—————……….

At this moment, there are only two thoughts crossing my mind.

The first one is: I don’t think I’ll be able to enjoy eating fish ever again. And the second one is: hold on, that’s not actually what I should be most worried about right now, is it?

“You mean you’re letting me decide, like, all of it?”

“Yes. As long as you can figure out a way, the world of Kyrias can be shaped in your image.”

As those words are casually spoken aloud, a drop of sweat silently rolls down my cheek.

A world in my image where people act according to my will.

Just imagine all the possibilities; I could end slavery, abolish tyranny, achieve world peace, create a law that forces people to only say bad words on Wednesday—actually that last one wouldn't really be beneficial but damn it I could.

What Master's offering to me right now is an opportunity of a lifetime, a chance for some like me to make a difference, maybe even change the world. It’s not something that anyone with an ounce of ambition would be able to pass on. 

—So of course, there’s only one thing I can say in response. 

“No.” 

“Huh?”

“Are you being serious? Why would I ever want to put that upon myself?”

Master appears stunned. But before I could elaborate further.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhh—?!”

A shock-filled scream reverberates through the Grand Archive, shattering the air of tension like an Opera singer’s voice shattering a wine glass.

“B-but you won! The winner gets the job, that's the deal!”

“What deal? If I remember correctly, I didn’t want to play with you from the start. Besides, didn’t you basically force me to win?”

“But wasn’t my speech really moving, though? Didn’t you hear your limbic system telling you to help me out, like, solely because of that?”

“Kind of, but not really?” 

—You know, because I was still caught up with the whole dying over and over again thing.

After I say that, Master turns around, pulls out his book, and begins mumbling nonsensical things to himself as he rapidly flips through it.

"Hold on, this isn't right, could I really have forgotten how to be persuasive? I said that as a joke a while back but maybe it’s actually happening?” 

It’s impossible for me to tell whether he’s being serious or just playing around. But considering that he’s acting more in line with his usual self right now, it’s probably somewhere in between.

“First, we have to figure out what went wrong. Run a full-scale simulation and explore alternative routes. Was the setup flawed? Was the delivery inadequate? Would dressing up have done the trick?”

“Master, calm down, it’s not like I don’t get what you were trying to say.”

I wave my hand in front of me, trying to ease him up.

“But have you considered the possibility that I, an ordinary person, might not be qualified to do your job?”

“Well, guess what? Me neither!”

Master snaps his book shut and turns back to me.

“It’s not like you can spend four years in college to get a degree in deciding the fate of the universe, Steve. Seriously, the only reason I got away with it was that no one was able to stop me.”

“What’s stopping you from just coming up with another plan yourself then? Do the psychic thing. Mimic how I would think. It’s not like that’s beyond your capabilities.”

After all, why I got so angry at Master in the first place wasn’t because I thought I could come up with a better plan, but because for someone like him, imagining an alternative would have been easier to do than breathing. 

Of course, now I understand why he acted that way. But regardless, a responsibility that’s basically god’s work; you’d have to be a little insane to take it on, and I think I might be too normal for that.

"Even so, I still want to know how you would go about it."

“Why?"

“Because of something fundamentally different between us.”

Master approaches the other side of the table, lowering his voice as he firmly speaks. 

“Something [you] have that [we] don’t.”

—Something I have that all great Masters of the Grand Archive don’t... No way, could it be?

“Common sense?”

“Ignorance!”

“For someone who’s asking a failed author to decide the fate of an entire civilization, I feel like either would have worked.”

Bang—!

The sound of Master slamming the table forces me to stop talking and brings my attention back to him.

“I know what I’m doing, Steve. In fact, I know all there is to know about the universe at all times; yet for the last six eternities that I tried every logical means to change it, not once have I been satisfied with the results—I’ve ran out of logical means.”

He leans forward with his body.

“So you know what? For once, I’ll do something illogical—for once, I’ll do something irrational, something unreasonable, something so completely counterintuitive it could even be said to be unspeakably foolish and tremendously idiotic.”

I raise my eyebrows at Master.

“And asking someone like me for help is the most idiotic thing you can think to do...?”

“Yes!”

"..."

Master then makes a fist with his hand to block the laughter rising from his throat.

“Seriously, trying to win a game of Chess by moving random pieces... That’s the kind of plan I’m expecting from you; something so stupid that it might actually work.”

"..."

"Hahaha... Hahahahaha~"

—Is going back to get hit by a truck still an option at this point?

