The tunnel spiraled downward like a helix collapsing in on itself.
The air thickened, pressing against their skin as if the very atmosphere carried memory. Zayn walked in front, the glow of the Karnyx core at his chest illuminating ancient glyphs etched into the walls—some familiar, others distorted beyond recognition.
They were no longer in a place governed by logic.
Fry scanned her drive every ten paces. The readouts were erratic.
"It's unstable," she said finally. "This isn't just deep recursion. It's pre-form recursion. We're stepping into the raw substructure."
Zayn glanced over his shoulder. "How deep does it go?"
She didn't answer.
The tunnel ended in silence.
Ahead lay a vault—no doors, no seals. Just a monolithic slab carved from translucent obsidian. Embedded in it was a handprint, large enough to match Zayn's own.
He stepped forward, hesitating.
"Wait," Fry said. "These things are reactive. If you touch it, you might bind to it. Permanently."
"I know."
He pressed his palm to the stone.
The surface shimmered and dissolved into light, revealing a vast chamber beyond—dozens of platforms suspended in a chasm without a visible floor or ceiling. Hovering in the air were crystalline constructs—memory pods.
Each held a person.
Zayn's breath caught. "These are the others."
Fry walked beside him. "Some are failed hosts. Some were never activated. Some... might still be waking."
A voice drifted through the vault—not mechanical, but ancient and fractured.
"Welcome, Sovereign. Vault integrity compromised. Host convergence incomplete. Directive remains: preserve the Real."
Zayn stared at the pods. "What's 'the Real'?"
Fry's face darkened. "A fail-safe concept. A theoretical recursion state meant to preserve identity across catastrophic resets. A perfect self. Untouchable by the Karnyx."
Zayn's mind raced. "Althea mentioned 'the real ones'. This must be what she meant."
Patch, quiet since entering, stepped toward one of the closer pods. A young girl floated inside. Peaceful. Unaware.
"This one... she looks like she never woke up."
Fry checked her scan. "She didn't. She's in stasis. Unmapped."
Zayn approached a pod glowing faintly brighter than the others.
Inside it was himself—younger. Unsure. Crying.
He reached out and touched the glass.
A voice echoed inside his head.
"If you want the Real, you must give up the Ideal."
Zayn recoiled.
"What does that mean?"
Fry's eyes widened. "It's a trap. Or a test. The Ideal is what we chase—perfect outcomes, chosen ones, destined futures. But the Real is who you were before you tried to become something more."
Zayn clenched his fists. "Then I have to decide which version of me survives."
"No," Fry said. "You have to decide which one deserves to."
The vault trembled.
A glyph appeared in the air above the pod: a broken crown wrapped in chains.
Zayn reached up.
And the chamber darkened.
A doorway split open across the vault—a spiral-shaped tear.
Fry gasped. "Another host is waking."
Zayn turned slowly.
From the spiral stepped a figure dressed in gray—tall, elegant, and utterly silent. A symbol on her chest glowed softly.
Althea's voice echoed faintly in Zayn's memory.
"Some won't remember you. Some will wish they hadn't."
The woman raised her head.
And stared directly at him.