My ears ring with a great and terrible song, a song

  that embodies life and endless metamorphosis with no closure, an eternal

  cycle of wandering and rebirth. Sakura petals rain down from the sky

  like flakes of snow, and sweat runs down my brow in the humid air. The

  once neatly pruned gardens tended to by nanomachines have become dense

  jungles choking with life in a matter of hours. Dirt gathers at my knees

  as I step over wet soil, trampling over three-eyed worms with a

  sickening squelch.

  And

  this damn song keeps playing in my head! Everything about it is

  soothing. A slow tempo and complimenting harmonious vocals evocative of

  serenity, major scale and smooth consistent rhythm inviting one to lay

  down their arms and submit to eternal life. It makes my eyes twitch, my

  muscles thick with fatigue, and my eyebrows tense together. There aren't

  any instruments I can detect other than the vocals, like it's playing

  on the strings of my soul. The further we walk beneath the thick canopy,

  the more intense the noise gets. The crunch of leaves and squelch of

  worms beneath me makes me wince.

  You

  can hear that, can't you? The song of life and rebirth. It is a siren

  song for those who wish to be free of the burdens of strife and

  mortality, even if it costs them all that they once were. You see it for

  what it is, the great deception of immortality unearned.

  I

  turn towards the great figure of the clan elder. My mouth agape as I

  stare up at the colossal figure, gunmetal grey contrasting against the

  greenery, haloed by the light piercing through the tree canopy. It looks

  even more like an angel made of metal like this, a holy warrior clad in

  shining armor.

  "Ye-yes.

  It's just this noise. I can't handle the noise and the humidity.

  Everything feels so hot, and I can feel everything, every droplet of

  sweat running down my chest, the worms crushed under my feet, the dirt

  on my skin. Everything. I-I don't like it."

  A soothing mechanical hum runs through my ears from the elder.

  Your

  nerves are reacting to the low frequency. Part of you instinctively

  recoils at that vile song, as if it were antithetical to your being. How

  curious. Child, forgive me if this seems strange but please allow me to

  show you something.

  The

  elder kneels and lowers its hand over a pool of dirty brown water.

  Extending a finger just above it before a rhythmic pulse of Shakti

  emanates from its finger, the pool's water vibrates into a geometric

  shape emerging from the waves of power, like a mandala.

  Witness

  how the water concentrates around the point of low vibration, gathering

  at the stillness between them. Mathematical expressions manifested in

  nature as order amidst the chaos.

  Just

  as this puddle shapes itself into order, so do the celestial spheres

  arrange themselves into stable orbits, majestic shapes and sacred

  geometry emerging from the orbital chaos by mathematical law.

  I…

  I don't understand. Why are you telling me this? I am familiar with the

  notion of the Harmony of the Spheres. The planets dance in an empyrean

  ballet around the stars, and the stars in turn dance to the tune of the

  galactic center. The apex of Astromancy, the philosopher's stone that

  all astrologers reach for, is to become master of the choir, the one

  around whom every star in the night sky circles and obeys.

  What else could such a being be called other than a god?

  I still don't understand why you are saying this.

  I

  merely wish to teach. You are an Astromancer, are you not? Something

  that the Shamans spoke of was the music of the spheres. Have you ever

  heard the stars sing to you?

  Apologies,

  I have not spoken to another in decades. It is merely my belief, my

  conviction, that both music and geometry are born of deeper mathematical

  laws underlying reality. Do you stand by my beliefs?

  I do not know.

  It

  is common knowledge to those with an interest in the esoteric that what

  we take for reality, space and time and particles and galaxies, are

  mere surface phenomena, explicate forms that have temporarily unfolded

  out of an underlying implicate order. The sages write that space and

  time emerge from a deeper world of algebra and mathematical perfection, a

  pre-space uncorrupted by topology and dimensionality. Therefore, the

  goal of all mysticism is to tear off the veil of cognition, to purify

  oneself of the caducity inherent to matter and to gaze upon that

  majestic truth.

  What I wouldn't give to rid myself of this frail shell. Escape this world full of death and rot.

  I must change the topic.

  "My Lord—"

  Do not address me as Lord. I wish to simply be your friend. Call me Mahmud if you must.

  "I-I'm

  so sorry!" A hot flush runs up my cheeks and a jolt up my spine.

  "M–Ma-Mahmud. I do not wish to discuss such esoteric topics while

  exhausted and stressed. Please cease your questioning."

