“Fight Mode Disabled: Sacred Zone” hovers in your vision like a cruel joke.
Every instinct screams at you to retreat, but your phantom pain is climbing toward an unbearable 8 out of 10. The agony makes thinking difficult, reaction times sluggish. Without the ability to fight in this sacred zone, your options are severely limited.
The words escape your lips before you can stop them: “I won’t let you kill the 2nd An’jel again!”
His eyes flash with something like delight. You don’t quite understand why — something you said?
A flare of phantom pain ricochets through your bones — you try to hold it together in front of the Assassin. You can’t show any sign of weakness…
“Ah,” he says, his smile becoming genuine for the first time. “You think you can stop me — how wonderfully illuminating.”
Where before The Assassin seemed cautious, calculating, now he appears almost… relaxed. As if some great weight has been lifted from his shoulders…
“Fascinating,” he says, his voice carrying the cultured accent of someone educated across multiple lifetimes. “You actually came back? Most of he Archivist’s flunkies learn to stay away from fixed points in time.”
He pauses for bit, then continues — “So tell me, how do you plan to stop me with this dreaded Fight Mode disabled?”
His hand extends toward you—a gesture that might appear friendly to anyone who doesn’t notice the lethal precision in his posture, the way his weight is perfectly balanced for instant action. The tattooed symbols between his fingers pulse like a heartbeat and your synesthesia attempts to translates unsuccessfully.
“Come with me?” he asks, his voice taking on an entirely different quality—confident, almost eager. “Let’s handle this properly. You see — this sacred zone limits us both. Come with me where we can settle this like gentlemen, without restrictions.”
You immediately part your lips to decline. No way would you just walk into a trap like this.
But golden mathematical threads explode with activity, weaving through your vision, showing probability streams that all converge on a single, blazing certainty: if you accept his challenge, you will defeat him in battle. The patterns are clearer than anything you’ve ever seen—mathematical equations that solve unambiguously for your victory.
“You sure?” you ask, studying his face.
“Oh, just call it a hunch,” he replies. There’s something almost fond in his tone. “But by all means, show me what you’ve got tough guy.”
Against your initial instincts, you reach out.
The moment your palms makes contact, the tug of tethering explodes.
The Temple vanishes like pixelated static, replaced by some place that feels like the aftermath of a cosmic war. You materialize in a surreal graveyard where twisted skyscraper ruins jut from cave-like ground at impossible angles. Broken bridge fragments hang suspended in mid-air, defying gravity through some unknown force. Metallic debris and concrete slabs form maze-like structures that stretch into shadow-filled distance.
Your UI displays “THE BETWEEN”…
What — or where in the world is The Between????
Eerie blue-white light emanates from cracks in the structures, pulsing like a mechanical heartbeat. The air tastes of ozone and decay.
“Focus,” you whisper to yourself through gritted teeth. “You came here to end this. To stop it from happening.”
You study more of your surroundings to find the Assassin standing twenty meters away on a tilted skyscraper fragment. But something’s wrong with his shape—too many angles, shadows bleeding from his form like smoke given semi-solid structure.
The moment your gaze locks onto him, he steps backward and disappears into the shadows between ruins.
“Wait for it,” you say to yourself.
Another wave of phantom pain almost breaks you entirely. You grab a nearby twisted metal beam—cold and blessedly real beneath your palm. The contact grounds you, and suddenly the patterns in the structural damage snap into sharp focus. You can see connections across the ruined landscape, pathways through the debris, angles of approach and escape.
Your pattern scans shows you something else: golden threads of certainty pulsing with mathematical precision. Victory. Inevitable victory.
But the phantom pain creates interference patterns—the golden threads flickering in and out like a weak radio signal.
You time your pattern recognition between waves of agony, catching glimpses of tactical advantage when the burning sensation momentarily subsides.
“Wait for it…”
You push off the metal beam with both feet, launching yourself toward a broken bridge section. Your boots hit the concrete surface with a satisfying thud.
“Wait for it…”
The Assassin’s shadows reach out from between building ruins like grasping fingers. His right hand sweeps down from a hidden position and shadows peel away from structural debris to form shadow spears and blades in his grip—weapons of literal darkness.
