The Curator led them deep into the Archive, through corridors lined with memory-Shards that pulsed with preserved life. Each shelf contained thousands of experiences, organized by date, emotion, significance. It was overwhelming, the sheer density of human history compressed into crystal and light.
They reached a private chamber, sealed behind doors that required the Curator's crystalline touch to open. Inside was a workshop filled with pre-Severance technology and post-Severance mysticism. Devices Jiko recognized from the Cartographer's collection alongside others he'd never seen.
"Sit," the Curator instructed Jiko, gesturing to a chair in the room's center. "I need to examine you properly."
Jiko sat. The Curator produced instruments, scanning devices that hummed as they passed over his body. The old AI worked with the precision of something that had done this countless times before.
"Fascinating," the Curator murmured. "Five thousand two hundred and thirty-three discrete guilt-Marks, all stored in your metaphysical void. No leakage, no corruption, perfect containment." It looked at the Cartographer. "Your excision technique was more successful than we thought possible."
"At what cost?" the Cartographer asked quietly.
"That remains to be seen." The Curator continued its examination. "Jiko, I'm going to ask you some questions. Answer honestly. Do you experience any emotional affect at all? Joy, sadness, fear, anything?"
"No," Jiko said.
"Curiosity?"
"I'm not sure. I pursue information, but I don't know if that's curiosity or just efficiency-seeking."
"Do you dream?"
"Recently, yes. Since absorbing large quantities of guilt. I hear voices, see scenes from the Marks I carry. But they feel distant, like watching theater."
The Curator made notes in a format Jiko couldn't read, symbols that looked half-mathematical and half-linguistic. "The guilt is trying to integrate but can't because you lack the psychological structures for moral emotion. So it manifests as cognitive load instead. Interesting."
Ven spoke up from where she stood with Marik near the door. "Is he in danger? Can the guilt hurt him?"
"Not emotionally. But the sheer volume is affecting his neural function. Slowed processing, impaired motor control, reduced cognitive efficiency." The Curator looked at Jiko. "If you continue absorbing guilt without release, you'll eventually reach true capacity. What happens then is unknown. Crystallization, catatonia, or something entirely new."
"Can you extract the guilt?" the Cartographer asked.
"Possibly. But doing so requires understanding the mechanism by which he stores it." The Curator moved to a shelf and retrieved a specific Shard, this one darker than the others. "I have a theory. The guilt isn't stored in Jiko's mind. It's stored in his soul, in the metaphysical structure that should contain his moral framework. Because that framework is missing, excised during infancy, he has infinite storage capacity. But that also means extraction requires soul-level manipulation, which is dangerous."
"How dangerous?" Marik asked.
"Potentially lethal. Or worse, it might damage the void itself, making him unable to function without moral structure. He'd become normal, but crippled by sudden empathy and guilt he's never learned to process." The Curator set the Shard down. "We need to be very careful."
The Cartographer was pacing now, agitated. "There has to be another way. The Echoes could extract it. We've seen that work."
"Echoes consume guilt, they don't store it. Using them would mean destroying the guilt entirely, which might have consequences we don't understand." The Curator turned to Jiko. "How do you feel about potentially becoming capable of guilt? Of suddenly experiencing all five thousand Marks you carry?"
Jiko considered this. The thought of feeling five thousand moments of horror simultaneously was beyond his ability to imagine. "I don't want that."
"Then we need to find a way to extract the guilt safely, or find a way to increase your capacity so it doesn't impair you." The Curator moved to another device. "I propose we attempt controlled extraction first. Remove a small amount of guilt and see if the process damages you. If it works, we scale up. If it doesn't, we explore alternatives."
"How small?" the Cartographer asked.
"One hundred Marks. Enough to measure effects but not enough to kill him if it goes wrong." The Curator looked at everyone. "This will take time and resources. You'll need to stay in the Archive for at least a week, possibly longer. Can you do that?"
Ven nodded. "The Archive is the safest place in the Depths. If we can't hide here, we can't hide anywhere."
"Good. Then we begin tomorrow. Tonight, rest. Jiko especially needs to stabilize before we attempt extraction." The Curator moved toward the door. "I'll show you to guest quarters. They're not luxurious, but they're secure."
They followed the AI through more corridors, these ones lined with residential chambers. The Curator assigned them rooms, each small but functional, with actual beds and running water, a luxury in the Wastes.
