The obelisk bled threadlight in slow pulses, like a dying heartbeat.
We didn't get closer.
Not yet.
The Lexicon hissed against my side the nearer we walked—pages curling slightly, edges lifting like hackles on a wolf.
Instinct told me to listen.
So we veered west off the old trail, following a ridge line worn down to bare stone.
That's when we found it.
The waystation was older than anything I'd seen since starting this journey.
Not ruined—forgotten.
Stone walls slumped inward at odd angles.
Wooden beams blackened by time but somehow still standing.
A split-timber sign swung on one twisted chain above the door, unreadable except for one weathered glyph at the bottom:
[Sanctuary Thread – Obsolete]
The SYSTEM hadn't destroyed this place.
It had simply stopped acknowledging it.
And the world itself had tried to erase it in the absence.
Lyra limped slightly beside me, still pale.
The instability spike earlier had left its mark.Her movements were tighter now. More cautious.
But she said nothing.
Neither did I.
Words felt too heavy here.
Like they might tip the balance if we weren't careful.
Inside, the air was dry.
Dust floated in thin beams of threadlight leaking through cracks in the roof.
Long benches lined the walls—a place once meant for resting travelers.Early players, maybe.Devs during alpha tests.
People who had been part of a version of Ascension that never survived the rollback.
A counter stretched across one side of the room.
Behind it, shelves of rotted supplies leaned dangerously.
Most of it had long since deteriorated into code static.
Only one thing remained clear.
A bottle of water.
Pristine.
Labeled not in SYSTEM font, but handwritten:
Drink if you're still trying to remember.
Lyra reached for it automatically.
I caught her wrist before she could touch it.
"No," I said sharply.
She blinked.
Tired. Confused.
But she stepped back.
The Lexicon pulsed in approval.
Not visibly.Just enough for me to feel it vibrate against my ribs.
We moved deeper inside.
And that's when we saw him.
Sitting cross-legged in the corner, half-shrouded in shadow, was a figure.
Not fully solid.
Not translucent either.
Something...between.
He wore player gear from at least five patches ago—before the rollback reshaped crafting systems.
His chestplate glitched around the edges where stats would have been listed.
But his face—his face was intact.
Human.
Sad.
He looked up as we approached.
His eyes flickered—not with anger, or fear.
With recognition.
"You're late," he rasped.
His voice was cracked dry, like wind over old ruins.
"You're supposed to anchor it before it unravels."
I swallowed hard.
"What's unraveling?"
He tilted his head, considering me.
Then he smiled, brittle as old paper.
"Everything."
The Lexicon flipped a page in response.
Text bled across in shimmering silver ink:
[Memory Echo Detected: User Unknown]Stabilization Impossible – Anchor Severed.Role: Early Listener Prototype – Decommissioned.
An early Listener.
Like Talia.
Maybe like me.
Except…something had gone wrong.
He hadn't been erased cleanly.
He'd been left behind.
Lyra stepped closer.
The figure's smile widened slightly, as if seeing her triggered a half-memory.
"You have the scent," he murmured.
Lyra stiffened.
"What scent?"
The figure tapped his forehead.
"Thread memory. Untethered. Wild. You're leaking, girl."
She flinched back instinctively.
I stepped between them.
"You're an echo," I said. "A trapped one."
He laughed, a sound like cracking stone.
"Aren't we all?"
The Lexicon pulsed harder now, words rushing across the page:
[Warning: Proximity to Echo Increasing Instability Risk – Fenwick.L]
I tightened my grip on the Lexicon.
I needed to get us out.
The figure's voice softened.
"You'll have to choose," he said, more to himself than us."Preserve the memory...or preserve the self."
He reached out a hand.
Not threatening.
Not pleading.
Just...offering.
A shard of light floated in his palm.
A memory fragment.
I didn't move.
Neither did Lyra.
We just watched.
And after a long, hollow moment, the figure sighed—a dry, empty sound.
The shard flickered.
Faded.
Gone.
Along with him.
No collapse.No explosion.Just...erasure.
Like a story being forgotten mid-sentence.
The waystation was silent again.
Only the dust remained, drifting like ash.
We left without speaking.
I didn't know if we could have saved him.
I didn't know if we were meant to.
The mist thickened again as we rejoined the main trail.
The Lexicon curled tightly shut against my hip.
Silent.
Heavy.
Waiting.
That night, when I logged out—
something was wrong.
The pod powered down normally.
The real world was cold, dim, sharp against my skin.
I peeled off the headset, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
The terminal on my desk still glowed with the standard system wallpaper.
For a moment, I thought everything was fine.
Until I noticed the cursor.
Blinking in the corner of the screen.
Moving.
By itself.
Words began to type slowly, pixel by pixel:
[Fragment Root Confirmed – Anchor Status: Active]
I sat frozen.
Watching the words etch themselves into the screen with no input.
No UI.
No login prompt.
Just a simple statement.
A judgment.
The Lexicon icon pulsed faintly on the bottom toolbar.
Soft.Blue-white.Alive.
Even in the real world.
I closed my eyes.
Breathed once.Twice.
The real battle wasn't inside Ascension anymore.
It never had been.
The SYSTEM could patch bugs.It could roll back players.It could erase memories.
But it couldn't stop a new story from taking root.
Not anymore.