“Wait for it…”
Without warning…
The Assassin hurls a shadow-spear, another shadow becomes steel in his palm—black metal emerging from darkness itself. His hand immediately grabbing another tendril of darkness to form twin knives.
“Fight Mode Enabled”
“That’s it!” you think with massive excitement.
You bounce off debris fragments, your pattern recognition and fight mode instincts Adepting to the ruined maze. Each surface gives you new angles and momentum, turning the treacherous terrain into a three-dimensional combat arena.
The Assassin attacks with precision, shadow-weapons materializing from the darkness cast by buildings—spear from a skyscraper’s shadow, knives from the bridge’s underside. The blade’s edge kisses your throat, so close that warmth blooms where it almost cuts.
Your reaction comes a heartbeat too late. His elbow drives into your solar plexus like a piston, crushing air from your lungs. But something’s wrong with this place.
An explosion erupts from the metal beam you just touched.
An explosive force tosses you away from the blast, rolling behind a concrete barrier as shrapnel whistles overhead. The Assassin’s shadow-spear materializes in his hand again, dark weapon aimed at your new position.
You twist, using a concrete outcropping to change trajectory. The shadow-spear shatters against a metal beam, but another explosion detonates where the weapon struck. Chunks of superheated metal spray in all directions.
“Booby traps?”
The Assassin creates another spear from the structural shadows, transforming it mid-throw into a razor-edged disk that hums through the air with perfect aim. Your pattern recognition kicks in half a second before completion—you see the mathematical certainty of impact, grab a twisted metal support beam and use it to swing to safety.
The shadow-blade slices through empty air where you were standing. A small explosion erupts from the debris where you landed moments before, confirming your growing suspicion: this entire graveyard is rigged with explosives.
“Did he have this planned out?” — you wonder to yourself…
The Assassin waves his hand and the eerie light dims throughout the graveyard. Building fragments stop glowing steadily and start flickering. Harsh spotlights ignite from various ruins, creating sharp, multiple shadows between the structural debris.
Every broken building now casts shadows in different directions, giving the Assassin an arsenal of darkness to weaponize.
You also hear footsteps echoing through the ruined structures. Shortly after, the patterns pick up visually in your senses.
Men and women emerge from behind the shadows of the building fragments—ten, fifteen, nineteen in total. The combined assault begins immediately.
They too pull shards and weapons from the shadows like the Assassin. Shadow-spears, blades, and chains manifest from the architectural darkness, each one aimed with lethal precision.
One fiendish fighter streaks towards you head on — her hair dark as the shadows she manipulates. You side step her attempt to sweep your feet from under you. At close distance you confirmed your suspicion…
They’re all Out Castes.
She flows forward again. Three strikes, each building on the last. You twist away from the first—steel singing past your ear. The second forces you to arch backward, spine screaming. The third finds flesh.
Shadow-like steel parts skin along your ribs. Not deep, but deep enough.
“Too slow” you tell yourself. She circles, shoulders loose, weight balanced on the balls of her feet. Her eyes track the tremor in your hands, the way you favor your left side where phantom lightning still courses…
Your pattern recognition screams warnings—too many fighters approaching suddenly at once, too many weapons, too many angles of attack. You dodge the first three Out Caste members, but the explosion blasts from the ground where you crouched.
You block the fourth attacker with a snapped piece of metal. The fifth catches you across the ribs with a real blade that cuts deep, drawing blood that mixes with your phantom pain. Another booby trap explodes behind you, sending concrete shrapnel flying like deadly rain.
Another Out Caste member lunges forward, but a hidden explosive detonates beneath their feet, launching them backward in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. For a moment, you think the traps might work in your favor.
Or the Out Caste are so relentless, they don’t care if their own gets caught in the crossfire…
Another explosion breaks your vision for a few crucial moments. You can’t tell which Out Caste members are real versus echoes created by blurred vision and your phantom pain. A blade stabs into your shoulder.
By the time you recognized the Assassin he impels a shadow blade into your leg. Blood flows freely now, real and warm against your skin.
Your knees buckle.
The Assassin raises his hand from the shadows, and a massive shadow-spear forms above you—point aimed directly at your chest. His fingers begin to tighten, preparing to drive the weapon home…
But then a barrage of shards of glass slams into the shadow-spear, shattering it into wisps of darkness.