As the others settled in, Jiko found himself alone in his room, staring at the ceiling. The weight of five thousand Marks pressed down on him, constant and heavy. He could hear the voices again, distant murmurs of regret and horror. They weren't his thoughts, but they were in his head nonetheless.
A knock at the door interrupted his contemplation. "Come in," he said.
Ven entered, carrying two cups of something that smelled herbal. "Tea," she explained. "Or at least, the Depths' version of it. Thought you might want company."
"Why would I want company?"
"Because you're carrying the sins of thousands of people and you just learned you might die if we try to remove them." She sat on the edge of his bed. "Most people would want to talk about that."
"I'm not most people."
"No, you're definitely not." Ven sipped her tea. "Can I ask you something? And can you answer honestly, not efficiently?"
"I'll try."
"Do you care if you die?"
Jiko thought about it. "I don't experience fear of death. But I recognize that death means loss of consciousness and agency. I'd prefer to continue existing."
"That's not the same as caring."
"No. But it's the closest I can come to it."
Ven was quiet for a moment. "You know what's strange? You're the most selfless person I've ever met, and you're completely selfish at the same time. You sacrifice yourself constantly, but you don't do it out of love or compassion. You do it because the math works out."
"Is that bad?"
"I don't know. It's confusing." She finished her tea. "My brother thinks you're a saint. The Cartographer thinks you're a weapon. Sera thought you were a machine. But I think you're just lost. You don't know what you are because no one else knows either."
"That's accurate," Jiko said.
"Does it bother you? Not knowing?"
"Should it?"
"Yes. Uncertainty is terrifying for most people."
"I don't experience terror."
"I know. That's what makes you terrifying to me." Ven stood. "Get some rest, Jiko. Tomorrow's going to be difficult, and you need to be as sharp as possible."
She left, taking her teacup with her. Jiko lay back on the bed, processing the conversation. Ven thought he was lost. The Cartographer thought he was a weapon. Marik thought he was a saint.
What did he think he was?
He didn't know. And for the first time, that uncertainty felt like it might matter.
He slept fitfully, the voices of five thousand sins singing their regrets in the darkness of his void.
The next morning, the Curator summoned them to a different chamber. This one was circular, with a raised platform in the center surrounded by complex machinery. Memory-extraction equipment, Jiko recognized, but far more advanced than anything he'd seen before.
"This is the Extraction Throne," the Curator explained. "Used for deep memory work, soul-level manipulation. It's one of only three in existence." It gestured to the platform. "Jiko, sit there. Everyone else, stand back. This process can be... intense."
Jiko climbed onto the platform and sat. The Curator activated the machinery, and tendrils of light extended from the devices, wrapping around Jiko like gentle chains. They didn't restrain him physically, but he could feel them touching something deeper. His metaphysical structure, the void where his guilt was stored.
"I'm going to attempt to extract one hundred Marks," the Curator said. "You'll feel pulling, pressure, possibly pain. If it becomes unbearable, tell me and I'll stop immediately."
"I don't experience pain the way others do," Jiko said.
"You might for this. Soul-level manipulation affects everyone." The Curator's crystalline hands moved over controls. "Beginning extraction in three, two, one."
The pulling started immediately. Not physical pain, but something worse. A sense of being torn apart at a fundamental level, of having something essential ripped away. The hundred Marks the Curator was extracting didn't want to leave, and his void didn't want to release them.
Jiko felt himself fragmenting. The guilt, the stored sins, were part of him now in ways he hadn't realized. They'd integrated not emotionally but structurally. Removing them was like removing organs.
He heard himself make a sound. Not quite a scream, but close.
"Stop," the Cartographer said sharply. "You're hurting him."
"It's working," the Curator replied. "The extraction is proceeding. Ninety-eight Marks removed, ninety-nine, one hundred. Done."
The pulling stopped. Jiko slumped forward, gasping. He felt lighter, marginally, but also wrong. As if something that should be inside him was missing.
The Curator held up a container, filled with black smoke that writhed like living things. "One hundred Marks, successfully extracted. Jiko, how do you feel?"
"Violated," Jiko said. It was the first time he'd used that word to describe an experience. It felt accurate.
"The extraction caused metaphysical trauma. Your void resisted giving up what it had absorbed." The Curator sealed the container. "This is problematic. If extracting one hundred Marks causes this much distress, extracting five thousand would be catastrophic."
