CHAPTER 207: AN OLD MAN

Inside the hidden cavern behind Blinding Town, the air now hummed faintly with energy. A generator’s low buzz filled the dim space, its soft light panels casting uneven shadows across the rocky walls. The place looked like an emergency shelter turned hideout—folding tables, medical kits, and a few duffel bags of supplies spread around.

Hutton lay unconscious on a makeshift cot, a biometric monitor clipped to his finger blinking steadily in green. The steady beep echoed faintly in the cavern. His breathing was even now, but the faint trace of energy still pulsed beneath his skin like veins of light—restless, unstable.

Bob sat near him, elbows on his knees, scrolling through a tactical tablet that projected holographic data above it. He was analyzing energy readings from the earlier battle, trying to make sense of what Hutton had unleashed. Boma was standing guard near the metal-reinforced door that served as the cavern’s only exit, while Julian leaned on a stack of crates, his hands resting by his side.

The silence broke when Everlyn’s phone began to vibrate sharply against the table.

She glanced at the caller ID — "City Bureau HQ". Her face immediately tightened.

"...Damn it."

Bob looked up. "Who’s that?"

"The police commissioner," she muttered, sliding her phone open. "They’ve been calling non-stop since morning."

Julian frowned. "You gonna answer?"

She hesitated, then sighed and tapped the green icon. "Everlyn here."

The voice that came through was tense, formal.

"Mayor Everlyn, the situation’s spiraling. The media’s flooding the streets, and now the military’s setting up checkpoints near the east perimeter. They’re demanding your presence immediately for questioning about the explosion."

Everlyn rubbed her forehead, exhaling hard. "Understood. I’ll be there in fifteen."

"Make it ten. The press already knows where you live. They’ll eat you alive if they catch you outside."

The call ended abruptly.

Everlyn set the phone down and cursed softly. "Great. Just what I needed."

Bob closed his tablet and stood. "They’re going to ask questions you can’t answer. You sure you can handle that?"

"I’m the mayor, Bob. If I don’t show up, it’ll make things worse. The town’s crawling with feds, journalists, and cultivator investigators—someone has to play damage control." She grabbed her jacket from a nearby chair and slipped it on, checking her gun holster and phone battery.

Boma’s low voice echoed from the corner. "You can’t tell them about Hutton or this place."

She gave a dry smirk. "Relax. I’ve lied to reporters before breakfast."

Then her eyes softened as she looked at Hutton, still lying motionless under the glow of the medical scanner. She stepped closer and adjusted the blanket over him, whispering almost to herself,

"Damn it, Hutton... I hope whatever’s happening inside you doesn’t kill you before your enemies do."

Bob walked her to the steel door. "Keep your phone on silent but available. If things go south, we’ll come for you."

She nodded. "Got it. You three keep him stable. I’ll try to steer the heat away from this sector of town. If anyone asks, the explosion was from a gas leak at one of the old tunnels. The usual crap."

With that, she pushed the door open. The dim sunlight and fog from outside poured in, briefly outlining her figure before she slipped out. The hydraulic lock hissed closed behind her.

Inside the cavern, the silence returned.

Julian crossed his arms, glancing toward the cot. "She’s risking a lot for him."

Bob’s gaze didn’t waver from Hutton. "We all are."

And just then—Hutton’s fingers twitched. The biometric monitor started to beep faster.

Boma looked up from his post, eyes narrowing.

"He’s reacting again..."

Bob stood immediately, stepping forward as the faint energy around Hutton’s body began to shimmer.

"Come on, kid," Bob muttered. "Stay with us."

-----

Just as Bob, Julian and Boma were still watching over Hutton in the slightly darkened cavern, Hutton’s body continued to lay motionless — his breathing steady, his pulse strong — but his consciousness was far, far away.

In his mind, the world flickered alive like a film reel sparking back to life after years of dust.

The first thing he felt was weight.

The weight of a body he hadn’t worn in years. His old body. Broad shoulders under a heavy tactical coat, the familiar hum of military-grade armor fitted to his frame, and the sharp sting of the desert wind slapping against his scarred cheek.

He was standing in front of a field base. A flag which belonged to the country he originally came from fluttered weakly on a metal pole above rows of armored transports. The sky was dim orange — war weather.

A voice crackled through his earpiece.

"Commander Maxwell, we’ve secured the east wing. Remaining hostiles are retreating!"

