Tuesdays. The word alone was enough to make my jaw tighten, my shoulders stiffen, and my soul recoil. If the days of the week were a family, Tuesday would be the annoying little brother of Monday—the guy you already hated. Sure, Tuesday wasn't as bad as Monday, but that didn't make it any less insufferable. It was like being handed a slightly less rotten apple after being forced to eat a moldy one. Congratulations, it's not as terrible. But it's still terrible. Tuesdays were the universe's way of reminding you that the weekend was still light-years away, and no amount of caffeine or wishful thinking could change that. They were evil, plain and simple. A cosmic joke wrapped in monotony and tied with a bow of existential dread.
I lay sprawled on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the air conditioner doing little to drown out the cacophony in my head. My conversation with Beryl earlier had left me drained, not just physically but mentally. Still, after the day I'd had, I decided I deserved a little rest. Just a short nap to recharge before the chaos resumed. I'd set an alarm for thirty minutes before we were supposed to leave, giving myself just enough time to shake off the grogginess and get ready.
In retrospect, maybe sleeping at all had been a mistake.
When the alarm blared, it felt like a jackhammer to the skull. My head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that made me want to curl up and hibernate until the next millennium. It was as if a horde of gorillas had taken up residence in my brain, stomping and screaming like they were auditioning for some deranged Broadway show. I groaned, dragging myself upright, my body protesting every movement. The clock on the nightstand glared at me, its red digits mocking my suffering. Fifteen minutes. That's all I had to pull myself together before we had to leave.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun, but even the faint light felt like an assault on my senses. I ran a hand through my hair, wincing as my fingers caught on a tangle. Focus, Alex. Just get through the day. Easier said than done when every fiber of my being was screaming at me to crawl back under the covers and pretend the world didn't exist.
But I couldn't. Not today. Not with what was at stake.
I shuffled toward Beryl's room, my steps heavy and deliberate. The hallway seemed longer than usual, the walls closing in around me like they were in on some cruel joke. I knocked on her door once, twice, three times—each rap of my knuckles sharper than the last. No answer. My heart began to race, a slow, creeping dread settling in my chest. My mind, always too quick to jump to the worst-case scenario, conjured up a dozen different ways things could have gone wrong. What if something had happened while I was asleep? What if she'd left? What if—
I pushed the door open, my breath catching in my throat.
There she was, sprawled across her bed like a starfish, one arm dangling off the side, her mouth slightly open as she drooled onto her pillow. The tension in my chest dissolved, replaced by a mix of relief and irritation. Of course she was fine. Of course she'd been sleeping through my knocking like the world's most oblivious sloth. I exhaled sharply, running a hand over my face. Panic for nothing. Typical.
But there was no way I was letting her sleep any longer. Not when we had places to be. I raised my hand, the air around my fingers shimmering faintly as I channeled my alchemy. The molecules above her shifted, rearranging themselves into a small, concentrated cloud. And then, with a flick of my wrist, I let it go.
The water was cold—very cold. It hit her like a bucket of ice, and she shot upright with a gasp, her hair plastered to her face, her eyes wide and wild. She swore loudly, a string of curses that would've made a sailor blush, her gaze darting around the room like she was expecting an ambush. When her eyes finally landed on me, I could practically feel the heat of her glare. If looks could kill, I'd have been reduced to a pile of ash on the spot.
"Alex, what the hell?!" she growled, her voice dripping with venom.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. "Firstly, it was pissing me off to see you sleeping while I couldn't do the same."
She blinked at me, water dripping from her hair onto the sheets. "Couldn't do the same? What do you mean by that?!"
I raised an eyebrow, my smirk widening. "Thus comes my second point. Have you forgotten? We're going to see Spielberg."
Her eyes widened, the anger in them replaced by a flicker of panic. She scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. "Shit, shit, shit!" she muttered, bolting toward the bathroom. I watched her go, shaking my head in amusement.
"You've got like fifteen minutes to be ready!" I called after her, my voice echoing down the hallway.
I turned and walked back to my room, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me like a lead blanket. I paused in the doorway, giving my bed a longing look. It called to me, a siren song of soft sheets and oblivion. But I couldn't. Not yet. I dragged myself into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face in a futile attempt to wake myself up. The mirror reflected a version of me that looked like he'd been through a war—dark circles under my eyes, my hair a mess, my expression one of pure resignation.
As I stood there, staring at my reflection, one thought echoed in my mind, louder and more insistent than all the others: Fuck Tuesdays.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That was the thing about time—it never stopped, never waited, never cared for the affairs of men. It was a river, ceaseless and indifferent, and the only thing you could do was learn to move with it or risk drowning. And I was late.
Not too late, mind you. Not late enough for it to matter in any way beyond my own irritation, but still—it rankled. If I had actually bothered to tell Spielberg a specific time, if I had made the mistake of locking myself into a schedule, my sister and I would have shown up late, and that would have been unacceptable. Punctuality was everything in matters like these. Like the old saying went, time was money—and in my case, time was also power, safety, leverage, everything.
Yesterday, I had left alone, slipping out without a word, and as expected, my bodyguards had not been pleased. Today, though, I had informed them ahead of time. The result? An entourage. Not just one or two—no, the majority of them were coming. It was a small army, a black tide of security that surrounded me like the rings of a dying star.
