There was no falling this time.
No violent shattering of consciousness. No warping of space or sensory overload. Just stillness—absolute and terrifying.
He was nowhere.
And yet… everywhere.
A white void stretched infinitely in all directions. Featureless. Weightless. Timeless. He drifted, suspended in nothingness, without body, without breath. It should have been madness. But it wasn't.
It was clarity.
He felt… vast.
Memories—his, and not his—unfolded inside him like a million pages opening all at once. A life lived. A life unlived. Every choice he had made—or could have made—existed here, echoing infinitely through this boundless place.
Was this death?
No.
This was the core.
The anomaly's essence.
And he was inside it.
"Where is this?" he asked, or thought he asked. The concept of speech felt meaningless here, like painting on water.
The answer was instantaneous.
"This is the Archive of Becoming."
The voice wasn't singular. It was legion. Male. Female. Young. Old. It was the collective memory of all who had passed through the anomaly. All those who had touched its core and left a trace.
He turned—though there was no direction—and the void shifted.
Images flickered around him, not with light, but with understanding.
He saw a woman—tall, robed in gold and ink, standing at the threshold of a collapsing world. Her eyes glowed like twin stars as she cast herself into the anomaly.
He saw a man—covered in scars, his hands covered in scars, his hands trembling as he held a child born of light and shadow. Around him, cities burned, and above, the sky fractured like shattered glass. With one final breath, he whispered a name into the anomaly—and vanished.
He saw hundreds more. Thousands. Each a fragment. Each an echo.
Some entered willingly, seeking knowledge or salvation. Others were cast into the anomaly, offerings or punishments. A few emerged. Most did not. And those who returned… were never the same.
Then he saw himself.
Not just the man he had been in the lab. But versions of himself—alternatives he had never imagined. In one, he was older, wise, draped in ceremonial robes, leading others through the gateway as a teacher. In another, he was broken, half-consumed by the anomaly's energy, screaming as reality twisted around him. In yet another, he was no longer human at all.
Each self turned to face him.
Each self whispered a question.
"Which are you?"
He tried to speak, but no words came. Only a thought.
"I don't know yet."
And the Archive accepted this.
The void rippled.
From the nothingness, a form began to emerge—human, familiar. A man cloaked in white and black, eyes silver as mirrors. His face was the protagonist's. His presence… was not.
"I am what you may become," the reflection said. "If you accept the truth."
"What truth?"
"That you are no longer singular. You are a convergence. A nexus of all who came before, and all who may come after."
"I don't understand."
"You will."
The reflection reached out, and when their hands met, he felt the full weight of the anomaly. Not just the power—it was never about power—but the responsibility. To connect. To carry. To choose.
"The Eye gave you passage," the reflection said. "Now the City must give you purpose."
"What am I meant to do?"
The reflection smiled—soft, sad. "That is the one thing the Archive cannot tell you. Purpose must be chosen. Not inherited."
The void darkened.
The Archive began to recede.
And as it faded, the last echo rang in his mind:
"You are the Last Master of the Two Worlds. Be worthy of the title."
He gasped as the chamber returned around him.
The sphere hovered above its pedestal, now dimmed, quiet. The air was still.
But he… was changed.
The energy inside him pulsed with a new rhythm. He could feel the threads of the two worlds winding through his thoughts, his senses. Not separate anymore—but entwined. Connected.
He stepped back from the core.
The chamber doors opened without a sound.
And waiting for him on the other side—were the Watchers.
Six figures, robed and silent. Faces hidden behind masks of silver and obsidian. They bowed—not deeply, but respectfully.
"The Archive has accepted you," one of them said.
He nodded. Words felt too small.
"You must come with us. The Council awaits."
"What council?"
"The ones who remember. The ones who failed. The ones who still hope."
He followed them into the strange city of lights and silence, his steps steady, his purpose still uncertain—but growing clearer with each breath.
He was no longer just a researcher. No longer just a survivor.
He was becoming something more.
Not a god.
Not a savior.
But a witness. A guide. A bridge.
The Last Master.
And his journey had only just begun.