Chapter 1: The Temple of The Lost

  Michael paused, wiping the sweat from his brow as the thick, humid air pressed in on him from all sides. The Amazon was a living, breathing entity, one that seemed to pulse with its own ancient rhythm. The sounds of unseen creatures echoed through the dense canopy, a constant symphony of calls and rustling leaves. The air felt dense, laden with moisture, the heat stifling. He could feel it seeping through his clothes, trickling down his spine in rivulets.

  He adjusted the straps of his backpack, his mind wandering away from the oppressive heat and back to a distant memory, one that had been haunting him ever since he left the quiet comfort of his mother’s library all those months ago. The memory came unbidden, rushing over him like the floodwaters of the nearby river, flooding his senses.

  Michael remembered the days after his mother passed. The silence in their home had been deafening, her absence leaving a gaping hole in every corner of the house, in every room that once held her voice and her presence. He could still see her, sitting by the firelight, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose as she flipped through the pages of yet another obscure manuscript. A historian, a scholar, and, above all, a seeker of truths. She had been obsessed with the mysteries of the ancient world, collecting books and artefacts, chasing after fragments of forgotten civilisations. Michael had inherited that obsession, that unyielding thirst for knowledge. Her legacy—those crumbling volumes of ink and parchment—had become his lifeline, the only tether that kept him connected to her after she was gone.

  The books she left behind were more than just words on a page. They were her voice. In their pages, he could still hear the passion in her voice as she spoke of ancient cultures and hidden histories. She had always said that the answers to life’s greatest mysteries lay in the forgotten corners of history, in the dust-covered tomes that few had the patience to uncover. In those books, Michael had found solace, a means of keeping her alive in some small way. But even the most obscure texts couldn’t fill the void left by her death. They were mere fragments—pieces of the greater puzzle that he felt he was meant to solve.

  His mother had never told him everything. There had always been whispers, half-finished stories, and vague hints about a secret she’d discovered in the farthest reaches of the earth. Her journal was littered with cryptic notes, references to ancient temples and forgotten gods. She had hinted at something greater, something that could change the course of history. But then she died—suddenly, unexpectedly—and the answers she had uncovered slipped beyond his reach.

  Now, as he trudged deeper into the Amazonian jungle, Michael couldn’t shake the feeling that this was what she had been leading him toward. The temple that lay hidden somewhere within these untamed wilds, lost to time and decay. He didn’t know why, but he felt an unshakable certainty that this was the answer to the questions that had tormented him for so long.

  His boots sank into the spongy earth as he navigated the thick undergrowth, every step taking him further from civilisation, deeper into the unknown. The jungle was alive with sound now—the buzzing of insects, the low growls of unseen predators, the rustling of leaves above him as a shadow passed swiftly through the canopy. Yet, in his mind, it was quieter. His thoughts were elsewhere, fixated on the temple that awaited him. The stories he’d heard from local guides swirled in his mind. Whispers of ancient forces, of explorers who’d entered the jungle and vanished without a trace. Some had called it cursed. Others spoke of a force that had remained hidden for centuries, waiting for the right person to uncover it.

  Michael had heard these stories, but he didn’t believe them. He couldn’t. Not when the answers lay so close, just within reach. But there was something else gnawing at him—a vague sense of unease, a feeling that he wasn’t alone in this journey. It was as though the jungle itself was watching him, waiting for him to take the next step. He shook the feeling off. There was no time for doubt. His mother’s work had led him here, and he wasn’t going to turn back now.

  The closer he got, the quieter the jungle became. The rustling of leaves faded into a profound stillness. It was as though the very air had thickened around him. His breath caught in his throat as he suddenly felt it—an almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. He wasn’t alone. He had never truly been alone.

  He turned a corner in the underbrush and froze. There it was. The temple.

  The sight before him took his breath away. The ancient structure loomed in front of him, partially obscured by thick vines and moss, like a forgotten relic of another age, its dark stonework weathered by centuries of rain and neglect. The stone walls were jagged, their edges softened by time, yet the temple held an undeniable majesty. It seemed to rise out of the earth itself, a fusion of natural rock and carefully hewn stone, shaped into a monument that defied the passing of centuries. Its carvings—deep spirals and interwoven symbols—were unlike anything he had ever seen before, seeming to shift and change when viewed from different angles, as though alive. The images of gods, animals, and strange creatures seemed to move beneath the surface, their forms distorted in the dim light.

