Sakolomeh reopened his eyes.
The whisper of the past immediately faded, and the silent ruins of the temple resumed their place around him. The wind passed between the broken columns, slowly lifting the dust accumulated by the centuries.
He lowered his eyes to the ancient sheet he was still holding between his fingers.
The paper trembled slightly, worn by time.
After a brief silence, Sakolomeh internally questioned the presence that shared his mind.
— According to you… is the disappearance of this people truly linked to the fact that they remember the Exentity?
In the depths of his consciousness, the voice of Sakolomeh-My0x replied calmly.
— It was inevitable.
A short pause followed.
— Their memory created a permanent contradiction in the system. Sooner or later, they had to be removed too… like an inconsistent Harvest.
Sakolomeh frowned slightly.
But the inner voice immediately resumed.
— However… look carefully around you.
Sakolomeh raised his eyes and swept the ruins with his gaze.
The collapsed walls.
The broken stairs.
The overturned statues.
Everything was still there.
— The debris still exists… he murmured.
— Exactly, replied Sakolomeh-My0x.
In the inner space of his mind, the echo of his vestige seemed almost to nod.
— That means reality still remembers this civilization. The removal of the Harvest was not complete.
Sakolomeh remained silent for a moment.
— It perhaps was not meant to happen… continued the inner voice. But sooner or later, this anomaly will be corrected. This reality will probably end up being removed as well.
Sakolomeh's eyes widened slightly.
— So… maybe we should leave this place, don't you think?
The answer came immediately, surprisingly indifferent.
— It doesn't matter.
— Even if this Harvest disappears entirely while we are here… we will not be erased.
A heavy silence followed.
Then Sakolomeh-My0x resumed, with the cold precision of a cosmic truth.
— The Dream of the Father-God is the first space where the Possible becomes thinkable.
It is there that are born:
identities
forms
stories
concepts
abstractions
and hierarchies.
It is the very system that allows Harvests to exist.
A Harvest is nothing other than the fixing of a fragment of the Possible in this Dream.
A god.
A story.
A cosmic law.
A universe.
A memory.
A concept.
All of that is a Harvest within the Dream.
This implies an extremely strong philosophical thing: everything that humans, transcendents, and gods can understand is already a Harvest.
Even themselves, the myths, the gods
the concepts, mathematics, paradoxes, physics.
The voice continued, relentless.
— This means that everything that can be understood already belongs to the Dream.
The real.
The unreal.
The void.
The abstractions.
The meta-concepts.
The myths.
The transcendents.
Even attempts at escape.
For if something can be:
thought
imagined
named
described
or remembered…
then it already belongs to the Dream.
And therefore to a Harvest.
The voice paused one last time.
Then concluded simply:
— Except that… this rule does not concern us.
Sakolomeh remained motionless.
He understood.
And Sakolomeh-My0x was telling the truth.
A long sigh escaped his lips.
He looked again at the old paper, rusted by time, resting in his hand.
He hesitated.
Keeping it could allow a trace of this civilization to be preserved… but it also risked spreading elsewhere the inconsistency it represented.
Letting this trace exist longer could worsen the error.
The wisest choice would probably be to abandon it here.
To let it disappear with the rest.
His eyes fell one last time on the fresco drawn on the sheet.
A fragile memory of a forgotten world.
Sakolomeh gently closed his hand around the paper.
— It's sad… he murmured.
But necessary.
For this civilization, it was perhaps the last possible form of peace.
— You there, don't move!!
The voice cracked behind Sakolomeh like a whip.
He slowly turned his head.
A small group of armed men stood at the entrance of the collapsed temple. Rifles in hand, hard faces, dusty clothes. Poachers… or perhaps pillagers specialized in ancient ruins.
Men who had come to seek money in the remains of the past.
One of them stepped forward a few paces, his weapon pointed straight at Sakolomeh.
— So… you wanted to steal our future wealth, huh?
Sakolomeh turned fully toward them. His gaze drifted for a moment over the broken columns, the collapsed statues, and the scattered stones around him.
Then he replied calmly:
— Are you talking about this… mess around me?
The man immediately snickered.
