The Last Particle

02.07.2024

Trebinje, 14:00

It’s a blazing July afternoon, the sun high and unrelenting in the sky above Trebinje. Tomas stands outside his family’s ancestral home, its worn stone walls echoing stories of generations past. He’s dressed in a faded Kaiju No. 8 T-shirt that clings uncomfortably to his broad shoulders, drenched in sweat, and a pair of well-worn jean shorts that reveal a bit more of his heavy, muscular build than he’d prefer. Droplets of sweat stream down his face, soaking into the shirt’s collar and leaving a damp trail down his neck. Every time he lifts another broken chair, cracked frame, or rusted appliance, the heat and the weight bear down on him, his movements slowing with the physical toll.

The house’s once-grand rooms are cluttered with decades of discarded items and dust. There are shelves lined with antique books, some dating back to the 19th century, but the thrill he’d felt at uncovering a slice of family history is quickly swallowed by exhaustion. Every step he takes is followed by the heavy scrape of debris being pushed across the stone floors. He stops for a moment, wiping his brow, and gazes around, his breath heavy and his heart racing.

In this sweltering stillness, Tomas can feel the overwhelming scale of the project. Fixing up this home and breathing life back into the vineyard seemed romantic a few days ago, but now the reality weighs on him. He’s sweating not just from the heat and effort but from the dawning realization of what he’s taken on.

At least the noise in his head is quieter here. The demands of manual labor leave him no room to brood or get lost in endless loops of doubt. Each shovelful, every box heaves away, drowns out the anxious hum he’s carried for years. Yet, as his eyes lift toward the attic, he feels a familiar weight of dread settle back in. That cramped, sweltering space with its slanted beams and layers of dust is the last thing he wants to tackle—his 195 cm frame would barely squeeze through, let alone give him room to move.

But he knows the attic is where the real problems lie. Generations of discarded belongings, old beams that could be rotting away in the oppressive heat, and even signs of structural wear that would demand careful repair. It’s the most critical space to clean out, the first he should have addressed, and yet he’s saved it for last.

"What the fuck was I thinking taking this on...” Tomas muttered, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “People with a few million to their name are chilling on yachts, blowing cash on models and drugs, buying company by the hour. And me? I had to walk headfirst into a goddamn identity crisis and decide to play handyman in Trebinje, of all places.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. This wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned when he’d thought about rebuilding his roots. But here he was—knee-deep in dust, torn between the absurdity of his choices and the pull of something he couldn’t quite name.

Pulling out the rusted old oven, Tomas grunted as he maneuvered the weighty relic of his childhood toward the door, careful not to scrape himself on the jagged edges. This oven was a fixture of his memories—his mother bent over it, stirring soups and baking bread, filling the house with warmth that even now he could almost feel. But as he struggled with the hulking, rust-riddled metal, he couldn’t help but curse under his breath, muttering every choice word he knew in multiple languages.

To an outsider, he’d look like a grizzled bruiser straight out of a back-alley brawl, cursing up a storm as he wrestled the deadweight. But in the quiet of the empty house, Tomas felt a strange, deep satisfaction, a sense of grounding he hadn’t felt in years.

As he surveyed the pile of junk he’d managed to haul out, Tomas felt the exhaustion settle into his bones. The afternoon sun bore down relentlessly, the heat radiating off his sweat-drenched skin and intensifying the weight of his weariness. He'd been at it since sunrise, pushing himself nonstop. But now, with his muscles aching and his stomach growling, he finally had to admit he was done for the day.

His lunch—a few slices of store-bought salami, a dollop of mayo, and a crusty loaf of bread—had barely made a dent in his hunger, certainly not enough for this kind of grueling labor. This was a different kind of challenge from anything he’d tackled in years, and he realized just how far his body had drifted from the shape it once held.

He leaned against the crumbling wall, catching his breath, watching the pile he’d cleared. The task ahead was daunting, yet for the first time, he felt a strange satisfaction in the fatigue.

As Tomas turned onto the dusty road, his thoughts were already drifting toward the idea of a hearty meal and a cold beer, something substantial that could chase away the fatigue and hunger gnawing at him. He quickly showered, swapped his grimy work clothes for a clean shirt and jeans, and set out on the fifteen-minute trek to the nearest restaurant.

The summer air was thick and hot, the sun casting long, dappled shadows as he approached the small stone church of St. Archangel Michael. He’d walked this route countless times, but today, just as he passed the old building, he felt an odd tingling in his eyes. At first, he thought it was just the exhaustion, or maybe a lingering dust particle. But before he could process it, a faint, translucent screen blinked to life in his vision.

Zyphron resonance detected

it read in a cool, mechanical tone.

Zyphron saturation insufficient for basic operation levels, connection to G.A.I.A not sustainable, energy-saving mode active. Overwrite: direction to Zyphron resonance prioritized. Please follow the visual indicator.

