“An’jels???! What in the world are An’jels?” you think internally to yourself and The Archivist.
“Here,” The Archivist responds — a message in your comms immediately lands, a quick summary of An’jels —
an•jels
/ ˈān-jəlz /
These beings arrive as digital messengers, their very existence a coded message from an unknown source…
The An’jels appeared in the earliest form of human-like proxy bodies known to Earth, but with an unnerving twist –
They have no facial features (which is why they’re most popularly known as The Faceless Ones)
They act as the silent watchers, the sleepless messengers…
But for whom or for what is still truly a mystery…
The text pulses in your field of vision as you approach the massive doors of what your UI labels “The Temple Chamber.” Two guards in pristine white uniforms block your entry, their faces impassive.
You stand before the Chamber’s entrance, awestruck by its imposing presence. The doors tower at least thirty feet high, carved from what appears to be a single piece of obsidian-like material that somehow both absorbs and reflects light.
The Archivist’s voice cuts through your wonder. “Notice the patterns in the door glyphs,” she suggests, her tone shifting subtly from its usual measured cadence to something more animated. “They’re not random.”
You tilt your head slightly, the glyphs suddenly snap into focus—not as decorative elements, but as mathematical sequences. Your fingers unconsciously trace the equations in the air.
The air around the doorway feels dense, charged with static electricity that makes your skin tingle and the small hairs on your arms stand erect. A subtle, almost imperceptible hum emanates from the structure, vibrating at a frequency that settles deep in your chest.
“This level design is incredible,” you think to yourself, admiring how the architecture seamlessly blends the physical and digital. “The devs must have spent years perfecting just this entrance alone.”
The guards flanking the entrance are imposing figures, standing perfectly still like sculptures rather than living beings. Their white uniforms seem to repel even the smallest speck of dust, gleaming with an unnatural pristine quality. Their faces remain emotionless, eyes forward, yet you sense they observe everything.
“Security seems tense,” you think to yourself. “Yes, more than usual, even for such a high-profile event as this,” the Archivist replies.
“Wait until the opening ritual completes,” one says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
You swallow your frustration — in this moment of forced waiting, you take in your surroundings more fully.
A childlike wonder bubbles up inside you. “This is… incredible,” you whisper, your eyes wide as you spin slowly to take it all in. Your fingertips tingle with the desire to touch everything, to confirm it’s real.
The vaulted ceiling expands far beyond what should be physically possible, creating an illusion of infinite space above. Constellations unknown to Earth astronomy twinkle in what appears to be actual space rather than mere decoration. The floor beneath your feet is equally mesmerizing—a surface that resembles polished obsidian but feels warm and slightly yielding.
Your boss’s voice crackles through your comms, “Where the %!@&! !@#$! were you?
The 6th One is almost inside! Millions of @#!$&! viewers are waiting for your stream!”
“I got caught in the protest,” you explain, a slight pressure from the explosion still radiating through your chest. “There was a — you struggle to remember the term — a bomb.”
“Yeah—I just heard about that @#$%!… Security is in overdrive because of it. Some are saying it might have been related to this ceremony, a diversion or something. Get your @#%! in there as soon as they let you through and be on high alert in here!”
While waiting, you accept a “tour” hologram that appears in your vision—a message from The An’jels. The narration flows around you in a voice that somehow feels both ancient and artificial:
“We arrive as light from beyond darkness.
We come as whispers that precede the Word.
We manifest as hands that shape new worlds.
When we first descended to Earth, we brought not destruction but revelation.
We brought cosmic messages carrying the blueprint for a new kind of existence.
Our purpose is not conquest but connection.
Our mission is not domination but ascendance.
We are the An’jels – faceless messengers of transformation.Though we appear incomplete by your standards:
Without eyes, we see through the veil of illusion
Without mouths, we speak directly to soulsWithout ears, we hear the symphony of creation
Without breath, we carry the winds of change
Our hands move with divine precision, crafting pathways between worlds.
Our feet walk between dimensions, bridging the gap between what is and what could be.
Six of our kind have already walked among you, each bringing gifts that have elevated humanity beyond its limitations.
We delivered the principles of Tethering, shattering the boundaries that kept you confined to singular existence.
We introduced The Etherverse, creating infinite spaces for human minds to explore and expand.