I sat in the back of a black Lincoln Town Car, the kind of car you rode in if you had money, if you had people, if you were important enough that discretion mattered more than ostentation. The doors were heavy, the kind that shut with a satisfying thunk, sealing you away from the world. The leather seats—black, soft, and deep were the kind you could sink into, and the armrests were wide, sturdy, useful. In other words, a sanctuary on wheels.
Woodgrain trim lined the dashboard, a quiet nod to the kind of luxury that didn't need to announce itself. The analog gauges glowed faintly in the dim interior light, a subtle warmth in the otherwise cool, shadowed space. Tinted windows. Thick carpeting. It was the kind of car specifically made for people who valued silence, privacy, and—above all—control.
And if that wasn't enough, there were four other identical cars. Before us. Beside us. Behind us.
It was like something out of a damn Mafia movie. A procession, a caravan of shadows moving through the city, ensuring that nothing, absolutely nothing, would go wrong. And that was just what I could see. For all I knew, there were more, lurking in places nothing easily perceivable, watching for threats before they even had the chance to become threats.
The headquarters of Ambination weren't in the worst part of the city, but they weren't in the best either. My bodyguards in their point of view who could not afford to be careless. There were plenty of people who would have liked something bad to happen to me. Plenty of people who would have rejoiced at the opportunity.
But then again, there was the other side of the equation—the people who wanted me alive, needed me alive. Because thanks to the Huntingtons, thanks to the position I occupied, I was a golden goose, and you didn't kill the golden goose until you were absolutely sure it had no more gold to give.
Well, I guess I would have taken it as seriously as them if it was not for the stars in my mind. More than that, I don't think they would be able to deal with supernatural threats. I was honestly as much security with them than without them but explaining this to them wasn't something I could do yet.
A sudden, sharp crack made every head in the car turn. My own gaze flicked toward the source.
Beryl.
She looked like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Guilty. Embarrassed.
That sound—it had been her, cracking a finger. And I knew her well enough to know that she only did that when she was nervous. When something sat uneasy in her bones, a tension she couldn't quite put into words.
For a moment, only the fact that my eyes could see more than most let me catch the flash of obsidian-like circuits along her wrists.
Protection.
That was what I had given her. That was what I had made.
We were surrounded by bodyguards. We had the chain and earrings I had crafted for us, the armor I had designed, the alchemy, the spells, the fail-safes, the layers upon layers of defense—and yet, still, I worried.
Because when you planned to go against Fate itself, paranoia wasn't a weakness.
It was the bare minimum.
You never knew what could happen.
And I had prepared for that.
Her circuits—my circuits—held hundreds of anti-divine spells. Designed to target anything without human blood, like gods coming too close, who would use divine power to affect her in any kind of way. To make sure it would not end in disaster, I had it designed to react automatically at any great peak of cortisol/adrenaline while being in presence of a deity. I had designed to act in case anyone who was a half-blood who wasn't blood-related to her showed itself to be threatening. I designed to make gods suffer.
Any god—preferably Zeus—who tried to get close to her would have a very bad experience.
But there was more. Because protection wasn't enough. It was a good beginning but still a beginning. I had included reinforcement spells, both passive and active, layers of security meant to make hurting Beryl as close to impossible as magic could allow.
And then, there were the fail-safes.
I hadn't wanted to add them. But I had needed to.
If she betrayed me, if she went back to Zeus, if she tried to harm Thalia—whether intentionally or not—the fail-safes would activate.
I had been honest with her about it.
I had expected a reaction—anger, sadness, something.
I would have preferred that.
Instead, she had smiled. Smiled.
She had looked… relieved.
And when I asked her why, she had told me.
"I am not to be trusted. I do not trust myself. I could have said those fail-safes were unnecessary, but the past has already shown what I am. I have hurt you. I have hurt Thalia. I have broken your trust again and again. At least like this, there will be consequences. At least like this, maybe I will not. Because no matter what I say, words do not define a person. Actions do. And my actions say everything."
I had had nothing to say to that.
For a moment, the only sound in the car was the low hum of the engine and the muted city outside the tinted windows.
"Everything will be alright. No need to worry," I said, my voice calm, steady, like the surface of a lake undisturbed by wind. But the words carried a weight, a double meaning that I knew Beryl would catch. She always did. We weren't just talking about the meeting with Spielberg, though that was part of it. This was bigger. This was about the path we were on, the choices we'd made, and the ones we still had to make. The kind of choices that could either lift us to heights we'd never imagined or bury us so deep even the gods wouldn't find us.
Beryl nodded, her fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve in a nervous habit she'd had since we were kids. "You're right. I know that it's the case. It's just my brain being stupid."
I leaned back against the plush leather seat of the Lincoln Town Car, the faint hum of the engine a low, constant thrum beneath us. "Annoying, undoubtedly," I said, my tone light, almost teasing. "But stupid? Your brain is anything but."
She gave me a smile then, one that was half-genuine, half-forced, like a cracked mirror reflecting only part of the truth. "You know what they say," she replied, her voice softer now. "Annoying is just another word for not boring." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she were turning something over in her mind. "Before I forget, I know there's logically no chance of the meeting not ending the way we want, but I'm sure you've still got something in mind to sweeten it even more."
I acted as though I couldn't see the diversion for what it was—a way to shift the conversation away from the things that were just said between the two of us. "You're not wrong," I said, letting the corner of my mouth tilt up in a faint smirk. "Spielberg is a genius when it comes to movie making."
The prices he'd already won—and the ones he would in the future—were proof enough of that. But genius, I'd come to realize, was a double-edged sword. It could cut through obstacles, yes, but it could also blind you to the hurdles standing in your way.