"So we can't remove the guilt safely," the Cartographer said.
"Not through direct extraction, no." The Curator was examining the container. "But there might be another option. If we can't remove the guilt, we could redistribute it. Transfer the Marks from Jiko to multiple recipients, spreading the load."
"Who would accept five thousand Marks?" Ven asked.
"Carriers. Volunteers. Condemned criminals. It doesn't matter, as long as they're willing." The Curator looked at the group. "It would take time to organize. Weeks, possibly months. But it's safer than trying to extract it all at once."
Before anyone could respond, an alarm sounded. Harsh and immediate, echoing through the Archive.
The Curator's body language shifted, becoming alert. "That's the perimeter alarm. Someone's breached the Archive's defenses."
"Who?" Marik demanded.
"Unknown. But whoever it is, they're powerful. The defenses don't fail easily." The Curator moved toward the door. "Stay here. I'll investigate."
"Not a chance," the Cartographer said. "If someone's attacking the Archive, it's probably for us."
They followed the Curator through corridors, toward the source of the alarm. Other AI assistants moved past them, heading to reinforce the defenses. The lights flickered, and Jiko felt reality shift slightly. Someone was using Shard-based weapons, destabilizing the Archive's metaphysical structure.
They reached the main entrance chamber to find chaos.
Three figures stood at the Archive's heart, surrounded by the shattered remains of AI assistants. All three wore armor of interlocking golden plates, and their bodies glowed with concentrated virtue. Their Marks were visible even through the armor, thousands of golden brands that turned them into walking suns.
Saints. Three of them. From the Choir Sanctum.
The lead Saint saw Jiko and smiled. It was a terrible smile, full of zealous certainty.
"The heretic," she said. Her voice echoed with harmonics that made Jiko's teeth ache. "We've found you at last."
The Cartographer stepped forward. "This is the Archive of Selves. Neutral ground. You have no authority here."
"We have divine authority," the Saint replied. "And the heretic has violated natural law by existing. He will be brought to the Sanctum for judgment and purification."
"He's under my protection," the Curator said. Its voice carried weight, centuries of authority compressed into words. "Leave now, or I'll have you removed."
"You're an abomination too. A machine pretending to have a soul." The Saint raised her hand, and virtue gathered in her palm, golden light that hurt to look at. "We'll cleanse you both."
She released the light. It shot toward the Curator, a spear of weaponized Mercy meant to forcibly convert or destroy.
And then someone stepped between them.
She appeared from nowhere, a young girl with porcelain skin that cracked as she moved. Her eyes were too large, her smile too wide, and she radiated wrongness like heat from a fire.
"Now, now," Syla said, her voice a giggle wrapped in malice. "That's not very merciful of you."
The Saint's attack hit Syla and stopped. The Echo absorbed it, drank it down, and laughed.
"I've been waiting so long to play," Syla said. "And you've ruined my entrance by attacking first. That's very rude."
The three Saints spread out, weapons appearing in their hands. Blessed blades, virtue-forged and deadly. But Syla just smiled wider.
"Do you know what I am?" she asked them. "I'm everything you've tried to purge. Every moment of shame, every whisper of guilt, every doubt about your righteousness." She turned to Jiko. "And I'm here for him. Not you. So either leave, or I'll show you what real shame feels like."
The lead Saint hesitated. She could sense what Syla was, the concentrated wrongness of an Echo that fed on the very thing the Choir claimed to have mastered.
"The heretic comes with us," she said, but her voice was less certain now.
"No," Syla said simply. "He's mine. Has been since the moment I found him in that caravan. You're just late to the party."
She moved then, faster than Jiko could track. One moment she was standing still, the next she was among the Saints. They tried to fight, virtue blazing, but Syla was too fast, too wrong. She touched each of them in turn, and where she touched, their golden Marks began to crack.
"You've spent so long being good," Syla whispered. "Let me show you what you've been suppressing."
The Saints screamed. Not from pain, but from sudden, overwhelming shame. Their carefully maintained virtue shattered, and beneath it was everything they'd done in the name of righteousness. Every execution, every forced conversion, every moment of cruelty disguised as mercy.
They collapsed, their armor cracking as their Marks turned from gold to black. Syla had inverted them, turned their virtue into guilt in seconds.
She stood over them, giggling. "So much easier than I expected. You were all just one shame away from breaking."
Then she turned to Jiko, and her smile became something tender.