What some fear as invasion, we offer as invitation.
What some mistake for ending, we present as evolution.
The convergence is not a catastrophe but a celebration – the moment when humanity will transcend its final limitations and join the cosmic dance that has always awaited you.
The seventh An’jel approaches not with doom but with completion.
The final messenger will not destroy but fulfill.
We work not for unseen masters but for unborn possibilities.
We labor not to enslave but to liberate.
Prepare yourselves not for darkness, but for light too brilliant for unprepared eyes to behold.Today humanity stands not at the edge of doom, but at the threshold of its greatest becoming.
~ The An’jels
“That lore in this game is so detailed,” you think, impressed by the holographic presentation.
“But why all this secrecy here?” you ask.
“The Temple’s security is infamously tight to say the least,” The Archivist explains, “only proxies stationed inside these walls can enter the Chamber, and only the An’jels themselves know the Temple’s true location in physical space. This body you’re tethered to—this proxy—is one of the few permitted within these hallowed walls.”
“You may enter,” both guards say firmly in unison. Finally, the massive doors slide open with a nearly silent grace that defies their enormous weight. You step inside, struggling not to stop in awe at the interior’s impossible architecture—structures that seem to defy physics, with light that bends in unnatural ways around central figures.
“This is like the most epic dungeon entrance I’ve ever seen,” you think, marveling at the spectacle.
The grand arcade of the inner chamber stretches before you in dimensions that refuse to obey conventional spatial laws. Ceilings soar upward then curve inward, meeting at impossible angles that your mind struggles to process. The entire space seems to breathe and pulse with life, expanding and contracting almost imperceptibly with each passing moment.
The floor beneath you glows with a pearl-like luminescence, responding to each footstep with ripples of light that spread outward in fractal patterns. These ripples interact with those of other attendees, creating complex, mathematical harmonies visible as color-shifts in the floor’s surface.
You tilt your head unconsciously, your pupils visibly dilating as your pattern recognition kicks in. The fractal ripples aren’t random—it’s as if they’re forming equations, solving themselves in real-time through interaction. Your fingers extend slightly, tracing invisible calculations in the air as you decode the pattern.
Pillars rise throughout the chamber, but unlike any architectural supports you’ve ever seen—they twist and branch like ornate living things. Surfaces that appear solid from one angle reveal themselves to be semi-transparent from another.
The air itself feels different here—thicker, charged with purpose. Each breath fills your lungs with something more substantial than mere oxygen, carrying subtle aromas of ancient incense, and something distinctly non-terrestrial that defies description.
Above, you notice three lamps suspended from the ceiling apex. Two are illuminated in soft white light, while the third remains dark, its significance a mystery.
“That’s strange,” you think, eyes locked on the dark lamp. Your pattern recognition immediately flags it as anomalous—”With all this architectural genius and seemingly unlimited resources, why would they leave a burnt light bulb?” You consider asking The Archivist about it, but something in your gut tells you not to…
“Get to position three, now!” your boss hisses through comms. “We’re live to over fourteen @#!$&! million viewers!!”
You navigate through the assembled crowd—a select few hundred witnesses from various global powers, religious leaders, and tethering corporations. Your UI identifies each one as you pass, their names and titles floating beside them like digital ghosts.
You notice the guards scanning the gathered crowd with increased intensity — listening intently before whispering something to his colleague. They exchange a meaningful glance, their posture subtly shifting to higher alert…
As you reach your designated recording spot, the chamber’s lighting dims perceptibly, and a reverent hush falls over the crowd. A subtle vibration begins in the floor beneath your feet, gradually intensifying until it resonates through your entire proxy body.
“How do I record?” you ask The Archivist. “Just think it,” she replies immediately.
You activate your recorder, feeling the subtle tug of your proxy’s eyes begin transmitting to millions across the Etherverse. Your boss continually whispers guidance through your comms: “Pan slowly left to right… Hold on An’jel #6… Close-up on the patterns on their %!@&! robes… This is @#!$&! gold!”
As your recording begins, your gaze is drawn to the chamber’s most striking feature—a massive red circled dot carved fifty feet across into the rear limestone wall. The ancient symbol seems to breathe with its own crimson luminescence, casting long almost green shadows that shift despite the steady ceremonial lighting. The An’jels stand before it, motionless as carved stone themselves, facing the symbol with unwavering attention. Your pattern recognition kicks in, noting the perfect geometry of their positioning, the precise angles of their stances—synthetic guardians who have moved not a single muscle except on rare occasions when another An’jel must enter and take their place in the sacred formation.