  A hearty chuckle rings out at my request.

  Much

  better, girl, but you can stop with the formalities. I wish to be free

  of the fetters of honor and respect. Shrug your weary shoulders, relax

  your tense muscles, feel free to be your true self around me.

  I

  yelp and move my hands over my chest instinctively, my face burning,

  before I realize that I am still fully dressed. "I-I'm not a girl! I'm a

  man!" I desperately try to cover my face while choking out these words.

  Heh.

  You are quite feminine for being a man. Not many men have breasts on

  their chest, you know? Besides, if you were one, then you would be a

  boy, not a man.

  I

  swallow excessively, my face impossibly hot. It is very likely that I

  will die here. I would quite like to tell at least one person who I

  truly am before I die. "Th-The body I was born with didn't match the

  truth of my soul. When I was young, I was plagued with a great despair

  born of a broken incarnation, a flawed corpus. I don't want it. I just

  want to be another boy, but my desire, no matter how many times I try to

  ignore it, causes my body to betray me. The metamorphosis is not

  complete and I am left with a weak body belonging to a failed man."

  I

  cringe inwardly. I have never told anyone else this. There is a moment

  of silence where he considers the implications before he speaks.

  I…

  understand. I am familiar with such cases, of Clan-sisters wishing to

  fight on the Frontlines and to be called clan-brothers. Some complained,

  called it a desecration of nature's order, but they were quickly

  silenced when they were challenged to holy battle.

  I

  never had much of a problem with it. The Primordial Khan was taught the

  ways of alchemy, the means to purify and perfect one's body and soul

  from the heavens. Is this not a rite of alchemy, what you are going

  through? We are not mere beings of flesh and neurons. The body can be

  shaped, the flesh can be sculpted, purified even. The endeavor to grow

  from pain and to attain catharsis is the most noble and ubiquitous one.

  Know

  this. Our greatest gift and greatest curse is the ability to doubt

  ourselves. We are not mere automatons without will but people capable of

  reflecting on our choices, weighing our options and changing ourselves

  for the better or for the worse. Ancestry is not the sum of all behavior

  after all, how we were born has no say in what we could be.

  Forgive me for my rambling. My mind tends to wander. I am simply an old man eager to share my opinion with the youth.

  My

  head turns downward, my lips twitch nervously, and my eyes water

  slightly as a strained noise exits my mouth. I desperately try to hide

  my face as a feeling of warmth rushes through me. "Th-thank you. No one

  has ever told me that. Please, I want to talk about something else. I do

  not feel comfortable with this topic."

  Very

  well then. Do you mind if I tell you of my exploits, the glories I won

  to attain this shape? No one bothers speaking to me. They just think I'm

  a rambling old man who's only useful for killing things. Just a weapon

  to be woken from sleep and given the occasional lip service. You are not

  weighed down by respect and veneration. You see me as a person. So

  allow me to regale you with tales of action, suspense, horror, and

  romance!

  He puts a

  dramatic flair to his last sentence, enunciating each word like a radio

  announcer sharing tales to astonish. "Maybe not romance, but it's okay, I

  would quite like to hear it." I try to hide my blud. I have never had a

  romantic or sexual relationship, there are very few people I would even

  call a friend. Perhaps Mahmud may be one of them.

  How about I tell you about that time I dueled a Asāsiyyūn Swordmaster while hanging from the side of a space elevator.

  Despite

  the blistering heat and rot, it actually smells quite nice. A warm

  vanilla scent mixing with the humidity of the jungle and the smell of

  Ozone to produce a combination that's… not unwelcome.

  So

  here I was, hanging from the space elevator's side, a twenty thousand

  meter fall to the ground beneath me if I messed up my footing. and there

  they were. Five acolytes in black cloaks, faces covered in skull masks,

  and knives wreathed in green rot, led by gold cloaked deathbringer with

  a sword of sorrow. There wasn't any air but I could feel the rot coming

  from the sword, sheathed in the sickly green gleam of burning boron.

  And all I had was my combat knife and my trusty revolver.

  It's

  a horrible idea but part of me wants to collect some of the growing

  plants and flowers for study. The world around me is… most would

  consider it beautiful, but this beauty is a lure for unsuspecting prey.

  Sometimes I see hands sticking out of the grass, pale with necrosis and

  gnawed on by moths and other winged critters, belonging to those who

  were devoured by the jungle.