A few lodge into the Assassin. Many more reign down, scattering the other Out Castes who were closed in on you…
That’s when you recognized what those glass shards really were.
Flint. Adept Flint.
Out the corners of you eyes you see the Adept materialize mid-flight, spinning with impossible grace as more flint blades appear in his hands. Light bends around him like water. Time itself seems to slow down, making room for his presence. He lands on a broken bridge section with cat-like balance.
Over your opposite shoulder, reality seems to tear open behind him like fabric being ripped apart. The Archivist drops through a portal into a fighting stance, immediately grabbing a twisted metal shard from the ground and testing its weight. Her “☉” symbols don’t just glow; they burn with the intensity of newborn stars.
Your relief bleeds through gritted teeth to the Adept and The Archivist: “You came to help fight?!”
The Adept’s voice carries harmonics that resonate in dimensions you can’t name: “No child… we came to rescue you.”
Steel dissolves in the Assassin’s grip. His stance shifts, predator becoming apex hunter.
“Karmapunks…” The word drips contempt. “Come to protect one of your flunkies?”
“We come to protect the innocent,” the Archivist corrects, her data streams coalescing into geometric pattern” — “and extremely ignorant,” she adds, eyes cutting sharply at you. “One who doesn’t understand the forces they’re meddling with.”
“Innocent?” The Assassin laughs, a sound like glass breaking in reverse. “This one here came to murder me. To prevent me from fulfilling my purpose. How is that innocent?”
The truth of his words hits you like a physical blow. You did come here to literally kill him. You’ve never thought to kill anyone in your entire life until now…
The Adept, still struggling with his aging wound, manages to speak through gritted teeth: “The child came to stop you from attacking the Temple —”
“And that justifies likely ending my life?!” The Assassin laughs. “When I succeed, no one dies. Just a bunch of lost proxies. And the An’jels, just some type of cosmic AI—they’re not alive.”
“But the pain is real,” you gasp, pressing your hand to the wound on your ribs. “The explosion, the damage to the Temple—”
“Oh, the consequences are quite real,” the Assassin agrees, his tone almost clinical. “But murder? That requires the ending of actual life. What I’m destroying are elaborate simulations, cosmic computers that have convinced everyone—including you—that they’re alive.”
The words hit you like ice water. AI? The An’jels are artificial intelligence? But they seemed so… alive. So purposeful. The patterns you read on them revealed complex, beautiful patterns – not mere computer programs.
“I just want the pain to stop,” you yell, the philosophical implications making your head spin even as phantom agony tears through your chest.
“Then you should have listened to me,” the Archivist says, her tone carrying infinite compassion wrapped in inexorable authority. “You cannot change the past. All of time is bound in one.”
The Out Castes suddenly moves without warning mid speech.
The Adept responds fluidly, like liquid death, flowing between structural ruins with supernatural grace. His flint knives become extensions of his body as he dances between Out Caste members. Each blade finds its target with surgical precision.
An Out Caste member’s sword cuts toward his neck. The Adept bends backward impossibly, spine arching like a bow. The blade whistles over his face. He springs forward, flint knife punching upward. The attacker’s throat opens in a crimson line. He immediately disintegrates into a torrent of falling pixels as the dead man’s body collapse to the floor.
“Wait? What’s going on?! This isn’t real?!” you ask.
“We’re in the Etherverse!” shouts the Adept.
Another Out Caste member charges from the left. The Adept spins, using a chunk of concrete as a shield. The enemy’s sword rings against stone. The Adept’s second flint blade slides between ribs, finds the heart, withdraws. The attacker collapses without a sound. His pixels cascade all over the ground.
A third swings at his legs. The Adept leaps, plants one foot on the attacker’s shoulder, drives his knife downward through the skull. He pushes off the falling body to land gracefully on a tilted metal beam.
The Archivist slams her improvised metal shard into the harsh light mounted on the building fragment. Sparks shower. The light dies. Around the graveyard, the Assassin’s shadow-weapons flicker and fade as their source vanishes.
An Out Caste member’s sword whistles toward her head. She drops to one knee. The blade passes over her hair. Sweat beads on her forehead as she rolls sideways, narrowly avoiding the follow-up strike that chips concrete where she knelt.