"I'm sure that even if he'd never met me," I continued, my gaze drifting to the window as the city blurred past, "he'd still have a long line of successes ahead of him. The thing is, he's talented. He's a genius. And geniuses, by their nature, most of the time fall into two hurdles that stop them from shining as bright as they could—brighter than the sun. Do you wanna guess the two?"
I watched as Beryl frowned, her brow furrowing as she turned the question over in her mind. The car was silent except for the low murmur of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio from the front seat. My bodyguards were quiet too, their faces impassive, but I knew they were listening. They always were. Even if they didn't show it, they were thinking about my words, turning them over like stones in a river, looking for the sharp edges.
Beryl spoke almost as if she were thinking out loud, her voice soft but steady. "You said two hurdles. Things that would stop a genius from shining brighter than the sun. You said as bright as they could, which means that even with those hurdles, they'd still shine somewhat. And we're talking about Spielberg here. I'm not sure about the second one, but… I think the first one is money."
I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. "Continue," I said, my voice encouraging, like a teacher nudging a student toward the right answer.
She hesitated for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she pieced it together. "The reason we're going to see him is because the goal is to buy his company from him. I've never met him personally, but we're still in the same industry, which means I've heard about him. I've heard he's really passionate about his work, and like you said, he's a genius. That's why I said money. Because the truth is, in this world, most of the time—99% of the time—talent, genius, isn't enough. Not unless you're very lucky. But for every lucky person, every success story, there are hundreds of thousands who didn't make it. A genius, someone truly passionate, wouldn't stand for someone else taking control—whether partially or totally—of their ideas, their work. They wouldn't accept being restricted unless they had to. Unless they didn't have enough money to do what they wanted with their ideas. That's why I said money. Because without enough money—or whatever equivalent—it would be impossible for a genius to truly reach the peak of their talent. I may be wrong, though."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my hands clasped together. "If it was a grade," I said, my voice low but firm, "I'd give you an outstanding. You're not wrong—or at least, I don't think you are. Take, for example, the free energy device I made. The things we're planning. The things I want to create. All of those things came together so quickly, were realized exactly the way I wanted them to be, because I had enough funds, enough money, to buy what I needed."
I didn't mention the fact that I'd cheated—a lot—by using the other things I'd gained thanks to the stars in my mind. But even without that, the point stood. Money was the grease that kept the wheels turning, the fuel that powered the engine of ambition.
"It's because I had money," I continued, "that I was able to live in Hancock Park, to attract the attention of the Huntingtons. I don't think I'd have been able to do that if I weren't their neighbor. It's because of them that things are advancing this quickly, that I know the moment we start selling, everything will be bought. And all of this is because of money—whether directly or indirectly. Like the old saying goes, you need money to make money."
I paused, letting the words sink in, watching as Beryl's expression shifted, her eyes narrowing as she followed the thread of my logic. "That's why Ambination will be sold to us," I said, my voice steady, certain. "Because to realize his dreams, his ambitions, Spielberg thinks he needs us. That's why the first hurdle is money. We've dealt with that—or more precisely, we're about to. Which leaves only the second hurdle. Do you know what I think is one of the greatest obstacles to genius?"
I let the question hang in the air for a moment, the silence stretching like a taut wire. Then I answered it myself. "I think it's time. Time, in all its forms, is the second greatest obstacle for someone who's a genius. Time—whether it's not having enough of it, or it advancing too quickly, or being born in an era without the techniques or technology to truly shine. Imagine if Da Vinci had been born in our time. Imagine what he could've done, knowing what he was able to achieve without much in the past."
Beryl's eyes widened, realization dawning like the first light of morning. "You said time was the second hurdle," she said, her voice rising slightly. "I understand how you're going to deal with the first one, but the second one… I don't get… wait!"
I could almost see the gears turning in her mind, the pieces clicking into place as she replayed my words, as she connected the dots. And then it hit her. Her eyes lit up, and she leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're going to give him something not limited by time. Something not limited to what's possible currently."
"Bingo," I said, the word slipping out with a smile that felt more like a blade being unsheathed than anything warm or friendly. "What I'm bringing to him isn't a thing limited by time. I'm bringing him the future. I've never liked losing, and one thing I know must be done to make sure it never happens is to stack the deck on my side. Anything less would be an error."
The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate, like a chess piece placed on a board with a click that echoed louder than it should. Beryl's eyes narrowed, her gaze flickering over my face as if she were trying to read the fine print of my thoughts. She didn't ask for clarification. She didn't need to. She knew me well enough to understand that when I said something like that, I meant it in ways most people couldn't even begin to fathom.
I leaned back in the plush leather seat of the Lincoln Town Car, the hum of the engine a low, steady thrum beneath us. The city outside blurred past, a smear of gray and steel and glass, but my mind was elsewhere. Yesterday, after coming back from the Torringtons, after healing Alabaster's father, I'd realized something. Something important. I'd been limiting myself. Not intentionally, not out of fear or doubt, but out of habit. Out of a failure to see the full scope of what I could do.
The boon of the stars in my mind wasn't just power. It was potential. Raw, unshaped, limitless potential. And the beauty of it was that I didn't need to be specific in what I wanted. I could be, if I chose to, but I didn't have to be. That changed everything. It meant I could ask for something vast, something all-encompassing, and let the stars fill in the details. It meant I could aim for the horizon and trust that the path would reveal itself.
