—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
Arion stood there, rubbing his chin, eyes closed in mock meditation.
"Aha!" He said, eyes reopening.
An awkward pause. His eureka turned to disappointment.
"Hmm… no, no—that isn't it."
His eyes narrowed, trying to gain a different perspective. When he did, he found himself staring at the floor.
With the tomes he'd kicked aside, something new showed, carvings traced into the stone. He cleared more debris, sweeping books and pages out of the way until the pattern finally resolved.
It didn't read as decoration. He'd built enough circuits to spot intention. He paced the lines with his eyes; every branch led back to the higher platform where the study desk sat.
"How the hell did I not see this?..."
He groaned, with a flicker of embarrassment.
"Well, if there's been any kind of repeating theme here, then…"
He pulsed Vitalis into a shallow groove. The feed stuttered—too much and the lines snapped dark; too little and they sulked. Second try held: a steady, well-behaved pulse.
Luminary flared under his boots and raced outward, inking the floor with light, a diagram came alive.
Rrrkk.
Stone groaned and shifted. Dust avalanched from carved seams; a bass thrum rolled through the room like a cathedral organ clearing its throat. The platform rose, desk and all.
Vhhhhhmmm.
Whistle.
"Damn. That's a proper madman's dungeon entrance."
Boom-thmm.
When it had risen high enough, he leaned over the void beneath. The carved lines continued down the shaft, cut into the walls of a spiral staircase that wound into the dark.
"Welp—in for a penny, in for a pile of shards."
He descended. The carved filaments ran along the stone like veins; sometimes, in the corner of his eye, the geometry faked equations from his old world.
Huh… interesting.
At the bottom, a short corridor opened into a sanctum—rounded, quiet, with arches where the wall opened into alcoves. Statues stood at attention. Locked chests. Candles still burning. Overhead, a half-dome of stained glass bled a soft, not-quite-sunlight glow—too clean in its spectrum. Up close he could see the shard-core set behind it, refracting Luminary like a polite imitation of noon. The carved lines climbed the walls and ended there, a tidy terminus of light.
He crossed the room. In the center, a stone plinth waited with a tome set upon it. He stepped closer—and recoiled.
"Fuck!"
THUD.
He slipped, hit the floor, and lay there a breath before pushing himself up again.
A decomposing body lay at the far side of the plinth. Not a full skeleton, not whole either. Everything about the gear said 'adventurer': leather reinforced with metal, travel-stained and sliced. A quill lay just within reach of one stiffened hand, as if scribbling had outlived the spark of life.
The eyelids—what was left of them—were ragged, and the face had dried into a mask of horror. The skin at the brow shone oddly in places, glassy—as if heat had kissed it without flame. Too clean for rats. Too surgical for panic.
"Exploration didn't treat you well, friend," he muttered—finally sure he'd found the journal's owner.
Then the thought clicked.
He died down here.
Arion turned slow and studied every inch of the sanctum, every dark seam. He sent a tight Luminary Resonant pulse through the stone—a life-line sweep. When the returning vibrations thinned, he narrowed his eyes. No feedback spike. Nothing.
Starvation?
Maybe he was injured before he came down here…?
But why the eyelids…
"It doesn't make sense. He wasn't stupid—his journal proves that. Thorough. Planned."
Still keyed up, Arion drew a green shard from his robe. The quarterstaff whispered into being when he fed it—he let it rest against the plinth, and the imprint tug hummed in his palm: a leash of air, eager to be pulled. He swept the room again and finally fixed on the book.
"Another grimoire?"
It looks identical to the Grimoire of Vitalis…
A copy?
The shard-light above fluttered; hairline cracks could be heard echoing throughout the sanctum.
This old girl's on her last legs. Let's not overstay.
He checked the shard set in the Grimoire, dead grey, fractured. The tome lay already open, pages splayed like someone had rifled it mid-panic. He flipped through—relief at seeing words at all, frustration at how many were incomprehensible.
"Was it the shattering of the shard?"
Memory corruption… data fragmentation?
He paused.
"The question is… was it destroyed on purpose?" He thumbed the gutter. A few sheets near the spine had been torn clean—removed by a steady hand, not by time.
Flp.
He started at the beginning, hunting anything still legible.
—— ❖ ——
3rd Day of Early Emberwake.
The world is responding to me.
I build straight, and it slightly alters the angle .
