Rain hissed softly against the rusted metal roofs of District 9 as Eryon pushed deeper into the abandoned sector. The air felt wrong here—thick, heavy, as if the atmosphere itself remembered the memories of those who entered and never returned. Every step he took echoed unnaturally, as if the ground were hollow beneath the streets.
The Messenger's words spun inside his skull:
"You will break before you bloom."
"Others will come."
Eryon clenched his jaw. He didn't have time for riddles.
He needed answers.
And only one man in this cursed city had them—
The Archivist.
A man rumored to collect knowledge the world had forgotten.
A man who lived among shadows and whispers.
A man who knew the origin of Helunsntion.
The deeper Eryon walked, the more distorted the roads became. Houses leaned at impossible angles, their windows staring like empty eye sockets. Faded posters fluttered on cracked walls, featuring warnings:
"Mental Abnormalities Detected. Avoid District 9."
"Report Unnatural Perceptions Immediately."
Eryon scoffed.
If people reported every unnatural thing he saw now, the whole city would be locked down.
The Whisper inside him grew restless.
"This place remembers."
"Remembers what?" Eryon muttered.
"Screaming."
Eryon swallowed hard and continued walking.
---
THE DOOR OF SCRATCHED NAMES
After nearly fifteen minutes, he found it—a massive wooden door wedged inside the frame of a collapsed building. The door looked ancient, its surface carved with thousands of tiny letters… names.
Some names were scratched out.
Some repeated.
Some were half-burned.
Eryon reached out to knock, but the Whisper hissed:
"Step back."
He froze.
The door creaked open by itself.
A thin voice spoke from the darkness:
"Enter, Eryon Vassir."
A chill stabbed down his spine.
He hadn't introduced himself.
He stepped inside.
The door slammed behind him.
---
THE HALL OF FLOATING PAGES
The room beyond was enormous—far too large to fit inside the ruined building. Papers floated in the air, drifting like ghostly fireflies, glowing with faint symbols. Shelves spiraled upward into darkness, stacked with books bound in strange materials—some looked like stone, others like metal plates, some stitched with threads that pulsed like veins.
At the center, hunched over a circular desk, sat an old man with silver hair tied in a long braid. Thick glasses covered his eyes, but Eryon sensed the man could see perfectly even without them.
"You finally arrived," the old man said without looking up. "The city has whispered your name for weeks."
Eryon stepped closer. "Are you… the Archivist?"
The old man raised his head. His eyes were sharp, almost glowing.
"I collect the truths the world fears. That is what they call me, yes."
He motioned for Eryon to sit.
Eryon hesitated. "The Messenger said you know the origin of Helunsntion."
"I do," the Archivist answered calmly. "More importantly… I know what you are becoming."
The Whisper trembled inside him.
Eryon sat.
---
THE TRUTH OF HELUNSNTION
The Archivist opened a large tome. Its pages whispered like many voices speaking at once.
"Helunsntion is not a disease," he began.
Eryon frowned. "Not a disease? But—"
"It mimics one. Symptoms. Hallucinations. Mental fractures. But these are only the shells."
He flipped a page. A symbol glowed faintly—a broken circle inside a triangle.
"This is not sickness, Eryon."
"It is a signal."
Eryon's blood chilled. "A signal from what?"
The Archivist turned the page slowly.
"From your own mind."
Eryon blinked. "That… doesn't make sense."
"Oh, it does," the Archivist said. "Helunsntion comes from people whose minds are naturally gifted… or naturally cracked."
"My mind is not cracked," Eryon snapped.
The Archivist's smile was sad. "Every gifted one says that."
He leaned forward.
"Your mind is trying to step outside human limitations. It's trying to manifest thoughts into reality. Every fear. Every desire. Every suppressed memory. Everything you refuse to face becomes alive."
Eryon felt his hands tremble.
"So… I'm becoming unstable?"
"No," the Archivist whispered. "You are becoming more than human."
The Whisper inside him purred:
"Finally someone understands."