I hadn't done that when I'd faced the Cyclops. I hadn't asked for a specific specialization, a named power or tool. I'd just wanted—no, needed—to make things right. To carve out some semblance of justice for the child it had murdered, for the desecration it had committed. And the stars had answered. They'd given me what I needed, not what I'd asked for. That realization had been a spark, a flicker of understanding that had grown into a flame.
After coming back from the Torringtons, I'd realized I had an untapped star in my mind. A single, glowing point of potential waiting to be shaped. I'd thought about what to do with it, whether to invest it now or save it for a future moment when the stakes might be higher, the need more urgent. In the end, I'd decided to use it. Not just for Spielberg, not just for this meeting, but for everything. For the path I was on, for the battles I knew were coming, for the future I was trying to build.
When I turned toward the star in my mind, I didn't ask for something small or specific. I asked for something vast. A specialization that would allow the stars in my mind to synergize, to become more than the sum of their parts. A toolkit, a foundation, something that could make anything.
And then the world disappeared.
One moment, I was in the car, the leather seat cool against my back, the faint scent of polish and metal in the air. The next, I was plunged into an abyss. Not darkness, not emptiness, but something deeper, something more. It was as if I were standing at the edge of a chasm so vast it defied comprehension, staring into a void that wasn't a void at all but everything—every possibility, every reality, every fragment of existence condensed into a single, infinite point.
I was sinking.
No, not sinking. Plunging.
The abyss swallowed me whole, and in its infinite, endless depths, I looked.
And it—they—looked back.
For a moment, I felt insignificant. Not small, not weak, but insignificant. Like a single grain of sand on a beach that stretched beyond the horizon. The abyss wasn't just one thing. It was everything. It was the beginning and the end, the question and the answer, the spark and the flame. And it was looking at me.
Then the pain came.
It wasn't physical, not exactly. It was deeper than that, sharper. A lance of agony that lodged itself in my brain and spread like wildfire, burning through every thought, every memory, every fragment of who I was. For a moment, I felt immortal and dying, godly and mortal, eternal and fleeting. The contradictions tore at me, pulling me apart and putting me back together in ways I couldn't understand. My skull cracked open like a fruit, and for a moment—
—I was dying—
—I was eternal—
—I was mortal—
—I was divine—
—i w a s n o t h i n g—
—I WAS EVERYTHING
And then it was over.
When I opened my eyes—when I realized I'd closed them at all—I was back in the car. The world outside was still blurring past, the engine still humming, the air still cool and faintly metallic. It had been a moment. A single, fleeting moment. But it had felt like an eternity.
I leaned back in my seat, my breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. My head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that made me want to close my eyes again and never open them. But I couldn't. Not yet. Not when I knew it had worked. The pain had been excruciating, unbearable, but it had been worth it. My power was the gift that kept on giving, and I'd just unlocked something new. Something vast.
I wondered, idly, what the poem was again. The one about numbers, about the First and the Second and the Third. It came to me in fragments, like pieces of a puzzle I hadn't realized I was solving.
My lips moved before I could stop them.
"At the beginning, the First changed all.
...Next, the Second recognized many.
...In answer, the Third showed the future.
...Tethered, the Fourth concealed itself.
And the final Fifth had long since lost its significance.
Someone once said, 'Had it only ended at the Third...'"
Beryl turned to me, her brow furrowing. "Did you say something?"
I shook my head, the motion slow, deliberate. "Just thinking out loud," I said, my voice steady despite the storm still raging in my mind. "About a little poem about numbers. It made me realize the number four has always been my lucky number."
The car finally stopped. We had arrived. The door unlocked with a soft click. I gave a nod to my sister and I stepped out with the future in my hands. Like ReplyReport Reactions:EyeSeeYou, Addlcove, Kiden and 290 othersAllen1996Mar 26, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks The incoming unkindness View contentMar 26, 2025Add bookmark#1,291Allen1996Versed in the lewd.Ambination looked much the same as it had when I first came a week ago. The glass doors reflected the early afternoon light, the steel beams stretching toward the sky like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Nothing had changed. And yet, everything had.
Behind me, I heard the measured steps of my bodyguards, the lighter footfalls of my sister Beryl as she emerged from the car. The air smelled of sun-warmed asphalt, the faintest trace of gasoline, and the perfume she always wore—something crisp, clean, edged with the scent of citrus.
As I stepped toward the entrance, she followed, after me, the sound of her steps reasoning in my ear.
Two of the bodyguards took their positions on either side of the doors. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught glimpses of the others moving—one circling the building's perimeter, another standing near the cars in a spot that offered a full view of the parking lot and the people drifting toward the entrance. It was like their formation wasn't just for protection; it was a message, one saying to anyone who would try their luck with hurting me that:
We see you.
We see everything.
The moment I walked through the doors, I noticed the difference.
Last time, the receptionist had barely spared me a glance at first. She had acted as if there was nothing more than she wished for me to be other than lost. This time, she nearly tripped over herself as she stood, her hands gripping the desk as though she needed to steady herself.
She looked at me the way a peasant might look at a king who had, against all odds, decided to visit their hovel.
Not with contempt. Not with mere deference.
With fear. With hope.
Her gaze didn't carry the dismissal of before, nor the wary politeness of a worker dealing with yet another rich man in the city of angels. No, now there was something else in her eyes—a flickering mix of respect, nervousness, excitement.
I exhaled slowly, barely keeping the amusement off my face. They know.