  I

  only had nine rounds in my revolver, so I had to make them count. I was

  weighing my options then bam! A kick to my side that nearly made me

  lose my footing and tumble down to become splatter. They were so damn

  fast but I could at least keep up. Another pair of kicks that dented my

  metal, and I grabbed his leg and slammed my foot into his groin before

  unloading a pair of revolver rounds directly into his skull and letting

  him fall.

  Asāsiyyūn,

  meaning "People of the Principle." A secretive, violent and extreme

  cult dedicated to attaining oneness with God by consuming an esoteric

  and mystical fungus known as Egregore and devoting themselves to the Art

  of Death. I had heard stories about them in my studies of the esoteric.

  Some say their founder has become one with Death itself, a living

  shadow capable of slaughtering entire planetary populations and felling

  the greatest champions with ease—a harbinger of entropy surrounded by

  nineteen angels of hell.

  I

  do not doubt such stories. Some parts might be embellished, but there

  are many things in this world that will bring us despair, and I doubt

  anything is too fantastical for me to believe in.

  So

  I weaved between their two knives. Sometimes they landed hits and they

  bit through my metal like acid. I parried with my combat knife, rune

  carved blade meeting cursed blade, until I managed to jam it into the

  left one's shoulder when he messed up before unloading a pair of rounds

  into his throat and letting him tumble to the ground. Then the third one

  jumped at me from the back, and I just grabbed him by the neck and

  slammed him into the metal hard enough to dent it before—

  I

  doubt the logistics here. There are very few reports of even two

  Asāsiyyeen being spotted in the same location, let alone six, and I very

  much doubt they would be that easy to kill. "Mahmud, what were you

  doing to invite the presence of the Asāsiyyeen? They are usually only

  spotted in units of one or two. What did you do to summon five acolytes

  and a deathbringer?"

  Oh,

  the clan was hired to guard something. A small blue ball of what looked

  like ice, or maybe glass. The Shamans said it was a perfect crystal,

  absolute zero temperature, all the molecules are lined up perfectly with

  no imperfections. They said it was an incredibly advanced Quantum

  Computer, like it replicated the known universe and put it in a box.

  Thousands of little planets squared away in a tiny crystal ball.

  "No, that's just—stupid. That's stupid and impossible. I—thermodynamics—paracasuality notwithstanding."

  I

  didn't particularly understand, and the Shamans raved about how it was a

  violation of the natural order but… in a good way. A defiance of

  entropy. And they said that it was filled with patterns vying for

  dominance, mere lines upon the grid ascending the evolutionary ladder

  and working towards being the apex species of their little world.

  Anyways

  as I was saying. Me and the Acolyte were locked neck to neck, knives in

  each other's guts, but only one of us was made of flesh. I slammed my

  head into his skull mask once, then twice, then a third time until the

  mask broke. Bastard somehow still fought until I buried my knife into

  his skull. Then I—WAIT, HOLD STILL!

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  A

  droning hum enters my ears, and I freeze, me and Mahmud going still as

  statues. A vortex of swirling yellow flames, violet particles, and blue

  lightning crosses my view, then another confluence of forces and

  another. A wolfpack of Ghouls cross through the jungle and everything

  they touch grows. The jungle floor beneath them is filled with the

  corpses of fallen knights and Rakshasa joined together in death, A

  robotic whirl enters my ears, and a blinding light emanates from the

  Ghouls. Rakshasa warriors rise, organs growing as muscles knit

  themselves back together, bones pinning and piercing themselves in

  place. This is the miracle of resurrection, the defiance of nature's law

  that everything must die. The Rakshasa look around with what seems like

  a confused look on their face. Hissing mouths howl as they pick up

  their fallen swords and plasma throwers, before running off into the

  jungle.

  Sweat

  drips down my face profusely at the sight, my heart hammering in my

  chest while my muscles scream with the effort to remain still. My eyes

  are sealed shut and moisture builds up inside of them as the noise of

  shrieks and howls becomes more and more distant.

  It's okay now. They are gone.

  I

  collapse to the floor, wheezing as tears stream down my face. Mahmud

  looks on me still as a statue without a single word. My lungs are ragged

  and my throat is dry as a desert. Something about the sight, the act of

  defying nature's law and the mere presence of the Ghouls sends an edgy,

  twitchy feeling through me. Something about them is just wrong. They

  shouldn't exist.