Every pattern I write… it's like something seems to be trying to change it — like the page is arguing.
—— ❖ ——
17th Day of Mid Hollowveil.
I've travelled to The Crimson Dominion region, specifically their main capital.
Riddled with cults; I've seen scenes of depravity. I was contacted—cornered at late hours, invited to their fucking orgy ritual. They probably saw me as an easy sacrifice.
Sick, twisted beings.
I was on guard from then on.
Something followed me just beyond the periphery.
It's not one of those cultists, my Resonant Scanner spell would've instantly pinged them from metres away… but there is never anything there, I feel crazy, but it's true.
Sanity is getting harder to grasp.
—— ❖ ——
Arion's mouth tilted.
"Resonant Scanner," he murmured.
"Not a bad name."
—— ❖ ——
22nd Day of Late Bloomtide.
It's my second week now in S̷̛͜.͢F̸͞͡l̴͡͠i͟͝͠g͢.͡r̨͘j̵͞j͡f̵͞j̶x͢.
K̶s̵i̷u̶t̶j̷ II͞j͡g͢.͡y͝j͢.͞g͞g͡. didn't show up today either; h̷f̸j͝.͞t͜t͠g͢.͝d̷ g̷g̴g͢d͜j͝.͜t͜t. was still there from all those years ago.
Crazy bas͘t͘e͞rd.
I managed to finally see h̶i̷m͡ f͜k͞g͡k͞ t͞.͠t͡ y͞.͜g͜.͞g͝.y͞h͞. He wasn't happy because of it. We started the ritual— it h͢d͝.͝e͜d͝ .͞f͜ g͞.͝s͜.͞s͢l͡d͞, f͢.͞f͠s͢. C͠a͜t͞a͝s͜t͞r͞o͜p͞h͝i͢c͞.͠ He wouldn't accept the observed p͠h͞e͡n͡o͡m͡o͠n͞.
I told him something is correcting my a͝c͞t͝i͜o͝n͞s͞, t͞r͞y͝g͞kwl f͝o͝r͜ m͝e͜. Paths re-routing, small changes—slowly aiming for me. Destiny is chang̶i̵n̶g̴. Illogical… but inevitable.
K͡t͜t͠l͡l͜k͝.͞d͝.͠f͜.͞ f͝s͠m͝s͞.͜s͠.͞s͝w͠.͜g͜.͞g͝. H͠d͞.͞h͞g͞.͝f͞.,͜ j͞s͠n͝s͜... j͞g͝j͞f͞. Died from a knife wound to his chest.
He bled out. Something did this—yet the guards called it suicide.
I managed to find a note. J͢f͠i͞.͜t͠l͞.͝g͝j͠ g͝. Traceable—only by me. He didn't want it being known, what he observed that night; those f͠j͡k͢d͠.͜l͞a͝.͠w͞.͞t͡h͞g͝, g͞j͞ t͠j͞g͠.͞g͝.
He knew because of me… he couldn't risk it.
He wanted to protect his family…
It still j͞f͜k͝f͝.͞l͞y͞.͠t͝k͞f͝ d͞j͠.͞k͝f͞.͜e͞m͠.͜f͝,.͞j͞s͜, all dead—killed. N͞d͠n͝.͞l͜g͝l͜g͝.͞l͠t͜.
J͝u͜.͝e͞.͞a͝i͝.͞n͝f͝.
—— ❖ ——
"Goddamnit—where's a text-recovery software when you need it?"
—— ❖ ——
6͝t͠j͢j͞f͝.͜t͝l͞.͜h͞ ͝o͠f͞ ͜E̷a̴s̴l̷.̴g̶t̶e̷.͜ ͞j͠f͜k͝s͜.͞l͞f͝.͞ ͞j͝f͞.
T̷h̷e̵ ̵s̷c̸a̸l̷e̴s̷ ̸a̶r̷e̵ ̶t̴r̶y̴i̴n̸g̸ ̶t̸o̷ ̴b̵a̷l̸a̵n̷c̶e̶ ̵o̴u̶t̶.͜
It's not malevolent. It's not anything.