The reason for my last visit must have spread through every floor of Ambination like wildfire. No doubt, whispers had slithered between offices, speculation blooming in every corridor. After all, it was only smart to try to get in the good graces of one's future boss—or, at the very least, to avoid making an enemy of him.
I smiled at her. Just something simple. Polished. One I personally hadn't used in this life before, one my mother had taught me in my past life, the kind of smile that when learned could make people trip over their own thoughts if I held it just long enough.
It was without mentioning other factors. The faintest blush dusted her cheeks.
'I like being good-looking,' I thought wryly. 'It has its advantages. The only thing I could thank my parents in this life for was at least to not look as if I had sneaked onto Earth.'
"Hi," I said, my voice easy, unhurried. "I don't know if you remember, ma'am, but I came last week for a meeting with Mr. Spielberg. It was decided that we would reconvene this week. I don't have a set date or time, but still, would it be possible to meet with him?"
The receptionist nodded too quickly, her nervous smile faltering as she straightened her posture. "O-of course, sir. I'm sure that will be possible. I'll go inform him of your presence first."
"Thank you."
I watched as she walked—forced herself to walk—toward the hall leading to Spielberg's office. The tension in her shoulders made it clear she was fighting the urge to run.
Beryl stood beside me, her gaze sweeping the room with slow, practised detachment. She wasn't looking at the departing receptionist. No, she was studying the walls, the color of the décor, the faded posters still stubbornly clinging to relevance. She was taking in the vibrancy—or rather, the lack of it.
And I could clearly see that she wasn't impressed.
"Not what you expected, huh?" I asked, a small smile curling my lips.
She let out a breath, shaking her head. "No, I didn't expect this. I expected more." Her gaze flicked toward the ceiling as if searching for some grandeur that wasn't there. "It is Spielberg, after all. But I understand why it's like this. It's still L.A. More than that…" She trailed off, glancing at me knowingly. "It's not as if it can't become better. And what he's doing isn't exactly bankrolled by a super-powerful, multi-billion-dollar company."
I tilted my head, the weight of inevitability settling in my words. "Yet."
She met my gaze, a glint of amusement flickering behind the sharp assessment in her eyes. "Yet indeed."
The thing was, money wasn't the factor. In a way, It never had been. In a way, I was already a billionaire. Maybe even a trillionaire. The unlimited energy device I had created ensured that wealth would no longer besomething I had to chase. If anything, it would be more of a nuisance than anything else, a good nuisance—an endless tide of numbers increasing in accounts I barely glanced at.
What mattered wasn't money. What mattered was what I planned to do with it.
A few minutes later, the receptionist returned, standing a little straighter now, though her hands were still clasped together.
"He's ready to receive you. I'll guide you."
We followed.
Beryl at my side. Two bodyguards moving like shadows behind us.
The office door opened, and we stepped inside.
Spielberg sat behind his desk and it felt as if the weight of the decision I asked him to take had rested and was still resting heavy on his shoulders. His expression was a contradiction—a man looking at both his greatest opportunity and his worst nightmare. The tension in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes… It was as if he saw a future where he would rise to greatness—but at a cost.
And that cost sat before him.
He looked at me as if I were the devil.
Two chairs were placed across from his desk. Of course, Beryl and I took them. I saw the bodyguards settle behind us.
I leaned back, exhaling. "I'm sorry. I'm a little late. This meeting was supposed to happen yesterday, after all."
Spielberg's eyes flickered between me, my sister, and the guards before landing back on me. He was measuring, calculating. The kind of stare men gave when they realized they were in the presence of something they were not sure how to deal with.
"When you came last week," he said, voice slow, careful, "I didn't know you were Beryl Grace's brother. I should have trusted my instincts that you reminded me of someone. When you came last week, I didn't know that the man sitting in front of me was the so called genius who would do the impossible." His hands pressed together, his knuckles white. "It is clear to me now that what you said last time about supporting Ambination financially was… an understatement. I talked with friends, with people I trusted and they all tell me I should accept." His gaze sharpened. "But what I don't understand—what I still don't understand—what makes me hesitate is the why?"
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "With your money, with the connections that follow it, with your sister's influence—you could buy better studios. You could probably easily take over Disney. You could take over companies far more successful. Why this one? Why a company on the verge of failure?"
I didn't look away. Instead of giving him a lie, I gave him a truth.
"The truth?" My voice was quiet, but it held. "Because this is bigger than money. Bigger than fame. Bigger than any passing fancy." I leaned forward, my gaze steady. "I am here because you, Steven Spielberg, are not just a filmmaker. Because ambition—despite everything—was never just about making movies.
"It was about making people feel.
"It was about inspiring them.
"Because your works have souls.
"And that—that is why I'm here."
Because I wasn't looking for success.
I was looking for something true.
I leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking softly beneath me, and let a soft smile curl at the edges of my lips. "More than that," I began, my voice steady but carrying the weight of years, "I'm not sure how much you know or heard, but the last years hadn't necessarily been kind to my sister in the industry."
The filmmaker's gaze shifted, almost imperceptibly, toward Beryl. My sister, seated beside me, didn't flinch. She met his eyes with a pride that didn't waver, didn't crumble. Her chin lifted slightly, and in that moment, she was every bit the woman I once had been proud of, the one before Lance, before everything went wrong. Her armor, though invisible, was polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting back any judgment, any pity, any doubt.
For a heartbeat, I saw something flicker in Spielberg's eyes—a softness, maybe even understanding. It was there and gone so quickly that most wouldn't have noticed, but I did. When his gaze returned to me, that softness lingered, like the faintest brushstroke of light on a canvas otherwise dominated by shadows.
