana was at 1971. No boost during sleep. Bumr. I shrugged it off and ditated until my mana finally topped off.
Returning to Earth, I headed straight for my car. The sight of it stopped in my tracks. It was covered in dust and looked like it had been sitting here for at least a week, not the three days I’d spent on the other side. Frowning, I grabbed my phone from the trunk, powered it on, and checked the date.
Eleven days. My hand froze. The phone felt heavy in my grip as I stared at the screen, my mind blank. Ti stretched, turning surreal. Nothing felt real. Nothing made sense. My pulse pounded in my ears; each beat echoing in the emptiness of my thoughts. I could feel a weight settling over , pressing down, my breaths coming shallow and jagged as if the air itself had thickened. Shock swallowed every coherent thought, leaving my body frozen in place. It was like my brain had short-circuited and collapsed, leaving only an empty, endless loop of disbelief.
I blinked, shaking my head, desperate to jump-start my mind into thinking, to form a coherent thought. But my brain was a ss—questions tumbled over each other, slipping through my fingers like sand. What? How? Why? The questions swirled in a dizzying storm, each left hanging unanswered. Every second felt like an eternity.
Finally, as if rebooting, my brain kicked back into gear, only to be flooded with a barrage of questions I couldn’t answer:
Ti moves differently?
How could this even happen?
Was it so glitch in the Gate? Did I miss sothing?
My mind raced, trying to piece together the impossible.
How did 11 days pass here when it was only three days over there? Had anyone noticed I was gone? Were there other Travelers who had experienced this? Was this a one-off thing, or was I looking at a recurring nightmare?
More and more questions crashed in, each one relentless.
Why was there nothing in the Archive warning about this? What did it an for future travels? If I left and ca back, would years pass on Earth? Decades? Centuries? Was I just supposed to guess and hope for the best every ti? I didn’t have friends or family to lose to the passage of ti, but still! If I traveled through a few worlds and returned, what would I find? A completely changed society? Progress? Decline? What? The enormity of it all weighed heavily on . I was going in blind, stumbling through an unknown situation with no guidance or warnings. Every unexpected twist felt like a gut punch. Guar Shum had his father prepare him for this madness, giving him a solid base to stand on. But ? I was getting blindsided at every turn.
As I scrolled through my phone, still in shock from the lost days, a line of missed calls caught my eye—my lawyer. I dialed him back with a sinking feeling, bracing myself for whatever news he’d been trying to deliver.
The phone barely rang before he picked up. “You’re a hard man to reach these days,” he said, a touch of impatience in his voice.
I rubbed my neck. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s been… complicated.”
“Complicated or not, there’s sothing you need to know.” His tone shifted, growing serious. “The court date’s been set. Two weeks from now. Your in-laws are pressing forward with the trust fund case.”
I exhaled slowly.
“I sent you an email with all the information. Just wanted to make sure you saw it when I didn’t get a reply,” he added, his tone sharp.
The call ended, leaving a heavy silence that settled in layers, another weight added to an already overloaded pile. I let out a long breath, booked my flight, and ntally marked the court date as the finish line I had to reach. But for now, I reminded myself to take things slow and let my poor, shocked mind adjust. Rushing wouldn’t do any good.
Later, sprawled on my bed at the hotel, I tried to focus on sothing productive to take my mind off the shocking aspect of my experience. Most of the books I’d read for research ntioned looting spells or skills, but when I scrolled through the lists, I didn’t see anything that matched. Of course, I hadn’t examined them thoroughly, so it might have slipped by unnoticed. From everything I’d read, fights seed inevitable—that was why I’d trained so hard. And if I was going to fight, I figured I should be able to claim the rewards. To the victor go the spoils, and all that jazz. It was ti to dig deeper. Lying there, I scrolled through page after page, more determined than ever. Did I find anything? Not a thing!
Maybe it’s under sothing weird?
I squinted at the descriptions of every vaguely plausible skill. I scoured through things like “Resource Gathering,” which was a sixth sense to find specific things, and “Inventory Expansion,” which expanded a rchant’s skill of all things. My brows furrowed deeper with each dead end. Nothing even remotely related to looting. It was like the system forgot this one essential detail.
“Bad system or Guidance or whatever you are, you’re missing crucial components for successful adventuring,” I griped, letting the screen close as I slumped back. “Who builds a system without looting skills?”
A feeling of rebuke washed over .
I froze in shock.
Holy crap, it communicated with !
And yeah—I might have hyperventilated.
I need to raise my Strength stat. Maybe I’d stop feeling shocked at every turn. It said sothing about dealing with stress better.
I closed my eyes, shook my head, clenched my fists, and took a deep, fortifying breath.
No thinking about a judgntal text box.
No thinking about a judgntal text box.
No thinking about a judgntal text box.
The following day, I wandered through the city streets without thinking, letting my legs carry wherever they wanted. I wasn’t ready for another shock. Instead, I let my gaze drift over the shop fronts and the architecture, soaking in the surroundings and pushing away any thought that tried to barge in. It worked the first ti around to deal with my equilibrium; I hoped it would help with the shock. A pawn shop caught my attention on a narrow side street. I rembered the Archive ntioned these places, so curious, I stepped inside.
The place was nothing like I’d expected. I’d pictured a small, dark, dusty shop cramd with random odds and ends. Instead, I found a vast, organized store—bigger than most of the shops I’d visited lately. A long glass case cut the store in two, filled with watches, jewelry, gems, and coins. On each end of the glass display were caras. One side showcased sleek, high-end DSLRs, while the other displayed a row of collectible vintage models—so of which looked genuinely antique. The air carried a faint scent of polished wood and lemon, an odd yet comforting combination that made the place feel inviting.
The store was divided into sections by partitions, each dedicated to a different category of expensive pawns. n’s and won’s clothes bore tags like Versace, Valentino, and Chanel, alongside equally pricey bags and shoes. There were paintings, sculptures, antique china, and silverware made from actual silver. Vinyl records and books filled another section. Leafing through the books, I could see why they were valuable—so had signatures or dedications by the authors, while others were printed 80, 90, or even 100 years ago or more. Large sections featured sporting equipnt, musical instrunts, and even power tools. It was like a giant secondhand departnt store within a shop.
I approached the counter, catching the salesperson’s attention. “Excuse , could you tell about your jewelry and gems? Specifically, the prices?”
He glanced at the case and nodded. “Ja, of course! These all very good price. Much cheaper than normal store.”
After a thorough look through the collection, I chose 34 pieces, primarily rings and pendants. But my eyes kept drifting to an old, vintage cara from the ‘80s—sturdy, chanical, and best of all, it didn’t need batteries. I picked it up, turned it over, and felt its satisfying weight.
The salesperson noticed my interest. “Ah, for that one, there is no flash. You see, ja?” He studied closely, gauging my reaction.
“That’s fine. I doubt I’ll need one where I’m going,” I said.
He looked confused, but didn’t ask.
After paying, I tucked the cara into my bag, feeling a tiny spark of anticipation. Since it didn’t need batteries, I hoped it would bypass the warning in the Archive that technology didn’t work with mana.
Back on the street, I looked at the pawnshop, the weight of my bag reminding I had so steps to take and preparations to make. The salesperson gave the contact information of a photography store that offered workshops in film developnt. I had enough on my plate without more surprises, so a down-to-earth workshop on a subject that interested sounded just right.
Hands in my pockets, I kept walking. Whatever ca next, I’d handle it.
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