Morning came with strange colors bleeding across the sky. Purples and greens that shouldn't exist in nature, remnants of the Wound's influence even miles from its epicenter. Jiko woke first, as he usually did, and watched the impossible sunrise with detached curiosity.
The Cartographer was already awake, sitting cross-legged and surrounded by the contents of his pack. Memory-Shards, notebooks, devices Jiko still didn't fully understand. The old man looked up as Jiko approached.
"Sleep well?"
"I don't dream," Jiko said. "So yes."
"That must be peaceful." The Cartographer gestured to the space across from him. "Sit. If we're going to do this honestly, we should start your real education today."
Jiko sat. Marik and Ven were still asleep, curled against each other for warmth. The morning air was cold, and their breath misted in the pre-dawn light.
The Cartographer pulled out a particular Shard, this one swirling with colors that hurt to focus on. "Do you know what this is?"
"A memory-Shard. But not a normal one."
"Close. This is a teaching Shard. Pre-Severance academics created them, concentrated knowledge encoded in experiential format. This one contains a comprehensive overview of how the Severance changed the world." He held it out. "I was going to use it eventually, but given our new arrangement, now seems appropriate."
"How does it work?"
"You absorb it, same as any Shard. But instead of gaining a memory or skill, you gain understanding. Compressed knowledge that unpacks in your mind." The Cartographer paused. "It's disorienting for most people. The information comes with the emotional context of whoever created it. But for you..."
"I won't feel the emotion, just receive the information."
"Exactly. Which might actually make this easier." He placed the Shard in Jiko's hand. "Ready?"
Jiko looked at the swirling colors. "What do I do?"
"Focus on it. Will it to integrate. Your mind will do the rest."
Jiko focused. The Shard grew warm in his palm, then hot, then it simply dissolved. And the information came.
It wasn't like learning. It was like remembering something he'd always known but had forgotten. The Severance, eighty years ago. The moment Dr. Miriam Seo activated the Empathy Engine, trying to force humanity toward collective compassion. The machine had worked too well, tearing the boundary between thought and reality, making abstract concepts concrete.
Memories became extractable. Morality became visible. Emotion became tangible.
The world had collapsed within weeks. Governments fell when their lies became visible as black Marks. Economies crashed when people could trade their skills directly without money as intermediary. Wars erupted over resources that suddenly included human experiences themselves.
And then the Echoes appeared. Concentrated emotion given form, leaking through the tears in reality that the Engine had created. They fed on what humans had once kept internal, transforming psychological landscapes into hunting grounds.
Humanity survived by adapting. New power structures emerged, built around controlling the trade in memories and morality. The Iron Testimony weaponized guilt, using it to enforce order through fear. The Choir Sanctum hoarded virtue, creating artificial scarcity to maintain power. The merchant guilds treated everything, even human souls, as tradeable commodities.
And beneath it all, the Empathy Engine still ran. Deep in the Wound, still processing, still trying to complete its original programming: make everyone feel what everyone else feels.
The knowledge unpacked in Jiko's mind, clear and complete. When it was done, he looked at the Cartographer with new understanding.
"The Severance wasn't an accident," Jiko said. "It was an attempt to fix humanity."
"By forcing empathy, yes. Dr. Seo believed that if everyone could feel everyone else's pain, war and cruelty would become impossible." The Cartographer's expression was grim. "She was wrong. Instead, she made suffering into currency and gave people new reasons to exploit each other."
"And the Engine is still running."
"In the heart of the Wound, yes. Protected by unstable reality and Echoes. Multiple expeditions have tried to reach it, to shut it down or study it. None have succeeded." The old man paused. "Until now, potentially."
Jiko understood. "Because I can't feel empathy. The Engine's influence won't affect me."
"Theoretically. You're immune to emotional manipulation, which means you might be able to reach the Engine when others can't." The Cartographer leaned forward. "But that's years away, if ever. First, we need to understand you completely. Which brings us to today's lesson."
He pulled out another device, this one resembling a tuning fork made of crystal. "This is a resonance detector. It measures the presence and density of moral weight. Watch."
The Cartographer held it near his own chest and struck it. The device hummed, producing a complex tone that wavered and fluctuated. "That's my guilt and virtue, made audible. The deeper tones are guilt, the higher ones virtue. You can hear how they interact, creating a unique signature."
He held it toward the sleeping Marik. The tone was deeper, heavier, even though Marik's visible Marks were gone. "He still carries weight, even after you absorbed his Marks. Some guilt is too integrated to remove completely."
