​Dayat stood in the center of an absolute white void. There was no floor to stand on, no sky to shelter beneath. He couldn’t even see his own hands, as if his entire existence had dissolved into particles of light. There was only a blinding whiteness and a silence so profound it threatened to shatter the eardrums of the soul.

​Then, the voice came.

​It didn’t come from the front, nor from above. The voice filled every inch of space, seeping into his soul like air suddenly manifesting into a majestic vibration. It was a voice that could not be defined—neither masculine nor feminine, neither old nor young. A voice that had existed long before time was ever conceived.

​"Hidayat Nur Mustafidl."

​Dayat tried to answer. His lips parted, but there was only silence. Gulp. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt as parched as a desert.

​"You have collapsed half a continent. Forced six Goddesses to their knees. Created a black hole that nearly devoured all of Aethera. What is your defense?"

​Dayat opened his mouth again, attempting to call out the names that were the reasons for his actions. He wanted to speak of Dalgor’s sacrifice, of poor Kancil, of loyal Loy and Riri, of Lunethra who died drenched in blood at Nura’s hands, and of Dola who still lay stiff and cold. Yet, his tongue felt paralyzed. The words caught in his throat, swallowed by the crushing void.

​But, his body moved on its own as a witness.

​Without a command from his brain, his right hand rose slowly. His index finger pointed in one direction—toward the imaginary point where Verdia stood. Where he had healed the dying World Tree, built irrigation systems for Elarwyn, and cleansed the poison from ancient roots that had killed thousands. He didn’t do it for pay. He did it because they needed him.

​Then his feet took a step forward—a single, firm step. Toward Brassvale. Toward Bakasa. Where he was once nothing but an unknown Rank F adventurer, yet he had freed innocent prisoners, fed hundreds of the poor in the Lower District, and taught them that a person’s worth is not measured by social status.

​His chest vibrated. Toward Terragard. Where he saved the mines from the Void Breach, taught the precision and standardization that multiplied production, and provided blueprints for efficient steam engines that would be remembered for generations.

​His knees spoke too. The knees that had once fallen before Orchid. The knees that had held the weight while carrying his wife to the Medical Room. The knees that never gave up even as the world kept striking him down.

​His back remained straight. The back that had always been the final barricade between the enemy and those he protected—not just the Wailing Horde, but every city, every race, and every kingdom that refused to bow to the darkness.

​Every nerve that had once screamed in pain now served as living proof. Every drop of blood spilled on foreign soil. Every sleepless night. Every withheld tear. They all spoke without a sound.

​The majestic voice fell silent. For a long, long time.

​When it returned, its tone remained flat, yet there was a slight tremor within it. Something resembling acknowledgment.

​"I will return you to your world. However, all your memories of Aethera will be erased."

​Dayat felt a tightening in his chest. A loss that arrived before he could even feel it. It was as if a part of him was being forcibly ripped away, and he didn’t even know what it was.

​"This is not a punishment. It is a consequence. You have transcended the boundaries of human nature. Now, you must return to being an ordinary human."

​The white void began to fracture. Crrrk... crack. Black lines spread rapidly like glass shattering in slow motion.

​"Wake up, Hidayat Nur Mustafidl. Monday is waiting for you."

​And everything collapsed.

​Dayat opened his eyes with a small jolt.

​Dimly, he saw the dull ceiling of his boarding house room. There was a water stain in the corner—a leak that had been there for a long time. The wall fan above his study desk rotated with a monotonous creaking sound. Crrrk... crrrk...

​The scent of instant noodle seasoning wafted in from the next room—whoever was eating breakfast this early. His hand still held his phone, its screen still glowing. A chat column was open; it was the ChatGPT app. The last message he had sent before falling asleep was still displayed there.

​Dayat: "Yeah, that’s just how it is. Life’s just average. Work keeps piling up, my salary just passes through to pay off loans, and I’ve been single since birth. Sometimes I think, wouldn’t it be nice to live in an isekai world? Become a hero, have magical powers, be surrounded by beautiful girls. Not like here, where I’m just an NPC."

​ChatGPT: "Feeling like an ’NPC’ or a side character in your own life is a common experience for many in this modern era, Dayat. Regarding Isekai fantasies, they are a popular form of escapism. If you could choose, what kind of fantasy world would you want to live in? And what power would you want most?"

​Dayat stared at the screen with eyes that felt incredibly heavy. His head throbbed, as if he had just woken from a dream that lasted for centuries. A dream that felt so real, yet the more he tried to remember it, the more it evaporated like dew hit by the sun.

​There was a faint shadow of a silver-haired woman. Of deep blue eyes. Of a gentle voice calling him "Master." Of...

​His fingers typed before his logic could process.

​Dayat: "Do you ever feel like you’ve lost something you don’t even remember?"

​Three dots appeared on the screen. Typing.

​ChatGPT: "Literally, it’s impossible to lose something you don’t remember. However, emotionally, many humans report feelings of ’unexplained loss.’ Would you like to talk more about this, Dayat?"