  He stepped closer, his heart pounding in his chest. The air around him seemed to hum with energy, thick with ancient power. The vines that clung to the temple were massive, their twisted, gnarled forms draping over the entrance like curtains. He reached out, his hand brushing against the thick tendrils, which seemed to shudder at his touch. The door creaked as if it had been waiting centuries to open, its stone surface cold and unyielding.

  The entrance itself was marked by towering columns, their surfaces etched with worn inscriptions, nearly erased by the passage of time. Above the doorway, an enormous stone relief depicted a figure—tall and proud, with arms outstretched, as though calling Michael forward. The figure’s eyes, carved deep into the stone, seemed to follow him no matter where he moved.

  Michael’s heart raced as the temple seemed to breathe around him. It was both a beacon and a warning. He couldn’t explain it, but the air was thick with something beyond mere history. The temple was alive, filled with secrets older than anything he could imagine. He had come here to find answers, but now that he stood before it, those answers felt like a distant, dangerous promise.

  Taking a deep breath, Michael reached forward and pushed aside the thick vines that hung across the entrance. The door groaned in protest, but it opened slowly, revealing the dark interior. His pulse quickened as he crossed the threshold, stepping into a vast chamber that stretched out before him.

  The air inside was cool and dry, the silence absolute. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Michael’s gaze was drawn upward. Towering shelves lined the walls, crammed with books—endless rows upon rows of ancient tomes, their pages yellowed with age. The scent of old paper and ink filled the air, mingling with something else—something faintly metallic, as though the library itself was made of more than just paper and stone.

  The vastness of the library was overwhelming. He could see no end to the shelves, only darkened corners where the light did not reach. And yet, in the center of the room stood a figure—a man whose presence seemed to fill the chamber with an energy that was both serene and unsettling.

  Michael stepped forward, his footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness. The man turned toward him, and Michael’s breath caught in his throat. The man was tall, his robes deep blue and shimmering faintly in the dim light, and his features were sharp, almost ageless. A long, flowing white beard cascaded down to his chest, and his eyes—ancient and knowing—seemed to pierce through the veil of time itself.

  “You’ve come,” the figure said, his voice rich and deep, reverberating in the stillness.

  Michael stood frozen. “Who… who are you?” he managed to ask, his voice betraying his awe.

  “I am Merlin,” the man replied simply, his gaze never leaving Michael’s. “Guardian of this place.”

  Michael’s heart skipped a beat. “Merlin?” The legendary wizard—the figure who had lived through centuries, whose name was etched into the annals of history. “The Merlin?”

  “The very same,” Merlin said, his smile faint but knowing. “I have watched over this library for millennia. And now, it seems, you are here for a reason.”

  Michael’s mind spun. This wasn’t possible. Merlin was a legend, a myth. And yet, standing before him, Michael felt the undeniable truth in Merlin’s presence. This was no ordinary library. The walls, the books, the very air itself hummed with an ancient power that made the temple outside seem like a mere shadow of what lay within.

  “I… I don’t understand,” Michael stammered, his thoughts racing. “I thought this was a temple. But it’s a library. Why? Why is it here?”

  Merlin’s gaze softened, and for a moment, his eyes seemed to look far beyond Michael, as though seeing something invisible. “This,” he said, his voice filled with quiet reverence, “is the Library of Time. A place where all knowledge exists—past, present, and future. It holds the records of every moment in history, every event, every choice made, every fate sealed.”

  Michael’s breath caught in his throat. “The Library of Time?” He could scarcely comprehend it.

  “Yes,” Merlin continued, “and it is not a place for the faint-hearted. The knowledge contained within these walls is not for everyone. Only those with the courage to face the truths within it can truly understand its power.”

  Michael took a hesitant step forward, his eyes still wide with disbelief. “But why? Why would someone need all this knowledge?”