  You should leave. Go somewhere safe. I am going somewhere dangerous, and I might not return.

  "What do you mean?"

  Do

  you see that great tree in the distance? That song you have been

  hearing comes from it. The Song of Life is played by a choir of twenty,

  the Vīcēsimum, and one of their singers is here. I am going to kill her

  or die trying.

  A

  slight quiver runs through my stomach as my brow tightens, and I swallow

  excessively to clear my parched throat. Water. I need water. Dizziness

  runs through me, and an ache is at the back of my throat as I consider

  my words.

  "I want to go with you."

  Why?

  You are still young. You have things to do before you die. I, on the

  other hand, have nothing to lose, nothing left to live for. My life is

  complete. This is the finale to my story. Your story has only begun.

  I weigh practical and theoretical. My argument needs to be based on the material conditions and not my own selfish desires.

  "There

  is no guide to where I should go. I have no map, and we are far behind

  enemy lines. I would only die alone or live as an amnesiac husk if I

  left your side." I swallow thickly around every word.

  I was a fool to bring you here. I should have brought you to safety.

  I

  made my mistakes. I won glory and brought riches to my clan. If I knew

  how I were to die, then I would change nothing. I can see it. You are

  brimming with potential awaiting actualization. My potential is already

  actualized. I feel satisfied with dying.

  "There's

  also… my own desire. A person's worth is defined by their deeds, and I

  have none. No glorious feats to my name, nothing to be proud of in my

  life. I am already destined to die but I want to die with something to

  be proud of."

  This

  suffering is wholesome and nourishing. It brings us to an end. It is

  good to die. One must welcome it. But one must die in the proper manner.

  Let

  me ask you something. If you knew how you were going to die, how would

  you live your life differently? Will you attempt to change your fate or

  will you embrace it and live life to its fullest?

  I would try making my death matter. I would try dying with something to be proud of. Only then would I die without regrets.

  Very well then. You made your choice and there is no changing it.

  (Forgive me. Please forgive me)

  I

  cycle Shakti through my pathetic circuits as I carve symbols into

  Mahmud's metal shell. Taurus has the property of enforcing a specific

  "order," causing behaviours and traits to be bolstered in prominence. It

  is, in practice, a highly powerful form of ordinary Reinforcement.

  Because

  Jupiter, whom Taurus originates from, possesses the attribute of a king

  of the gods who holds the authority to even transform things into gods,

  it is also possible to replicate a kind of quasi-divinity. The vessel

  does not become divine in itself, but acts as though it has been

  imparted with divine will, meaning that it can interact with other

  systems as though it has divinity.

  The

  Oghuz rever Elders like Mahmud as gods or holy beings, inscribing the

  property of divinity upon them. This boosts Taurus's divine effects into

  a level of true divinity. Electricity crackles across Mahmud's plating,

  and wings of lightning emit from his back.

  Next

  is Capricorn, embodying the primordial deity Enki. It complements

  Taurus by dramatically boosting all functions of the system it's

  imparted on. Finally is Leo, the Nemean Lion. Due to having the concept

  of both Heracles's exploit, his victory over nature, and the Lion's own

  power, its rejection of humanity, it also grants high effectiveness

  versus things both connected to humanity and to the natural world.

  The

  mechanical giant crackles with holy lightning, his fingers becoming

  claws of light and the ground beneath him burning to embers. His immense

  rifle becomes coated with electricity.

  Are you sure this will work?

  Yes, I have imparted every last unit of Shakti I have into this incantation. I'll be going with you.

  You'll be defenseless while I fight! You need to hide, keep yourself safe. You need to live.

  JUST TRUST ME! I am destined to die either way. Just… Just make sure that I don't become one of those undead things when I die.

  Very

  well then. Systems are at 300 percent, endowment of divine archetype

  successful. Let's burn the tree of life to the ground.

  A

  dour look of resignation crosses my face as I climb onto Mahmud's back,

  holding onto the panels and feeling the shimmers of electricity on my

  hands. This isn't true lightning like the magic the Rakshasa use but

  spiritual lightning, Shakti, given the shape and properties of lightning

  by human perception. I hear the faint revving of his flight module.

  Then we ascend.

  My

  fingers hold on desperately as we climb, the acceleration making the

  blood retreat from my brain as I grunt desperately. I feel the sharp

  rush to my bladder from the height, and I close my eyes and hang on for

  dear life. The roar of jet engines deafens my ears.

