The Poet's System
Chapter 58: End Passage

Chapter 58: End Passage

Hours passed, yet Dexter remained in bed, his body unwilling to surrender to sleep. He tried to think, to reach for that smooth, gentle voice—but it was gone. No matter how many times he tried to summon it, silence answered. Was he not losing his mind after all?

It made him believe Pry’s words even more.

After all, the system had warned that his penalty for failing to kill his mother would be a "soul passage." Now that he thought about it, was this what it truly meant? Had the system brought him to a new reality just to erase him quietly?

But how had he even survived the torment his mother inflicted? Both arms severed, a blade through his heart—who survives that?

His mind kept him awake through the night. A wave of relief washed over him, yet a part of him still refused to believe any of it.

The sun rose above the horizon, but his thoughts were still racing. The weight of sleeplessness began to take its toll—his half-blind eyes ached, and his mind spun like someone waking from a sleep that had lasted far too long.

Instinctively, he began to shift on the sickbed, despite being unable to move properly. The overwhelming pain made the bed tremble beneath him, prompting the nurses to rush in and administer anesthesia to help him relax, if only for a moment.

The moment sleep took Dexter, it happened. The sensation was identical to what he’d felt earlier—when he was believed to have died.

His soul, and only his soul, drifted like a balloon through a vast, empty vacuum.

That feeling consumed him completely. He hadn’t even had time to sink into the anesthesia-induced sleep before it overtook him.

What followed was a wave of relief and warmth—more comforting, more like home than anything he had felt in weeks. But before he could grasp what was causing it, sleep finally pulled him under.

He wished it had all been a nightmare—that he had yet to face his mother—and that the strange sensation he now felt was his true reality.

It brought a fragile sense of relief, the hope that he hadn’t abandoned his life, and his loved ones, and that, perhaps, maybe, the system didn’t want to erase him after all.

He had a long, restful sleep, a soft smile playing on his lips. No headaches, no stiffness, no struggle to move his limbs.

Slowly, his senses began to return. As he stretched with surprising ease, he felt something else—literal weight pressing down on him.

He opened his eyes and found himself back in his room at Astara’s house. The familiar sight of his clock resting in the cabinet to his left brought a sense of calm.

The hovering lantern fixture hung in its usual spot, casting a gentle glow against the white-painted walls that warmed the space.

In his arms lay Astara and Medora, their faces etched with worry and fear, yet their presence grounded him more than anything else.

Joy flooded his eyes—he was back, truly Daylan again. He fought the urge to cry out or even shift his body, not wanting to wake Astara and Medora, who still rested peacefully in his arms.

He simply rested his head back against the pillow, his eyes gently fixed on the ceiling. A wide grin spread across his face.

Being back as Daylan confirmed that Pry had been right all along—and though the thought of finding his mother still loomed, it felt like a distant concern. For now, none of that mattered. He was just happy to be back.

His efforts to let Medora and Astara rest peacefully didn’t last—Medora stirred first, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw him awake.

Without hesitation, she threw her arms around Daylan in a tight hug, her joy unmistakable. The sudden movement woke Astara, who blinked sleepily as she took in the scene.

"Thank goodness you’re awake," Medora whispered, her voice trembling with relief.

Daylan responded with an awkward smile, unsure of what to say. Meanwhile, Astara stared at the two of them, still caught in a daze, as if words had momentarily escaped her.

Astara rose from the bed, her head bowed slightly.

"What were you thinking? Why would you face your mother alone in that condition?"

Her voice trembled with each word, strained by the effort to hold back tears. "We were weak—but so were you. So why... why send them to take us away?"

Daylan wore an awkward smile. He knew his actions had hurt them—and worse, he hadn’t considered how they might feel about the entire ordeal, not even once. Yet, hearing her voice the obvious questions only made it clearer: they cared. And he... he had been a terrible friend.

He pulled Medora out of the hug. "I’m sorry, you guys, I’m so sorry."

Then it hit him—

How could he have pulled her away... if his hands were supposed to be severed?

A sudden look of confusion crossed his face as he glanced down at his hands.

They were there—whole and steady. But how?

He turned to Medora, and she saw it clearly—the uncertainty, the disbelief swimming in his eyes.

"I know you’re not fully healed yet, but I did what I could," Medora said, her voice low with guilt. "I’ll keep leveling up my healing—next time, I’ll fix you completely. And faster, too."

She spoke as if the blame were hers to bear.

Daylan finally understood.

Astara blamed him—for good reason. It was his fault. But beneath the anger was care; she had wanted to be there, to fight beside him.

Medora, on the other hand, blamed herself.

She thought if her healing had been stronger, if she had done more, Daylan might’ve had the strength to defeat his mother.

They each carried their own guilt.

But in the end, it all came from the same place—

They cared.

And this... this was how they dealt with the pain.

Daylan reached out, gently brushing his fingers against Medora’s cheek.

"I’m grateful for everything you’ve done," he said softly. "You’ve already done more than enough. I mean... I’d be dead without you."

Astara let out a soft sigh.

"You were already holding on the moment we arrived. You deserve some praise too—for not giving up so easily."

"Holding on?"

Daylan had given up. He didn’t fight to live, didn’t even try to show any sign of survival—he simply surrendered to the fading breath and the blurry, distant visions.

So when they said he had held on, it felt strange...

"Yeah, when we got there, you were barely breathing—and you were even licking your blood off the floor." Astara paused, her voice uncertain. "But I think that was just instinct. You didn’t seem conscious at all."

Daylan’s expression darkened.

Licking blood? Still breathing?

He didn’t remember any of it—but he needed to make sense of it. Could it have been the system’s doing, keeping him alive just so he could face his punishment?

But that didn’t add up.

Wouldn’t the system want him dead if it was trying to get rid of him?

He searched for answers, but none came.

Still, he couldn’t shake the possibility that the punishment itself had somehow kept him alive.

And if that was true... then Pry had lied to him.

He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. There were no answers—not now—and overthinking would only make things worse.

He had to focus on the moment, or at least try to make sense of everything that had happened... that day and everything that followed.

"How did you guys know I was injured?"

"We didn’t know," Medora began softly.

"Before we made it home, I started to regain some consciousness. That’s when I realized—you weren’t with us. And when I noticed Astara was still unconscious, it could only mean one thing: you chose to fight alone."

She took a slow breath, her voice steady but laced with sorrow.

"I argued with the Titans—out loud, for what felt like forever. The shouting woke Astara. She joined the argument, but we still got nowhere with those soulless beings, so we ran off... I think they wanted us to return too, since they didn’t chase after us. Maybe they didn’t want to disobey your orders."

Medora paused, then continued, her eyes clouding at the memory.

"When we found you... your hands were severed. There was a stab wound in your chest. I rushed to heal you, just to keep you alive. Astara gathered your arms and brought them over."

She rose to her feet, brushing away the sorrow from her face.

"You weren’t healed instantly—especially your arms. I had to keep healing, over and over, every day for three weeks to get you to this point."

He had spent roughly three weeks as Dexter—and hearing that it had also been three weeks since the incident confirmed something unsettling.

Even if Pry had lied, most of what she said had been true.

He was Daylan all along.

That realization settled heavily on him.

And yet, it only deepened his questions. How powerful was the Spiral Force System, really?

And for the first time... he kind of understood why it believed he wasn’t strong enough to wield it.

However, being out for three weeks meant there was a lot he needed to catch up on.

Even so, Medora and Astara refused to let him leave the bed—not until he was fully healed.