Arion stood motionless in the ruined study, one hand absently rubbing his chin, eyes squeezed shut in exaggerated, mock meditation as if the answer might descend from the cracked ceiling like divine inspiration.
"Aha!" His eyes snapped open, bright with sudden triumph.
A single heartbeat of silence followed. The spark of genius flickered, then died.
"Hmm… no, no—that isn't it."
He exhaled sharply, brow creasing as he narrowed his eyes, tilting his head this way and that in search of a fresh perspective. When the angle finally shifted, his gaze dropped involuntarily to the floor.
Beneath the scattered tomes and brittle pages he had kicked aside in earlier irritation, faint carvings now revealed themselves—deliberate grooves etched deep into the stone, nothing ornamental. He dropped to one knee and swept more debris away with sweeping motions of his boot and forearm, sending clouds of ancient dust billowing upward in choking spirals until the full pattern finally resolved beneath the dim, stuttering shardlight.
It didn't read as decoration. He had built enough circuits in his old life—late nights hunched over breadboards and soldering irons—to recognise cold, functional intention when he saw it. Every branch, every junction, every precise angle converged with mathematical certainty on the raised platform where the desk still sat like a lonely throne at the centre of it all.
"How the hell did I not see this?" he groaned aloud as heat rushed to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
He rubbed the back of his neck, muttering to himself. "Too busy playing treasure hunter, apparently."
He straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Well… if there's been any kind of repeating theme in this madhouse of puzzles and paranoia, then…"
He knelt once more and pulsed a careful, measured thread of Vitalis into the nearest groove. The feed stuttered at first—too strong and the lines snapped dark with overload; too weak and they sank back into shadow.
On the second try the pulse held perfectly: steady, well-behaved, alive.
Luminary flared beneath his boots and raced outward, inking every groove in living gold. The entire floor ignited.
Rrrkk.
Stone groaned deep in its ancient throat, a sound that vibrated up through his bones and into his teeth. Dust avalanched from hidden seams in thick sheets.
A bass thrum rolled through the chamber like a cathedral organ clearing centuries of dust from its pipes. The entire platform rose—desk and all—smooth and majestic, revealing a perfectly circular void beneath.
Vhhhhhmmm.
A low, impressed whistle escaped Arion's lips. "Damn. That's a proper madman's dungeon entrance if I've ever seen one."
Boom-thmm.
When the platform had climbed high enough to clear his head, he leaned carefully over the edge, peering down. The carved filaments continued unbroken down the walls of a spiral staircase that wound into absolute, velvet darkness.
"Welp—in for a penny, in for a pile of shards."
He descended, boots ringing softly on the worn steps. The glowing veins pulsed along the stone like living arteries, warm beneath his fingertips whenever he brushed them. In the flickering corner of his eye the geometry kept flickering with half-familiar equations from his old world—ghosts of chalkboards, whiteboards, and coffee-stained napkins—taunting him with familiarity.
Huh… interesting.
At the bottom, a short, echoing corridor opened into a perfectly rounded sanctum. The air here was cooler, heavier, carrying the faint metallic tang of spent lightning and the musty sweetness of eternal candle-smoke.
Arches framed deep alcoves holding watchful statues in frozen vigilance, locked metal chests banded with silver, and rows of candles whose flames still burned with unnatural, unwavering steadiness—no flicker, no drip, as though the years had somehow missed them.
Overhead, a half-dome of stained glass bled soft, not-quite-sunlight—too pure in its spectrum, too clean, too perfect.
Up close he could see the shard embedded behind the panes, refracting raw Luminary into a polite, artificial imitation of noon. The carved lines climbed the walls in elegant spirals and terminated there in a neat, final knot of light, as though the entire sanctum were one enormous, completed circuit.
He crossed the room slowly, boots whispering across the smooth flagstones. In the exact centre, a simple stone plinth waited with a second tome resting upon it like an offering.
He stepped closer—
"Fuck!"
THUD.
His boot slipped on something slick and viscous beneath the dust. He hit the floor hard, breath punched from his lungs in a sharp grunt, and lay stunned for a long second, staring at the ceiling while his heart hammered against his ribs.
Only then did he push himself upright, wincing.
A decomposing body lay slumped against the far side of the plinth.
Not a clean skeleton. Not whole.