  Merlin’s smile faded, replaced by an expression of profound seriousness. “Because knowledge is not just power, Michael. It is also a burden

  Michael stood in the shadow of Merlin, the weight of his words sinking deeper into his chest. The air in the library was thick with the scent of ancient paper and ink, the atmosphere pulsing with something beyond mere history. It was as though time itself had woven itself into the fabric of the space, its threads alive and vibrating. The silence was almost suffocating, yet strangely comforting—like the pause before a storm, where all things hung in the balance.

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  Merlin’s gaze never wavered. There was an unsettling calmness to him, as though he had seen the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of civilisations, and had lived through all of it without flinching. His age was unquantifiable—both ancient and ageless, his presence transcending time in a way that made the walls of the library seem fragile by comparison.

  “Burden?” Michael echoed, his voice barely a whisper, as though the word itself carried the weight of an entire universe.

  Merlin nodded slowly, his eyes softening, though the depth of his gaze never dulled. “Yes. The pursuit of knowledge often comes at a cost. Understanding the flow of time, the intricacies of fate—it can change you. It can tear apart your sense of self. The deeper you look, the harder it is to step away.”

  Michael swallowed hard, his throat tight. The stories of his mother swirled in his mind, and he wondered—was this what she had felt, too? Had she come to this same place, touched this same truth? And had it broken her as it seemed to have broken Merlin?

  “You said the library holds the records of every moment in history,” Michael said, the words tasting like a revelation on his tongue. “The past, present, future—all of it?”

  “Yes,” Merlin replied, his voice steady but heavy with something Michael couldn’t quite place. “Every thread of existence is woven here. Every choice, every destiny, every possibility. It is a record of what has been, what is, and what might yet be.”

  A shiver ran down Michael’s spine as he took another step into the vast space. The shelves stretched endlessly, stacked high with forgotten knowledge, all of it waiting. Waiting for someone to sift through the pages, to unearth the truths buried within.

  “How do you know what to look for?” Michael asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

  Merlin’s smile was slow and knowing. “The library does not simply present its knowledge to anyone. It chooses, in a sense, the one who will uncover its secrets. And even then, you must be careful. The knowledge you seek may not always be the knowledge you need. And once you begin, there is no turning back.”

  The weight of his words settled heavily on Michael’s shoulders. He had come here seeking answers, seeking closure—seeking to understand his mother’s legacy. But the promise of this place, this library, was vast and dangerous. The deeper he went, the more he feared what he might uncover. Would he, too, be consumed by the knowledge it offered?

  “Why me?” Michael whispered, almost to himself. “Why did I find this place?”

  Merlin’s expression softened. “Because you are the one who has been chosen to see what others cannot. The threads of fate have converged on this moment, and you are here for a reason.”

  “But what is that reason?” Michael asked, the question burning in his chest. “What am I meant to do?”

  “You are meant to understand,” Merlin said simply, his voice carrying a deep, almost sorrowful weight. “But the understanding you seek will not come easily. You must be willing to face the truth, no matter how dark it may seem.”

  Michael’s heart raced. “What if the truth is more than I can bear?”

  Merlin’s gaze softened further, and for a moment, it felt as though the centuries of wisdom he carried within him were laid bare in those ancient eyes. “The truth, Michael, is not always kind. But it is always necessary. And once you know it, there is no going back. The path you walk from here will shape your destiny.”

  Michael’s mind reeled as he tried to comprehend what Merlin was saying. The weight of the decision he had unknowingly made, stepping into this temple, into this library, now seemed crushing. He had come seeking answers, but what would those answers cost him?

  He could feel the pull of the library’s power, its ancient presence tugging at him, urging him forward. The shelves whispered to him, though no words could be heard. It was as if the very walls of the library were calling to him, drawing him toward something hidden in their depths.

  Merlin’s voice broke through his thoughts, steady and calm. “You must choose, Michael. You can leave now, walk away from this place, and return to the life you knew. Or you can stay and face what awaits you here.”

  Michael’s mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest. He had spent so long searching for answers. But was he ready to face whatever lay in wait? Was he ready to learn the secrets that had cost his mother so much?

  The stillness in the air grew thicker, pressing down on him like the weight of the world. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. The decision was his. The library, the temple, the journey—it was all in his hands now.