“Aaah, okay, I’m sorry. Look, I just want you to write something, anything, using the world and people of Kyrias as inspirations.”

Master throws up his arms, stating his final piece to try to convince me.

“You’ve done something like this hundreds of times before. And no one is stopping you from doing it again. So what are you hesitating for?”

—And for a second I thought I'd misheard him.

“I’ve written stories before—fiction—not people’s lives. Don’t talk like they’re the same thing.”

When you watch a movie or a show you are never an active participant. There’s a level of dissociation no matter how much you empathize with a certain character. After all, those characters don’t really exist, so whether or not they live or die ultimately doesn’t matter.

—But that’s not the case here. 

No matter what kind of story I decide to write, the characters in the story would have to be the people of Kyrias, people with histories and desires outside of my knowledge. So for me to arbitrarily assign them roles and direct their lives... how can that not be considered cruel?

“But they are the same thing.”

From the other side of the table, Master once again repeats his ultimatum. 

This time, however, the weight behind those words can no longer be felt.

“If you really believe that, then you wouldn’t be asking for my help at all.”

"..." 

Silence. It seems like I hit the bull’s eye. Though, getting me to notice that simple contradiction is probably why he said stuff like that in the first place.

After a sigh, Master speaks to me.

“You’re right, Steve.”

He straightens his posture and holds his book close to his chest.

“What you said earlier, too, about how we’re not a bunch of pacifists. All in the service of our ultimate goal—our plan for Kyrias is just the latest in a long line.

“But because of the mechanics of the Grand Archive, we can’t just start and end every war without also becoming a part of it; every part of it. The memories of every person, every death, every victim and perpetrator in six universes from the beginning to the end all feed right back into my mind to be recorded.

“We were willing to live every second of our existence like that in order to fulfill our [role], regardless of what part we have to play.

"But perhaps other options do exist. One that we’re unable to see as a being who has seen too much beyond the veil.”

“That’s why in order to make sure that this time will be different. I need someone who lacks the same biases, someone who’s [ignorant] of the gaps that exist in this reality.”

Then, without any warning, draped in a long, scholarly white robe, the person who claimed to be the most arrogant human in existence—bows before me.

“I need your help.”

There’s no more sophistry to his method, only a show of desperation from someone who’s truly out of options—an act of resignation; a discarding of pretenses.

“Haaa…”

I think back to the memories that were injected into my brain during the chess game. How visceral and real they felt as the records played out in my mind, over and over again. Those few minutes alone felt like several lifetimes of torment.

But only now have I realized that was only a fraction of what Master has to experience all the time.

In order to do his job, he allows millions of billions of voices from six eternities to pour inside his head. Turning every act of his cruel plot into a twisted method of self-mutilation.

—And if I refuse him, I would only be condemning him to that fate again... 

“[The Conceptors Grand Archive]. [The Six Eternities]. [Godmaker]. [Fictional Reality]. [The Reboot]. [The Divergence Process]. [The Datasphere]. [QCNs]. [Edineras].”

I begin listing out the grand concepts that have been force-fed to me since I arrived here.

“All these things that I’m able to barely grasp and somehow you expect me to put them to use?”

As Master raises his head to stare at me blankly through his blindfold, I continue to speak.

“I’ll try.”

“Then—”

“But I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to do exactly what you want.” 

I quickly add the last part to curb Master’s enthusiasm. It doesn’t do much, however, as shown by the smile that has once again crept its way back onto his face.

“All I want you to do is to play the [role] you were given, Mr. Protagonist.”

“Given... Not earned.”

“Soon, it will be. Let’s just say I reversed cause and effect a little to give you a head start.”

“Is that how this sort of thing works?”

“Who cares how it works? We’re in the [Outsider Plane], no laws applied here—well, except for the whole equivalent exchange thing but let’s not get into that again.”

Master shrugs, reverting back to his carefree and confident attitude as if to say that an eternity is too long of a time to spend wallowing in self-pity anyway.

Unfortunately transcending your self-pity isn’t something that comes naturally to everyone just because they have stepped into a higher dimension… I smile bitterly at the thought.

—Besides, there is still another issue, one that isn’t related to Master, or to his proposal, but to me.

“But Master… I haven’t been able to write anything for years.”

I really, really don’t want to go back there again. To experience those dreadful feelings again.

The suffocating sensation, as if something inside my throat is trying to crawl its way out, but my mind is refusing to let it.

And as I wander inside, it’s like walking through a dark swamp where the ground catches my legs, dragging me down.

