They assembled within the mountain inside the room that formerly contained the Web Hub. Celeste positioned herself opposite Cassiathon her hands resting on his serving both as a steadier and enhancer. Kuro arranged a circle of his instruments to regulate the current. The Angel of Death remained behind his son, a hand placed on his shoulder not to provide strength but to tether him to the idea of a conclusion—to caution his essence against overwhelming him throughout the process.
Cassiathon shut his eyes. He located the scar within the realm the narrow aching thread connecting to Finn located hundreds of miles away in the beleaguered Athenaeum. He did not tug. Instead he created a channel, along it profound.
Afterwards he grasped the pair of rivers inside.
This was no stream, no minor branch. This was unleashing the deluge.
The death-energy moved, not as a conclusion. As a preservative—a cold surge of flawless stillness to "immobilize" the data as it traveled through him to stop its decay. The chaos-energy followed it not to annihilate. As the transmission wave—the untamed erratic flow capable of transporting the vast intricate data-stream without breaking down.
The force surged within him. He sensed the canyon cliffs shake fissures spreading like webs across the rock. Pain, immense and detached carved itself into his spirit. At that instant he was no longer an individual; he became a conduit, for an essence.
Within the Athenaeum Finn was seated in the reading hall, enveloped by the murmurs of a millennium. Infernal siege machines battered the gates. He sensed Cassiathons link activate, a muted shriek, inside his mind. He offered no opposition. He flung wide open the gates of his awareness.
The understanding of the Athenaeum—not as static information but as lived moments the scent of aged pages the vexation over a missing formula the joy of a recovered manuscript the silent mourning, for the vanished writers—flowed through him and then beyond, into the conduit Cassiathon maintained open.
Throughout the continent each radio hooked into the Static Net blared to activity. Speakers erupted, not with speech. A complex overwhelming torrent of noise—binary digits, ancient spoken tongues, melodies, interference, cries, chuckles. Displays were flooded with scrolling words, blueprints, images, artwork, all flashing swiftly to grasp.
Individuals grasped their heads overcome. It was an onslaught of memories not belonging to them. A farmer perceived the reflections of a pre-fall poet. A child glimpsed designs, for devices that had vanished. A soldier experienced the anguish of a historian witnessing the opening of the Abyssal rift.
It was chaos. It was madness.
And it was salvation.
At the Athenaeum the primary doors broke apart. Raziel entered directly his lance poised for action. He noticed Finn seated calmly in the middle of the chamber a smile gracing his lips while his gaze was empty. The surrounding archives had become physical items. Their essence, their significance had already vanished, flowing out into the world.
Raziel comprehended. He refrained from attacking Finn. Instead he gazed at the shelves and the calm archivist and a trace of what seemed like admiration briefly appeared on his stern face. He had intended to obliterate knowledge. His adversary had made it imperishable by turning it intangible omnipresent. He had seized the structure. Lost the battle, for its contents.
He. Walked away with his troops trailing behind. The Athenaeum grew quiet a vacant shell.
The transmission stopped in the mountain.
Cassiathon fell down blood seeping from his nostrils and ears. The room was suffused with the scent of ozone. Scorched rock. The runes inscribed on the ground were charred and fractured.
Celeste grabbed him her strength fully drained. Kuros gadgets lay in smoldering wreckage.
However on the Static Net following a shocked pause the voices started to come back. Not, with plans or updates. With amazement.
"I glimpsed… I glimpsed a garden from prior, to the fall. It was incredibly green."
There's a melody… I can't stop it from playing over in my mind. It's gorgeous.
"I believe I grasp the equations… related to clean water filtration…"
The Great Transmission succeeded. The information was dispersed, broken into pieces and planted in minds. Reconstructing it would require years, even generations. Yet it was not gone forever.
Cassiathon hovering near the brink of awareness caught the voices. He had expended an amount of his energy. The canyon walls were cliffs, at this point ready to completely fall apart. He had one attempt remaining. One ultimate deed.
For the time being he had granted the tale a prospect.
He slipped into a deep, healing sleep, cradled in the silence that followed the storm.