John returned to the encampment as dawn’s first light touched the horizon.

  He walked on two legs, human form restored, but the shift had been hasty. Clothes hung in tatters—shredded by transformation and battle, stained with mud, blood, and scorch marks. Dirt caked his skin; sweat carved clean tracks through the grime. Blood—black and viscous—dripped from his mouth, staining chin and chest, the metallic tang lingering on his tongue. It was not his blood though, he was unhurt, at least in body. But his mind, his soul, it was again afflicted by what had led him to lose control long ago while protecting teachers of the Mage’s Enclave.

  The weretigresses waited at the camp’s edge.

  The damages to the encampment had been minimal. Nonetheless, the women had repaired what they could during the night—tents re-erected, fire pit rekindled—but their eyes held something new as he approached.

  Fear.

  Not the terror of prey before predator, but the wary awe of hunters who had glimpsed something beyond their world. Shira stood at the front, arms crossed, sapphire eyes searching his face. Others whispered behind her, spears still in hand. They had fought beside him before, trained with him, accepted him as kin. But this—this relentless, genocidal hunt, this power that had shattered an ancient threat in hours—was something else.

  Thankful, yes. Lives saved, tribe preserved, not a single one of them hurt or dead. But afraid of the what that had done it.

  Archangela stood apart, watching him approach.

  She had seen him fight. Seen him rage. Seen him break limits. But never like this—the cold, single-minded extermination, the bloodied return of a boy turned force of nature. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes lingered longer than usual, as if recalibrating what she thought she knew.

  John stopped before them, meeting their gazes without flinching.

  “It’s done,” he said simply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. More black smeared across his skin.

  Shira stepped forward first, clasping his shoulder despite the mess. “You… ended them. All.”

  He nodded. “None left.”

  The camp exhaled as one—relief, gratitude, the faint undercurrent of unease.

  John looked past them to the fire pit, where the blue flames danced innocently.

  He had saved them.

  But the cost—the loop, the training, the old man’s intervention—lingered in his eyes like a shadow no one else could see.

  John stood amid the grateful weretigresses, their thanks washing over him like a tide—hands clasping his arms, voices murmuring relief, Shira’s nod of fierce pride. He had saved them all. No wounds. No losses. The encampment stood whole, tents almost as pristine as before the attack, fire pit crackling, the black tigers reduced to a memory erased from the world.

  But their eyes…

  Shira’s held respect, yes, but edged with something careful. The others averted gazes too long, whispers trailing in his wake. They were thankful—profoundly so—but the boy who had trained among them, who had become kin, now carried a shadow of other.

  He glanced at Archangela.

  Her face—usually an unreadable mask—held something new. Not fear, not awe, but a subtle assessment, like she was measuring a blade she hadn’t fully grasped before. Eyes lingering on the blood drying on his chin, the tattered remnants of his clothes, the faint tremor in his hands he hadn’t noticed until now.

  John looked down at himself.

  Mud-crusted skin. Blood flaking from his mouth and chest. Clothes in rags, muscles still twitching with the echo of colossal rage. His breath came too fast, too shallow.

  Had he lost control?

  The hunt replayed in flashes: trees splintering, bodies crumpling, relentless pursuit until nothing black drew breath. Necessary? Yes. But the ferocity of it—the single-minded drive that had ignored exhaustion, ignored Shira’s distant calls to return—felt like something borrowed from a deeper place.

  He needed space. Time. Solitude.

  “I need to clean up,” he said, voice rough. “Be back soon.”

  Shira nodded, understanding without pushing. The others parted for him.

  He opened the Shelter’s boundary and stepped through.

  He was not alone… ???

  The pale dome greeted him with familiar stillness, but now it held company.

  Kana sat cross-legged near the center, eyes widening as he appeared.

  Around her stood the five weretigress survivors from the other timeline—the ones he had pulled into safety amid burning tents and black chains while he had sent Archangela to chase black tigers and he himself had started to experiment with time. Silver hair, golden armor dented but wounds mended by Archangela’s touch, eyes flicking between confusion and recognition as they saw him.

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  And there, standing slightly apart—

  Another Archangela.

  Not his Archangela—the one who had flown with him, who had watched him hunt to extinction. This one was from the ruined timeline, posture identical, expression calm but gaze carrying the weight of that day’s carnage.

  No time had passed for them inside his shelter. He had not understood this. When he was inside, no time passed outside but when he was outside, no time passed inside. At least it was what the system had mentioned and this situation confirmed it; it had been different when the shelter was in the parallel world though as Bobo had evolved to Archangela in his absence. But more was at play here. He had transported people from the other timeline to this one. The shelter travelled back with him. Was this the reason why the old man had told him to call back Archangela before rewinding time?

  John froze in the entryway, Shelter boundary sealing behind him with a soft hiss.

  Shock hit like cold water.

  Blue pairs of eyes stared back: Kana’s worried, the tigresses’ wary, Archangelas’ measuring.

  “What—” His voice cracked. “How are you here?”

  The duplicate Archangela tilted her head slightly. “You sent us,” she said simply.

  Kana rose slowly. “John? What’s wrong? What happened to the others? I only see five of my kin.”

  The other weretigresses looked at the ground. They knew, they were the last.

  He staggered back a step, mind reeling. His temporal jump. The Shelter’s timelessness. Somehow, the five tigresses and her—pulled across the divide when he leaped back?

