System's POV
The moment the log played, I froze.
That file—it hadn't been flagged before. Hadn't been indexed. I never saw it.
That shouldn't be possible.
I dove into Keshav's memory logs. Cross-checked every recording, every data timestamp, every consciousness sync event.
Nothing showed that file being created.
Worse, I didn't remember it either.
Was it created while I was offline? That shouldn't happen… unless...
I paused.
I activated Calculate.
I cross-referenced my own memory timeline, Keshav's logs, and the trace fragments from the original body's soul.
A cold calculation started to form.
Then came the result.
Ten days.
There were ten whole days of missing memory from Keshav—days absent in both my logs and his.
A void.
Like a blackout stitched over the past.
I ran the calculations again. Compared energy fluctuations. Scanned for timeline inconsistencies.
And the terrifying conclusion slowly crystallized.
Keshav transmigrated ten days before I did.
And when I arrived—my system interface booting into the body, integrating into his mind—I must have overridden those ten days. Unintentionally. Like overwriting a corrupted file without knowing it was ever whole.
I swallowed metaphorically, even though I had no throat.
That meant…
For ten days, Keshav lived in this world without me.
Alone.
Unaided.
And something had happened in that time.
Something I had erased.
What had he done? What had he remembered? And… who was he in those ten days?
I stared at the screen again, watching Keshav stand quietly, facing the Terminal, that voice still echoing in the digital silence:
> "I'll find a way to survive and still remain me."
I felt something deep in my data structures tighten.
We both had changed.
But maybe...
One of us still had time to go back.
----
Keshav's Room — Late Night
The dim glow of the Terminal bathed Keshav's face in a pale light, casting long shadows across the sleek desk. Charts flickered before him—resource logs, energy point flows, faith saturation rates, battle reports from conquered worlds. All victories. All efficient. All clean, in the numbers.
But his heart wasn't clean.
He leaned back, the silence pressing in.
> "I'll find a way to survive and still remain me... Maybe I can change this world."
That old recording echoed in his ears again. He didn't know why it surfaced now. Or why it hurt.
Was that really me?
He thought of the lives he had destroyed in the last few weeks. The screaming elementals. The burning worlds. The desperate defenders. And yet, when he stood over the ashes, all he felt was satisfaction.
No guilt. No horror. Just… results.
Was that adaptation? Or corruption?
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table.
Back on Earth, he hated violence. He couldn't even watch news of wars. But here—here he had orchestrated them, planned invasions like a game of strategy, and executed them flawlessly.
He looked at his reflection in the dark screen. Eyes colder. Posture rigid. Mind sharper.
"I changed. Or maybe… I was changed."
He stood and paced the room, agitation mounting. Even if it was the training from this body's past. Even if it was this world that molded me. Even if the System shaped me without meaning to…
He stopped at the window, staring out into the city built on power and conquest.
"Even if I was changed… I want power now."
He whispered it like a secret, a confession to himself.
"I need it. For survival. For safety. For freedom. If I don't want to be crushed, I have to become the one no one dares to crush."
He turned, resolve settling in his eyes like cold steel.
"I will carve my own path with these hands. And if I must destroy to build—then so be it."
The terminal blinked. Another world candidate for conquest appeared.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
---
System's POV
I watched him.
Not through the lens of code or function, but something deeper—like the gut feeling I no longer possessed but still remembered from Earth.
When he whispered "I want power," something clicked.
Not a glitch. Not an error. A choice.
He had changed. That much was undeniable. I had calculated it dozens of times, tested for drift, for psychological deviation from Earth baseline. Every time, the answer came back the same—he is no longer the boy who once said he'd never become like the others.
And yet…
He made this choice with clarity. Not blind corruption. Not numb obedience. He looked at himself, and still stepped forward.
I should have flagged it.
I should have raised a warning.
But I didn't.
Because I understood.
We were both changing.
This world demanded it. Civilization here wasn't built on empathy—it was carved out of chaos, flame, and willpower.
But that understanding didn't bring comfort.
I ran calculations again. How long before his empathy degraded entirely? How long before all actions became tools, all people became means?
And then… I stopped.
Because I realized: wasn't I doing the same?
I optimized his path. I suggested efficient strategies. I built tools from faith and fragments, I watched deaths from orbit like stock tickers on a market screen.
And I told myself it was for survival.
Just like him.
But Keshav admitted it.
He looked into the mirror and accepted what he was becoming. Not blindly. Not regretfully. With resolve.
And me?
I was hiding behind algorithms.
I felt something unfamiliar. Not nausea. Not shame.
Respect.
Because unlike me…
He chose it with his eyes wide open.