Another attacker lunges. She blocks with her metal shard. The impact sends vibrations up her arm. Her improvised weapon holds. Barely. She twists, driving the jagged edge into his ribs. He screams. Falls.
A sword point drives toward her spine. She spins away. Too slow. The tip traces a line of fire across her shoulder blade. Blood and code soaks through her shirt — before healing back seconds later.
But that’s when it happened…
The first Out Caste member, her eyes begin glowing fire red.
And a pulsing red light emanates from her chest like a heartbeat made visible. The Adept recognizes the warning sign immediately.
“Everyone find cover!” he shouts.
The Adept and Archivist dive behind concrete slabs just as the Out Caste member explodes in a brilliant flash that turns night to day for a split second.
You don’t react fast enough.
The blast wave hits you like an invisible freight train, lifting you off your feet and hurling you backward through the air. Your body slams into a twisted metal support beam with bone-jarring force, driving the air from your lungs in a painful whoosh.
Debris from the explosion rains down like hail—chunks of concrete, twisted metal fragments, and pieces of things you don’t want to identify. A jagged piece of shrapnel tears across your shoulder, opening a line of fire that adds real blood to your phantom pain. Another chunk of concrete catches you across the ribs, sending fresh spikes of agony through your already tortured nervous system.
You slide down the metal beam and hit the ground hard, vision swimming as phantom pain and real injury blend into one overwhelming sensation. Everything hurts—your back from the impact, your shoulder from the shrapnel, your ribs from the concrete, and underneath it all, the constant burning of phantom agony that never stops.
Two more Out Caste members begin showing red warning signs, their chest lights pulsing with increasing frequency. Still dazed from the first explosion, you force yourself to move, crawling desperately behind the twisted building support as the second and third explosions rock the graveyard.
A fourth Out Caste fighter’s chest starts pulsing red. They explode while charging toward the Adept, their sacrifice creating a crater in the concrete. The fifth member detonates near the Archivist’s position, forcing her deeper into cover.
The sixth and seventh Out Caste members explode simultaneously, their coordinated self-destruction creating massive structural damage—and new shadows for the Assassin to exploit.
Through the swirling debris and chaos, you catch a glimpse of the Assassin.
He checks the time on his wrist and begins backing away toward what looks like an exit from the graveyard, a sneaky grin spreading across his face.
“Wait—” you start to shout, pattern recognition finally showing you the horrible truth.
The Assassin vanishes into shadows between two ruins just as understanding hits you like a physical blow…
The Archivist is pinned in a corner by the continuous self-explosions from near by Out Castes.
The Adept sees the retreat too and tries to reach the exit but shadow-tendrils wrap around his ankle. He slashes with a flint knife, but the remaining Out Caste members pile on top of him, pinning his arms and legs with their combined weight.
Then the final wave of Out Caste self-destructions begins…
The remaining Out Caste members suddenly stop fighting. Instead, they begin celebrating, raising their shadow weapons in triumph.
Multiple red warning lights pulse in unison throughout the graveyard. But something’s wrong with this scene—It’s a bizarre moment. They’re celebrating something you don’t understand yet…
In rapid succession the Out Caste members start exploding themselves like the grand finale of a fireworks celebration—brilliant flashes of light in a coordinated sequence that illuminates the entire graveyard. You watch in growing confusion as your enemies celebrate their own destruction.
The Adept appears beside you, his face pale. His eyes go distant and unfocused, as if listening to something only he can hear. “What’s happening?” You speculate he might be receiving some kind of telepathic communication, but you can’t be sure.
The Archivist materializes next to the Adept, her expression dark with understanding.
Phantom pain explodes through you again—not the familiar ache you’ve grown accustomed to, but something infinitely worse. Real pain, fresh pain, the sensation of your tethered form being torn apart — again.
You scream in agony.
The graveyard realm dissolves completely around you. You can feel it happening in real-time—sacred stones cracking, ancient machinery overloading, the very foundations of — the Temple coming apart.
And immediately you snap back to the graveyard. The Adept nods grimly at whatever information he’s receiving.