​Dayat stared at the reply. A typical AI response. Too perfect. Too... empty.

​For some reason, it made his chest feel tight. He didn’t reply. The clock on his phone showed 06:47. Monday. Dayat took a long breath, then climbed out of bed.

​Arriving at the office, the same sight greeted him.

​Dayat’s desk was still a mess. A stack of files from last week, a coffee cup with a circular stain at the bottom, and yellowed sticky notes. His monitor displayed an Excel table full of numbers—expenses, income, and targets that felt impossible to achieve.

​A colleague passed by carrying coffee. "Hmm, Dayat? You look different today."

​Dayat turned, his hands busy tidying a pile of papers. "Different how?"

​"I don’t know." The colleague shrugged. "Straightur? Usually you come in looking like a walking corpse—messy face, smelling of cigarettes, weary eyes. Now you look like you just woke up from a really good sleep."

​Dayat paused for a moment. In his heart, he did feel something was different. He felt as if he had faced something far more terrifying than just a deadline or a meeting. Something involving life and death. But he didn’t remember when. Or where.

​The phone on his desk rang. Pak Septian’s voice sounded on the other end. "Dayat, come to my office now."

​Pak Septian’s office smelled of cheap air freshener. Files were scattered across the glass table.

​"I’m sending you to Bandung." Pak Septian sat upright, opening a folder. "There’s a new client—a tech startup. They’re interested in our portfolio for an interface design project. You’re handling it."

​Dayat frowned. "Oh, that’s unusual, Pak? Usually, Mas Rizky is the one who goes out of town."

​"The client asked to meet directly with the lead design team. They like the detail of your work. Rizky is just all talk."

​Dayat smiled thinly. "Understood, Pak. When?"

​"Tomorrow morning. Take the earliest train. I’ll approve the expenses later."

​"The contact name, Pak?"

​Pak Septian flipped a page in the file. "I’ll forward it to your email. See for yourself."

​The cafe on Braga Street smelled of robusta coffee mixed with the scent of wet earth after the rain. Dim lights with Edison bulbs glowed a warm yellow, creating a thick atmosphere of nostalgia.

​Dayat sat in the corner, his eyes occasionally glancing toward the entrance. He felt alert for no apparent reason. Monitoring. Watching. Ensuring the surroundings were safe.

​What threat? This was just a normal business meeting.

​The cafe door opened, a small bell chimed. Ting.

​A woman stepped inside. Her hair was pitch black, but there were a few silver roots beginning to grow near her temples. And her eyes... blue. Deeply blue. Not the blue of contact lenses, but a blue that should have been impossible for an ordinary human to possess.

​Dayat stared into those eyes without blinking. And miraculously, without memory, without context, without a single shred of a hint, his eyes grew hot. Tears flowed down his cheeks just like that. He didn’t sob. He only cried in silence, as if it were a body language long forgotten.

​The woman approached with light steps that were nearly silent. She looked confused seeing Dayat staring at her as if seeing a ghost.

​"Um... from the Jakarta company?" Her voice was soft. Clear. There was a slight tremor there—a bit of hesitation, a bit of wonder.

​Dayat stood up awkwardly. He wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket. "Sorry... I’m sorry."

​The woman looked at him deeply. There was wonder in her eyes, but also a profound warmth. Like a déjà vu too strong to ignore. Like dreaming of someone you’ve never met, but when you meet them, it feels like... coming home.

​The woman smiled thinly, a smile that was very familiar to Dayat’s soul. "It’s okay. I’ve also... felt a bit dizzy lately. Like I’ve forgotten something very important."

​Dayat reached out a trembling hand. "Hidayat Nur Mustafidl. Just call me Dayat."

​The woman shook his hand. Her fingers were cold—a cold that felt intimately familiar. "I am..."

​A split-second pause. Their eyes met. Blue and brown. Rain began to fall again outside the window, wetting the sidewalks of Braga Street.

​"...Dola. Dola Nur Mustafidl."

​The name hit Dayat like a silent bolt of lightning. But before he could process it, a small laugh escaped his lips—not a mocking laugh, not a nervous laugh, but an incredulous laugh born from something too strange to ignore.

​"Nur Mustafidl?" Dayat repeated the name. "That... that’s my last name too."

​Dola blinked her eyes. Then she joined in the laugh—the same small laugh. "Seriously? How can it be the same?"

​"I’m confused too." Dayat shook his head, still half-laughing. "Are you sure this isn’t a prank? Did Pak Septian tell you to mess with me?"

​"Who is Pak Septian?" Dola was still smiling. "I’m serious. This is my real name."

​They stood there, shaking hands for too long, not wanting to let go of each other. The small laughter slowly subsided, replaced by a warm silence.

​"Are you... sure we haven’t met before?" Dayat asked with a trembling voice.

​Dola looked at him with a gaze full of piercing warmth. "I... I’m not sure."

​Outside, the rain grew heavier, wrapping the world, but in that corner of the cafe, time seemed to stop turning.

​THE END.