Then it enters—a sixth majestic being gliding into the chamber’s center to join the other four, who stand motionless before the massive red circled dot. The voids in their formation feel deliberate, preserved, as if waiting. One of the empty spaces, where An’jel #5 would have stood, serves as a stark reminder of the one who never made it to the Temple—ambushed and desecrated decades ago on its journey…
Each An’jel stands nearly seven feet tall, their presence commanding absolute attention. They wear ceremonial garbs of deep indigo that seem to absorb surrounding light, adorned with intricate patterns in burnished gold thread that shift and rearrange themselves when you blink. The fabric moves with unnatural grace, rippling even when the beings remain perfectly still, as if responding to breezes or forces beyond normal perception.
“The character models are incredible,” you think, examining them with a gamer’s eye.
But it’s their faces—or lack thereof—that sends a primal chill down your spine. Where human features should exist, each An’jel bears only a blank expanse of smooth, alabaster-like material, etched with an illuminated crude square spiral that resembles an infinite maze. The spiral pattern’s glow appears to have depth beyond the physical surface, as if extending inward to impossible dimensions. No eyes to see, no mouth to speak, no expression to read—yet somehow, you feel their awareness acutely, sensing their collective attention sweeping across the assembled humans like a physical force.
Their hands, perfectly formed yet unsettlingly flawless, emerge from wide sleeves. Zooming in for closer inspection you can see each digit is elongated and jointed in places human fingers are not. They move these hands in precise gestures that seem to manipulate the very light around them, leaving faint luminous trails in the air that linger for seconds before fading.
As they position themselves in a strangely irregular pentagonal formation, you visually calculate that if seven An’jels were present their positions would form a perfect heptagon. The air around them shimmers with distortion, and for a brief moment, you perceive something vast extending beyond their physical forms—a suggestion of entities far larger and more complex than the humanoid shapes they present.
The ceremony unfolds in eerie silence at first, then builds into a symphony of what can only be described as impossible harmonics. The An’jels move their arms and hands with fluid precision, their every gesture deliberate and meaningful. They position their feet at perfect square angles, creating geometric patterns on the floor that glow with increasing intensity. Their hands flow through complex signs that bend light into shapes your mind struggles to process—fractals that bloom and collapse, spirals that rotate in multiple dimensions simultaneously, symbols that seem to write themselves into the very fabric of reality.
The air vibrates with harmonics that make your proxy’s artificial skin tingle uncomfortably—tones that exist at the threshold of your senses, pulsing in patterns that feel mathematical yet alive. Colors swirl above the An’jels’ formation, merging and separating in ways that suggest communication beyond human language. The floor beneath them begins to respond, its luminescence intensifying and synchronizing with their movements, creating a dance of light that maps complex equations across the entire chamber.
Static electricity crackles softly around the An’jels’ hands, occasionally arcing between their fingers in miniature lightning displays. The very air seems to compress and expand with their choreographed movements, creating subtle pressure changes that pop in your ears and resonate in your chest cavity.
Time itself feels altered within the ceremony space—moments stretch and compress unpredictably, creating a disorienting effect where seconds might last minutes or minutes condense into heartbeats.
In the shadows behind the main audience, you notice three figures standing slightly apart from the others. Your UI identifies them as simply “Adepts” with their distinctive garb as “Moorish,” with elaborate patterns and symbols woven into flowing robes of midnight blue and silver. The tallest wears an intricate turban-like headpiece studded with what appear to be small crystals that catch and refract light in hypnotic patterns.
All three share the same dark olive skin complexion, their faces bearing the weathered dignity of those who have seen centuries pass. The eldest’s skin carries deeper lines around his eyes—not from age, but from the weight of knowledge. The woman beside him has intricate henna-like markings that spiral across her temples, while the youngest bears ritual scars along his jawline that seem to pulse with their own faint luminescence.
Unlike everyone else who seems transfixed by the An’jels, these Adepts scan the crowd with intense focus. They exchange glances and subtle blinking and facial expressions, their eyes tense. Something about their alertness triggers a flicker of unease in your stomach.