The gear screamed seasoned adventurer: leather reinforced with blackened metal plates, travel-worn and viciously sliced in half a dozen places. A quill rested just beyond the reach of one stiffened, claw-like hand, as though the final act of writing had stubbornly outlasted the last spark of life.
The eyelids—what remained of them—were ragged and torn. The face had dried into a mask of pure, frozen horror, mouth stretched in a silent scream. At the brow and temples the skin shone oddly glassy and translucent, as if intense heat had kissed it without flame or smoke.
"Exploration didn't treat you well, friend," Arion muttered, voice rough with unexpected sympathy.
He did not know why, but he would have bet anything this was the true author of the journal that had guided him this far.
The dead grimoire. The quill by his hand. The same frantic need to leave something behind. None of it felt like coincidence.
He died down here. Alone.
Arion turned slowly in a full circle, studying every shadow, every dark seam, every watchful statue. He sent a tight Luminary resonant pulse through the stone—a life-line sweep that spread outward like invisible sonar. The returning vibrations thinned to nothing. No spikes. No hidden threats. Just… emptiness.
Starvation?
Maybe he was already injured before he even reached the bottom…?
But why the eyelids… why the glassy burns…?
"It doesn't make sense. He wasn't stupid—his journal proves that. Methodical. Brilliant. Paranoid in the best possible way."
Still keyed up, heart rate refusing to settle, Arion drew the green shard from his robe. The Quarterstaff of Recall materialised with a soft whisper of displaced air; he leaned it against the plinth, feeling the magnetic imprint tug gently in his palm like an eager, living leash ready to be pulled at any moment.
He swept the sanctum once more with his eyes and finally fixed on the book.
"Another grimoire?"
The live weight of the Grimoire of Vitalis sat against his chest. This one felt wrong the moment he touched it—dead shard, dead silence, dead response.
It looked identical to the Grimoire of Vitalis he already carried.
A copy?
The shard-light overhead fluttered weakly. Hairline cracks echoed through the stone.
This old girl's on her last legs. Let's not overstay our welcome.
He checked the shard set into the spine—dead grey, fractured beyond any hope of repair. The tome already lay open, pages splayed wide as though rifled through in blind panic.
He began flipping through them—relief at finding any words at all, frustration mounting at how many had dissolved into incomprehensible static and jagged corruption.
"Was it the shattering of the shard?"
Memory corruption… data fragmentation? Some kind of magical checksum failure?
He paused, thumbing the gutter. Several sheets near the spine had been torn out by a steady, deliberate hand—not by time or decay, but by someone who had made a conscious, final decision.
Flp.
He started at the beginning, hunting anything still legible, the weight of another man's unraveling sanity pressing heavier with every turned page.
—— ❖ ——
3rd Day of Early Emberwake.
The world is responding to me.
I build straight, and it slightly alters the angle.
Every pattern I write… it's like something seems to be trying to change it—like the page is arguing.
—— ❖ ——
17th Day of Mid Hollowveil
I've travelled to the Crimson Dominion region, specifically their main capital.
Riddled with cults; I've seen scenes of depravity. I was contacted—cornered at late hours, invited to their fucking orgy ritual. They probably saw me as an easy sacrifice.
Sick, twisted beings.
I was on guard from then on.
Something followed me just beyond the periphery.
It's not one of those cultists, my Resonant Scanner spell would've instantly pinged them from metres away… but there is never anything there, I feel crazy, but it's true.
Sanity is getting harder to grasp.
—— ❖ ——
Arion's mouth tilted in reluctant admiration even as a chill settled in his gut. "Resonant Scanner," he murmured. "Not a bad name at all. Wish I'd thought of that one first."
—— ❖ ——
22nd Day of Late Bloomtide
It's my second week now in S̷̛͜.͢F̸͞͡l̴͡͠i͟͝͠g͢.͡r̨͘j̵͞j͡f̵͞j̶x͢.
K̶s̵i̷u̶t̶j̷ II͞j͡g͢.͡y͝j͢.͞g͞g͡. didn't show up today either; h̷f̸j͝.͞t͜t͠g͢.͝d̷ g̷g̴g͢d͜j͝.͜t͜t. was still there from all those years ago.
Crazy bas͘t͘e͞rd.
