The fire hadn't dimmed since the puzzle. If anything, it only grew hotter. Myzery felt it every moment—his thoughts racing ahead of his body, his hands restless, his nights sleepless. The current inside him never quieted.
Work only sharpened the contrast. He sat in the far corner of a room full of people, but he wasn't part of them. They gathered together in a cluster of chatter and comfort while he remained apart, a quiet figure with a computer screen for company. Alone, but not lonely. He was building something they could never see.
God's joke was clear: the one who never fit is the one who will build the fit for everyone else.
And so he wrote. Four chapters in one hour, words pouring out faster than his fingers could move. It felt as if the entire river of broken worlds had been uncorked, rushing through him and onto the page.
But the torrent came at a cost. If he kept forcing the fire outward, it would hollow him. His body had to catch up. The vessel had to be strong enough to hold the blade.
That weekend, he sat down with Pandora. For once, there was no dodging the truth. Their bodies were weak, worn thin by years of survival. If they were going to face what was coming—if they were going to climb the Tower together—they needed a plan. Not vague promises, but a real system: meditation, breathwork, structured meals, daily training. A foundation they could both follow.
Late into the night, they worked side by side. Pages filled with routines and crossed-out drafts until finally a rhythm began to take shape.
For years, Myzery had smoked to survive. Weed dulled the weight of the river—the endless flood of voices, fragments of lives, broken stories pressing against him. It blurred the cries of past selves and dead universes. Without that shield, the noise would have drowned him. But now the fire burned straight through the haze, and the shield only left him weaker. He could no longer block the voices. He had to take them in, refine them, and turn them into power.
When he stilled his breath, he could see it clearly: a glowing sphere within, pulsing faintly with each thought. Beliefs brightened the core, doubts dimmed it. Strong ideas condensed into light; weak ones fell away into the dark.
And he understood what that dark was.
Around every living thing stretched the same current: a river of discarded ideas flowing across infinite worlds. Weak stories broke apart there, scattered into dust. Strong ones endured, carried forward to seed new futures. He had hidden from that current all his life. Now, he had no choice but to step into it.
He closed the editors and paused the Godbot work; this week belonged to the body.
So he trained.
He brewed the first elixir with precision: milk poured first, creatine dropped like snow into the center, then he stirred seven slow turns while speaking the stats he wanted. A pinch of salt. A pinch of cocoa. Three even gulps. Each step mattered. Precision mattered. And the effect was real.
He layered the elixirs with breathwork—inhales counted, holds measured in sevens, exhales sharpened until they cut like blades. Push-ups and squats timed with mirrored rhythms. Meals eaten in exact order. Mundane acts became cultivation when done with perfect structure.
Pandora watched him quietly, worried but hopeful. She saw the tremors ease. She saw the fire steady. He was still burning, but now the glow folded inward, layered into his core instead of spilling wildly out.
At the end of the week, the story sealed itself.
The lotto win arrived—not as chance, but as symmetry. The outer world mirrored his inner training. Proof that the structure held, that balance was finally possible.
And more than balance: it was fuel. The winnings weren't for indulgence or escape. They were the seed fund for a base of operations, the beginning of Exemplar. A home for swordsmen, seekers, and cultivators. A place to refine elixirs, map dimensions, write guides, and train the army that would climb the Tower. A fortress of order built out of chaos.
Myzery marked the calendar: three weeks until Chris's birthday. Three weeks until the first gathering.
The blade was still invisible. But the body was ready to hold it. And now, with resources in hand, the clan could finally begin.