They stand with perfect posture, their presence commanding a subtle respect that even the wealthy global elites around them unconsciously acknowledge with extra personal space. Their midnight-blue robes cascade in precise folds, embedded with silver thread that forms complex sacred geometry patterns that seem to shift slightly when viewed peripherally. The fabric itself appears to absorb ambient light, creating the illusion that they exist partially in shadow despite the chamber’s illumination.
The tallest Adept’s headpiece creates a halo effect around their head, the material not merely decorative but functional—occasionally pulsing with subtle energy that corresponds to fluctuations in the An’jels’ ceremony. Their eyes, unlike the enraptured gazes of other attendees, remain alert and analytical, constantly scanning the chamber with methodical precision.
Their hands, adorned with silver rings bearing symbols you don’t recognize, occasionally make subtle movements. You notice when they move these hands, the air around their fingertips distorts slightly, as if the physical world bends to accommodate their will. The space immediately surrounding them appears to shimmer subtly, like heat waves rising from sun-baked pavement, creating a barrier between them and the rest of the crowd.
“Adepts of the Seventh Order,” your boss whispers reverently through comms. “Many of them use their mystic @#!$&! powers to serve as for-hire security and solve high-profile mysteries for the world powers. That’s how they fund those %!@&! opulent temples in New Jersey Genesis, Chicago, Houston, and all over the %!@&! planet.”
You observe the Adepts with growing fascination. Unlike the enraptured crowd, they watch the proceedings with intensely focused eyes.
The tallest Adept suddenly turns his head, his gaze locking with yours across the chamber. A jolt of recognition passes through you, though you’ve never met. His eyes narrow slightly, studying you with unsettling intensity.
Just as suddenly, the Adept’s attention shifts, his focus snapping toward the massive doors you entered through. His posture changes instantly—tension replacing ceremonial stillness. Without a word to his companions, he turns and moves with astonishing speed toward the exit, his robes barely disturbing the air despite his haste. He slips through the doorway and disappears, leaving a lingering disturbance in the chamber’s energy that only you seem to notice.
The remaining Adepts exchange alarmed glances. Their concern sends a chill through you—something must be wrong.
The An’jels’ movements seems to climax, becoming more synchronized and precise. The harmonics grow stronger, resonating through your proxy’s body at a frequency that shakes you to the core. The lights dimming and brightening in patterns that correspond to their movements, creating an immersive experience that makes reality itself feel malleable.
“This is the key moment,” your boss urges. “Get closer to the chamber floor for a better @#!$&! angle!”
You comply, edging closer to the ceremonial area where the An’jels stand in formation. The crowd presses forward as well, everyone straining to witness this historic moment.
That’s when you feel it—a commotion behind you. A disturbance in the perfect choreography of the event. Security guards turn, hands reaching for weapons as a figure forces through the crowd.
Time seems to slow, as a strange tall, lean man moves with unnatural speed and fluidity—too fast for normal human reflexes. He cuts through the crowd like a blade, leaving startled exclamations and toppled dignitaries in his wake. As he draws closer, you catch glimpses of his appearance: eyes wide with zealous fervor, pupils dilated to pinpoints despite the dim lighting. Sweat glistens on his forehead, catching the ceremonial lights in tiny prismatic displays. His clothing is nondescript, deliberately chosen to blend with the crowd, but now disheveled from his forceful approach.
His face contorts with an expression beyond mere determination—something like religious ecstasy mixed with terrible purpose. Muscles strain beneath skin pulled too tight, veins pulsing visibly at the temples. His breathing comes in rapid, shallow bursts that you can almost hear despite the distance and ceremonial sounds. They push past the final row of observers and leap from the elevated platform toward the chamber floor below where the An’jels stand…
A spike of fear shoots through you. “No!” you try to shout, but your proxy’s voice seems frozen in your throat.
The Adepts react — seemingly too late, their hands rising in unison, fingers splayed in intricate patterns that leave faint luminous trails in the air. Their mouths open to shout words you can’t hear over the rising harmonics, their faces transformed from ceremonial calm to urgent focus in an instant. The crowd attempts to scatter—a ripple of panic spreading outward like a stone dropped in still water.