  He opened his eyes and met Merlin’s gaze. “I’ll stay.”

  Merlin nodded, his eyes gleaming with something Michael couldn’t quite place. “Then follow me, Michael. And prepare yourself.”

  With that, Merlin turned and began to walk deeper into the library, his robes flowing behind him like a shadow. Michael hesitated for a moment, the gravity of his decision settling over him like a storm. Then, with a steadying breath, he followed.

  The shelves seemed to part before him as he moved forward, the very air humming with a subtle, palpable energy. Each step he took felt heavier than the last, as though he were descending into something much greater than he could comprehend. He followed Merlin deeper into the labyrinth of books, the walls narrowing as they went, until the light seemed to dim, casting long shadows across the floor.

  Finally, Merlin stopped before a massive stone door, its surface covered in intricate symbols that seemed to shift and shimmer in the dim light. He turned to face Michael, his expression unreadable.

  “This is where your journey truly begins,” Merlin said, his voice echoing in the silence of the library. “Beyond this door lies the heart of the Library of Time.”

  Michael stepped forward, his hand brushing against the cool stone. He could feel the power that emanated from the door, an overwhelming force that seemed to pulse with life. This was it—the moment he had been waiting for.

  As his fingers touched the surface, the door creaked open, revealing a vast chamber beyond. The light inside was dim, but there was something else—a glow that seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves. And in the centre of the room stood an object, an artefact that hummed with an energy so strong, it seemed to vibrate in his bones.

  “This,” Merlin said, his voice quiet, “is what you’ve come for.”

  Michael stepped forward, his heart racing in anticipation. He didn’t know what he was about to face, but he knew one thing for certain—there was no turning back now.

  The artefact stood on a pedestal of polished obsidian, its surface swirling with faint, iridescent light. It was spherical in shape, no larger than a grapefruit, yet the energy it radiated filled the chamber like the roar of an invisible tide. Symbols danced across its surface, changing constantly—some familiar, drawn from ancient alphabets, others alien and indecipherable.

  Michael approached it slowly, each step echoing through the vaulted chamber. The air grew colder the closer he came, not with the chill of death, but with the sobering stillness of truth. The artefact pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat—as if recognising him, responding to his presence.

  “What is it?” Michael whispered, his voice nearly drowned in the chamber’s hum.

  Merlin stepped to his side, his expression grave. “It is the Core of Chronos. A living record of time itself.”

  Michael’s brow furrowed. “A living record?”

  “Yes,” Merlin replied. “This artefact is a conduit—a vessel through which the Library accesses the flow of time. All that has been and all that may come is filtered through it. It is both map and compass, archive and oracle.”

  Michael stared at it, the flickering glyphs reflecting in his wide eyes. “And what does it want from me?”

  Merlin turned toward him. “It doesn’t want. It reveals. If you touch it, it will show you what you seek most… and perhaps what you fear most. The truth it shows is never random—it chooses what must be known, not what is desired.”

  Michael’s hand hovered over the surface of the Core. His thoughts swirled: his mother, the mystery of her death, the cryptic symbols in her journals. Had she stood here once, like he was now? Had she touched the Core?

  His fingers brushed it lightly—and the world dissolved.

  In an instant, the chamber vanished. A blinding surge of light enveloped him, followed by a rush of sensation—cold wind, the scent of burning parchment, voices whispering in languages he couldn’t understand. He was no longer in the library.

  He was in the past.

  Stone walls surrounded him, torches flickering against ancient frescoes. Figures in robes passed by, murmuring prayers to forgotten gods. A man stood at a lectern, recording words into a scroll. Michael recognised none of them—yet somehow, he understood all of it. The Core wasn’t just showing him history. It was letting him live it.

  Then, the vision shifted.

  He stood in a grand hall of crystal and light, surrounded by strange figures—beings not quite human, not quite spirit. They spoke of time as if it were clay, to be shaped and molded. One of them turned to him, and though it had no mouth, he heard its voice clearly.

  “You are the thread that binds the broken weave.”

  Michael tried to speak, but no words came. The vision blurred again.