"Yes," he said, his voice low, almost reluctant. "I heard… some things."
I nodded, my smile tightening just a fraction. "They're all coming back now because of what I built. All of a sudden, they remember my sister." My tone was calm, but beneath it ran a current of something darker, something sharper. It wasn't just about Hollywood. It wasn't just about the industry. It was about the world, about the way people turned their backs when it suited them, only to come crawling back when they thought they could benefit. I always hated hypocrisy. I honestly preferred the guy who hated my gut, who would tell it to my face, even try to hurt me because of this than the one coming at a friend. I preferred the wolf without mercy to the fox with cunning.
Beryl's voice cut in, smooth and unyielding. "They act as if nothing had happened."
I turned my head slightly, catching her eye. There was a fire there, one that had been tempered but never extinguished. "They may have forgotten," I continued, my voice hardening, "they may act as if it never was, but my sister didn't. And that's enough of a reason for me to say no. Even though they're begging me, even though I know they'd be ready to give up their firstborn children if I asked, it changes nothing. What I want is to make them pay for that. I want everyone—I want the world—who doubted her, who saw her with her armor down, who called themselves friends, to see her doing great, better than they ever could. To not be able to escape the fact that she's different." I paused, my gaze locking with Beryl's. "That she's doing better and will continue to do so."
In her eyes, I saw understanding. She knew I wasn't just talking about Hollywood, about the glittering façade of fame and the hollow promises of loyalty. She knew I was talking about Zeus and his wife, about Thalia, about me, about our family. She knew I was begging her, in my own way, to prove me right. To be better. To be someone worthy of the trust I was placing in her, someone who would never hurt Thalia or me again as she had in the past, someone who would be a worthy mother. Someone who would never let Lance—or anyone else—destroy what we were rebuilding.
She gave a small nod, her eyes never leaving mine. In them, I saw resolve, a determination that mirrored my own. That's all was needed for now. Hopefully, it would remain. I turned my gaze back to Spielberg, hoping—praying—that this time would be different. That this time, I wasn't wrong to trust her. Because if I was, if she hurt me again, I wasn't sure anything would remain of the bond between us. I wasn't sure I'd be able to trust anyone again.
"This is why," I said, my voice firm, final. It was all he needed to know. More than that, I hadn't lied. I knew the man in front of me was capable of inspiring, of making people feel something when they watched his work. And that was what I was after. After all, what else did you need to fight a god other than the man who more than not himself believed in gods, who was a non-believer would make others such too?
Spielberg sighed. The sound carried exhaustion and doubt. That was the sound man would make in a desert before an Oasis he was not sure was real. "I can't help but feel as if there's something you're not telling me," he said, his voice tinged with resignation. "But I think it's alright. I may be wrong, but something—maybe my instincts, maybe it's the money factoring—tells me, make me believe that at least you didn't lie, that you wouldn't make a perversion of all of this. Welcome to Ambination, Alexander Chambers. It's yours."
As he spoke, he slid a stack of files across the table toward me. I picked them up, my fingers brushing against the crisp edges of the paper. One glance was all it took for me to absorb every detail, every clause, every line of fine print. The advantages I'd gained through the stars in my mind and my Master's degree in law from my previous life allowed me to see, to remember, to understand with a clarity that bordered on overwhelming.
The documents, if signed, would make me the owner of Ambination in every way that mattered. The only thing missing was my signature. I reached into my right pocket, my fingers brushing against the cool metal of a pen I hadn't tucked away, that hadn't exited instant ago but had instead been willed into existence by me rearranging matter through the use of adaptive material synthesis.
Usually, it was the devil who made the soul-selling contracts. But as I signed my name, the ink flowing like black blood from a wound, I couldn't help but think that this time, the roles were reversed.
I passed the documents to Beryl, my movements deliberate, almost ceremonial. "I'll make sure you won't regret it," I said to Spielberg, my voice carrying the weight of a promise. "We're all going up, going to the top of the world. Don't worry anymore about money, about costs, about how to pay the employees, about being short-staffed."
Spielberg exhaled, a sound that was part relief, part disbelief. "I won't say that I don't find what you said… more than agreeable."
I leaned forward, my elbows resting on the table, my fingers steepled in front of me. "I won't tell you to stop working on what you already were, to not do what you originally planned. The plan isn't to restrict you. If anything, it's to make you do more. And this is why I have a gift for you."
There is no such thing as an impossible act.
That was the first lie magi told themselves to justify their unrelenting struggle.
No door was truly locked, they reasoned. No truth was wholly out of reach. The Root—the Akashic Records, the infinite origin of all things—was merely hidden behind a gate that could, with enough brilliance, with enough sacrifice, be opened.
It was a beautiful delusion, a fire that burned entire lineages to ash. Countless generations had clawed at the heavens, each believing they could be the ones to grasp eternity, to carve their names into the impossible.
And yet, for all their ambition, for all their theories and rituals and pacts with things that should not be named, none of them had ever truly reached it.
Except, somehow, me.
I had touched it and this hadn't even been intended.
True magic. The kind that defied logic, that bent reality to its will, that made the impossible not just possible but inevitable. In the Type-Moon universe, it was the pinnacle of Mystery, the highest class of power that surpassed even the most advanced sciences of any age. It was the actualization of events that were, by all accounts, unreproducible. It was the domain of miracles.
