The static was gone.
Ren stood in the cold silence of the observatory's deepest level, the memory-scorched vault door humming faintly with long-forgotten power. The old mechanism had responded to something in him—something ancient, possibly divine, or corrupted. Behind him, Valka's breathing was steady but sharp, and Eyla's light touch on her staff pulsed with nervous restraint.
The door clicked.
With a hiss of vacuum, the iron-fused plates slid open, revealing a descending passage lit by flickering, golden strips of ley-light. The corridor curved downwards, like a spiral of time, and the air smelled of ozone, ash, and—strangely—sunflowers.
"What the hell is this place?" Valka whispered, stepping beside him.
"The Verge Project," Ren murmured, feeling it now—not just in memory but in his bones. "Or at least part of it."
They walked.
Every footstep echoed into the bones of the structure. The walls were engraved with symbols that looked like both language and circuitry. Ancient and futuristic. Magical and mathematical. Half of them seemed to glow when Ren looked at them too long. He quickly learned not to.
"Do you remember any of this?" Eyla asked.
"Only flashes," Ren said. "Like I've been here in a dream that wasn't mine."
At the base of the spiral, they entered a massive chamber shaped like an inverted dome. Floating above a metallic pedestal was a cube—no larger than a fist—rotating slowly, fracturing light into dozens of threads that snaked across the room like lazy lightning.
The cube sang. A soft, harmonic vibration that spoke in no words but filled their minds.
ACCESS GRANTED. REN CALDER. DESIGNATION: ECHO-01.
Eyla and Valka both froze.
Ren's heart pounded. "That name again."
The cube descended into his open palm as if it had waited centuries for this moment.
Flashes tore through his vision. Not memories. Projections. Simulations. A war-torn world. A city of glass and flame. Creatures that didn't belong to time itself. The face of a man—his own—older, broken, wearing armor made of thought and rage.
And then, a voice from inside the cube:
"Soulburn Protocol incomplete. Accessing Lock-Seven. Warning: Corruption at 18%. Proceed?"
Before he could respond, the cube pulsed—once—and the room changed.
Dozens of data pillars shot up from the floor, each displaying fragments of blueprints, diaries, encrypted logs, and... photos. Real photos. Of himself. Of the lab. Of a team.
Of a child.
Eyla moved to one of the data pillars and gasped. "These are… soulprint logs. Ren, this is a vault for stored consciousness."
Ren reached for one.
ACCESS DENIED. CLASSIFIED.
Valka barked a frustrated laugh. "We finally find answers and they're locked behind bureaucratic ghosts?"
"No," Ren said, his breath catching. "They're locked... because they're still alive."
The cube in his palm shifted shape, forming a new pattern—an eye surrounded by concentric rings.
From the darkness beyond the chamber, a soft metallic click echoed.
Another presence had entered the vault.
A voice—cracked, synthetic, and filled with sorrow—called out.
"Echo-01. You were not meant to return. The Verge must remain sealed."
From the shadows stepped a humanoid frame, wrapped in cords and metal veins, its eyes dim blue suns.
Ren raised the cube defensively. "Who are you?"
"I am Sentinel-V. Guardian of Lock-Seven. Final overseer of the Project."
Valka's hands went to her blades. "Hostile?"
"No," Sentinel-V said. "Only... regretful."
It stepped forward. "Because if you open the next lock, you will not remain human."
The cube pulsed.
Behind them, the vault door slammed shut.