  The

  pounding thump of his chaingun and the deep pounding of his autocannon

  is distant in my mind as my vision darkens from nausea. My arms are numb

  and my throat is dry as I feel a sharp deceleration before hearing the

  slam of metal on soil.

  And my grip slips.

  I

  slide down the steel of his back and fall a short way down to the

  charred ground, rolling on the burnt grass before I reach blessed

  stillness.

  I vomit. My

  vision is blurry and disorientated as the bitter fluid erupts from my

  mouth. I am lucky that I only drank water before this. I stagger to my

  feet before collapsing, nausea pounding through my skull. By the time I

  recover and can see properly, I bear witness to a truly majestic sight.

  Mahmud wreathed in lightning tearing his talons through the guts of a

  fifteen meter tall Rakshasa Ogre, the great creature blasting beams of

  energy from its tumorous head before Mahmud crushes it under his feet,

  staining his steel with sickly green fluid.

  He

  blazes through hordes of Rakshasa with ease, the ground beneath him

  incinerated by his mere presence. His stomps emit ionizing pulses of

  lightning while his rifle blazes, chaingun thumping from his shoulder

  and missiles flying from his back. Rakshasa Warlocks emit great pyres of

  plasma and unleash curses of entropy at Mahmud. He just grabs them in

  his hand and crushes them, staining his hands in green blood.

  My

  mouth is slackened as I look on. Golden rays of the glorious sunshine

  burst through a great hole in the bark of the tree, framing Rakshasa

  with colorful flower patterns rushing in hordes to stop Mahmud. Their

  efforts are futile. Plasma and lightning arcs and purple vortexes of

  swirling gravity tear the ground, yet he is unfazed.

  Majestic. The sight is majestic.

  Then

  a hiss rings my ears. I turn around, and a brightly colored Rakshasa

  crusader, towering at eight feet and with a sword longer than I am tall,

  is hissing at me . And I have no Shakti to save myself.

  I should run, but my legs are unresponsive. The Rakshasa nears with its fanged mouth split into a smile.

  Then

  a flurry of chaingun rounds wreathed in lightning tear through its

  hide, pieces of flesh and bone-like chitin flying off as the Rakshasa is

  shredded by the barrage.

  Then

  I do run. The soil beneath me is wet and mossy, the sod overgrown and

  tangled as I look for anywhere to hide from the cataclysmic battle. It's

  cowardly, so cowardly, but he wants me to live. So I must. I slide down

  a large crater created by an autocannon shell, filled with bones turned

  to ash and melted flesh and metal. The smell is… surprisingly nice.

  Like vanilla despite the burnt flesh.

  "HEAR

  ME, YOU ROTTING, DEATHLESS, THINGS. I AM MAHMUD UFAIR GHAZANI AND I

  HAVE NEVER KNOWN DEFEAT. COME BACK TO LIFE AND I WON'T CARE. IT JUST

  MEANS I CAN KILL YOU AGAIN AND AGAIN!"

  A

  great roar fills my ears. It isn't through our neurotelepathic link. It

  shakes the wooden bark with its intensity and its tone is one of joy.

  "IS

  THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO! NO WONDER YOU LOOK LIKE BUGS. YOU'RE JUST AS

  EASY TO KILL. GIVE ME A REAL CHALLENGE! BRING ME THE LIFESINGER!"

  The

  smell of Ozone strikes my nostrils. Against my better judgement, I look

  outside of the little foxhole I have found and I see her, for the shape

  hovering within the swirling vortex of violets and yellows and blues is

  undoubtedly feminine. I take a closer look and see a face shaped like a

  vermilion flower, a tall slender figure painted bone-white with a long

  skirt of roses on her waist, long claws holding plasma and lightning in

  equal regard. A raspy yet undoubtedly feminine voice rings out.

  "DEEP-DRINKER.

  ONE WHO WORSHIPS DEATH. YOU DARE INTERRUPT THE GREAT CHOIR. I SHOULD BE

  OFFENDED, YET I AM INTRIGUED. I'D LET MY SUPERIOR HANDLE YOU, BUT I

  YEARN TO TEST MY MIGHT. LET US ENGAGE IN THE EMPYREAL BALLET."

  Mahmud lets out a mechanical chuckle. "VERY WELL THEN. I WOULDN'T WANT TO WASTE MORE OF MY TIME ON YOU WRETCHES, SO LET'S DANCE!"

