The shadow in the black robe on the horizon materialized out of nothing, appearing not gradually, but suddenly, as if cut from black paper against the backdrop of two orange suns. It was slender, unnaturally tall, and its movements—less a walk than a glide—made it seem part of the anomaly itself. The void it carried with it was almost physical, suffocating. I forgot I was seeing it. Again. And then I remembered that I had forgotten it. It was exhausting.
The barrier of crystals the Collector had laid on the ground shimmered faintly, like a last spark of hope in an abyss of oblivion. These small, blue points of light seemed to fight against the shadow that drew everything into nothingness. The Golem, usually as still as a statue, now trembled. His clay fingers nervously shifted one crystal after another, as if trying to mend a cracking reality. "It... he... it... is coming," I croaked, unsure if the voice was from my throat or an echo of someone else's fear in my head. The image of the burned library I'd seen in the crystal returned with powerful force, bringing with it the sharp, metallic scent of fire and ash. And that scream. A woman. Her face was blurry, but her terror... real.
The shadow approached. I could already hear a faint, unnatural hum, like the rustle of a billion dead leaves, or the soft whimper of nothingness itself. It had no face. It had no form. It was simply... absence. An absence that filled everything. "Aren't you running?" a voice hissed in my head. It wasn't mine. It was the voice of the one who vanished. The one whose face I saw in the anomaly. "You always ran, old man. From Truth. From Responsibility. From the End." My knee stung again, the symbol on my hand pulsed with fire. This wasn't physical pain. It was guilt. The guilt of an Archetype that once fled. Fled with a book. With the Book of Signs.
Images flashed through my mind. A forest. A dense forest, full of whispers and traps. And me, younger, with long, black hair, running, clutching the binding. The binding of the Book. I ran, and behind me I heard voices. Leaders. Rulers. Yes, the Rulers of the Ancient Echo. Those who hunted me for what I knew. Or for what I possessed. And now this Shadow. The Shadow I saw in my dreams. The Shadow that was on the map. Was this that map? The map from the Library of Oblivion? The place where all Eons burned. "They didn't burn!" I screamed, but the voice caught in my throat. "They were... recorded! Somewhere! They must be!"
The Collector suddenly let out a high-pitched, grinding squeal. One of the crystals in the barrier flared with intense light, then burst into dust, like a soap bubble. The barrier was breaking. The Shadow was closer now. I saw how the grass it passed over turned gray, then black, and then crumbled into nothingness. The vegetation died, not withered, but simply... ceased to exist. "Erasure," I whispered. "He... he's doing it. The Architect. He wants to erase everything."
At that moment, in my head, the chaos intensified to an unimaginable degree. Millions of voices screamed, fighting for dominance. I saw myself in hundreds of incarnations: as a warrior against a burning city, as a scholar bent over ancient scrolls, as a child playing in a garden that no longer existed. I saw myself as a tool of the Wanderers, as their slave, as their experiment. And I saw myself as... their Archivist. The one who was supposed to remember. Everything. "You cannot erase Truth!" I roared, feeling energy begin to flow from my hands. A blue glow emanated from the symbol on my palm. It wasn't mine. It was... an Echo. The Echo of an Archetype. The Archetype of Defiance. Of Resistance. The Collector, as if sensing my intent, began to frantically arrange the remaining crystals, forming an irregular, pulsating symbol on the ground. A symbol I didn't understand, but which seemed to respond to my inner impulse.
The Shadow was now directly in front of us. It sensed me. It sensed the anomaly within me. The anomaly that was everything I remembered. The anomaly that was Eonum. Its "face"—though merely a distortion of air—seemed to turn towards me. I felt the cold of the Void fill my lungs. It was a cold that erased not just the body, but the soul. Just then, from the distant Village of the Last Echo, a sound reached us. Faint, but distinct. The clang of a bell. An Alarm Bell. Then another. And another. People. They were coming. Had the anomaly drawn them? Or perhaps... had the Collector summoned them with his babbling? "They're coming!" the voice in my head snarled. The same voice that told me to run. "They see the Void. They see Death. And they come. Mindless sheep." But I saw something else. I saw fear in their eyes. And desperation. And... hope? Was it possible that these simple people from the Village of the Last Echo saw something more than just the end?
The Shadow extended a "hand"—a gesture that was, in itself, a threat. The air around us began to vibrate, as if existence itself was bowing to its will. I saw the Collector cower behind my legs, his clay body trembling like jelly. The gleaming symbol he had arranged from the crystals pulsed one last time before extinguishing, swallowed by the cold. The barrier collapsed. I was alone. Alone against Oblivion. But in my head, one clear voice rang out. My own. Young, passionate. A voice that said: "Memory is our last bastion. And I am its keeper." And then, as the Shadow extended its hand to consume me, a scream tore from my lips. A scream of burned memory. A scream that didn't come from me. It came from a million voices fighting within my head. And that scream, filled with chaos and oblivion, struck the Shadow. It did not wound it. But it stopped it. For a fraction of a second. Long enough.