"It doesn't feel like a creature. It feels like a lock." — Evalia
Ken placed his hand flat against the bronze door. It was cold, heavier than any physical metal, and completely seamless. There was no handle, lock, or mechanism; the Chronographer's Seal—a geometric pattern resembling an hourglass whose sands spiraled outward into infinite timelines—was its only feature.
The Pillar of Dreams pulsed, radiating a gentle warmth into the metal. Ken felt a psychic connection form, interpreting the door's defense mechanism. It wasn't designed to be opened with force, but with a conceptual query.
The door was asking: Who seeks the Anchor, and for what purpose?
Ken held the Pillar of Dreams higher. This Pillar, linked to Kabe's conceptual state, had been the key to entering the Mugenkyou in the first place. He needed to use it to project his intent clearly and without internal conflict.
I seek the Pillar of Memory, Ken projected, to anchor a life that is unraveling.
The bronze vibrated silently. The hourglass seal on the door flared, and the sand within the psychic construct spun backward, reversing time. The door peeled inward, dissolving into shimmering lines of light that instantly reformed into the smooth, black walls of the Archive.
The chamber beyond was a study.
It was small, circular, and dominated by a single, massive piece of furniture: a desk crafted from the same obsidian conceptual material as the staircase. The air here was strangely neutral, devoid of the aggressive data overload of the ascent, but heavy with the weight of ancient authority.
Behind the desk sat an empty chair, and above it, suspended in the air, was the target: the Pillar of Memory.
It was a shard of deep sapphire blue, humming with quiet power. Unlike the Pillar of Dreams (white) or the Pillar of Grief (red/black), this Pillar seemed to absorb all light, holding within it a silent, bottomless history.
Ken's objective was clearly in sight, yet the path to the desk felt miles long.
The surface of the desk itself was covered in objects, meticulously placed and pristine, as if the Chronographer had stepped away moments ago. There were scrolls, crystalline lenses, and strange, silver instruments used to measure conceptual resonance.
Ken advanced cautiously, the Pillar of Dreams still warm in his grip. As he approached the desk, the objects seemed to come alive with latent memory.
He spotted a document pinned beneath a clear, heavy glass weight. It wasn't the archival history of the world, but a personalized report—a detailed conceptual diagnosis.
He leaned closer and read the handwritten script on the page.
Subject ID: K.H. (Initial designation: 'The Sentinel') Conceptual Status: Severe Temporal and Structural Instability (Primary Trigger: Rift exposure, 2 cycles ago). Assessment: The subject's conceptual framework is rapidly deteriorating. Key memories (Identity, Purpose, Connection) are fragmenting into untethered data points. The subject is currently being sustained by a single Conceptual Buffer—a secondary, fabricated memory Anchor created at the point of fracture.
Prognosis: Retrieval of the Primary Anchor (Pillar of Memory) is structurally possible but carries an 87.4% probability of catastrophic failure upon contact. The Buffer is too weak to handle the restoration process.
Recommended Action (by the Chronographer): Leave the Primary Anchor secured. Allow the conceptual fragmentation to complete. The current state (The Buffer) provides a benign, if temporary, life-support system. Do not interfere with the natural collapse of the failed structure.
Ken felt a cold dread wash over him. K.H.. Kabe Hiroki.
The report wasn't about a Trail Walker, or a mission; it was about Kabe's survival. It confirmed the terrifying truth: Kabe's current identity, his sense of peace, was a "Conceptual Buffer," a sophisticated lie designed to keep him from shattering entirely.
And the Chronographer had decreed that saving Kabe by restoring his true memory was too dangerous.
Ken looked up at the sapphire Pillar of Memory, then back down at the desk. The Pillar of Dreams in his hand began to flicker rapidly, reacting to the emotional turmoil.
A low, resonant sound filled the silent room. Ken whipped around, Pillar ready. The sound wasn't an attack, but a deep, sorrowful sigh coming from the empty chair behind the desk.
"You have read my assessment, young Trail Walker," a voice, ancient and filled with profound weariness, echoed in his mind, though no lips moved. "Now you know what I know. To save the memory is to risk losing the life."
Ken stood rigid, facing the empty chair and the overwhelming authority it represented. The Chronographer was here, not as a physical entity, but as a conceptual presence embedded in the Archive itself. He had one final, agonizing decision to make, directly under the silent judgment of the Architect's historian.