Eryon swallowed hard. "But why me?"
The Archivist closed the book.
"Because your subconscious is stronger than your conscious self. The disease awakens in those whose minds hold too much power for normal bodies to contain."
He pointed at Eryon's chest.
"And you, boy… you hold more power than any awakened we've recorded."
Eryon's stomach twisted.
"Then why did the Messenger attack me?"
The Archivist's expression darkened.
"Because the Cult fears any awakener they cannot control."
"Control?" Eryon repeated.
The Archivist nodded. "The Cult believes that when enough awakeners bloom, reality will unshackle itself. They want to shape the world using manifested thoughts. To create a new age of mind-born existence."
"And I'm one of their tools?" Eryon asked bitterly.
"You are something much more dangerous," the Archivist said. "A free awakener."
Eryon's breath caught.
The Archivist continued:
"You must understand: The Cult recruits the weak-minded, the ones desperate for purpose. But someone like you? Someone with a stable identity and a strong subconscious?"
He tapped the book.
"You cannot be controlled. You threaten their structure."
"So they send the Messenger?"
"He is their highest-ranking agent. The first awakener the Cult ever shaped. He no longer thinks like a human."
Eryon remembered the eyeless smile. The unnatural movements. The voice that felt like it was speaking into his bones.
"What about others like me?" Eryon asked. "The Messenger said there are dozens."
"They are awakening… but without guidance," the Archivist said. "And awakening without guidance means one of two things."
He raised one finger.
"One: They lose control. Their manifestations consume them, turning them into walking hallucinations."
He raised a second finger.
"Two: They fall into the Cult's arms… willingly."
Eryon felt a heavy, crushing dread.
"And which one am I?"
The Archivist's answer was instant:
"Neither."
Eryon looked up sharply.
"You," the Archivist said, leaning closer, "are the first recorded awakener whose fear manifests externally instead of internally. You create entities that exist outside your mind… and remain even when you look away."
Eryon froze.
"But that creature last night—"
"Yes," the Archivist nodded. "A raw projection of your deepest fear. Not a hallucination. A being."
Eryon's heart pounded.
"Can I kill it?"
The Archivist gave a humorless smile. "You cannot kill what you yourself create. But…"
He stood slowly and walked toward a sealed drawer.
He opened it.
Inside lay a small glass sphere, swirling with black smoke.
"This artifact," the Archivist whispered, "can stabilize a Manifestation. It absorbs mental overflow. But it has a cost."
Eryon stepped forward. "What cost?"
"You must confront the fear that creates your power. If you are not strong enough, the artifact will amplify your fear instead."
The Whisper inside him stiffened.
"Do not touch that."
Eryon ignored it. "I need control."
He reached toward the sphere—
—when the entire library trembled.
A loud, echoing whistle cut through the air.
The Archivist's face fell.
"No… they found us."
Eryon spun. "Who?"
The Archivist whispered one word:
"The Cult."
Books shook violently. The floating pages began to burn with purple flame. The lights flickered. The shadows along the walls twisted unnaturally.
A familiar voice echoed through the room:
"Found you, little bloom."
The Messenger stepped out of the darkness behind a shelf, his eyeless smile gleaming.
Eryon's blood ran cold.
The Archivist raised his hand, summoning protective sigils.
"Run, Eryon!" he shouted. "Get to the back chamber! I will hold him off!"
But the Messenger laughed.
"Oh Archivist… you know you cannot stop me."
Eryon looked between them—fear and fury burning inside him.
The Whisper roared:
"Run NOW!"
Eryon took a step—
—but the Messenger snapped his fingers.
Black tendrils shot toward Eryon.
The Archivist lunged forward, slamming his staff into the ground. A wall of glowing pages shielded Eryon.
"GO!" the Archivist screamed.
The shield shattered.
Eryon ran.
Behind him echoed the sound of reality tearing apart.
And a final cry from the Archivist:
"Find the truth—before the Cult finds YOU!"