How many times have I ventured into that slimy, disgusting quagmire only to find that there is nothing?

No more words to be spoken, no more feelings to be expressed, no more concepts to be realized; only silence and eternal darkness.

—If it was entirely up to me to imagine a perfect world, I wouldn’t know where to start either.

“But didn’t you write about something like that before?”

A calm voice rings in my ears, breaking through the darkness like a lighthouse’s beacon.

“I wrote what?”

I ask Master, but the question itself is rhetorical. There’s no way he is referring to anything else but that...

“It was the last story you published before you went into this pathetic slump and became a living equivalent of an empty tube of toothpaste—mundane, disposable, and very hollow on the inside.”

“In my defense, those descriptions fit a lot of things...”

As my voice trails off, my eyes automatically travel to the table in front of me, landing on the record that Master has placed there.

It calls out to me. But the realization that opening it would remind me of… everything. Prevents me from answering that call.

Perhaps noticing that I feel uncomfortable, Master takes a few steps back.

“There’s a saying; that underneath the forgotten ruins of the past lies a rusted model of the present, and only by studying it can we know who we have become and who we can be.”

He then jumps to sit on [The Astral Projector], despite it looking really difficult to do so.

“You’re still 1 second away from death, Steve. What’s the worst that could possibly happen if you decide to look back one last time? It’s the last chance you have at doing anything.”

...The last chance I have at doing anything, is that right?

Master places his chin on his hands and watches me in silence, waiting for an answer. 

—If he can go out of his way to drop all pretenses, maybe it’s okay for me to do the same?

After making up my mind, I pick up the record from the table. Unlike Master’s book which looks quite heavy, my record is small, about the size of a notebook. Its ivory-white cover and dark golden rims look similar to the countless other records, and the only thing unique about it is what’s written on the cover.

<Steve Carlo: ESPD-10235>.

It’s strange to think that everything that I had been through could be condensed to the size that fits in my palms. But I suppose it makes sense. My life was never that long or eventful in the first place.

Suddenly, I notice something, a tingling sensation in the back of my mind, pulling me towards something. I follow it, and it doesn’t take long for me to arrive at the source.

—During that uneventful life, there is a period of time that I deliberately left buried under dust and cobwebs.

There’s a brief silence, then before I know it, the words begin to naturally come out. 

“I was ambitious, once, passionate even... But then that passion died.”

...Yes, that’s right. It died, along with them.

“But my parents’ deaths weren’t the reason why I gave up trying to become a writer.”

Holding the record in my hands, I open the book of memories that has been shut for a long time, and begin to recount the rest of my story.

“Rather, they were the only reason why I got recognized as one in the first place.”

—————………. 

It started in a cold, dark, and lonely place. No light could come in, no sounds could escape. A place full of misery devoid of any life.

[That is usually where most things in the universe started, yes.]

Perhaps, but it was only a room. My room. A place which I had turned into a prison.

The me who lived in that prison was not a living thing. After all, the routine consists of nothing but sleeping, and waking up from recurring, unending nightmares can not be considered a life.

The cause should be obvious. The sense of loss was simply too much, the sense of guilt was just too heavy for me to bear. I couldn’t overcome it, couldn’t forget it, couldn’t get rid of it. And as a result, my social life began to fall apart.

[But weren't there people around you back then? Friends and the like, you used to have those, right?]

There were people like that, sure. But almost all the relationships that I had developed throughout my youth were either shallow or one-sided. Ultimately, to people with their own personal drama to deal with, getting involved with mine probably was not something they deemed worth it.

Realizing that, I pushed them away.

[What about Sebetha?]

She... was the one person I couldn’t decisively cut out of my life. But she didn’t really get it, not entirely. I couldn’t put into words what I was going through, while she was only capable of urging me to get over myself.

Ah, the conversations that went around and around in circles, serving no purpose than to increase our frustration for one another. How childish we were back then.

In the end, we simply just began to talk to each other less and less.

[Leaving you in your prison, miserable and alone.]

...

I never felt more worthless than I was back then.

Who was I? Someone who had no friends, no family. Someone who had no reason nor the will to live yet too afraid to die. A person who spent time senselessly on the internet as the sands that filled the hourglass of my life dribbled down, grain by grain.

Truthfully, I was afraid… afraid of dying and leaving nothing behind.

But as a person whose worth had been reduced to nothing, what means did I have to leave a legacy?

But I did. It turned out I still had one thing left; the very thing that caused me to be in that state in the first place.