— Yeah, don't play dumb. You know how much these old relics can be worth. So get out of here if you don't want something to happen to you.
Sakolomeh slowly raised his hands, as if surrendering.
He even closed his eyes for a moment, in an almost resigned gesture.
— Don't worry… he said calmly. I have nothing to envy in this mess.
He reopened his eyes.
Then added, after a brief reflection:
— I simply want to keep this paper I have in my hand.
The man's face instantly tightened.
— Are you serious?!
He pointed to the ruins around them.
— You just said all this was nothing but a mess! So why do you want that old paper?
His voice grew harsher.
— Put it down. Right now.
Sakolomeh answered without hesitation:
— Sorry… but that's impossible.
The man clenched his teeth and shook his rifle.
To him, the situation was obvious.
If, amid all these ruins full of ancient objects, this stranger refused to leave without that simple paper, then it could mean only one thing.
That paper had to be worth a fortune.
And there was no way he was going to let him leave with it.
But Sakolomeh, for his part, had no intention of selling anything.
He simply wanted to keep that fragile piece of memory.
A remembrance of a people who had asked for nothing… and who had nevertheless been erased for having kept a contradiction in the structure of the world.
The men facing him knew nothing of this.
They only thought about money.
They did not know that, by looting these ruins, they were helping spread an anomaly.
An inconsistency in the fabric of the Dream.
And in situations like this, the outcome was always the same.
Sooner or later, correction arrived.
Perhaps the Exentity would come back and settle the problem in an instant.
Or perhaps reality itself would eventually correct this error… slowly.
Like a wound that rots.
Like a memory that decomposes.
The ruins around them were perhaps already the beginning of it.
Meanwhile, the man in front of Sakolomeh cocked his rifle with a sharp click.
The others did the same.
The circle around him tightened.
— You don't want to understand with words…
He spat on the ground.
Then pointed his weapon straight at Sakolomeh's head.
— Then we're going to kill you, filthy shit.
Silence fell brutally again over the temple ruins.
The wind passed between the broken stones.
And Sakolomeh remained motionless, the old paper still clenched in his hand.
The men opened fire, their rifle shots echoing in the abandoned temple like a clumsy thunderclap. Yet, to everyone's surprise, they all found themselves on the ground, terrified, trembling, unable to understand what had just happened.
The temple walls were riddled with bullets, but Sakolomeh himself remained perfectly intact.
He watched them for a moment, a cold smile on his face, then said:
— You're really pathetic.
Without waiting any longer, he headed toward the exit, leaving them behind, trapped in their own fear.
Within him, Sakolomeh-My0x, absolute vestige, understood what had just happened. Sakolomeh had done nothing: he had attacked no one. Everything that had taken place was only the expression of Sakolomeh-My0x. But what exactly did that mean?
It was simple: any intention or claim directed against Sakolomeh-My0x had no meaning.
What did that mean?
Sakolomeh-My0x, in its complete form, is 0, the impossible calculation made real in the Metaworld. A pure anomaly, without its own intention or claim. For it, everything is relative; and if everything is relative, no action deserves its attention. Trying to emit a hostile intention or to harm Sakolomeh-My0x is to run into an absolute limit — a barrier that the mere perception of relativity automatically neutralizes.
Two scenarios can then occur:
Either the attack passes through Sakolomeh-My0x like a wind without obstacle, because there is no opponent to reach, only the manifestation of the absolute limit of the one who acts.
Or the attack turns back against its emitter. In that case, the hostile intention dissolves into the attacker's claim, becoming an uncontrollable curse, an impossible madness. The attack, stripped of reason, turns back against its user, cursed and destructive.
For the men in the temple, it is exactly the second case that occurred. Fortunately, Sakolomeh himself intervened to soften the effect, diverting the bullets toward the walls and preserving their lives… but their minds will forever keep the trace of that madness.
So, would Sakolomeh-My0x be limited if he emitted an intention? No. Even when Sakolomeh-My0x acts, his action has no original cause. It simply aligns with the My0x code, the absolute framework of all possible and impossible intentions.
Thus, any action against him becomes a lesson: facing the Absolute, intention has neither power nor hold; it can only reveal the limit of the one who tries to exercise it.