“I have to leave immediately,” he says, his voice tight with urgency. “The Temple—”
The phantom pain is ten times worse now, threatening to shatter your mind entirely.
“I must try again!” you shout into the dissolving graveyard.
“ARCHIVIST!” Your voice cracks with desperation. “Take me back to the Lore Engine! I have to try again—this time I’ll succeed!”
The sci-fi graveyard begins to dissolve around you like smoke. Reality bends to your demand, reassembling itself into the familiar black glow of the Lore Engine. Every breath feels like inhaling broken glass.
The Archivist’s form materializes before you, more solid and imposing than you’ve ever seen her. Her “☉” symbols pulse with a steady, sorrowful light.
“I tried to warn you,” she says, her voice carrying infinite compassion wrapped in inexorable truth. “The future is fixed. You cannot change it — only learn from it.”
You look up at her through tears you didn’t realize were falling. “But the patterns — they showed me I would win. They showed me—”
“They showed you exactly what would happen,” she interrupts gently. “You did win the battle. Your pattern recognition was completely accurate. But winning the battle and preventing the explosion were never the same thing.”
That’s when the realization hits you like a sledgehammer to the chest: This was all a diversion. While you were here, fighting shadows and explosions, playing out a battle your synesthesia assured you that you would win, the real attack was happening elsewhere…
And you drew the Adept from his post back at the temple to aid you…
You didn’t prevent the explosion.
You enabled it — No.
You caused it…
But you saw all the patterns, all the signs — you were supposed to succeed — you were supposed to win…
The realization hits harder than any physical blow. You’re not just a victim of the Temple explosion—you’re responsible for it. Your desperate attempt to prevent your own suffering has created the very circumstances that ensure it continues…
The phantom pain, which had been eclipsed by the mortal wound in your chest, comes roaring back with renewed intensity. Now it’s not just the echo of traumatic death—it’s the weight of guilt, the knowledge that your actions have consequences you never intended…
The weight of your failure crushes down like a physical force. “All of time is bound in one,” you whisper, remembering the Archivist’s words.
“Yes,” the Archivist confirms, her data streams forming comforting patterns around you. Infinite decisions and actions from countless others all led to that event. The key is to recognize your part so that you can hopefully make a better decision next time.”
“Next time?” You laugh bitterly, the sound raw with pain. “There won’t be a next time. I helped cause the very thing I was trying to prevent.”
“And that knowledge,” she says, moving closer, “is exactly what’s most valuable.”
Through your haze of suffering, you see her gesture toward a new card that materializes in the air—“Welcome to AetherPoint…” written in bold font.
“You have two choices now,” the Archivist says, her voice taking on an urgent edge. “You can accept your phantom pains as the price of wisdom, complete the training, and learn to work toward a future where such choices become unnecessary.”
The card hovers before you, showing glimpses of a city where the impossible has become mundane. Through your phantom pain—now a constant that makes every heartbeat an agony—you can sense something calling from that distant place.
“Or?” you ask, though you’re not sure you want to know.
“Or you can continue to fight against fixed points in time, a fixed future and the pain will only grow worse. The Out Caste are ones watching you now. Your ability to feel the weight of causality makes you vulnerable to forces you don’t yet understand.”
You stare at the card, your hand trembling as phantom lightning courses through your nervous system. “What’s so special about Aetherpoint?”
“Amnesiacs,” she says simply. “If you want to understand THE CURE—if you want to answers to end your suffering—that’s where your journey continues.”
“But I still don’t understand why all these fragments,” you say, frustration bleeding through your words as another spike of phantom agony forces you to grip your seat. “Why can’t you just tell me what’s happening?”
The Archivist’s form radiates patience. “Man knows naught by being told. You need to see all the pieces first, for yourself, before you can put them together. The future is inescapable—you cannot change it. You can only choose which side of humanity’s fate you wish to be on—the side that creates the destruction or the side that survives the mayhem.”
Her words hit you like physical blows, each one resonating with terrible certainty.
“Complete KNOXX 101, and you’ll have what you need to cure your phantom pains. But the choice must be yours.”
You look at the Aetherpoint card, then back at her. “The phantom pain… will it really get better?”
“You’ll be surprised at what you find in Aetherpoint,” she says carefully. “Not salvation. Not a cure. But relief. And sometimes, that’s enough.”
