Aran's heart ached with longing as he walked through the ancient streets of Jerusalem. The city's history seemed to seep from every stone, whispering tales of the past. His steps echoed off the cobblestones, mingling with the sounds of merchants haggling and children laughing in the distance.

His heart raced as he navigated the chaotic streets of Jerusalem, his senses bombarded by a whirlwind of sights and sounds. The scents of exotic spices and incense wafted through the air, creating an aromatic mix that made Aran's head spin. His senses were overwhelmed by the vibrant colors of the market stalls, the intricate patterns of the textiles, and the glint of precious metals in the sunlight. The clamor of voices, speaking in a myriad of languages, filled his ears.

As he meandered through the crowded streets, Aran couldn't help but feel like a stranger in a strange land. The locals cast curious glances his way, noting the Western outfit that marked him as an outsider. But Aran carried himself with a quiet confidence, his dark eyes taking in every detail of his surroundings.

Drawing closer to the heart of the city, Aran's thoughts drifted to the events that led him here. Born and raised in Siam, he had dreamed of becoming a doctor since he was a child. His family, however, had other plans for him, wanting him to follow the path of a monk. When he refused, he was cast out, and disowned by those he loved.

But Aran refused to let that define him. He had worked hard to earn a scholarship to study in France, where he met Lowe, a kindred spirit who became his closest friend. Together, they shared a passion for research.

It was during his time in France that Aran caught the attention of Völundr and his mysterious organization that operated in the shadows. The old man offered Lowe and Aran a chance to join as subordinates, using his skills as a healer to aid his cause. Despite his initial reservations, Aran saw it as an opportunity to fulfill his dreams of helping others on a grand scale.

And so, he found himself in Jerusalem, a world away from the jungles of Siam, embarking on a new chapter in his life. The weight of his choices bore down on him, but Aran pushed forward with a steely determination, his gaze fixed on the future.

As sunset approached, Aran whispered silent prayers to the ancestors he had left behind, hoping that they would watch over him.

“Long is the night to those who are awake; long is a mile to those who are tired; long is life to those fools who do not know the truth!” Aran murmured.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Aran continued strolling through the winding streets, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

"The ones who recognize their foolishness possess wisdom, while the fool who believe themselves wise is truly a fool," Aran remarked, sliding in his brown ring embellished with a peacock and an amber stone onto his finger.

"Pain is inevitable, but suffering is a choice," Aran scanned the buildings in hopes of finding Zak's bomb while evading the Ottoman military who were on the same mission.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The bystanders surrounding Aran watched in awe as he twirled a three-foot-long staff with grace and precision. People started to make a circle around him as they cheered him up. His movements were fluid and mesmerizing, each twist and turn executed with a dancer's grace. The crowd hushed in anticipation, drawn in by the hypnotic rhythm of his performance, a series of acrobatics and balance tricks with his staff.

Children's laughter bubbled through the air, their joy mingling with the gasps of amazement from the adults. Aran's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he wove a spell with his staff, without anyone noticing, each swing and flourish dropping flower petals around him.

The staff seemed to move of its own accord, a blur of motion that left the onlookers fascinated. A flick of the wrist here, a spin there - Aran's movements were a dance of precision and control. The sounds of cheers and applause rose like a wave, washing over him in a tide of exhilaration.

As the last notes of his performance faded into the air, Aran bowed deeply to the crowd, a smile playing on his lips. The faces around him were alight with wonder, their eyes wide with disbelief at the spectacle they had witnessed.

For a brief moment, the weight of his mission lifted from his shoulders, replaced by the simple joy of bringing a moment of joy to those around him. But even as he reveled in the applause and adoration of the crowd, a flicker of unease tugged at the edges of his mind. With a final nod to the cheering spectators, Aran slipped quietly away.

He weaved through the swarms of people, Aran's mind racing with many ideas. The weight of the small metal box in his hand served as a constant reminder of the danger that loomed.

The words of wisdom he had whispered earlier echoed in his mind, guiding his actions. "Speak truthfully, let not anger consume you, and give, even when you possess nothing to offer." These were the principles that Aran held dear, the moral compass that steered him through the chaos. Even when he had refused to be ordained as a monk, he still lived by the creed.

But beneath the calm facade, he presented to the world, a storm raged within him. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve, whispering words of uncertainty and fear. Was he truly prepared for what lay ahead? Could he really succeed?

"Few are those who reach the other shore; most merely wander aimlessly along the beach," Aran whispered in prayer, weaving his way through the crowd.

As he reached the Wall of Süleyman, Aran's gaze swept over the ancient structure, its weathered stones bearing witness to centuries of history. The weight of the moment settled over him like a shroud.

Opening the small metal box, Aran's hands trembled slightly as he revealed the bomb within. The device tick-tocked as any mundane clock.

With a deep breath, Aran pressed a small button, halting the countdown and diffusing the imminent threat. Relief washed over him, mingling with a sense of accomplishment. But even as he allowed himself a moment of respite, his mind churned with questions and doubts.

He pocketed the bomb and quietly marched towards a food stall. He ordered some food, and as he waited he sat on a chair next to other people.

"What intrigues me greatly is the uncanny resemblance between Steve and Kyrie. Are they twin? Why do they bear such striking similarities? It is impossible to overlook as Völundr did."

The uncanny resemblance between Steve and Kyrie lingered in his thoughts like a shadow. Could they truly be doppelgängers, mirror images of each other? The puzzle of their connection taunted him, a mystery that demanded to be solved.

Aran's gaze flickered to the horizon, where the sun dipped below the rooftops, casting long shadows across the ancient city. In the fading light, he saw the silhouette of three figures watching him from a distance, their eyes glinting.

"Unless...?" he paused, widening his eyes in realization.

As he was about to leave, a young boy came to his table with his food.