"Good," Hutton — or rather, Colonel Hutton Maxwell — replied in his deep, controlled tone. "Sweep the area. I want zero movement by dusk."

He began walking across the camp, boots crunching against gravel and sand. Soldiers saluted as he passed. He nodded at each one — calm, efficient, composed. He remembered this mission. Operation Sovereign. The one where his regiment dismantled the last rogue warlord faction right before the emergence of World War III. He could recall every second like it was yesterday... but something was off.

Each soldier’s face blurred slightly as he looked at them too long — like fog over glass. And when he reached the main tent, the lights flickered.

He frowned. "This... wasn’t supposed to happen."

He stepped inside. Maps lined the table, drones buzzed overhead, and his tactical assistant — Timothy. His right-hand man back then — was standing at the control panel, giving orders.

But the moment Timothy turned around, Hutton’s chest tightened. The man’s eyes were empty. Hollow.

"You remember this one too, don’t you?" the hollow-faced Timothy said, smiling without warmth.

Hutton stepped back instinctively. "What— what the hell is this?"

The tent melted away, fabric dissolving like ash. The world dimmed, and the sound of rotors, gunfire, and explosions replayed — all his greatest missions overlapping like echoes of the past. He saw himself leading men, saving hostages, destroying bases, toppling regimes. Every operation was flawless. Every victory absolute.

But the more he watched, the more it felt wrong — like he was stuck inside a memory that refused to end.

He clenched his fists. "I’ve already lived this. This isn’t real."

A deep chuckle echoed behind him.

Hutton turned sharply — and there, sitting calmly on a collapsed crate amidst the chaos, was an old man.

He looked utterly out of place — long, unkempt white hair, eyes gleaming like molten gold, a tattered robe that seemed centuries too old for the modern world. And yet... the air around him bent strangely, like even the memory itself obeyed him.

The old man smiled faintly, lifting his gaze. "How was your reincarnated life, Hutton Maxwell?"

Hutton froze, his expression hardening. "...Who the hell are you?"

The old man tilted his head slightly. "A question you should have asked long before now." He gestured lazily, and suddenly the burning battlefield around them dissolved into quiet emptiness — a white void that stretched infinitely in every direction.

Only Hutton and the old man remained.

"Your world," the old man said, "a new Earth rebuilt after the ashes of the old. You were sent there to start over — but tell me, have you found peace in your second chance?"

Hutton’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not real. This is some kind of mental trick. I’m in a trance, in cultivation backlash."

The old man chuckled, not denying it. "Perhaps. Or perhaps this is the first true consciousness you’ve had since you touched the God Crystal."

At that, Hutton stiffened. "You know about that?"

"I know more than you think," the old man said softly, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. "That crystal... was never meant for mortal hands. You’re lucky to still be breathing. Your soul has been tested twice already — once when you died as a soldier... and once when you tried to become something greater."

Hutton clenched his jaw. "You’re talking nonsense. If you want to kill me, just do it."

"Kill you?" The old man laughed — a sound like thunder rolling across the void. "Oh no, Colonel. Death wouldn’t solve anything. I’m here to see what kind of man you’ve become."

The white space shimmered again — and suddenly, Hutton found himself standing before a massive mirror. His reflection looked... wrong. His face flickered between the old soldier and his new, younger form — the Hutton of this world.

The old man spoke again, his voice echoing through the void. "Do you even remember why you were chosen?"

Hutton’s eyes darted. "Chosen? For what?"

"To live again. To build. To change the world you once helped destroy."

Hutton’s breathing grew heavier. He felt the pulse of something deep in his chest — a familiar burning, the same energy that had nearly torn him apart in the real world. The God Crystal’s resonance.

The old man’s eyes narrowed, voice lowering to a rumble. "You’ve meddled with power that bends time and existence. And for that, others will come. Those who covet it. Those who fear it. Those who made it."

"Who are you?" Hutton demanded. "Some kind of deity? A Celestial?!"

The old man smiled faintly. "Names are for mortals. But you can call me... Eon."

The name resonated like an ancient chord through Hutton’s very being.

And before he could react — the void shattered like glass.

Hutton’s mind was ripped backward through countless images — his military medals, the restaurant he built in his second life, the God Crystal’s glow, the Harbinger’s arrival, Blinding Town in flames — all flashing before his eyes in a storm of light.

Then everything went dark again.

And just before total blackness swallowed him, he heard the old man’s final words whisper in his ear —

"The next time we meet, your second life will already be over."