  The

  Lifesinger summons a sword wreathed in plasma in her left hand, and

  Mahmud channels the lightning of Taurus into a sword of pure electricity

  in his right.

  Then the

  world burns. Bolts of crackling lightning and sparks of plasma ring out

  around the two clashing blades. The great hollow is filled with blinding

  light, as if a miniature sun is within these halls. The Lifesinger is

  the first to break off, throwing a vortex of dark energy and gravity

  from her palm to cover her retreat. Mahmud deflects it with his free

  hand before pursuing, wings of lightning blazing and incinerating the

  rot beneath him. The two dance and weave around each other, a miniature

  sun born every time their paths cross.

  Mahmud dives into a piercing stance and the Lifesinger into a slashing stance on their final collision.

  Then

  Mahmud pulls back just as they are about to meet, shaping his sword

  into a ranged bolt of lightning and hurling it at her like a spear. A

  deafening screech fills the air as she is utterly incinerated, reduced

  to ashes in the wind.

  And yet she comes back. Flesh and bones grow from mere ashes as she wheezes. "YOU-YOU'RE STRONGER THAN I EXPECTED FOR A DEEP-DRINKER. YOU FORCE ME TO USE THE SONG OF LIFE ON A MERE HUMAN. HOW IMPRESSIVE."

  A soft humming fills the air, vocals clean as the blue sky as she sings in an operatic tone.

  Everything

  starts growing, Rakshasa regenerating back from the ashes and melted

  flesh Mahmud reduced them to. Mahmud only chuckles then unleashes the

  full might of the Oghuz arsenal. Missiles blaze and become bolts of

  lightning. Chaingun rounds and autocannon shells tear through

  everything, and the world shakes every time he stomps his feet.

  I

  can only gape at the sight. This is the true power he wields. A power

  born of the marriage of technology and Theurgy. A shudder runs through

  me at the thought that beings like these, gods of brass and theurgic

  might, were common during the Great Rakshasa Crusader.

  I don't even hear the footsteps behind me until it's too late.

  This is where your destiny changes. Greatness and pain await you in equal measures from now on.

  A

  large clawed hand grabs me by my neck. A snarling chitinous face greets

  me. The crusader holds me off the ground with a single hand, a

  greatsword in its other hand, and its face twists into a hideous smile,

  fangs glistening in the light.

  I'm sorry.

  It buries its sword into my chest.

  I can't even scream.

  It

  pulls out the sword in such a manner that I float in the air

  temporarily before it's buried in my chest twice more before throwing me

  off it like I am just a toy.

  "NO!" Mahmud

  roars at the edge of my hearing, but I can't respond. Blood pools in my

  mouth, causing me to choke on my own blood, and the crusader is on top

  of me, throwing away its sword and slamming its fist into my chest again

  and again and again, breaking bones and smashing organs. I desperately

  try to move my legs. It just grabs them and pulverizes them.

  My

  vision is clouded by blood, but I feel it pull itself off of me, then

  the crackle of a chaingun rounds piercing through flesh and a body

  falling to the ground.

  My ears ring as the blood drains from my brain. "KOR HALAK! YOU BASTARD! I'LL MAKE YOU PAY!"

  Then the clatter of battle, of autocannons firing and swords clashing.

  I'm sorry, young one. I shouldn't have brought you here. The least I can do is defend your body from desecration.

  He

  is before me, the Blade of Light, clad in colorful chitins like armor

  and wielding a sword drenched in Light. He towers over the other

  Rakshasa, everything his blade touches grows and metamorphes without

  end. Flowers grow at the lines between my plating at the sheer power he

  wields. Besides him is a golden spider clenching a blade in each of his

  four hands.

  Father, I

  am sorry. I couldn't live as who I truly am. I couldn't discover who

  you truly were, and I couldn't be your perfect son nor could I be your

  daughter. I hope you may know that I failed and mourn me while I am

  gone.

  They

  are fast, thundering towards me with terrible speed, slicing autocannon

  shells and missiles in mid-air. They are on top of me in an instant.

  Kor Halak's blade pierces through my shoulder and plant life grows

  cancerously from the wound, growth tearing apart metal and destroying my

  right arm. I fire my autocannon point blank into him, and a fireball

  engulfs him, then An Raggarr tears my left arm off at the elbow with his

  bare hand.