I leaned back, my chair creaking softly, and let my thoughts unravel. True magic wasn't just a tool or a skill; it was a cheat code for reality itself. Each of the five True Magics was a violation of the natural order, a thumb pressed hard against the scales of existence. The First Magic, the Denial of Nothingness, created something from nothing. The Second, the Kaleidoscope, manipulated parallel worlds. The Third, Heaven's Feel, materialized souls. The Fourth—my mind lingered here—was shrouded in mystery, but theories suggested it revolved around gravity, black holes, and the manipulation of matter and energy. The Fifth, Magic Blue, was time travel and energy redistribution on a scale that could accelerate the heat death of the universe.
Each of these was a key to a door that should have remained locked. Each was a path to the Root, the Swirl of the Origin, the source of all things. To attain True Magic, one had to reach the Root, but not touch it. Those who touched it disappeared, consumed by the very fabric of existence. But to even approach it, to walk the path and return with a fragment of its power, was the ultimate accomplishment of a magus. And yet, it wasn't enough to simply reach the Root. You had to be the first and if not case inherit from its previous wielder. The very first to walk a specific path. Those who came after, even if they used the same method, could never attain the same Magic.
I didn't know how, but the star in my mind had allowed me to do what generations of magi had failed to achieve. It had taken me to the Root, to that place beyond time and space, beyond the domain of man.
I had reached the Root, and in doing so, I had inherited a fragment of True Magic.
But it wasn't perfect. It wasn't whole. What I had received was a bastardized, limited version of the Fourth Magic. A tinker's approximation of a masterpiece. To a true magician like Zelretch or Aoko Aozaki, what I could do would be an insult to the title. They wielded the full might of their respective Magics, infinite and unbound. I, on the other hand, had only a fragment of infinity. But even a fragment of infinity was still infinity. It was still power beyond comprehension.
The Fourth Magic, as I understood it, was presented, displayed, categorized and understood due to the inspired inventor revolved around the manipulation of reality through the control of matter and energy. It was the ability to predict events by understanding how matter would act, to know all possibilities and bend them to my will. It was busted, overpowered, and utterly unfair. But what else could be expected from True Magic? Aoko Aozaki, with her Fifth Magic, could speed up the heat death of the universe, alter time, and rewrite facts. Zelretch, with his Kaleidoscope, could traverse parallel worlds, draw infinite energy from other dimensions, and go toe-to-toe with beings like Crimson Moon. The Fourth Magic, even in its limited form, was no less absurd.
With just one charge invested, my abilities were a shadow of what they could be. I had the equivalent of Tinker 2 rating in the Fourth Magic, a mere sliver of its full potential. But even that sliver was enough to make me dangerous. For example, Information and entropy control that would allow me to store or freeze data and energy. Gravity manipulation that would let me warp spacetime, creating localized distortions. Dimensional anchoring tethered objects or phenomena to hide dimensions And then there was the basics of quantum manipulation, the ability to interact with the building blocks of reality itself.
But none of these, as impressive as they were, were what made in my opinion the Fourth Magic truly invaluable. What made it worth more than all the stars inmy mind that I previously gained was its ability to manifest and wield the Theory of Everything. The unified field theory could be said to be the grand equation that explains all physical aspects of the universe. It was the ability to reduce all things to their fundamental truths—to strip away uncertainty, to understand, to control.
The Theory of Everything. The holy grail of physics. It wasn't just a dream; it was the dream achievement of mankind or should be I believe. A single framework that could unify gravity, quantum mechanics, and the other fundamental forces. It was the idea that everything in the universe—every star, every ocean, every atom—was part of one grand, interconnected puzzle. And for centuries, humanity had been trying to figure out how the pieces fit together.
I closed my eyes.
imagine the universe as a vast, intricate mosaic. Each piece was a force, a law, a rule. Gravity, the force that made apples fall and planets orbit. Electromagnetism, the invisible hand that made magnets stick and phones buzz. The nuclear forces, the glue that held atoms together and powered the sun. But here's the thing: these forces didn't play by the same rules. It was like trying to solve a puzzle where half the pieces were from a jungle scene and the other half from a city skyline. They didn't match up.
Right now, humanity had two main rulebooks for how the universe worked. General Relativity, Einstein's masterpiece, explained the big things—planets, black holes, the bending of space around massive objects. But it fell apart when you tried to apply it to the tiny things, like atoms or particles. Then there was Quantum Mechanics, the rulebook for the small stuff—electrons, light particles, the reason your microwave heated food. But it couldn't handle the big things, like galaxies or the curvature of space-time.
It was like having one rulebook for baking cookies and another for building rockets. And I? I had found a way to merge them. The Theory of Everything wasn't just a theory; it was something I could make a reality, a power I could wield. It was the dream of writing a single rulebook that explained all the forces in the universe using the same set of rules. And with it, I could manipulate the fundamental laws of reality.
I opened my eyes, the room coming back into focus. The Theory of Everything wasn't just about understanding the universe; it was about changing it. It was about taking the jungle puzzle and the city puzzle and realizing they were part of one gigantic, interconnected picture. And with that realization came power—the power to answer questions about everything, to give sense to what shouldn't, to make opposites one, to make lies truth.
This was the essence of the fourth true magic, a power that should not exist. It was something that made you alien, something that rightfully would make its wielder an enemy of mankind and the world. And yet, here I was, wielding it. I had received this specialization because I wanted a greater synergy between the stars in my mind. And now, I had it.