Then he held it toward Jiko.
Silence. Absolute, perfect silence.
"Nothing," the Cartographer said. "Not even baseline moral weight that most humans have from birth. You're a perfect void." He set the device down. "Now, I want you to try something. Try to generate a Mark. Deliberately."
"How?"
"Do something you know is wrong. Lie, steal, harm. Something that would normally produce guilt." The Cartographer gestured at the Wastes. "There's no one to hurt here, so we'll simulate. Tell me a lie. Something significant."
Jiko thought about it. "I enjoy your company."
The Cartographer blinked. "That's your lie?"
"Yes. I don't enjoy or not enjoy anything. I tolerate your presence because it's useful."
"That's..." The old man laughed, surprised. "Alright. Honest, even in your dishonesty. Now, check yourself. Do you feel any different? Any weight, any sense of wrongdoing?"
Jiko examined his internal state. "No."
"Try something physical. Take something of mine without permission."
Jiko reached over and picked up one of the Cartographer's notebooks. He held it, waiting.
"How do you feel?" the Cartographer asked.
"Nothing."
"Not even satisfaction at defying me?"
"No."
The Cartographer took the notebook back. "Interesting. Most people, even sociopaths, feel something when transgressing. Excitement, satisfaction, fear of consequences. But you truly feel nothing." He made a note. "Let's try the opposite. Do something kind. Help someone."
Ven stirred, waking slowly. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "What are you doing?"
"Teaching," the Cartographer said. "Jiko, help Ven with something. Anything she needs."
Ven looked confused but played along. "My feet hurt from yesterday's running. Could you massage them?"
Jiko moved to her feet without hesitation and began working the muscles with mechanical efficiency. Ven winced, then relaxed as the tension eased.
"You're good at this," she said.
"It's just pressure and technique."
"Do you feel good about helping me?"
"No."
"Satisfied? Proud?"
"No."
Ven pulled her feet back. "That's deeply unsettling. You just did something nice for me, and it meant nothing to you."
"It meant something to you," Jiko pointed out. "Isn't that sufficient?"
"Philosophically, maybe. Emotionally, no." She looked at the Cartographer. "Is this what you wanted to show me?"
"Partly. I'm trying to map the boundaries of Jiko's condition." The old man turned back to Jiko. "Here's the core question: can you learn morality? Not feel it instinctively, but understand it intellectually and choose to follow it?"
"I already do that," Jiko said. "I know killing is wrong, so I avoid it unless necessary. I know stealing causes problems, so I only do it when the benefit outweighs the cost."
"But you don't avoid those things because they're wrong. You avoid them because they're inefficient."
"Is there a difference?"
The Cartographer was quiet for a moment. "Yes. And no. That's what we're trying to determine."
Marik woke then, stretching and groaning. "Are we philosophizing already? It's too early for existential questions."
"It's never too early," Ven said. She looked at Jiko. "Question: if you had to choose between saving a stranger's life and gaining something valuable, which would you choose?"
"Depends on the value and the stranger."
"That's not how morality works."
"Then how does it work?"
Ven opened her mouth, then closed it. "I... actually don't know how to explain it."
"Because morality is felt, not explained," the Cartographer said. "It's intuitive. Humans are born with baseline moral instincts, empathy, fairness, reciprocity. Those instincts get shaped by culture and experience, but the foundation is innate." He gestured at Jiko. "You don't have that foundation. So you're building morality from scratch, using logic instead of feeling."
"Is that sufficient?" Jiko asked.
"I don't know. But we're going to find out." The Cartographer began packing his devices. "Here's today's lesson plan: as we travel, I'm going to present you with moral dilemmas. Real ones, not hypotheticals. You'll make choices, and we'll discuss why you chose what you chose. Over time, we'll see if you can develop a functional moral framework without the emotional foundation most people have."
"An experiment," Jiko said.
"Everything with me is an experiment. But this one, I promise, is for your benefit as much as mine." The old man stood. "Come on. We should move before the Wound's instability shifts."
They broke camp quickly and set out, following the border of the Wound. The landscape here was subtly wrong. Colors were too vivid, shadows fell at incorrect angles, and occasionally they'd hear sounds that had no source. But it was navigable, and more importantly, empty of human threats.
As they walked, the Cartographer began his lessons.
