The Collector's words, his first and only whisper, still echoed in my mind: "The Truth is here. The Book of Signs. It is in you. It always was." I looked at him, at his motionless clay lips, at that single obsidian eye that now seemed to gaze with infinite wisdom. Did he truly say that? Was it another trick of my deranged mind, or reality shifting again, revealing a new layer of absurdity? The hut was silent. Too silent. The chaos from outside, the shouts of the villagers of the Last Echo, the struggle with the Void Whisperers—all of it had vanished, replaced by a deep, unnatural stillness. As if the world held its breath, waiting for my next move.
I approached the bench, which still lay overturned on the ground, a relic of my violent reaction. I lifted it, and its weight was strangely comforting. It was something real amidst this growing illusion. I sat on it, closing my eyes. The Book of Signs. Within me. How does one grasp something that is the essence of their own being? How does one find a map in a labyrinth that is oneself? It was like trying to cup water with bare hands. I felt the symbol on my palm. It still pulsed, but now not with pain, but with a strange warmth. As if the Book was calling to me.
"Collector," I said, opening my eyes. He still sat in the corner, surrounded by crystals. "I need to find it. But... how? My mind... it's just fragments. Echos." The Golem emitted a soft, grating sound. It was a kind of answer, though still incomprehensible to the human ear. He began to rearrange the crystals again, forming them into intricate, geometric patterns. Patterns I had once seen... on old Wanderer maps. Maps of thought. Maps of memory. "Maps..." I whispered. "Are you showing me a map?" The Golem moved his shapeless head up and down, and his obsidian eye seemed to gleam. I understand. He knew. He always knew. He was my fixed point in this crumbling world. He was my anchor.
I tightened my grip on the casket, which I still held. Empty. But it had shown the way. Through it, I saw flashes. And it had allowed the Collector to speak. I walked to the table and carefully placed the casket on its dusty surface. Then I sat opposite the Collector, on the floor, cross-legged. I looked at the symbol on my hand. It began to sting. This time the sting was pleasant. Like a fever that was meant to heal me. I began to concentrate. It was difficult. Like trying to focus on a single whisper in a crowd of millions of voices. My mind was a gallery of mirrors, each reflecting a different memory, a different reality. I saw the Library. The same one the crystal had shown me. Vast, infinite. But now... I didn't see it from the outside. I was inside. Among the shelves. And on them... not scrolls. But pulsating spheres of light. Each sphere an Echo. A memory. A story.
The flashes grew stronger. I saw myself, younger, running through this library, touching the spheres. Sorting them. Preserving them. I was the Archivist. My role. My destiny. To remember. Everything. But these spheres were... empty. Many of them. Or cracked. Like my memories. "Erasure..." I whispered. "The Architect... he's destroying them. Or taking them. And I... I am the last bastion." I felt sweat trickle down my forehead, though the hut was cool. It was an effort. An effort to fight the nature of my own existence. To reclaim something that had been taken from me. Suddenly, I felt something. Not an image. Not a voice. A pure sensation. Warmth. Like a hand placed on mine. I opened my eyes. The Collector.
His clay hand rested on mine. His fingers were thick and shapeless, but the touch was... delicate. He had never touched me like this. Never shown such... closeness. In his hand, right next to mine, lay one of the crystals. It glowed brighter than all the others. It held... it. The essence. A fragment of Truth. The Collector lifted my hand, with his own, and then gently, but firmly, placed the crystal in my open palm. It was cold. But as soon as it touched my skin, a surge of energy filled me. Blue light erupted from the crystal, and then... it absorbed into the symbol on my hand. It became part of it. I felt something crack. Not in my mind. In my chest. And then I felt it. The Book of Signs.
It was not a physical book. It was... an essence. A sensation. A fullness. Knowledge. It was like a sudden flood of information, but not chaos. Order. I saw everything within it. Maps of the Eons. The cycles' progressions. The names of the Wanderers. The secrets of the Ancient Echo. And also... the name of the Architect of Oblivion. And his history. His motives. And... the name of the one who vanished. The one with the scars. His true name. I began to tremble. The knowledge was overwhelming. It was a burden. But it was also... freedom. "Collector," I whispered, and my voice was clearer than it had been in years. "I... I know." The Golem. He stood there, his head now slightly tilted, as if listening. His obsidian eye gleamed, and within it... something stirred. Like a spark. He extended his other hand. Open. Empty. "Now... I must record it," I said, the words flowing freely. "For you. For them. For all who have forgotten." And then, in my open palm, where the crystal had been absorbed, a new crystal began to materialize... out of nowhere. I looked around. It was the same kind of crystal as those the Collector gathered. Pure. Full. Formed from my own, now discovered, Truth. I felt the world return to me. Not just the images from my memory. But reality. The smell of the earth. The salty wind. The two suns. And... a disturbing thought. The Architect of Oblivion. He didn't flee. He dispersed. And the Void Whisperers. They are still out there somewhere. Now that the Book of Signs had been found... the fight was just beginning.