The frantic sound of keystrokes echoed through the stark, metallic hallways. Hurried footsteps pounded against the reinforced flooring as men and women scrambled between control stations, their faces pale with anxiety. The laboratory, a marvel of engineering far beyond anything else in the region, was alive with flickering displays and oscillating readouts. Holographic monitors cast a dim glow over the chaos, reflecting off sleek, steel panels covered in luminescent buttons and fluid levers.
Above the din, a female voice - synthetic, measured - reverberated through the chamber's audio system.
"Five, four, three, two, one... Contact."
The moment hung suspended in an artificial hush before the room erupted back into motion. Scientists hunched over their terminals, recalibrating real-time projections of the unfolding experiment. Among the scrolling data, humanoid silhouettes - more anatomical blueprints than people - flickered across the screens, each accompanied by cryptic labels such as "NO-01 - Stabilized Growth" and "NO-17 - Rejected Cadaver".
"Subject Twelve reaching critical thresholds. Synchronization rate with the Boundary increasing from 0.003 to 0.005... stability maintained."
The female voice delivered a faint promise of control, but no one dared exhale just yet. Across a tiered observation deck, overlooking the laboratory like an executioner at the gallows, Dr. Harley adjusted his glasses. His gray hair was slicked back, sweat beading at his temples despite the climate-controlled air. His fingers moved with purpose across a holographic keyboard, eyes fixed on the fluctuating graphs. A younger scientist - thin-framed glasses, eyes tinged with fatigue - stood beside him, murmuring into an earpiece.
"This is our best synchronization to date," he said, voice taut with cautious optimism. "We should consider bypassing Phases Twelve through Twenty-Four. If the distortion coefficient remains within three units of nominal, cut Phases Twenty-Nine through Thirty-Six as well. We proceed directly to tempering."
Below, a young woman with pear-colored hair - her fingers a blur over the primary console - nodded sharply. Her voice, smooth but clinical, carried over the hum of machinery.
"Understood. Phases Twelve to Twenty-Four eliminated. Increasing depth by five hundred."
A pause. Then, the younger scientist hesitated.
"Sir... Are we pushing too fast?"
Harley didn't look up. His lips barely moved as he spoke
"We ran forty-seven simulations. Our last hesitation rendered Subject Eleven useless - though our clients got their precious toy delivered to that damn cat without incident. We cannot afford another failure." His gaze darkened. "Besides, if we don't produce results with this final project, our 'benefactors' will not be so forgiving. The Library and Sector Seven won't wait forever."
Below them, the main display shifted, revealing a live feed of the vast subterranean tunnel housing the Cauldron. Enormous scaffolding and thick, vein-like conduits ran along its immense frame, pulsing with an unnatural glow. At the core, a swirling luminescence twisted like a living thing - a cosmic eye half-open, whispering in tongues long forgotten.
"Two hundred meters to target depth."
The younger scientist swallowed, gripping the railing as though it might anchor him.
"The Gates of Sheol are opening... Are we truly ready?
Harley chuckled, a mirthless sound. "If this works, we ascend beyond all of them. The Library. The Committee. Even our client, that damned mage. The power in our hands will make us the true arbiters of fate."
The younger man's knuckles whitened. "And if it doesn't?"
Harley's gaze flicked back to the abyss on the screen. "Then we finally learn the price of ambition."
Below, the operator's voice cut through the tension.
"Target depth reached. Barriers stabilized. Entering Phase Forty-Two. Releasing Section A of the barrier. Synchronization adjusted to 0.001. True Ether exposure rising to seventy-five thousand. All readings within safe parameters."
Harley's lips curled into a thin smile
"Begin tempering."
A shift in the chamber. Not audible - something deeper. The kind of wrongness that settles in the marrow. The Cauldron pulsed, and for an instant, the feed warped. Color drained from the visuals, leaving only stark, unyielding black and white. Then, yellow sigils - the patterns of mages, the veins of creation itself, Magical Circuits - etched themselves across the walls, pulsing with an alien rhythm.
Harley inhaled sharply, stepping forward. "Incredible... Space-time is frozen. The cocoon theory was right... It's True Magic..."
Tis wonder shattered as every monitor in the room flared crimson. Sirens wailed. Data scrambled, shifting from complex equations to a singular, unavoidable truth:
WARNING. WARNING. WARNING.
"What the hell is happening!?" Harley barked.
"Tempering proceeding as expected! The Cauldron is-"
"Extreme Ether concentration detected above the facility! Six thousand... Eight thousand... Twelve thousand!" the pear-haired operator shouted, her fingers frantic over the controls.
The tunnel pulsed again.
"Thirty-four thousand! Fifty-eight thousand! If this continues-"
Harley slammed his fist onto the console. "Abort the experiment! Cut the power!"
"Sir! We can't! The system isn't responding!"
The younger scientist turned, dread creeping into his voice. "Sector Seven...? The Library...?"
"No! Neither of them could amass this level of Ether! Get me the exact location! Now!"
The numbers climbed with terrifying speed.
"Concentration exceeding one hundred thousand!"
"Damn it all - WHERE is it coming from!?"
Silence. Then, a single answer, spoken in a trembling voice:
"Altitude... Thirty-six thousand feet. Directly above Suzou."
Harley's breath hitched. "Impossible. That's-"
Then, the final pulse.
The Cauldron howled. Not a sound, but an invocation. A release. A harbinger.
The sky answered.
From the heavens, something beyond human comprehension descended - a cleansing fire, unbound, unmerciful. The lab, the tunnels, the research - all of it vanished in a catastrophic, apocalyptic burst. No screams. No struggle. Just annihilation.
(... ... ...)
Amid the wreckage, among shattered steel and the stench of scorched sand, something stirred.
A lone figure stood where nothing should have survived. Her ragged clothes clung to her frail form, golden hair matted with soot. Green eyes, vacant yet infinite, gazed at the horizon.
Without memory. Without purpose. Without past.
She took her first step forward - into the unknown.
[Prologue - FIN]