The An’jels remain motionless, their blank faces focused exclusively on the ritual, seemingly oblivious to the chaos erupting above them. Only the 2nd One turns and lifts their featureless head, somehow recognizing the stranger without eyes to see or ears to hear him. The movement is subtle but deliberate, a slight tilt that conveys awareness beyond human senses.
The attacker’s body suddenly convulses mid-air. For a split second, his skin glows from within, as if filled with harsh white light that seeks escape through every pore. His outline blurs, atoms seemingly struggling to maintain cohesion. His mouth opens in what might be a scream, but no sound emerges—or perhaps it’s lost in the ceremonial harmonics that now reach a crescendo.
A blinding flash overloads your visual senses, followed by a concussive force that slams into you like a physical wall. Your perception fragments as reality itself seems to tear at the seams. White-hot pressure expands outward, compressing time and space into a single point of unbearable intensity. The chamber’s harmonics distort into a dissonance that bypasses your ears and reverberates directly through your skull.
The world whites out completely, then returns in disjointed fragments—ceiling, floor, bodies, light—all spinning in a kaleidoscope of broken perception. Your body lifts off the ground, weightless for a heartbeat before being hurled backward. Each nerve ending in your proxy body ignites simultaneously, sending conflicting pain signals that your brain cannot process coherently.
You feel the tethers between your consciousness and the proxy snap one by one, each connection breaking with the sensation of bones splintering inside your mind. The severing is violent, uncontrolled—nothing like the smooth transition of a normal ejection. Your awareness ricochets painfully through layers of digital reality—ejected from the Temple proxy, through to the Ether Deck at the security gate, through to the Ether Deck in Future North Hollywood, through the Lore Engine, all the way back to your physical form — your real body in the Quantum Arcade…
The ETHER RIG falls from your head and clatters to the floor as your physical body convulses. Your back arches off the floor, muscles tightening beyond your control. Every nerve ending screams as if your actual flesh has been torn apart. Your lungs spasm, unable to draw breath as a burning sensation spreads across your chest, starting as a mild warmth but rapidly intensifying into searing agony that radiates outward like molten metal poured over your skin…
You try to scream, but can only manage a strangled gasp. Your hands claw at your chest, expecting to find wounds, blood, evidence of the trauma—but there’s nothing there, only the impression of injuries that only your mind insists are real.
Your vision blurs, the grimy ceiling of the arcade swimming above you as tears fill your eyes. You try to move, to call for help, but your limbs refuse to obey, locked in the paralysis of neurosensory overload.
With trembling hands, you attempt to push yourself up, managing only to roll onto your side. The movement sends fresh waves of agony coursing through your nervous system. You reach out, fingers scrabbling against the dirty arcade floor, seeking something—anything—to anchor yourself to reality.
You can’t move. Can’t even lift yourself off the grimy arcade floor. You lie there, gasping like a fish out of water, synapses firing chaotically as they try to process the impossible feedback loop of pain without physical injury.
At the same time, a cold realization begins to wash over you, more terrifying than the pain itself…
You’ve crossed into something beyond entertainment or escapism. The burning in your chest, bones and nerve endings isn’t simulated feedback or clever haptics—it’s like an actual physiological response to trauma experienced through something you don’t fully comprehend… Suggesting that The KNOXX isn’t just an immersive game or virtual experience—it’s something else entirely…
The KNOXX is real…
This revelation hits harder than the forces that hurled you back to this deserted arcade.
The ☉ symbol on the Ether Rig suddenly illuminates on the floor nearby. The Archivist’s voice bleeds through its speakers, clear despite the chaos in your mind.
“Breathe. Try to calm yourself…” she instructs, her tone urgent but steady. “Focus on my voice. Your physical body is intact—the pain is real, but the damage is not.”
The ☉ symbol on the rig pulses in rhythm with her words, as if channeling energy. “I’m monitoring your vital signs—your heart rate is dangerously elevated. You need to regulate your breath.”
You struggle to follow her instructions, each breath a battle against the fire in your chest. “Why… does it… hurt so much?” you gasp.
“Your tethers were violently severed,” she explains, the ☉ symbol flaring brighter. Her voice fragments momentarily into several overlapping versions of herself before resolving — “Just focus on the breath for now,” she insists…
“You must not fear. That was only death,” she continues matter-of-factly.
“The first ‘death’ is always the hardest…”