  He was falling—through stars, through ruins, through lifetimes. A war raged in some distant future, cities crumbling beneath the weight of forgotten sins. A figure cloaked in shadow reached for the Core, its eyes burning with hatred.

  And then—

  Darkness.

  When Michael awoke, he was on the cold floor of the chamber. Merlin stood over him, concern etched into his ancient face.

  “What… what was that?” Michael gasped, still trembling.

  “You touched the truth,” Merlin said quietly. “Not all can bear it.”

  Michael sat up slowly, still dazed. “I saw things—places I couldn’t explain. People I’ve never met. A war… someone reaching for the Core…”

  Merlin nodded grimly. “Then you’ve seen the danger as well. You now understand why the Library must be protected.”

  Michael looked up at him. “Protected from what?”

  “From those who would use it to rewrite time,” Merlin said. “To unmake what is, and twist what will be. The Library is a sanctuary, but it is also a battleground. And you, Michael… you are now a part of it.”

  Michael’s hands trembled as he pressed them to the stone floor, grounding himself in something real, something stable. But the images—the visions—still clung to the edges of his mind like fog refusing to lift. His breathing was shallow, his thoughts chaotic. The figure he’d seen reaching for the Core… It hadn’t just been a stranger. There was something familiar in that darkness, something that resonated deep in his bones.

  “I saw a man—no, a presence,” Michael murmured. “He wanted the Core. He was… wrong. Like he didn’t belong in the world I was seeing.”

  Merlin gave a solemn nod, his face clouded with unease. “Azreal.”

  The name fell like a stone into silence.

  Michael looked up. “You know him?”

  “I knew of him,” Merlin corrected, his voice low and distant. “Once a guardian of time, like me. But he grew ambitious—obsessed with the idea of reshaping reality. He believed he could ‘fix’ the timeline, eliminate suffering by choosing what should and should not exist.”

  Michael frowned. “That doesn’t sound so evil.”

  Merlin’s gaze hardened. “Until you realise that to eliminate suffering, he had to erase entire histories—entire people. He believed some lives were… inconvenient to the grand design he saw in his mind. That is not creation, Michael. That is tyranny.”

  Michael lowered his eyes, the implications washing over him like a cold tide. “And he’s still out there?”

  Merlin nodded. “He was banished, lost in a rift beyond time. But something tells me he is returning. Your presence here… the visions granted to you by the Core… they are no accident. The Library does not call without purpose.”

  Michael stood shakily, brushing dust from his jeans, but the weight of destiny pressed harder than any dirt or stone. “So what do I do now? I’m not a warrior. I’m not a wizard. I’m a grad student with a laptop and a bunch of my mom’s old journals.”

  Merlin’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the ancient wizard looked not like a guardian of time, but like a weary father speaking to a child caught in a storm. “And yet, you were chosen. Do not dismiss the strength of what you carry. Knowledge, intuition, bloodline—all of it matters. Your mother was one of the most gifted scholars the Library ever accepted. She charted time with more grace than many of us who’ve lived centuries.”

  Michael blinked. “She was part of the Library?”

  “Yes,” Merlin said. “Not just part of it. She helped defend it. She fought Azreal when others faltered. She gave everything… to protect what we still have.”

  Silence held the room for a long beat.

  Then, softly, Michael said, “I never even knew her. Not really.”

  Merlin stepped forward and placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Then it’s time you did.”

  The chamber darkened. The Core pulsed once, then grew dim. Behind them, a tall wooden door—one that hadn’t been there a moment before—creaked open. Beyond it stretched a spiral staircase lit by lanterns that burned with a blue flame.

  “She left her legacy within the Library,” Merlin said. “And she left something else. A path for you to follow.”

  Michael glanced at the door, heart pounding. “Where does it lead?”

  “To her past,” Merlin replied. “And to your future.”

  Michael squared his shoulders, took one last look at the Core of Chronos, then stepped toward the staircase. As he crossed the threshold, the temperature shifted again—not cold this time, but warm, tinged with the scent of parchment and lavender. He could almost hear her voice in the flicker of the flames.

  He didn’t know what he’d find at the bottom. But for the first time since he’d stepped into the Library of Time, he wasn’t afraid.

  He was ready