An idea formed inside me. If I couldn’t overcome my trauma, perhaps I could make use of it instead. Turn this blackened pool of regret into ink, and use it to write.

[Frame all your life’s failures as paintings and give the monsters from your nightmare names.]

It wasn’t passion that drove me. It was desperation. Like something that was born from the shadow of my room had burrowed itself into my mind, controlling my fingers to tap away at the keyboard and bring it to life.

The story about a town of people stuck in purgatory. About impossible creatures and the despair of the people who were helpless in the face of forces beyond their understanding. With my imagination—and a little bit of delusion—I turned my prison into a fantastical city of monsters.

Was it entertaining to anyone else? I couldn’t care less. Was it well-written? I didn’t give a damn.

In the end, it was all just a selfish, indulgent reflection of my inner self. I was like an insane person screaming incoherently on top of a cliff expecting no one to hear or understand. Because at least once my story had left me, death no longer seemed so terrifying.

I didn’t need anyone or anything else.

At least, in the beginning, it was like that.

[You changed your mind?]

That is… even if one really set out to make creating for the sake of creation their raison d’etre. They would still hear that voice in the back of their mind that said, wouldn’t it be nice if someone actually listened to the nonsense you spout, right?

Perhaps because I was starving for some kind of human connection, but when I got a response from a reader for the first time saying that they enjoyed my story, the gears in my head started to turn in a different direction.

If, through my story, my voice can be heard. And if some kind of connection could be formed through it. Maybe... just maybe.

Not long after that, I made the decision to drop out of college to completely focus on writing. I willingly locked myself inside for months, doing nothing but write.

Eventually, the loneliness began to subside. I had my audiences. People who were attracted to my story. There were a considerable number of them too at some point, and they only continued to grow.

As long as they were there for me. As long as they continued to listen to my voice.

—I could continue to stay in that town of monsters, stuck in purgatory, for the rest of my life.

…

But you already know that didn't happen.

After all, you know [everything].

If it wasn’t for something that happened later, I would have never left that town behind.

One night, as I was staying up late to finish a draft of a new chapter. I got a message from someone who I hadn’t talked to for months.

Sabetha.

[Your last few interactions with her were mostly limited to greetings, goodbyes, with the occasional how do you do, I’m fine sort of pleasantries.]

[Is this time the same?]

This time it was different. Because 10 minutes after she sent me that message, she personally showed up at my front door.

Then without any warning, she started coming in to clean up my apartment without having been asked.

I tried to stop her but she refused to listen, and in the end, I was forced to silently sit in a corner of my room watching her clean every nook and cranny of my apartment until she was satisfied.

After the cleaning was done, she poured me some tea and finally revealed her reason. A reason that took me by surprise.

A month ago, her father passed away. His life was taken by an illness that Sabetha and her family tried to fight for a long time. His funeral was carried out three days prior.

Seeing her father’s life ended before her eyes, blaming herself for not trying to do more to prevent it.

But then as it was all becoming too much for her...

[She thought of you.]

She was reminded of my situation. She felt like she had finally understood my pain and wanted to help me. Sorry, I was late... I believed that was what she said to me then.

Unlike me, even after going through hardships, even after losing someone important of her own she was...

Compared to me she was a lot stronger. And compared to her I was just so, so weak.

[Weak and pathetic.]

...Even more than you realize.

Because when she started saying that she wanted the two of us to be close again, all while wearing the same beautiful smile that I had always remembered to be on her face.

I... couldn’t accept it, and lashed out at her.

Don’t pretend like you understand me…

—I rejected her. And the world that she was in.

You weren’t there when I needed you the most…

—To hide my own pain, my own insecurities, and my own fear.

And now you are acting like everything is fine...

—Because I thought that even without her, there were still people who would listen to my voice.

I don't need someone like you anyway…

Words that were designed to be as hurtful as possible rained down, relentlessly trampling her goodwill, her kindness, and her sympathy.

When I was finished, she couldn’t say anything back.

I had pushed out the last person who was still in my life for good.

The regrets came soon after.

Was this really the life I wanted to live? Wasn’t loved. Wasn’t important to anyone. Wasn’t special. If I just die tomorrow, how many people would actually cry?

Do I really want to stay in that town for the rest of my life?

Those kinds of thoughts popped in and out of existence in my head, as I returned to my daily life, locked inside, surrounded by the darkness that had become a part of me.

For two years, I fed this darkness and let it grow like a tumor. The town. Its people and my stories became a world of its own—a world born from my negative emotions. I pulled out every fiber of my soul to weave that story and in the end, all I could see in it was me. All my ugliest fears and darkest thoughts laid bare for anyone to see.

