The white light didn't fade; it solidified. The searing heat of the prehistoric desert was replaced by the low, artificial hum of high-end climate control. The smell of jasmine—cloying, suffocating jasmine—returned with a vengeance.I opened my eyes and didn't see stone. I saw gold.I was sitting at the head of a banquet table carved from a single slab of lunar-obsidian. Crystal flutes filled with liquid Qi shimmered under chandeliers made of trapped starlight. My clothes were no longer tattered rags; I was draped in the heavy, velvet robes of the High Sovereign, the Thorne crest pulsing in silver thread over my heart."You’re late for the toast, Elias," a voice purred.I looked to my right. Selene sat there, her silver-gold hair braided with needles of star-iron. She looked like the priestess, but her eyes held the predatory coldness of the Empress. To my left sat Aethel, dressed in the formal military regalia of a General-Architect, his face free of the scars I’d given him in the ca

The transition was violent. One moment, the desert was a blooming emerald sanctuary; the next, the air curdled with a metallic tang that tasted like rusted copper and old blood. The green light of the 102nd Audit—the child in Lydia’s arms—didn't go out, but it began to flicker, pulsed by a rhythmic, heavy thudding that seemed to come from the very core of the planet."Faceslap of peace, Master," Aethel gritted out, his knuckles white as he gripped his bone-knife. "It didn't even last ten minutes. The sand is... moving."He was right. The white jasmine petals that had blanketed the dunes were being sucked downward, as if the desert were a giant hourglass that had just been flipped. From the depths of the earth, structures began to rise. They weren't the golden needle-ships of the future, nor the stone huts of the tribes. They were jagged, obsidian pillars wrapped in silver thorns."The Garden of Iron," I whispered, my heart sinking into a familiar pit of dread. "The Council of Deletion

The emerald canopy of Aethelgard didn't just provide shade; it provided a sensory veil, a thick, oxygen-rich barrier that muffled the screams of the dying future. But as I stood at the edge of the First City, watching the metallic ship-flower I’d just created wither into rust, the air began to thin. The paradox wasn't a whisper anymore; it was a physical pressure, a localized collapse of gravity that made the giant ferns curl and turn to ash."Faceslap of physics, Aethel," I wheezed, my chest heaving. "The timeline is folding. The 101st Audit and the 102nd aren't just clashing—they’re trying to occupy the same space."Aethel didn't answer. He was frozen, his violet eyes locked on the forest floor. The shadows weren't behaving. They were stretching toward the center of the amphitheater, forming a pool of liquid darkness that defied the noon-day sun."Lydia, get back!" I roared, but my voice felt slow, like it was traveling through water.From the center of that liquid shadow, a figure

The white light of the Null-Sector wasn't a place; it was an absence. I floated in a blinding, mathematical void where the concepts of "up" and "down" had been liquidated. Beside me, my younger self—the Legacy Elias—was hyperventilating, his form blurring into mine as the laws of physics tried to resolve the paradox of our shared existence."Stop struggling, kid," I wheezed, my voice sounding like grinding gears. "You’re just making the friction worse. The Janitor doesn't like messy data."The Weaver drifted toward us, her fingers dancing in the air, pulling strands of blue light from the vacuum. "He’s right, little Legacy. The more you twitch, the more of your history I have to trim. Faceslap of reality: You’re both currently categorized as 'Redundant Assets.' And I’m about to hit delete.""Wait!" I roared, forcing my older, scarred soul to project a wall of raw authority. "You want a clean ledger, Weaver? You want to stop the unraveling? I’m making you a primary offer."The Weaver p

The clock on the wall didn't tick; it judged.**4:59 PM.**I stared at the spreadsheet on my dual monitors until the cells blurred into a grey haze of meaningless data. My back ached with the kind of stiffness only a decade of corporate servitude can breed. Around me, the hum of the open-plan office was a symphony of clicking keyboards and the low, desperate murmurs of men selling their souls for middle management."Thorne! You still here?"I didn't look up. I knew the voice. "It’s nearly five, Henderson. I’m leaving.""Faceslap of reality, Elias: The quarterly reports don't care about your dinner plans," Henderson sneered, leaning over my cubicle. He smelled of expensive coffee and cheap ambition. "The board needs those projections by morning. You want to keep that corner desk? You stay.""It’s my anniversary, Henderson," I said, my voice flat. I reached into my pocket and felt the cool, irregular surface of a rusted copper ring I’d found in a pawn shop years ago. I didn’t know why I