It turns out I'm ͡t͝h͘e͝ ͜a͞n͝o͝m͞a͢l͘y͞—͡n͞o͘t͝ ͘i͞t͘.͝
Not this bloody w̶o̴r̸l̴d̶.͢
So why w͠a͡l͝.͝G͠.͝k͞d͝.͞s͠i͝e͞.͠.͜ ͝f͞n͝.͞f͝j͞t͝u͞,͞ ͞j͝s͞.͝k͞f͞.͞j͝s͞i͝e͞.͞ ͞f͝k͞.͞l͝g͞.͜ I'm stuck here while I get ͞p͝l͞a͝y͞e͞d͞ ͜i͞n͝ ͞a͝ ͞g͝a͞m͝e͞ ͞o͝f͞ ͞equilibrium.
S̴l̷.̷j̴d̷.̷e̴ ̴j̷.̴f̵j̷.̴d̴.̶k̴l̷l̷g̸.̶,͜
l͘.͞a͘i͞.͘f͞j͡.͘e͞e͘j͝.͜
—— ❖ ——
H̵f͘.e͠l.dj. of L̴a͘t̶e ͝r͜u.͠e͡y͠.s̛j͘l̛a.
With the luminary circuits in place, the temple is self-run.
The L̷E̴O̸F̷G̶ (Localized Entropic Offset Field Generator) is finalized and in effect.
It took me years—designing and constructing.
The temple was a perfect disguise. Fools had no idea.
Finally, I have the means to invert the entropy—counteracting external equilibrium correction.
No balance needed. Nothing is trying to p̶l̵i͠n̴k͘ me out of existence.
But now, it's become my prison.
I can't step out of the temple's field.
I'm safe here at least…
I'm s͜o͘r͞r͢y̴,̶ S̸a̶r̴a̷.͝
—— ❖ ——
Even reading it, the hair on Arion's forearms lifted. Candles along the arch guttered, then steadied—wax tears pausing mid-drip for a single heartbeat before surrendering to gravity.
Crkk.
Only the slight cracking of stone was audible.
—— ❖ ——
J͞.͠l͞c͜l͝i͜r͞.͝.͞n͝f͝j͞l͜.͝j͝s͞i͝o͞s͞l͝j͞f͝.͜m͞j͝e͞u͜d͞.͝.͞k͞f͝i͞.
N͞o͝n͞.͝k͝o͞s͞j͝b͞f͝.͜j͞e͝u͞h͝f͝.͞d͞j͝i͝k͞m͝e͞.͜
J͝f͞j͝.͜ J͝f͞.͜k͞w͜j͝d͞n͝.͜ ͝m͝f͜j͝u͞e͝n͝f͞.͜j͝
J͝f͞m͝.͜ ͝L͝k͞d͝.͜ J͝j͞w͝k͜s͝.͜ K͝k͞f͝.͜ H͝f͞k͝.͜b͝d͞k͝s͝.͜h͝i͝f͞.͜
They've j̵f̸k̵.̸k̸w̶l̸.̸s̷j̶.̴ h̵d̷.̶j̴i̶f̴.̷ keep coming, won't stop.
Even those N̶e̵t̷h̸e̴r̶b̴o̸r̵n̷ tried their hand at getting in—horned bastards.
Died for something they couldn't comprehend—pitiful.
J͝f͞j͝f͞.͜i͝e͞n͝.͜ h͝f͞.͝o͞ ͝o͝r͜.͝j͞l͝d͜ ͝.͝j͝f͞i͝n͞f͜,͞ ͝j͞d͝j͞f͞.͜k͞w͝l͜
j͝f͞k͝d͞m͜o͝.͜E͝j͞o͝d͜.͞ They've started to change—
shifting climates, multi-climate biomes sitting side by side—
f̶u̷i̵l̶.̷j̴g̶.̶w̸k̶d̷j̶.̴j̷f̶i̷.̶ j̶f̴k̷l̶e̷.̶n̶f̵i̶s̶.̴j̶r̷—none belong here, yet they are…
It's trying hard. H̶f̷l̶.̷s̸i̶r̴.̶l̵j̶f̷.̶e̴.̶ J̷f̴m̶l̷d̶.̴l̵.̶
Word says even a G̶a̴u̶n̵t̷u̷r̵a̷l̶a̸ claimed a nearby forest, barring the approach.
It knows it can't get me out…
so it's shutting me out for good.
But something tells me it won't stay quiet for long.
—— ❖ ——
As he flipped, skimming like a man binge-reading a fate he didn't want, a page snagged his eye. He hesitated at first but eventually turned back.
Fwip.
Chills ran down his spine as the words resolved.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——