Yet I had no one in my actual life who could notice that anymore.

I created a twisted model of the world and used that twistedness as a shield—a means to cope with everything—and before I knew it that filthy little diorama became the only thing I had left.

That was just the sad reality of my pathetic self.

....

If it wasn’t for all the loss and grief would anything be different?

The model before it was twisted; the diorama before it became filthy. Before all of my desires to be someone who was chosen were ground up and thrown aside, what kind of story would I have written?

That day, I wanted to imagine the world beyond the town that I’d come to believe to be the end of me. The world outside where I was free, unshackled by the chains of regrets that hold me underneath the sea of the past.

Was that even possible for me anymore? Even now, could I go back? If there was someone out there who could tell me the answer, then the only way to reach them was to transcribe my desires onto a page, just as I had always done.

After a few sleepless nights, I made up my mind.

All my doubts, all my wishes, told them in the only way I could, to the only people who were there to listen.

[You decided to give your story an ending.]

A great flood washed across the town, wiping away all the monsters, all the madness and solitude.

And in the wake of it, a brand new city. One where every lesson that could be learned had already been learned, one where everybody knew what was best for everyone else, free of grudges and loathings.

—Then, happily ever after…

This was fine, right? It was alright to take a step forward, right? There was still hope for me to leave all those things that haunted me behind and reach for a brighter future, right? The passion to write and the passion to live, if I was willing to search for it, I would certainly be able to find it again, right?

If I were to trade in this damaged, tainted world for a perfect one, would that be alright?

But those questions and that foolish wish of mine were rejected, in the end.

—They all hated it.

Endless bashing. Insults. Countless words of mockery. Some even go as far as to threaten my life to redo the ending.

[Why did that happen?]

.....

I wondered that, too.

Was it because I had betrayed their expectations? Was it because the idea I proposed was so outrageous? Or was it the result of an unfitting dream?

No…

The answer, as it usually turned out to be, was quite simple.

It’s because it was boring.

I remember… what I felt as those words washed over me. So ordinary, yet they smashed into me like a hammer. The illusion of grandeur fell and crumbled, SHATTERING beneath my feet like glass, reflecting the world as it WAS!

And I laughed and laughed and LAUGHED… laughed with bitterness… with sorrow... and with a realization of how idiotic… how naive, how utterly PATHETIC I was to even THINK. To THINK—

Why did I think people were attracted to my story in the first place? Did I think it was because of me?

Of what I had to say? Of what I had to show? They were there for the struggle, for the tragedy; tragedy wrapped in layers and layers of nonsensical sophistry.

—I was just delusional to think that the emotions contained within my words had ever reached anyone.

Reveling in despair and misery so much that reality bled into dreams. But no matter how much of my soul was carved into my work. In the end, it was all just—cheap and dirty—disposable entertainment. They smelled blood, my blood, and they liked its scent... that was all it was.

Why did it take me so long to realize it…?

The pain I transposed onto every word was as transparent as it was because I screamed them out without a care in the world wishing all along for someone to tell me that I wasn’t the only one. But there wouldn’t be any. Why would there be?

Because the connections that I thought I was creating, the only thing that kept me going, none of it was real.

—Do you want to know why I can’t write the story you want me to, Master?

Because I know that there can never be a perfect world.

Even if it was somehow created, eventually there will be someone who decided that it was too bland, too stale, too peaceful.

The end results are taken for granted by those who only reap the benefits, while those who enjoy success without experiencing hardships are seen as weak.

Because we enjoy conflicts—we crave it, we enjoy watching people get beaten half-dead and come out on top. There are more of those who want to watch the world spin until it burns than those who want to make it a better place and as long as that’s the case…

—The world will never be [perfect].

...

There was no hope…

There was no point…

I gave up.

—————……….

[The Six Eternities] shine brilliantly in the void sky. Their lights are bright, clear, and unceasing—yet even when combined together, they fail to illuminate the gloomy darkness that perpetually shrouds over this plane.

Inside the main observation room of the Grand Archive, upon the dark wooden floor surrounded by stacks of books, I lean back on the couch and continue to gaze at those shining white dots, narrating the final part of my story.

“When I eventually told Sebetha everything, she said she understood that, and she was fine with that, with me, a person who failed to change.”

And if she was fine with it. Then I had no choice but to be fine with everything too. She was willing to give another chance to some like me. That’s why, as long as I have her, I don’t need anything else.