"First scenario," he said. "You find a dying man in the Wastes. He's been robbed, left with nothing. He begs for your water. You have enough to survive the journey to the next settlement, but sharing means you'll be thirsty. What do you do?"
"How likely is he to survive even with the water?" Jiko asked.
"Unknown. Maybe fifty percent."
"Then I don't share. Fifty percent chance of saving him versus guaranteed discomfort for myself. The math doesn't favor helping."
"But he's dying," Ven protested.
"Yes. And I'm not. Helping him reduces my survival odds without significantly improving his."
The Cartographer nodded, making notes. "Purely rational. No empathy or obligation factored in. Second scenario: you witness someone being attacked. You could intervene, but you might be injured. What do you do?"
"Depends on who's being attacked and why."
"A stranger. Random violence."
"I don't intervene. Not my problem, and injury reduces my long-term survival."
Marik looked troubled. "But that's how societies collapse. If no one helps anyone..."
"Then people die," Jiko said. "But people die anyway. At least this way, I'm not one of them."
"Third scenario," the Cartographer continued. "You're given the chance to kill a warlord who terrorizes a region. Doing so would save hundreds, maybe thousands. But there's a risk you'll be caught and executed. What do you do?"
Jiko considered. "How much risk?"
"Thirty percent."
"And the benefit is measured in strangers' lives, which have no value to me personally?"
"Correct."
"Then I don't kill him. Thirty percent risk of death for zero personal gain is inefficient."
The Cartographer stopped walking. "Even though hundreds would die without your intervention?"
"Yes."
Silence fell. Ven and Marik exchanged uncomfortable glances. The Cartographer stared at Jiko with an expression that might have been horror or fascination or both.
"You understand," the old man said slowly, "that what you just described is the logic of a sociopath."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Complete disregard for others' wellbeing, purely selfish calculation, no sense of moral obligation."
Jiko thought about that. "But I'm not cruel. I don't harm others for pleasure. I simply don't prioritize them over myself."
"That's the same thing, functionally."
"Is it?" Jiko looked at the Cartographer. "If I don't help someone, they remain in whatever state they were already in. I haven't made things worse. But if I harm someone actively, I've reduced the total wellbeing. Those seem different."
"They are different," Ven said. "There's a moral distinction between action and inaction. But..." She trailed off, thinking. "But if you have the power to help and choose not to, aren't you responsible for their continued suffering?"
"Am I responsible for everyone's suffering? For every person I could theoretically help but don't?"
"No, but..."
"Then where's the line? When does someone else's problem become my responsibility?"
The Cartographer smiled suddenly. "There. That's the question. That's the heart of moral philosophy. And you just asked it without any emotional framework, purely from logic." He started walking again. "Most people never interrogate their moral intuitions. They just feel them. But you have to build yours from scratch, which means you get to question everything."
"Is that better?" Jiko asked.
"I don't know. But it's interesting." The old man glanced back. "Let's try something different. Fourth scenario: you're traveling with companions. Marik, Ven, and me. One of us is injured and slowing the group down. Staying together means we all risk being caught by pursuers. Abandoning the injured person means the rest survive. What do you do?"
Jiko looked at each of them in turn. "Which one is injured?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes. You have knowledge I need. Ven has contacts and skills. Marik..." He paused. "Marik has less obvious utility but seems valuable to Ven. Losing him would reduce her effectiveness."
Marik laughed, but it was strained. "Good to know I'm valued for my effect on my sister."
"So your choice would depend on who's injured," the Cartographer said.
"And how severely. And whether they could recover. And what we're running from." Jiko nodded. "There are too many variables for a simple answer."
"But if forced to choose. If it's me, injured and dying. Would you leave me?"
Jiko met his eyes. "Yes. If staying meant death for everyone, I'd leave you."
The Cartographer smiled. "Good. That's the right answer, practically speaking." He looked at the others. "How do you feel about that, knowing he'd abandon you?"
"Terrified," Ven admitted. "But also... I'd probably make the same choice? I don't know. It's different when you feel it."
"That's the key difference," the Cartographer said. "Ven would agonize over the choice. Feel guilt afterward. Probably have nightmares. But she'd likely reach the same conclusion Jiko did. The difference is the suffering involved in getting there."
"So I'm more efficient at making hard choices," Jiko said.
"Or more monstrous. Perspective matters." The Cartographer pulled out his notebook again. "Let's talk about learned morality. You said you know killing is wrong. Why?"
"Because societies punish killers, and being punished is inefficient."
