The Source Code didn't look like lines of glowing green text. It didn't look like a silicon chip. It looked like a heartbeat made of liquid light, suspended in the center of the room. As Finn approached, the air grew thick with the smell of old paper and copper—the scent of a library and a slaughterhouse combined.[WARNING: NEURAL OVERLOAD IMMINENT] [Graft Synchronization: 48%] [Stability: 39% - CRITICAL]"Finn, stop," Elara’s voice whispered through his sub-dermal comms. She sounded terrified. "The Ghost-Data... it’s screaming. It recognizes that helix. It’s not just code, Finn. It’s a map of every soul that was ever 'processed' by the Architects."Finn ignored her. He was staring at the base of the helix. There, flickering in the sub-layers of the holographic projection, was a familiar string of biometric data. A specific genetic frequency he would recognize anywhere.It belonged to his daughter, Lily."Archivist," Finn’s voice was a low, dangerous growl. "Why is my daughter’s soul-

The drop wasn't a landing; it was a kinetic bombardment.Finn Crowne didn't use a parachute. He didn't use a thruster pack. He stood on the outer hull of a high-altitude insertion pod, his obsidian boots fused to the metal, watching the German skyline burn. Below, Neo-Berlin was being methodically disassembled. The World-Eater—a three-kilometer spire of pulsating white geometry—sat in the heart of Alexanderplatz, its "Cull-Fields" rippling outward in blue, translucent waves.Anything the waves touched—concrete, steel, or screaming civilians—was reduced to its base molecular components."Impact in ten seconds," Finn’s voice vibrated through the Sovereign-Link."Ready when you are, Boss," Nadia’s voice replied. She was in a separate pod, her heart rate sitting at a cool, impossible 40 beats per minute. The Ghost-Data in her veins had turned her into a biological computer.[Target Locked: World-Eater Anchor Point] [Distance: 2,000 Meters] [Graft Synchronization: 84.9%]"Brace," Finn mutt

The Ural Mountains didn't welcome them; they resisted. The wind at the summit of Yamantau was a frozen blade, screaming through the rusted remains of the Soviet-era bunkers. But Finn Crowne didn't feel the cold. His obsidian skin had stabilized at a temperature that would have scalded a normal human, radiating a low-level heat that melted the permafrost beneath his boots.[PROJECT: THE SANCTUARY]Location: 3,000 Meters Sub-Surface.Structural Integrity: 15% (Initial Excavation).Power Source: Void-Core (Stolen from the Mothership).Capacity: 1.2 Million Souls (Projected)."The 'Dead Hand' facility is deeper than the records suggested," Nadia reported, her voice coming through the Link. She was three miles below him, her amber eyes cutting through the dark of the borehole. "The Soviets weren't just building a bunker. They were looking for something. There are carvings down here, Finn. Not Architect. Older."Finn paused his descent. He was rappelling down the primary elevator shaft usin

The transport drone didn't have a cockpit. It was a sleek, white coffin of aerodynamic ceramic designed to carry "Optimized" biomass from Earth to the Lunar Relay. Finn Crowne wasn't biomass; he was a virus.He was currently latched onto the exterior hull of the drone, his obsidian claws buried deep into the heat-shielding. As the craft punched through the Mesosphere, the friction turned the air around him into a roar of white-hot plasma. A normal human would have been incinerated in seconds. Finn just tightened his grip.[WARNING: EXTERNAL TEMPERATURE 2,500°C] [Graft Synchronization: 91.8%] [STABILITY: 14% - MANUAL COOLING ACTIVE]Finn’s obsidian arm acted as a heat sink, absorbing the thermal energy and venting it through his core as a violet steam. He looked back at the Earth. It was no longer the blue marble of the old novels. It was a bruised, grey sphere webbed with the glowing veins of the Architects' "Cull-Fields.""Almost there," Finn rasped, the sound lost in the vacuum of s

The vacuum of the Lunar Relay didn't just pull the air from Finn Crowne’s lungs; it tried to pull the very concept of "self" from his fracturing consciousness. As his obsidian claws pierced his own chest, the feedback loop was instantaneous. He wasn't just a man anymore; he was a biological conduit for two conflicting realities. On one side, the cold, geometric perfection of the Architects; on the other, the raw, entropic screaming of the Acheron’s billion souls. He stood at the center of the lunar processing floor, a jagged silhouette of matte-black metal and bleeding violet light, while the world around him began to dissolve into a fever dream of white noise and mechanical shrieking.The Archivist’s face, once a mask of celestial arrogance, began to glitch in real-time. His geometric form flickered, revealing the ancient, withered husk of a man who had traded his mortality for a seat at the Architects' table. He stepped back from the gantry railing, his hands raised not in defense,