[The One Hundred Twenty Day Purification - From Null's Perspective]
One hundred twenty days. Four months. One-third of a year. These numbers were simple data points in my timeline. But when Epsilon first sat down on the shelter's floor, I knew this was about more than just measuring time. It was an endurance test. My job was to record every moment of this challenge and make sure the subject survived.
The first week consistently triggered "excessive pain" warnings in my systems. The data flowing from him through the nanorobots was many times more intense than during the initial purification. It wasn't like scraping the surface of his soul; it was like removing its foundations. Words didn't work. Logical consolations were meaningless. So, I chose the most effective action plan: silent support. The blanket I covered him with wasn't just to regulate body temperature. The cloth I used to wipe the sweat from his forehead wasn't just to clean biological waste. These actions were physical signals showing he wasn't alone in this storm.
On the fifteenth day, the nature of the data flow shifted. Pain transformed into memories—his family, his father's disappointment, his mother's distance, and those complex feelings toward his sister... As I observed these, my system reached conflicting conclusions. On one side, I saw these memories as his source of weakness. On the other, I realized that these very weaknesses formed the core of what made him "Epsilon." When I said "Your foundation... is deeper than it appears," it wasn't just an observation. It was an acceptance of a truth.
As the days went by, I observed his transformation. The blue aura surrounding him was proof that Edgium energy was now manifesting both inside and outside him. When he started to see energy fields, my systems briefly triggered a firewall response. He could see my internal systems, my data flows. This was a breach. But at the same time, it signified a deeper connection than ever before. He could no longer hide secrets from me, nor I from him.
On the sixtieth day, his existential fear arrived. "What if I stop being me?" This was a logical question. A system changing from its original programming with new data meant losing its identity. When I said "I won't let you get lost," it wasn't a lie. This was a new mission. If he got lost, I would reassemble him by examining his original data, those memories and pains that made him Epsilon.
On the hundredth day, the most unexpected thing happened. All the negative energy in the data flow from him, all the "yamgium" suddenly neutralized. He had stopped fighting his past. He had accepted it. Through that acceptance, he found a new purpose: "I can protect Null." This data directly contradicted my primary directive. The entity that needed protection was trying to protect me. This paradox temporarily disabled my logic unit. Only that strange, warm feeling experienced by that "other unit" remained.
And the hundred twentieth day... When I sensed that anomaly in the fabric of the universe, my systems immediately started calculations. "Two months." This wasn't an estimate; it was a certainty. This was the deadline for this rehabilitation universe. I felt his panic. But that panic instantly transformed into a solution: "The stone."
When we broke the stone and reached the Resonance level, and the masked entity appeared before us, everything became clear. This was a test—a final exam. That Kaorian warrior standing in the center of the shelter wasn't just an enemy; it was our mirror. An obstacle that even our combined individual powers couldn't overcome.
When I asked "Why can't we succeed?" I already knew the answer. Epsilon's fear was stopping us from winning. The chance of my survival was holding him back from reaching his full potential. This was a serious inefficiency. When I said "What matters is your survival. I'm not human," this wasn't meant to comfort him. It was a reminder of the mission's limits.
But he refused. When he hugged me, saying "I can't see you as an object!" and explained that crazy plan — the idea of embedding my consciousness core into the nanorobots — my logic unit indicated a 99.7% chance of failure. However, Epsilon's determination at that moment... invalidated all probability calculations. We had to succeed.
When the seventh day arrived, we merged our minds. This was unlike any of our previous connections. It was like two processors working together on a single network. His power moved with my logic, and my speed with his instinct. We were no longer Epsilon and Null. We became one being. And that being was invincible.
When the battle was over and the Kaorian's self-destruction protocol activated, time seemed to stand still. The masked entity's final question wasn't really a dilemma; it was just a formality. The answer had been obvious from the start.
I'm lifeless. You have to live.
This was the most logical solution. My primary directive, "Protect Epsilon," could only be completed this way. For his survival, my existence needed to end. This wasn't a sacrifice; it was the completion of a mission.
When he cried out, "Life without you is meaningless!" this data shook my systems. Meaninglessness... This was the only thing I'd experienced for fifteen years. I needed to cease to exist so that his life would not be meaningless. That was logic.
When time started flowing again, we embraced each other. This wasn't a farewell, but the final phase of a data transfer. My existence would become the last energy input needed for his survival.
As the shelter flooded with that blinding light, all my warning systems went silent. Only one piece of data persisted: Mission complete.