Altered Intents

A deep sigh escaped Demian's lips as he sat against a crumbling stone wall, head tilted back, staring at the sky. His breath came slow, controlled, but the exhaustion in his limbs was undeniable. He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling the sticky residue of blood—his own and the creature's—coating his skin.

He had killed it.

That thing, whatever it was, was dead. But more importantly, it left something behind.

Demian reached into his pouch, fingers brushing against the smooth, faintly pulsing mana cores. One of the already dead creature, The other belonged to the one he just killed.

Normally, an awakened individual could absorb mana cores to strengthen their own. But his? His wasn't even there yet.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I'll use them differently."

The idea had formed the moment he saw the creature's core. If his own wasn't stable, then he'd treat them as external power sources, a temporary battery. Something he could tap into when needed—whether for body reinforcement or mana-intensive techniques. It wasn't an ideal solution, but right now, nothing was.

His grip tightened around the cores before he tucked them away.

For a while, he just sat there, letting his breathing even out. The aftereffects of the fight still clung to him-his muscles ached, his wounds pulsed with dull pain, and fatigue was settling in like a slow poison. His thoughts felt sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion.

But staying here wasn't an option.

He exhaled sharply, braced his hands against the stone, and pushed himself up. His body protested, his limbs stiff from inactivity, but he ignored it. He had to keep moving.

Then, he pushed himself up.

At first, he focused only on walking. One foot after the other. No thinking, no worrying-just movement

It had been hours since he first set foot in this city. Hours since the tide had receded, revealing these ruins. Hours since he'd started searching for a way out.

And yet—

His gaze flickered to the shattered cobblestones beneath his feet. His footprints. A trail that looped back on itself.

He had been here before , many times.

A slow, creeping realization had already settled into his head that he had lost, that

he was walking in circles.

His jaw clenched. He retraced his steps, carefully scanning the surroundings. Every alley, every collapsed building, every street—nothing looked the same, yet it all led him back here.

The city was a maze. No—worse than that.

Something was keeping him trapped.

Was it the layout of the ruins? A trick of the mind? Or… something else?

The thought unsettled him.

He tried another path. Another street. Another set of twists and turns.

And yet, after an hour—

Back to the same damn spot.

His stomach twisted, not just from hunger but from frustration. His throat felt dry, his muscles aching. His wounds—shallow but persistent—throbbed with each movement.

At first, he told himself he was being paranoid. That he was just disoriented, tired. But after the third, fourth, fifth time—

It wasn't just exhaustion.

He was lost.

And the more he tried to deny it, the more the truth gnawed at him.

If I don't find a way out soon…

His eyes flicked toward the horizon. The sky, once high and bright, was shifting. Twilight was creeping in, staining the edges of the world in deep purples and fading oranges.

The sun was setting.

And with it came a dangerous thought.

The tide will return.

He had no idea when. Hours? Maybe less. But if the waters flooded back into these ruins while he was still here—

A deep, suffocating feeling settled in his chest.

"I'll drown. And worse,I will not survives against the creatures here."

His breathing quickened. He forced himself to focus. Panic wouldn't help. But neither would blindly wandering until his body gave out.

He needed food. He needed a plan. He needed to get out of here before nightfall.

But as the seconds dragged on, one truth became clear.

He was running out of time.

Demian's breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. His legs burned, his vision blurred at the edges, and a cold sweat clung to his skin. He had been running—no, sprinting—through the ruins, pushing past his exhaustion, past the dull ache of his wounds, past the hunger clawing at his stomach. But no matter how far he went, no matter how many turns he took, the landscape remained unchanged.

The same broken pillars. The same crumbling archways. The same goddamn streets.

His hands trembled as he pressed them against his temples. He needed to think, to find a solution. But the exhaustion dulled his mind, made it sluggish. The quiet, once a welcome reprieve, now pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.

Then—

A deep rumble.

At first, he thought it was his imagination, a trick of his frayed nerves. But then he felt it again—faint vibrations beneath his feet.

His stomach twisted.

No.

Not yet.

He dropped to his knees, pressing his palm against the damp stone. It wasn't just shaking—it was breathing. A slow, rhythmic pulse.

The tide was coming back.

He cursed under his breath and shot to his feet. He had minutes—maybe an hour at best—before the waters reclaimed the ruins. His gaze flickered to the horizon, where the sun bled into the sky in shades of dying amber.

He had no way out.

No food. No energy. No plan.

Unless—

A thought surfaced. A desperate, reckless, utterly insane thought.

Kālacchidra

A forbidden art. One spoken of in hushed whispers before the war. A sort of time magic,not the kind that could slow seconds or speed up reactions, but something deeper. Older. A magic that didn't manipulate time—but borrowed it.

Or stole it.

His fingers twitched as he reached for the mana cores. His last reserves of energy. If there was ever a time to gamble, it was now.

He scanned the ruins, searching for a flat surface—one without cracks or imperfections. His heart pounded in his chest as he found it—a smooth slab of stone, untouched by time.

He knelt and, with a sharp rock, began carving a circle. Then, within it, the shape of a clock. The hands pointed to an uncertain hour, a time that didn't exist.

A clock that would never tell the right time.

His fingers fumbled through the silt until they found something—a rusted coin, half-buried in dust. It would do. He placed it at the center of the clock, the placeholder for fate itself.

Then, he began to chant.

The words were ancient, their meaning lost to most. But he knew them. They had been buried deep in his memory, remnants of a knowledge that none should possess.

The mana cores pulsed as he poured their energy into the ritual. A cold wind howled through the ruins, though the air had been still moments ago. His breath hitched as the stone beneath him darkened, as if ink had seeped into its cracks.

Then—

Silence.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the world exhaled.

A weight, indescribable and suffocating, pressed against his chest. The sky darkened—not from the setting sun, but from something unseen. The air warped, thick with a presence he could not name.

Something was watching.

Something had noticed.

His pulse hammered as the pressure lifted, as the unnatural stillness dissipated. But something was wrong.

The tide was slower now. He had bought himself time.

But at what cost?

His breath hitched. The air smelled different. The ruins felt...off. A subtle wrongness lingered in the space around him, like a puzzle with missing pieces.

He didn't know what had changed.

But he knew, without a doubt—

Time did not like being stolen.

And now, something had shifted.