Before, the things I had done, the ideas I had made, could be called hybrids, patchworks. But not anymore. Now, I could make concepts that should never work together do so, go into synthesis. And it wasn't even limited to the stars in my mind. I could make fire wet if I wanted to. I could make the impossible possible.
It was by using the Theory of Everything and my other specialization that I had made the thing that would allow the gift not bound by time at Spielberg. Before, I might have hesitated, worried about drawing too much attention. But now, with all the stars inside my mind, with my new specialization, I didn't feel that anxiety anymore. I felt… free.
I reached into my pocket, feeling the cool metal of the device I had created. It was small, unassuming, but it held within it the power to change everything. I pulled it out and placed it on the table, acting as if it had always been there, hidden in my pocket. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the device.
It was beautiful. Even if it had not been able to do anything, I was sure that it could easily win art prices. The thing that I had named the Neuro-Visual Synthesis Spectacles, or NVSS, gleamed under the light, its surface smooth and polished. I could feel the gazes of the others on it, their curiosity palpable.
The NVSS wasn't just a tool; it was supposed to be a vision into the future. A device that would transform how films, TV shows, and animations were produced and experienced. It wasn't an AI—no, I wasn't that reckless. I had built it with a V.I. The Virtual Intelligence or V.I. was designed to be an intuitive, context-aware partner in the creative process. It was the future, pulled straight out of the neon-lit dreams of a Cyberpunk universe, sleek and minimalistic with subtle accents of light that glowed like the pulse of a city at night.
The frame was, crafted from ultralight, durable materials—a graphene-infused polymer that would feel like air on the skin but carried the strength of steel. It was unobtrusive yet stylish, with smooth curves that flowed like liquid metal, and integrated micro-LEDs that would glow softly when activated, a quiet hum of power waiting to be unleashed. The temples housed tiny sensors and processors and the nerve center of the entire system was a labyrinth of technology so advanced that it could be deemed almost alive.
But the true magic lay in the way it worked. Unlike traditional glasses, the NVSS utilized a combination of augmented reality projection and holographic imaging. Micro-projectors embedded within the frame cast high-resolution visuals directly onto the retina, creating a seamless overlay of digital content in the real world. It was an immersive, almost magical interplay between the physical environment and the creative visions of the wearer.
The V.I. embedded in the NVSS was the heart of it all. It wasn't just a data processor; it was an intuitive, context-aware entity that interpreted ideas through natural language, gestures, and even emotional cues. It would listen, truly listen, to the filmmaker's descriptions, then instantly generate vivid, immersive representations of those visions. It would refine and perfect ideas, filling in details with hyper-realistic graphics, soundscapes, and environmental effects that would match—or even exceed—the original imagination. It would be a creative co-pilot, offering suggestions in real-time, proposing alternative story arcs, and adjusting visual and auditory elements to align with the desired mood or narrative tone.
I could see it in my mind, clear as day. A filmmaker, standing in an empty warehouse, describing a scene. "I want a cityscape at dusk," they might say, "with neon reflections on rain-soaked streets, where the sky pulses with an otherworldly glow." The NVSS would listen, its sensors picking up every nuance in tone, pace, and emotion. And then, in an instant, it would render the scene in stunning detail. The cityscape would come alive, the neon lights flickering, the rain-soaked streets shimmering under the glow. The sky would pulse with an eerie, otherworldly light, shifting and changing as the filmmaker refined their vision. A subtle change in the color of the neon lights, a variation in the reflections—the NVSS would recalibrate the image in real time, the scene evolving with every word, every gesture.
But it didn't stop there. The NVSS would transform post-production into an interactive, tactile experience. The filmmaker could manipulate elements directly in the air using gesture controls. Adjusting a scene's lighting? They might "draw" with their hand in mid-air, the V.I. interpreting the gesture and altering the light sources accordingly. Collaborators could connect remotely, each wearing their own NVSS, creating a shared virtual space where suggestions were implemented in real time. It would be like a collaborative workflow, blending multiple creative perspectives into a cohesive final product.
I looked at Spielberg, sitting across from me, his expression a mix of curiosity and skepticism. He was a legend or more accurately would be if he was not already, a man who had shaped and would the dreams of millions, and here I was, about to hand him the future. The device gleamed under the light, its surface smooth and polished, the micro-LEDs along the frame catching the light like tiny stars.
"Wear it," I said, my voice calm but firm. "You'll understand my gift by doing so."
He gave me a look, half-expecting, half-waiting to be disappointed. But he picked up the glasses, turning them over in his hands, feeling the weight of them. He hesitated for a moment, then slid them onto his face. The moment they touched his skin, they activated, the micro-LEDs glowing softly, a quiet hum of power filling the room.
I had designed the device to download the necessary information directly into the wearer's brain. It was a seamless transfer, instantaneous and painless. There was no need for lengthy explanations, no need for tutorials. The NVSS would teach him everything he needed to know, just by being worn.
I watched as his expression changed, the skepticism melting away, replaced by something else—awe, perhaps, or maybe disbelief. He looked at me, his eyes wide, and I could see the gears turning in his mind, the realization dawning on him. He was seeing the world through the NVSS, experiencing the future of storytelling firsthand.
"This is the beginning," I said, a wide smile spreading across my face. "With this, the work you were already doing will be easier. But I didn't just come here to give you a tool. I came to propose a story, a story that would allow my sister to prove them right. A story about America, about its beauty and the rot hidden beneath it. A story of gods and men, of American Gods. Tell me, Steven Spielberg, what's your favorite fairy tale?"