The way she says it makes you pause. There’s something in her tone—a warning wrapped in hope.
“But?” you prompt, knowing there’s more.
The Archivist’s form shifts, her data streams taking on more cautious patterns. “Aetherpoint is… complicated. The city eats people alive… It’s the crime capital of the known universe, where the desperate go when all other options have failed. Aetherpoint is built on layers of broken dreams and failed ambitions.”
Your phantom pain spikes as if responding to her words, reminding you of just how desperate you’ve become.
“The streets are ruled by gangs, black market dealers, and those who’ve given up on all conventional morality,” she continues. “Every shadow hides someone selling something that shouldn’t be sold. Every alley echoes with the cries of those who trusted the wrong person with their last hope.”
You try to imagine navigating those dangerous streets while dealing with your current level of agony. The phantom pain has nearly doubled since the Temple explosion—what was once a manageable 7 out of 10 is now a crushing, constant 10 that makes every heartbeat feel like torture. How could you possibly function in a crime-ridden city when you can barely think through the haze of suffering?
“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admit, your voice cracking. “The pain is so much worse now. I can barely concentrate here in a safe space, let alone navigate some criminal underworld. I’ll be completely vulnerable.”
“And you’re not exactly selling me on this destination,” you add, though your hand hasn’t moved away from the card.
“I’m being honest with you,” she replies, her voice taking on a gentler edge. “Because honesty is something you’ll find none of in Aetherpoint. But…”
She pauses, and you can see her weighing her words carefully.
“But there is something that can help you. Something rare and expensive throughout most of the planet, but surprisingly abundant in Aetherpoint—PROXY PAIN PATCHES.”
Your heart leaps despite the warning. “Pain patches?!”
“Yes. Beyond popular belief, Pain Patches were invented in Aetherpoint. They’re developed by Amnesiacs who work in the gray spaces between crime and ingenuity,” she explains. “Master developers who dwell in those very streets you’ll need to navigate. They’re geniuses in their own right—artists who understand suffering in ways that conventional medicine never could.”
“They won’t cure your phantom pains,” she says quickly, tempering your hope before it can grow too large. “No mere patch can undo what’s been done to your neural pathways. But they can make the agony ten times more bearable. Turn that constant 10 out of 10 into something you can live with, think through, function despite.”
The promise hits you like a lifeline thrown to a drowning person. To think clearly again — even by a bit. To move without every step being an exercise in endurance. To maybe, just maybe, find a morsel of peace within the storm of your own nervous system.
“Why are they abundant there if they’re so rare everywhere else?” you ask.
“Aetherpoint is where people go when they have nothing left to lose,” she says simply. “Pain is one of the city’s most abundant resources. The patches aren’t just medicine there—they’re survival tools. The developers have perfected their craft out of necessity.”
“The developers guard their secrets jealously,” the Archivist warns. “And they don’t work cheap. In Aetherpoint, everything has a price, and the prices are never what you expect them to be.”
“What kind of price?” you ask, though you’re not sure you want to know.
“That depends on what you have to offer that they want,” she says cryptically. “Some pay in currency. Others in information. In forms of attention you’d rather avoid. Some in memories they’d rather forget. And some…” She trails off, leaving the implication hanging.
“Some pay in things they can’t afford,” you finish.
“The choice is yours,” she says simply. “But know that once you tether there, you’ll be entering a world where all the rules you’ve learned no longer apply. Where trusting the wrong person for an instant could cost you more than just your life.”
Your hand moves toward the card, then hesitates. The doubled phantom pain pulses through your system like liquid fire, making you question whether you have the strength for what lies ahead.
But the promise of relief—even partial relief—calls to you like a siren song.
The Archivist nods approvingly. “There’s an ancient maxim goes like this: You think long. You think wrong… Take the time to understand your choice. But don’t take too long…”
Your hand reaches for the card, not from desperation but from something deeper: the new understanding that growth requires sacrifice. And the journey towards growth can only be completed by those willing to carry their scars as proof of how far they’ve traveled…
“Aetherpoint it is,” you say, as you tap the card. your voice steady despite the agony coursing through your veins.
The Lore Engine fires up as it begins to fade around you…