A soft, pulsing arrow appeared, floating just within his line of sight, pointing back toward the church. Tomas stopped in his tracks, blinking hard, but the display stayed fixed in his vision, the indicator urging him back.

Tomas took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as the oppressive heat pressed down on him. The shade of the tree felt cool against his back, but the strange tingling in his eyes persisted, and the translucent screen remained stubbornly in his line of sight. He squinted up at the church, feeling like he was caught in a bizarre dream.

“Great, a fucking heatstroke... I couldn’t just pass out; I had to hallucinate shit from the system apocalypse or something...” He rubbed his temples, but the indicator continued to pulse, a relentless reminder of whatever was compelling him.

Zyphron levels critical. Please move towards the indicated area in the next 3 minutes.

The countdown began, ticking down from three minutes, each second echoing in his mind like a drumbeat.

“Eh, fuck, why the hell not…” he muttered to himself, pushing off from the tree. If he was going to hallucinate, he might as well do it in the direction of something that might make sense.

With heavy legs, he trudged toward the church, the arrow hovering in his vision guiding him like a stubborn GPS. As he approached, the air felt charged, almost electric, and he couldn’t shake the sense that something significant was about to happen.

Tomas reached the church steps and paused, panting slightly. The wooden doors stood slightly ajar, as if inviting him in. He hesitated for a moment, glancing around to ensure he was still alone. The quiet of the afternoon wrapped around him, punctuated only by the distant chirping of cicadas.

“Okay, let’s see what this is all about,” he said, steeling himself. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the coolness of the church enveloping him like a comforting embrace. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the stone floor.

As he moved deeper into the nave, the screen flickered again.

Zyphron resonance detected. Proceed to the designated relic location.

The countdown continued, now at just over a minute.

Tomas glanced toward the altar, where the flickering candlelight seemed to call to him. Something felt wrong yet undeniably right. He was driven by an inexplicable urge to discover what lay hidden in the shadows of this sacred place.

Just below the altar, a mysterious engraving—unlike any Catholic or other symbolism he had ever encountered—shimmered with a bright blue light. The intricate patterns seemed to writhe and pulse, beckoning him closer.

With seconds ticking away on the countdown, another notification flashed in his vision:

Please touch the repository to access.

Maybe he was tired. Maybe it was some form of suggestion or the heat playing tricks on him. Years later, he would still struggle to explain why he followed the directive, but something deep within urged him on. As he reached out and touched the blue glow, he felt a sudden prick in his arm—a sharp, unexpected sensation.

Then, a surge of energy unlike anything he had ever experienced coursed through his body, revitalizing him in an instant. The fatigue and hunger that had weighed him down moments ago vanished, replaced by an electrifying vigor. It was as if he had tapped into a reservoir of pure power, flooding his veins with warmth and strength.

Repository #084 Michael absorbed. Remaining charge 6%. System booting. Please be seated.

Those were the last words he registered before the world around him blurred and faded to black.

***

02.07.2024 22:20

Church of St. Archangel Michael, Trebinje

Tomas jolted awake on the dusty floor, a sharp pain radiating from the lump on his head where he had collided with the stone altar.

“Damn, that hurts... Why am I in the church, sleeping on the floor?” He groaned, rubbing his temples as he tried to piece together the fragmented memories of the evening. “I remember walking toward the restaurant... I must have been hallucinating. I’ve really overdone it with the cleaning work in this sweltering heat. I’ll need to see a doctor as soon as possible—I might be dehydrated.”

“Negative. Your physical health is within acceptable parameters. Blood oxygen levels are sufficient. Hydration is at nominal levels. A lactic buildup is detected in your large muscle groups, indicating physical strain in the past 24 hours. Your body fat is higher than normal but not in a critical amount. Your mental health is worrisome; a brain chemistry imbalance is detected and should be treated soon. Please see a cleric or another healer class, or obtain a potion of mental restoration from the nearest alchemist.”

Startled, Tomas whipped around, scanning the dimly lit church for the source of the disembodied voice. It felt like a cruel joke, some residual echo of his overheating brain. “Who’s there? Did you just call me fat?” he called out, heart racing as he braced himself for whatever strange entity might respond. The air was thick with an eerie stillness, and the flickering candlelight cast long shadows that danced across the stone walls.

“G.A.I.A. autonomous support unit #084 Michael. Visual presentation would consume too much energy; decision made to engage with simulated audio signals.”

“Look, I have no clue what half the words you just said mean... Can you please explain to me who you are and what this is all about?”

“G.A.I.A. is the system designed to help humans reach their potential through guidance and Zyphron-induced growth, offering a challenge and reward system. All humans should be aware of it. Wait... processing... minimal Zyphron levels detected originating from your lower body; no atmospheric Zyphron detected... processing... pinging G.A.I.A....”

As seconds passed, Tomas listened in silence, unsure of what to think. On the ten-second mark, he heard:

“Ping delay too large. G.A.I.A. is offline...” The mechanical voice shifted again, becoming more human-like. “G.A.I.A. is offline. How can this be?”