I accepted my place in the world. Or at least I thought so.

“Haaaa…”

In the past few years, what have I been doing with my life? I quit, gave up and left without even collecting the pieces and numbed my senses with the mundanity of everyday life, consuming the kindness the only person in my life was willing to give like drugs.

But no matter how much I try to move on, the murky water flows out and taints everything I touch, reminding me that at the heart of that flooded town there is still a question that hasn’t gone anywhere all this time.

“Back then... was I wrong?”

“—Yes.”

“...”

...That’s quick.

“Oh, was that not what you wanted to hear? Then no, you were right. Congratulations.”

“...So I’m wrong and right and neither?”

“Welcome to the world of the Living Paradox.”

I furrow my brows and stare at Master. The white-haired man swings his legs back and forth on [The Astral Projector] and smiles, showing an attitude that is in such contrast with my current mood I can’t describe it as anything but baffling.

I take a second to massage my temple before continuing to talk to him.

“Isn’t this place supposed to have the answers to every question?”

“Of course. Every answer to every question. Doesn’t mean it can choose for you what the right one is.”

—Then what was the point of all that?

While my head is spinning around like a tellurion. Master stands up and balances on top of [The Astral Projector] with his arms stretched out.

“The Living Paradox. The Living’s Paradox. Sounds similar but they’re not the same thing. A Living Paradox is a state of being that has more than one true state. While the Living’s Paradox is an actual paradox of the living.”

“I’ve never heard of any of those things.”

“Of course not. I made it up.”

“Figured...”

Master proceeds to ignore my snide muttering and launches into the explanation of the Living’s paradox.

“If any kind of existence were to go on for long enough, everything that could possibly happen to it will happen, including the desire for its own destruction.”

“So I wasn’t the only one who thought that, huh?”

“The universe has been looping for six eternities, Steve. Anything unique or original can be counted on two hands.”

Then, Master continues.

“If that statement is true then eventually every good thing, every bad thing, and every good and bad thing at the same time will happen. But here’s the kicker—if the paradox itself exists for a long enough time, would it eventually come to desire its own destruction as well?”

While saying so, Master kicks on the side of [The Astral Projector] lightly with the side of his foot, causing it, and him, to slowly rotate.

“If it does, then that means that eventually, everything that could happen will happen, including something that originally couldn’t happen. Even the idea that nothing lasts forever won’t last forever. Everything becomes possible.”

As if it was perfectly timed, Master does a full rotation before beginning his next explanation. 

“If it doesn’t, then that means that after everything that could happen happened, then that’s it. Impossible things remain impossible. Some rules can never be broken, some problems can never be solved—there can never be a perfect world.”

I look down at the record in my hands, memories resurfacing in my mind.

“So which one is correct?”

And to my question, Master’s answer is simply:

“Yes.”

“Yes...?”

“Both are correct, if we were to talk non-temporally, that is.”

Before I can voice my confusion, Master goes on to elaborate.

“Anything that lives long enough will eventually want to stop existing. Anything that stops existing for long enough will yearn to exist again. Around and around. Constantly contradicting itself, constantly changing—that is the Living’s Paradox.” 

—Forever changing, forever yearning, forever incomplete. An open book with no ending. The endless swings of the pendulum.

“Maybe you were right in the past. Maybe you were wrong. But that’s just something that happened a long time ago, was it not? And just like how the coin that’s spinning in the air is neither head nor tail. Right now, the Living’s Paradox (the paradox of the living) is a Living Paradox (a state of being that has more than one true state). Just like everything else.”

“So what you’re trying to say is?”

Without stopping spinning, Master draws his conclusion.

“Nothing’s ever that important, and nothing’s ever that unique. We’re all made up of a collage of contradicting parts. We’re all Living Paradoxes. Winner or loser, black or white, as long as you continue to exist you’ll get to be all of it. And right now, you exist.

“So why not try to ‘exist’ again, just for a while? Head or tail, instead of asking, why not try to find your own answers? If things don't turn out the way you want, all you have to do is to try again until you get it right. However many times it takes. As [Outsiders], unbound by time and space and reality, you and I currently both have that luxury.”

I stare at him, realizing that that might just be the most elaborate way of giving someone a lift-up I have ever seen.

Which is probably why I don’t think it’s very effective.

However...

“When you put it like that… then maybe you’re right.”

—I can’t say it was completely ineffective, either.

Out of curiosity, I look down at the records in my hand and turn over the last page. 