  Adelle, I

  am sorry. I don't know where you truly are, I don't know if you truly

  are alive but I am sorry that I couldn't help you achieve your dreams. I

  hope you can find that eternal beauty, play those songs of joy, even if

  it results in your demise.

  I

  try to get some distance, thrusters blazing backwards, but the golden

  spider leaps towards me and buries its four swords into my chassis,

  pulling its four arms away from its other as if it was gutting me,

  revealing the heart of perfect crystals under my metal. I spit out

  curses and wrathful cries from my voice box until Kor Halak silences me,

  tearing out my voice box and rendering me mute.

  Argetlam,

  I am sorry. I couldn't follow your order and fulfill your plans. I am

  thankful for one thing, that I spoke to you when you were suffering and

  that you praised me. I wish I could have spoken to you more.

  I

  apologize, young one, it seems this is the end for both of us. I'm

  sorry I couldn't protect you, that I sacrificed you out of my own

  selfish desire for a glorious death. I just want to tell you something,

  in this dimming of our embers before eternal darkness.

  This

  world and its people are unreasonable. There will always be those who

  reject good and espouse vice, who will deny justice at every turn.

  But

  that's okay, that's alright. A human cannot change the world, that is a

  feat too great for a single man to fulfill. All we can ever do is

  struggle onward, safeguarding that which is good and denying that which

  is evil. Our struggles will be endless, our suffering without limits.

  But that's okay, that's alright.

  I hope someone can carry on our struggles and make our deaths mean something. Until then, I'll be seeing you.

  Then blackness.

  There

  is no sound. There is no light. There is only absence—absence of light,

  dark, life, death—the absence of anything. This is the final darkness

  awaiting all life. The peace of the grave, one that is only known by the

  dead.

  Then lights, so many

  lights. Billions of beating hearts, lights flickering in the darkness,

  and connecting them are green strings, forming a spider's web of

  consciousness.

  You

  have no name for you are nobody. The name you give to others, the

  facade you put up, it's all lies. You are emptiness but in emptiness

  there is potential.

  Relax, shrug your shoulders and cease your tears. The enemy cannot reach you here. This is a place of life, a place of peace.

  I merely wish to ask. If you were given a second chance at life, what would you do differently?

  Wh-Who are you? I need to know, what is your name? What do you want from me?

  You

  have given me many names, for I am many things. You wield me as a

  knife, carving away chaos and chiseling perfect form from sterile

  matter, yet you confuse me for a God. Believe me, I am no God. I do not

  give blessings in exchange for worship nor do I make demands or enforce

  rules. I do not bother with vague portents. I give only what you take.

  As for my name, call me Vairocana. Yes, that should work.

  I

  realize that I am standing on the spider's web of consciousness now,

  illusions of depth melting away as it becomes a flat field extending

  endlessly. Information stored on a two dimensional surface and given the

  illusion of three dimensionality.

  Holograph. It is a holograph.

  Standing

  before me is a featureless androgynous figure cloaked in a thick black

  veil, a shining silver sword in one hand and a golden cup brimming with

  an acerbic and dark liquid in its other. It approaches me without a

  word, not a single movement wasted.

  What do you want from me, Vairocana?

  My

  friend, my beloved. I do not demand anything from you. You deserve

  everything. You deserve every star in the night sky. You deserve power

  beyond measure and wealth without end. You deserve whatever you can

  take.

  I merely wish to ask, what would you do if given a second chance at life?

  I

  consider his words. I cannot help but think of what Mahmud said and how

  many people were suffering at this moment at the hand of our enemy.

  I would try to save everyone, try to preserve those moments of joy and defend those who cannot defend themselves.

  But how would you do that? Noble ideals and dreams mean nothing without the means to actualize them.

  I would try to grow strong so I can save others and so I can hold back those who would use strength to abuse the innocent.

  That's exactly what I was looking for.

  Know

  this. I do not make this offer in bad faith. Everything I say is

  sincere and the truth of my heart. I do not make Faustian bargains and

  infernal pacts. I only offer the power to change your fate, to take

  whatever you want and do whatever you want with it.

  There is a knife for you. It is shaped like Mastery.

  If

  you choose to accept it, then you will live a life of turmoil and bring

  about great change. You will know love, despair, pride, hope and so

  much more. There will be pain. There will be suffering if you accept,

  but you will be majestic, utterly majestic.

  So do you?

  I accept. Give me death or glory.

  Very well then. Arise, oh formless potential. Take up your knife and carve your new shape.

  And I awaken.