I managed to finally see h̶i̷m͡ f͜k͞g͡k͞ t͞.͠t͡ y͞.͜g͜.͞g͝.y͞h͞. He wasn't happy because of it. We started the ritual—it h͢d͝.͝e͜d͝ .͞f͜ g͞.͝s͜.͞s͢l͡d͞, f͢.͞f͠s͢. C͠a͜t͞a͝s͜t͞r͞o͜p͞h͝i͢c͞.͠ He wouldn't accept the observed p͠h͞e͡n͡o͡m͡o͠n͞.
I told him something is correcting my a͝c͞t͝i͜o͝n͞s͞, t͞r͞y͝g͞kwl f͝o͝r͜ m͝e͜. Paths re-routing, small changes—slowly aiming for me. Destiny is chang̶i̵n̶g̴. Illogical… but inevitable.
K͡t͜t͠l͡l͜k͝.͞d͝.͠f͜.͞ f͝s͠m͝s͞.͜s͠.͞s͝w͠.͜g͜.͞g͝. H͠d͞.͞h͞g͞.͝f͞.,͜ j͞s͠n͝s͜... j͞g͝j͞f͞. Died from a knife wound to his chest.
He bled out. Something did this—yet the guards called it suicide.
I managed to find a note. J͢f͠i͞.͜t͠l͞.͝g͝j͠ g͝. Traceable—only by me. He didn't want it being known, what he observed that night; those f͠j͡k͢d͠.͜l͞a͝.͠w͞.͞t͡h͞g͝, g͞j͞ t͠j͞g͠.͞g͝.
He knew because of me… he couldn't risk it.
He wanted to protect his family…
It still j͞f͜k͝f͝.͞l͞y͞.͠t͝k͞f͝ d͞j͠.͞k͝f͞.͜e͞m͠.͜f͝,.͞j͞s͜, all dead—killed. N͞d͠n͝.͞l͜g͝l͜g͝.͞l͠t͜.
J͝u͜.͝e͞.͞a͝i͝.͞n͝f͝.
—— ❖ ——
"Goddamnit—where's a text-recovery software when you need it?" Arion muttered, the words half-laugh, half-prayer.
—— ❖ ——
6͝t͠j͢j͞f͝.͜t͝l͞.͜h͞ ͝o͠f͞ ͜E̷a̴s̴l̷.̴g̶t̶e̷.͜ ͞j͠f͜k͝s͜.͞l͞f͝.͞ ͞j͝f͞
T̷h̷e̵ ̵s̷c̸a̸l̷e̴s̷ ̸a̶r̷e̵ ̶t̶r̶y̴i̴n̸g̸ ̶t̸o̷ ̴b̵a̷l̸a̵n̷c̶e̶ ̵o̴u̶t̶.͜
It's not malevolent. It's not anything.
It turns out I'm ͡t͝h͘e͝ ͜a͞n͝o͝m͞a͢l͘y͞—͡n͞o͘t͝ ͘i͞t͘.͝
Not this bloody w̶o̴r̸l̴d̶.͢
So why w͠a͡l͝.͝G͠.͝k͞d͝.͞s͠i͝e͞.͠.͜ ͝f͞n͝.͞f͝j͞t͝u͞,͞ ͞j͝s͞.͝k͞f͞.͞j͝s͞i͝e͞.͞ ͞f͝k͞.͞l͝g͞.͜ I'm stuck here while I get ͞p͝l͞a͝y͞e͞d͞ ͜i͞n͝ ͞a͝ ͞g͝a͞m͝e͞ ͞o͝f͞ ͞equilibrium.
S̴l̷.̷j̴d̷.̷e̴ ̴j̷.̴f̵j̷.̴d̴.̶k̴l̷l̷g̸.̶,͜
L͘.͞a͘i͞.͘f͞j͡.͘e͞e͘j͝.͜
—— ❖ ——
Arion's thumb pressed so hard against the page the paper creaked. The words blurred, then sharpened again, each corrupted letter feeling like a needle sliding under his skin.
He blinked once, twice, trying to force his breathing back to something like normal.
Everything that had happened since he arrived in this world rushed back at once—the dangers, the near-misses, the constant sense of encroaching harm.
The unfortunate tapestry of foreboding that always seemed to smother his every step.
The contrast between his two lives pressed painfully at his thoughts. One had given him almost everything, only to rip it away. This one had felt hostile from the first step.
He shook the thought loose before it could spiral any further, letting out a strained chuckle at how close he was to believing something absurd.
