The city of Arczol-9 woke long before Eezikil did. Its towers pierced the perpetual fog like silver needles, walls shifting from deep night-blue to pale dawn gradients as automated lighting systems synced with circadian algorithms
Inside apartment block 47-E, level 2897, the walls hummed softly, misting the air with synthetic citrus to coax sleeping residents toward wakefulness. Eezikil Varn lay tangled in sheets that adjusted their temperature automatically, ignoring the gentle chime from his neural implant: Cycle time 07:02. Punctuality status: nineteen minutes late.
He groaned and rolled over, staring at the ceiling as it faded to semi-transparent, revealing the endless lattice of towers stretching into the haze.
Arczol-9 never truly slept—hover-trams whispered along magnetic rails high above, delivery drones zipped in precise patterns, and holographic ads flickered across every surface, promising mood enhancers, gene tweaks, or instant nostalgia packs.
Down below, where the ruins of Old Earth lay buried under kilometers of fog, nothing moved. No one went there anymore.Eezikil finally sat up, rubbing his eyes. The bed reshaped itself into a couch behind him. His clothes materialized from the wall printer—standard Bureau grey, smart-fabric that molded to his frame, adjusting for comfort and "emotional equilibrium."
He didn't bother with breakfast. A nutrient patch unfolded from the kitchen unit, thin as paper. He pressed it to his neck, wincing at the cold sting as it delivered calories, vitamins, and a mild focus booster straight into his bloodstream.
Ten seconds later, he was fed.The door recognized his approach and slid open with a soft hiss. The hallway glowed pale blue, floor panels rippling underfoot to guide him toward the lift. Neighbors emerged from adjacent units—ghostly figures in identical greys, eyes glazed behind retinal overlays showing private worlds of work feeds, games, or social streams.
No one spoke. No one needed to. A quick nod was enough; the rest happened through silent pings and shared networks.The lift capsule accepted his implant scan and plummeted—stomach-lurching freefall for three thousand levels before magnetic braking eased it to a stop at the commuter hub.
Mid-District Exchange. Have a productive cycle, the voice announced, genderless and cheerful. Eezikil snorted as he stepped out into the crowded platform. Productive. Right.Outside, the upper city glittered under controlled dawn. Wind howled between towers but never touched the walkways—force fields kept it aesthetic, not disruptive. Rain shimmered on invisible barriers, programmed for visual appeal.
Hover-trams arrived in silver pods, seats reshaping to fit each passenger's spine map. Eezikil boarded one heading coreward, settling into the contoured gel as it accelerated smoothly.
He opened his personal overlay with a blink. The Bureau task queue expanded in glowing windows: eight media analysis reports, three cross-era comparisons, one synthesis summary due by end-cycle. Primitive fiction from centuries past—anime, manga, web novels. His job as a literatureist sounded noble on paper: preserving humanity's emotional heritage.
In reality, it was glorified binge-watching for government reports no one read.The tram glided past megastructures, each a self-contained world. Tower 1124 housed the gene markets, ads promising "designer immune systems—regret-free." Tower 2209 was education central, where children jacked into neural sims instead of classrooms.
His stop approached: Tower 3742, home of the Neo-Historical Literature Bureau. The pod slowed, docking seamlessly.The lobby smelled of clean ozone and recycled air. A sensor arch scanned him as he entered: Good morning, Researcher Varn. Yesterday's productivity: acceptable. He nodded absently, riding the grav-lift to floor 3747.
The doors parted on open workspace—floating desks ringed by holographic panels, colleagues half-visible behind walls of data. Each station was a private bubble of light, projecting forgotten worlds.Eezikil dropped into his chair. Panels unfolded around him like flower petals: ten curved screens showing grainy anime clips, faded manga scans, forum archives from a dead internet.
His implant synced, tracking focus, heart rate, even serotonin dips. "Morning," he muttered to the station AI. "Load tragedy queue.""Affirmative." Windows filled: Bleach fight scenes, Solo Leveling power-ups, fragmented One Piece logs.
He tagged files mechanically—narrative catharsis via power escalation, tribal loyalty motifs—while his mind wandered. These were relics from when people still felt things raw, before everything got optimized.
Mid-morning, he pulled up his private stash.
The Bureau didn't care as long as quotas hit. Icons bloomed: Murim Legends, Tokyo Ghoul variants, and Shadow Slave, the novel he'd dug from a corrupted archive two weeks back. Dark, relentless—protagonist clawing through nightmares. He dove in, losing hours to the prose as the artificial sun arced outside.Lunch was another patch.
Reports auto-filled via predictive text, jargon so thick it passed audits. By 18:00, his queue cleared. Workday complete, the AI chimed. He logged out, panels folding away, leaving only his reflection: pale, tired, eyes faintly glowing from implant fatigue.
The office emptied. He lingered, enjoying the quiet, then headed down. Evening painted the city neon—ads promising joy subscriptions, synthetic dreams. He walked the Skywalk home, overlay open to Shadow Slave. Crowds thinned; rain pattered silently on barriers.
He didn't notice the horizon flicker.
Then the world ended.
The explosion hit like the death of a star.The Skywalk buckled under the blast wave, transparent deck shattering into razor rain. Eezikil flew backward, slamming into the railing with cracking ribs. Pain exploded—sharp, deep, stealing breath. His uniform caught fire, fabric melting into skin.
Blisters burst across arms and chest, flesh peeling raw.Hot... too hot... Flames roared from broken pipes below, heat like a hammer on every inch of him.
He hit the ground hard, skidding over glass shards that cut deep. One stabbed his thigh to the bone, blood pouring hot. His legs were gone—left crushed under metal, right burned black. Lungs burned with every breath, throat raw fire.Burning... hurts so much... make it stop...
He clawed the railing, nails ripping off. Skin split on his back against hot deck, fat sizzling. Hair ignited, scalp bubbling. Eyes swelled half-shut, world red haze. Coughs brought bloody foam. Heart pounded wild, then skipped.Why so hot... can't breathe... kill me...
Sirens wailed far off. Towers groaned, debris raining. Flames licked closer, cooking him alive. Pain everywhere—bones aching, insides tearing. He bit his tongue bloody trying to scream.Hotter inside... please... cooler...
Thoughts broke to words: Hurts... stop... numb...Deep inside, silent changes came.[Unique Skill: Shadow Slave.]
[Granted.][Unique Skill: Eidolon Summoner.]
[Granted.][Extra Skill: Specter of Will.]
[Granted.][Extra Skill: Shadow Link.]
[Granted.][Common Skill: Shadow Movement.]
[Granted.][Common Skill: Shadow Storage.]
[Granted.][Common Skill: Shadow Veil.]
[Granted.][Ultimate Skill: Thought King – LUCEM.]
[Granted.][Title: Archivist of Lost Worlds.]
[Granted.][Blessing: Record of All Names.]
[Granted.][Common Skill: Heat Resistance.]
[Granted.][Common Skill: Pain Resistance.]
[Granted.][Common Skill: Regeneration.]
[Granted.][Common Skill: Poison Resistance.]
[Granted.][Common Skill: Impact Resistance.]
[Granted.][Skill Allocation: Complete.]
[You have received these skills.]
Pain dulled first—far away now. Heat eased, skin not peeling as fast. Heart steadied. A faint knit started in bones....cooler... numb... sleep...
He didn't feel it. Drones buzzed near, scanning ruins. His chest rose faint. Flames danced around him, weaker. Something new breathed beneath burns.
He then finally closed his eyes.