The world around Elias shifted again. A pull so deep and unnerving it made his stomach churn as time folded in on itself, spitting him out into the middle of an untamed jungle. The air was thick with humidity, the scent of damp earth and green foliage clung to his skin, but it was more than just the heat that made his skin crawl. It was the overwhelming sense that this place had witnessed both triumph and destruction. A world on the edge of something, of revolution.

Elias squinted against the light, his breath shallow. His jeans, T-shirt, and jacket were as out of place as always, but this time it didn’t faze him. He had long since stopped worrying about fitting in, stopped caring what the people around him thought of his appearance. There was no room for distraction when you were on a quest for answers.

And that was exactly why he was here. The man he had come to find—Che Guevara—was standing a few paces ahead of him, surrounded by a group of armed men, their voices low but urgent. The air hummed with a tension that Elias couldn’t ignore.

Guevara wasn’t some distant, romanticized figure from a history book. He was alive—real—and as Elias walked toward him, the gravity of the moment hit him.

Elias didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t afford to. Not with the questions crowding his mind, gnawing at his insides.

“Che Guevara,” Elias called out, his voice cutting through the jungle's thick air. “I need a word.”

The group of men surrounding Guevara paused, eyes narrowing in suspicion. But Guevara didn’t flinch. His gaze shifted to Elias—steady, unshaken—and after a moment, he dismissed his men with a subtle gesture. They walked away, leaving the two of them alone in the thick jungle.

Elias took a few steps forward, crossing his arms in front of him. “I’m not here to make small talk, so let’s just get to it. I’ve got some questions.”

Guevara stood still, sizing him up with a sharpness that could cut through steel. His expression didn’t change. He wasn’t one to waste time, either. “And who are you to ask me questions?”

Elias tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’m just a guy from the future. Came to see the man behind the myth. Came to ask why you did it. Why fight? Why throw away everything for a cause that—well, let’s be real here—may or may not ever succeed?”

There was a flicker of something in Guevara’s eyes. It was hard to say whether it was amusement or irritation, but either way, he didn’t shy away from the challenge. “You speak as if I’m the only one to have sacrificed for a cause. History is full of men who have laid down their lives for what they believed in.”

Elias laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Yeah, and history loves to romanticize them, doesn’t it? But you—Che Guevara—you’re one of the few who made it real. You didn’t just sit behind a desk or give speeches. You fought. You bled. And now, you’re a symbol for revolution. You’re a martyr in the making.”

Guevara’s gaze didn’t waver. His eyes were full of fire, but there was something else there, something that told Elias this man had been through more than just the trenches. “I did not fight for the title of martyr, but if that is how the world sees me, so be it. A man does not fight for his own legacy. He fights because the world demands it. The oppressed demand it.”

Elias let out a long exhale, glancing around at the thick jungle. “The oppressed, huh? But what if, in the end, all the bloodshed—the sacrifices—didn’t change anything? What if, after all this, it just leads to more of the same? More dictators, more corrupt governments, more suffering. What do you say to that?”

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The edge in Guevara’s voice sharpened as he stepped closer. “You speak from a place of doubt. You question what you cannot see. But I do not fight for the outcome that I will witness in my lifetime. I fight because I believe in the possibility of a world where the oppressed are free. The revolution does not end with one man or one generation—it is a battle that is passed down through time.”

Elias rubbed his chin, his gaze never leaving Guevara’s. “You really think that? That all this fighting, all this bloodshed... it’s worth it? Even when the odds are stacked so high against you, when the revolution you’re dreaming of might never even come to be?”

Guevara’s eyes flashed with something fierce, something that sent a jolt of unease down Elias’s spine. “You’re asking the wrong questions,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You want to know about the future, about the revolution, about the cost. But the real question is, what would you do if you were in my place? Would you fight? Would you stand up and take action, even if you knew the world would not thank you? Would you fight for the ones who cannot fight for themselves, knowing that you may not live to see the change?”

Elias stared at him, a chill running through him. This was the heart of it, wasn’t it? The question that had haunted him through every time jump, every conversation with historical figures. What would he do if he had a cause? If he had something to believe in that was greater than himself?

“Hell, I don’t know,” Elias muttered, more to himself than to Guevara. “I’m just trying to make sense of it all. I’ve seen people fight—sacrifice everything—and still... nothing changes. It all falls apart eventually.”

Guevara’s gaze softened, but the fire never left his eyes. “You see failure where others see the beginning. Every revolution, every battle, every fight—there are moments of loss, moments of pain. But that does not mean it was all in vain. The work continues, even after we are gone.”

Elias stepped back, letting the weight of Guevara’s words hang in the air. “I hear you. I do. But what happens when you’re gone? When the world moves on, when the revolution you started becomes just another footnote in history, just another failed dream? How do you live with that?”

Guevara was silent for a long moment, as if the question had struck a deeper chord than he was willing to admit. “I do not live for my legacy,” he said quietly, his voice almost wistful. “I live for the cause. What happens after I am gone is not mine to control. The revolution does not end with me. It does not belong to one man—it belongs to all who believe in it.”

Elias let that sink in, but he wasn’t sure if it gave him any comfort. The way Guevara spoke—so sure, so unwavering—left a pit in Elias’s stomach. He was a man who had given everything, and in return, all he had was faith that something would change long after he was dead.

Elias couldn’t imagine living with that kind of certainty. Couldn’t imagine fighting for something that might never come to fruition. The thought of it was suffocating.

“Alright, Che,” Elias said, forcing a smile, trying to keep the conversation from getting too heavy. “You’ve got your ideals, your revolution. I get it. You’re willing to fight to the end. No second thoughts. No regrets.”

Guevara’s lips twitched, but there was no sign of humor in his expression. “There is no room for regret when you know the cause is just.”

Elias nodded slowly, his thoughts racing. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to live.”

He took a step back, feeling the familiar sensation of time pulling at him again. The air around them began to shift, and the sounds of the jungle started to blur into something else.

He wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. But the conversation had made one thing clear: some people lived and died for their cause, and it didn’t matter if the world ever saw it. They fought because they had to. Because it was the only thing that made sense.

“Alright, Che,” Elias said, the smirk still lingering at the edge of his lips. “You keep doing your thing. I’ll keep doing mine. But, you know—good luck with all that.”

With that, he turned and walked away, the world around him shifting once again, pulling him toward the next place, the next time.