And there, I find what I expected to see.

And there, I find what I expected to see.

Every second of my conscious thought instantaneously appears on the page, describing the experience of reading itself.

Every second of my conscious thought instantaneously appears on the page, describing the experience of reading itself.

Just like a novel. 

Just like a novel.

When Master shared with me his knowledge of the true nature of our existence, I half-expected to see the world collapse before my eyes, crumbling into a series of 0s and 1s. But that didn’t happen, did it? The world didn’t end when I learned the truth. In fact, nothing did. I can still see with my eyes and feel with my hands.

—But if this is truly a make-belief reality where anything can be whatever [It] wants... then why?

As if a response from my dormant subconscious, a sentence that caused me to spiral into temporary insanity in the past resurfaces in my mind.

Because everything is boring in a perfect world… was it?

I close my eyes, letting the silence last for a moment, before opening them again.

If I were to really write the fate of Kyrias. Then there’s one more thing I need to confirm. 

“Hey, Master… In the end, us being fictional, what does it really mean?”

The question makes Master stop his rotation. After a moment of consideration, calmly, and without any discernible emotion, he starts to say.

“It means that everything that happened and will has to mean something; they must have a purpose. There are reasons dictating everything we do, see, and think, stuffed into every fabric of our existence it’s downright suffocating once you begin to notice them.”

“But isn’t that how it used to be? Before the [Reboot]? That story has already ended, hasn’t it? What does it mean now?”

An amused smile appears on Master’s face. He lightly hops in the air and drops down to sit on [The Astral Projector], resting his chin on his palms.

“Hmmm… You know how I said that magic isn’t really a thing? That’s because it isn’t. To be considered magic, a phenomenon has to completely break the laws of nature. And so far, all phenomena that seem to do so have already been recorded, categorized, and explained.”

While saying so, Master puts up one finger for each hand, placing them a little apart.

“There are two sets of laws that govern this reality. One is the laws of physics you’re familiar with. E=mc2, Planck's constant, speed of light in vacuum etcetera etcetera. And then there are the laws that govern phenomena that exist outside of that—the Meta-physics.”

“Metaphysics?”

“It’s not the same as the branch of philosophy. [Metaphysics] here refers to the study of QCNs and metaphysical phenomena that seem to break the laws of nature based on Earth’s 21st-century science, invented some six eternities ago by [us].”

Master points at himself.

“It’s quite an elegant set of laws and hypotheses, I think. Perfectly describes the nature of our reality and explains how all of this—could be possible.”

Master then twirls his index finger in the air, referring to the walls of books that surround us. And I can already guess where this is going.

“Are you gonna drop the secret of the universe on me again?”

“Yep, ready?”

—No. 

“There are two main Metaphysical Principles that still hold true even after the [Reboot]. The second principle is called the Principle of Informational Indestructibility: Simply, it states that information can never be completely erased or destroyed.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that when I said I could erase you from existence, I lied. Sorry about that.”

“...”

“But the first principle is the most crucial one. The Principle of Informational Equivalency: Stating that a good enough description of something, is equivalent to that thing.”

Master then points at me, or specifically, at the sofa that I’m currently sitting on.

“For example, if I were to say that the sofa you’re currently sitting on is a 156 x 75cm green-leather two-seater sofa with a height of 81cm. It is now a 156cm x 75cm green-leather two-seater sofa with a height of 81cm.”

—But hasn’t it always been a 156 x 75 cm green-leather two-seater sofa with a height of 81cm, though?

“Has it?”

I pause, suddenly understanding what Master's trying to imply.

—Wait.

“Wait, hold on. Doesn’t that lead to so many ridiculous implications, though? I mean, where does it end? Assume that the First Principle of Metaphysics is true. What if someone were to pinpoint accurately describe the position, spin, and momentum of every particle in the universe and…—oh.”

—The realization hits me. [The Conceptors Grand Archive], [The Divergence Process], all of them were designed to achieve that one specific purpose.

On [The Astral Projector], Master continues to say.

“In this godforsaken reality. Whatever you want it to be. Describe it; in every possible detail. Paint it out, write it down, sing it loudly. And if it’s good enough, it might even come true.

“—After all, this is a universe that runs on wordplay.”

“…”

I find myself speechless.

In all my life, I’ve heard of many theories of everything—general relativity, superstring—and out of all of them, this one is by far the most ridiculous. But if I have to be honest.

—That ridiculous truth, might just be the last confirmation I need.

“I see..”