With that, he flipped onto the next page.
—— ❖ ——
H̵f͘.e͠l.dj. of L̴a͘t̶e ͝r͜u.͠e͡y͠.s̛j͘l̛a.
With the luminary circuits in place, the temple is self-run.
The L̷E̴O̸F̷G̶ (Localized Entropic Offset Field Generator) is finalized and in effect.
It took me years—designing and constructing.
The temple was a perfect disguise. Fools had no idea.
Finally, I have the means to invert the entropy—counteracting external equilibrium correction.
No balance needed. Nothing is trying to p̶l̵i͠n̴k͘ me out of existence.
But now, it's become my prison.
I can't step out of the temple's field.
I'm safe here at least…
I'm s͜o͘r͞r͢y̴,̶ S̸a̶r̴a̷.͝
—— ❖ ——
Even reading the words, the hair on Arion's forearms lifted. The candles along the arches guttered violently as though an unseen draft had passed through the sealed chamber.
Arion let the page rest against the plinth, palm flat on the cracked leather as if he could still feel heat rising from the ink. The description of the circuit—years of work, a perfect inversion, a cage that turned the world's own rules against it—settled over him like cold water.
Crkk.
Only the faint cracking of stone somewhere high above broke the silence, as if the sanctum itself were settling under the weight of what it had kept hidden.
He exhaled through his teeth, the sound thin and shaky in the sealed air. Somewhere in the back of his mind a quiet voice that sounded a lot like his mother asked whether he would still recognise himself when the same scales finally turned their attention his way.
—— ❖ ——
J͞.͠l͞c͜l͝i͜r͞.͝.͞n͝f͝j͞l͜.͝j͝s͞i͝o͞s͞l͝j͞f͝.͜m͞j͝e͞u͜d͞.͝.͞k͞f͝i͞
N͞o͝n͞.͝k͝o͞s͞j͝b͞f͝.͜j͞e͝u͞h͝f͝.͞d͞j͝i͝k͞m͝e͞.͜
J͝f͞j͝.͜ J͝f͞.͜k͞w͜j͝d͞n͝.͜ ͝m͝f͜j͝u͞e͝n͝f͞.͜j͝
J͝f͞m͝.͜ ͝L͝k͞d͝.͜ J͝j͞w͝k͜s͝.͜ K͝k͞f͝.͜ H͝f͞k͝.͜b͝d͞k͝s͝.͜h͝i͝f͞.͜
They've j̵f̸k̵.̸k̸w̶l̸.̸s̷j̶.̴ h̵d̷.̶j̴i̶f̴.̷ keep coming, won't stop.
Even those N̶e̵t̷h̸e̴r̶b̴o̸r̵n̷ tried their hand at getting in—horned bastards.
Died for something they couldn't comprehend—pitiful.
J͝f͞j͝f͞.͜i͝e͞n͝.͜ h͝f͞.͝o͞ ͝o͝r͜.͝j͞l͝d͜ ͝.͝j͝f͞i͝n͞f͜,͞ ͝j͞d͝j͞f͞.͜k͞w͝l͜
j͝f͞k͝d͞m͜o͝.͜E͝j͞o͝d͜.͞ They've started to change—
Shifting climates, multi-climate biomes sitting side by side—
f̶u̷i̵l̶.̷j̴g̶.̶w̸k̶d̷j̶.̴j̷f̶i̷.̶ j̶f̴k̷l̶e̷.̶n̶f̵i̶s̶.̴j̶r̷—none belong here, yet they are…
It's trying hard. H̶f̷l̶.̷s̸i̶r̴.̶l̵j̶f̷.̶e̴.̶ J̷f̴m̶l̷d̶.̴l̵.̶
Word says even a G̶a̴u̶n̵t̷u̷r̵a̷l̶a̸ claimed a nearby forest, barring the approach.
It knows it can't get me out…
so it's shutting me out for good.
But something tells me it won't stay quiet for long.
—— ❖ ——
Arion grimaced at the last readable page, taking in the entries written by the Madman. "That's either the clearest madness I've ever read," he muttered, "or the worst possible explanation for everything."
He flipped on anyway. One page snagged under his thumb. Unlike the others, the ink there held in darker strokes, less broken, as though whatever had been written there had refused to rot quietly.
He hesitated, then turned back.
Fwip.
Chills ran down his spine as the words resolved.