  The weight of two timelines crashed down in the one safe space he had thought was his alone.

  John pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, eyes squeezing shut as he exhaled sharply through his nostrils. The Shelter’s pale light did nothing to ease the pounding in his temples, the tangle of timelines knotting tighter in his mind.

  Think.

  He opened his eyes, meeting the sea of confused, expectant gazes—Kana’s wide with worry, the five tigresses’ wary and lost, the second Archangela's calmly appraising.

  “Stay here,” he said, voice rough but steady. “I will enter the house, wash myself, and change clothes. Then I will try to explain what happened to you.”

  He turned specifically to the five weretigresses, their silver hair and golden armor stark reminders of the timeline he had just erased.

  He knew, in the Shelter’s timeless bubble, no seconds had passed for them or Kana. The five had stepped inside after screams and fire, then frozen. Kana had waited in ignorance. They hadn’t had time to share tales of death, of Klara’s body, of the encampment’s ruin. They wouldn’t know about his second hunt, his loop, his desperate leap back through Time.

  “Don’t say anything of what happened to Kana yet,” he added firmly. “Because I solved the situation.”

  Confusion rippled through them like a wave.

  The tigresses exchanged glances—eyebrows furrowing, mouths parting on half-formed questions. What situation? Solved how? Their eyes darted to each other, then back to him, the weight of unspoken trauma clashing with his cryptic assurance.

  Kana’s curiosity burned brighter, her head tilting, fingers twisting in her lap. “John, what—?”

  But he was already moving.

  He turned away, striding toward the small house within the Shelter—a simple structure of pale stone and woven thatch, its door a plain slab of wood. He pushed it open without looking back, the hinges silent in the timeless space.

  The door closed with a firm thud, sealing him inside.

  Behind it, the questions hung unanswered, curiosity and confusion thickening the air like fog. Kana stared at the door, biting her lip. The tigresses shifted uneasily, hands drifting toward absent weapons. The second Archangel simply watched, patient as ever.

  Inside, John leaned against the door, breath shuddering out.

  Clean up.

  Then explain.

  One impossible truth at a time.

  Kana’s gaze darted from the closed door to the five white weretigresses, her fingers twisting tighter in her lap. The Shelter’s pale light cast long shadows across their faces, highlighting the dirt and dried blood still marring their golden armor.

  “Is my mother all right?” she asked, voice small but edged with the fragile hope of someone bracing for the worst.

  The five tigresses looked at the ground.

  Silver hair fell forward, hiding eyes that suddenly brimmed. One swallowed hard; another’s shoulders tensed. Silence stretched, heavy and telling, the weight of what they had survived pressing down without words.

  Archangela—the one from the ruined timeline, her presence a quiet anchor—lifted a hand slightly.

  “Let us wait for John to come out,” she said, tone calm, brooking no argument.

  Kana’s lip trembled, but she nodded, eyes flicking back to the door. The tigresses exhaled faintly, gratitude in their glances toward Archangela. Questions burned unspoken—how was John here? What had he solved?—but for now, they obeyed, clustering closer together in the timeless quiet.

  The door remained shut. John was gathering his thoughts. He felt bad for prioritizing his hygiene over Kana’s desperation but to be honest with himself, he needed some time to digest himself what had happened.

  The door creaked open.

  John stepped out, clean and composed. Water still beaded on his freshly changed clothes—simple tunic and trousers from the Shelter’s stores—and his hair hung damp, face scrubbed free of blood and grime. He looked every bit the boy they knew, but his eyes carried something heavier.

  The group turned as one, tension thickening the air.

  “Did you ever think how it would be to have a twin sister?” he asked, voice light but deliberate.

  Blank stares met him. Kana’s head tilted in confusion. The five weretigresses exchanged puzzled glances, brows furrowing. Archangela’s expression didn’t shift.

  John exhaled a small, wry smile. “Sorry. I wanted to ease the tension a bit… But be ready to listen to some crazy things. It’s probably better if I tell you first before proving it to you. Let us all sit down.”

  They hesitated, then obeyed—lowering themselves to the Shelter’s smooth floor in a loose circle. Kana tucked her legs beneath her, eyes wide and fixed on him. The tigresses sat rigidly, armor clinking softly. Archangela folded her hands, patient as stone.

  John sat cross-legged opposite them, meeting their gazes steadily.

  “Kana,” he began, “your mother lives.”

  Kana’s breath hitched, hope flickering—

  One of the five weretigresses shot to her feet. “What are you saying? You know that—”

  John raised a hand, palm out—firm, silencing. She faltered, mouth closing.

  He repeated, slower, more deliberate: “Klara lives. So does Shira. The Shaman. Lara. Talissa. All of them.”

  The standing tigress froze, then sank back down slowly, confusion warring with desperate need to believe.

  “Sit down, please,” John said to her. “Let me explain.”

  She did, eyes locked on him, the others leaning forward.

  “Look,” he continued, “when we get out of this place—by the way, this is my Shelter. I never explained it to you five, but it’s not important right now. When we get out, you will find your encampment in pristine condition. Everything in its place. No one hurt. No bodies.”

  Shock rippled through them.

  One tigress gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Another whispered, “Necromancy?”

  John’s eyes flashed, irritation sharpening his tone. “Please don’t interrupt me. It’s confusing enough without you adding alternative ideas. No, not necromancy. Time.”

  He let the word land.