Slowly, the pieces fall into place, the fog in my mind clears, and the path forward reveals itself finally.

I turn over a new page of my record, take a deep breath, and begin to think.

A story with no conflicts, no dramas, no threats, no stakes, no trials, no hardships… is probably impossible, isn’t it? If any realistic context is applied at all then such a scenario would be unimaginable. In real life if you don’t eat, you die, so you have at least that to worry about.

If my goal is to overturn this world’s social structure while minimizing the damage, then the first thing I should try to do is to simplify the context. And going by that logic.

—Wait… Logic?

A realization strikes me like a spark, causing me to unconsciously touch my lips.

Logic? Why am I trying to think through this like some kind of psychotic super-mastermind? If Master wanted to use a logical method, he wouldn’t need to consult me in the first place.

I rifle through my thought cabinets. The Tournament of the Niles, the Six Empire, and the Godemperors. The Edinera, Robert Neratian, Ense, Viviana. My meeting with the Scry, my conversation with VV.

Disparate elements are spun into a thread. Until finally, an idea is woven into existence. 

—If logic fails, what takes its place? 

Without looking up from my record, I begin to speak to Master.

“When you told that dying boy that he couldn’t change Kyrias with strength or intelligence alone. I think I understand why.”

It’s definitely not possible to change the world of Kyrias with those things. The reason? Because it had already been done. 

—Unopposable strength that invalidates any other set of beliefs would simply be replacing Ense and the Godemperors. 

—Rational intellect with no room for compromise or compassion would simply result in another tyrant like the Farseer. 

Choosing either side of the extremes would lead to imbalance. By going down the same route we would simply be repeating the cycles. And isn’t a cycle the very thing we’re trying to avoid?

If that’s the case, then there’s another option. A way for both sides to coexist.

“I think I have an idea. Just an idea.”

I look over the written stream of my consciousness one last time, then close my record and put it down on the table.

“But they’re just too many gaps in it. Too many rooms for miscalculations.”

Unlike Master, I’m not someone who can pull the wool over people’s eyes as easily as they breathe—I mean, a natural genius who can see countless moves ahead. I’m only an ordinary person; an ordinary person who doesn’t even know much about Kyrias in the first place.

Now that I think about it, perhaps he was only throwing those historical tidbits at me before to prepare me for this moment? Unfortunately, most of what he said went over my head because I wasn’t paying attention.

“Aaaah, yes~ The obliviousness of some people really is transcendental, isn’t it?”

Master jumps down from [The Astral Projector], shaking his head in disappointment.

“But that’s alright. This step of the preparation is 100% foolproof.”

“Do I dare ask you to clarify how?”

“Steve, you’re in [The Conceptors Grand Archive].”

Tick Tock Trr—!

Gears, turning. Mechanical arms interlocking. As Master speaks the entirety of the Grand Archive begins to revolt like clockwork, the circular wall of books splits open in four directions to reveal the view of vast chasms, filled with countless records.

Then, Master raises his hand and begins to voice his command.

“Access PCGI-41644: Kyrias, bring up everything about its biological and cultural history as well as its property as a class Edinera planet.”

[Permission Granted to the Sixth Master of the Conceptors Grand Archive. Delivering Subject.]

Fuwhaap—! 

Instantly, the Grand Archive answers him, sending a book that contains eons of collective knowledge flying into his hand at a terrifying velocity.

However, it's only just beginning.

“Next, access multiple related records and compile a comprehensive overview of the relationships between the 6 Empires and all their affiliates. Then overlay it on top of a geographical map.”

[Permission Granted… Compiling Data... Delivering Subject.]

Several books come flying.

“Of course, we can’t forget the personal data of every intelligent life in Kyrias during 1500 E.D.”

[Permission Granted… Compiling Data... Delivering Subject.]

And then several more.

“Also, throw the next 10 years of weather forecasts in there as well, because why not?”

[Permission Granted… Compiling Data... Delivering Subject.]

Like a swarm of spirits being called forth by the Grim Reaper, countless records come flying to the main observation room and start rearranging themselves around me and Master, projecting their contents onto the blackboards behind him. The swarm of books eventually turned into a storm, transforming into a violent whirlpool with both of us as its center, growing stronger and stronger and stronger. And when it looks as if everything is about to go out of control.  

“Aaaand that should be enough!”

—It stops.

And standing in front of me now, the indisputable madman who has recorded, gathered, and documented every piece of information inside this impossible place...

“If there’s anything you want to know, just look it up.”

...Smiles, like always.