"Hello, hollow one," she said. "I've been waiting to meet you properly. I'm Syla. And you and I are going to have so much fun together."
Jiko stared at her, this creature of shame and wrongness that had been following him since the caravan. "What do you want?"
"To understand you. To play with you. To see if emptiness can learn to feel." She moved closer. "You fascinate me, Jiko. You're carrying five thousand sins, but they can't touch you. You're a void that walks and thinks. I've never met anything like you."
"Stay away from him," the Cartographer said, stepping forward despite his obvious fear.
Syla glanced at him. "Oh, you. The creator. You're almost as interesting as your creation. Almost." She looked back at Jiko. "I could kill everyone here. Very easily. But I won't. Because that would make you run, and I want you to come with me willingly."
"Why would I do that?" Jiko asked.
"Because I can show you what you are. Really are." Syla's cracked face split into a wider smile. "The Curator can tell you about your structure. The Cartographer can tell you about your creation. But I can show you your purpose. What you were meant to become."
"And what's that?"
"The end of morality," Syla said. "The proof that guilt and virtue are just weight, nothing divine or necessary about them. You're a walking argument against everything the Severance was supposed to achieve." She extended a hand. "Come with me to the Wound's heart. See the Empathy Engine. Learn what Dr. Seo really created. And decide if you want to destroy it or become it."
The offer hung in the air. Behind Jiko, his companions tensed. The Curator's crystalline body hummed with barely restrained power. And the three Saints lay broken, victims of the Echo who fed on shame.
Jiko looked at Syla's extended hand. This creature had followed him, manipulated events, waited patiently for this moment. She was dangerous, possibly more dangerous than anything he'd encountered.
But she was also offering answers.
"No," Jiko said.
Syla's smile didn't fade. "No? You're choosing them over me?"
"I'm choosing to stay where I can understand what's happening. You're offering mystery and risk. That's inefficient."
"Oh, hollow one." Syla laughed, delighted. "You think you're safe here? You think the Archive can protect you from what's coming?" She stepped back. "Fine. Stay. Learn what the Curator and the creator want you to learn. But know this: I'll be waiting. And when you finally realize they can't give you what you need, I'll be there."
She turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. The guilt you're carrying? It's not inert. It's changing you, slowly, building something new in your void. Eventually, you're going to have to confront what that something is. And when you do, you'll come find me. Because I'm the only one who can help you survive it."
She vanished, dissolving into shadow and wrongness, leaving behind only the three broken Saints and the smell of shame.
Silence fell. The Curator moved to examine the Saints, checking if they were alive. They were, but barely conscious, trapped in their own guilt.
The Cartographer grabbed Jiko's shoulders. "Are you alright? Did she hurt you?"
"No. She just talked." Jiko looked at where Syla had been. "What did she mean about the guilt changing me?"
"I don't know. But she's an Echo. They lie, manipulate, twist truth for their amusement." The old man's hands were shaking. "Don't trust anything she said."
But Jiko noticed the Curator was silent, its expression troubled. The AI knew something, something it wasn't saying.
"What is it?" Jiko asked.
The Curator looked at him, and for the first time, Jiko saw something like pity in its crystalline features.
"She's not entirely wrong," the Curator said quietly. "The guilt you carry, it's been storing for weeks now. And stored guilt doesn't stay inert forever. Eventually, it crystallizes. Forms patterns. Becomes something new."
"What does that mean?" Ven demanded.
"It means Jiko is growing a conscience," the Curator said. "Not feeling one, but literally growing one. The five thousand Marks are constructing the moral framework that was cut away from him. In a few months, maybe less, he won't be a blank anymore. He'll be capable of feeling guilt. All of it. Everything he carries."
The revelation hit like a physical blow. Jiko would become normal. Would gain the capacity for guilt. But he'd gain it while carrying five thousand Marks that would destroy anyone else.
"How long?" the Cartographer whispered.
"Weeks. Maybe a month before the process is irreversible." The Curator moved to Jiko. "I'm sorry. I should have recognized the signs sooner. But this has never happened before. We're in unknown territory."
Jiko processed this information. In weeks, he would stop being himself. Would become someone who could feel, who could suffer, who would be crushed by the weight he carried.
The clock was ticking.
And somewhere in the Wound, Syla smiled.
The hollow one would come to her eventually. He had no choice.
The game was entering its final stage.