"So you avoid killing not because it's wrong, but because of consequences."
"Yes."
"What if you could kill without consequences? No witnesses, no punishment."
Jiko thought about it. "Then the only consideration is whether killing achieves a goal more efficiently than alternatives."
"And if it does?"
"Then I'd kill."
Ven made a small sound of distress. The Cartographer just nodded, writing.
"That's consistent, at least. But here's the problem: most moral systems aren't based on efficiency. They're based on categorical imperatives. 'Don't kill' as a rule, regardless of consequences." He looked at Jiko. "Can you adopt a rule like that? Follow it even when breaking it would be more efficient?"
"Why would I?"
"Because rules create stability. If everyone breaks rules when convenient, society collapses."
"So I should follow rules for the collective good?"
"Yes."
"But I don't care about the collective good. Only my personal survival."
The Cartographer sighed. "And there's the core problem. You're rational enough to understand that cooperation benefits everyone, but you lack the emotional investment in 'everyone' that makes people willing to sacrifice for the group."
"Is there a solution?" Jiko asked.
"Maybe. If we can teach you to value the collective instrumentally. Not because you care about people, but because their wellbeing indirectly benefits you." The old man tapped his notebook. "A functioning society provides resources, protection, knowledge. By contributing to society, you gain access to those things. So even without empathy, you have rational reasons to behave morally."
"That makes sense," Jiko said.
"It does. But it's fragile. The moment betraying society becomes more beneficial than supporting it, your morality disappears." The Cartographer looked troubled. "That's the difference between you and a normal person. They'd feel guilt for betrayal even if it was beneficial. You wouldn't."
They walked in silence for a while. The Wound's edge grew closer, its light painting everything in unsettling colors. Jiko processed the lessons, filing them away into his growing understanding of how morality worked.
It was strange, he thought, to learn feelings like vocabulary words. Guilt means discomfort at having violated norms. Shame means awareness of others' negative judgment. Pride means satisfaction at achievement. He knew the definitions, could identify them in others, could even predict when they'd occur. But he'd never experience them himself.
Was that a loss? Everyone seemed to think so. But Jiko couldn't miss what he'd never had.
"Question," Marik said suddenly. "If you don't care about people, why are you helping us? You could have abandoned us in Ember's Rest, taken your chances alone."
Jiko considered. "Alone, my survival odds decrease. You provide skills, knowledge, and safety in numbers. Helping you is self-interested."
"So if we became liabilities, you'd leave?"
"Yes."
"At least you're honest." Marik was quiet for a moment. "Does that bother you? Being fundamentally alone even when surrounded by people?"
"No. Should it?"
"Yes. Humans are social creatures. We need connection, belonging, love. Without that, most people break." Marik looked at him. "But you don't need it, do you?"
"I don't understand it, so I don't miss it."
Ven spoke up. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard. And you don't even know it's sad."
The Cartographer closed his notebook. "Enough for today. Jiko, you've given me a lot to think about. We'll continue these lessons as we travel. The goal is to build you a functional moral framework that doesn't require empathy. It's never been done before, but then again, you've never existed before."
"Will it work?" Jiko asked.
"I don't know. But the alternative is you remain a purely rational agent in a world that runs on irrational feelings. That's dangerous, for you and everyone around you."
They camped that night near a cluster of ruins that provided some shelter from the Wound's strange winds. As the others prepared food, Jiko sat apart and thought about the day's lessons.
Morality, he'd learned, was mostly about feelings he couldn't have. Guilt, shame, empathy, compassion. Without those, he was building ethics from pure logic, like constructing a house without a foundation.
Would it stand? Or would the first strong wind knock it down?
He didn't know. But he understood that the question mattered, even if he couldn't feel why.
The Cartographer joined him as the sun set, sitting beside him in comfortable silence.
"Thank you," the old man said finally. "For being patient with my tests."
"They're educational."
"Even so." The Cartographer looked at the Wound's distant glow. "I destroyed your capacity for normal human connection. I can't give that back. But maybe I can help you build something different. Something that works for who you are, not who you should have been."
"Is that absolution?" Jiko asked.
"No. But it's a start."
They sat watching the impossible sunset, the creator and his creation, bound by guilt one could feel and the other could only comprehend.
And in the Wound's light, Syla watched and smiled.
The hollow one was learning. Growing. Becoming more interesting with every lesson.
Soon, she thought. Soon he'd be ready for her.
And then they'd see if emptiness could learn to feel after all.