The platform beneath Salemadon shimmered, spinning slowly as the fractured skies trembled above. Reality here was not fixed — it flexed, quivered, and sometimes resisted. On the left, the chrome city stretched toward impossible heights, towers bending like liquid glass. On the right, the paradise world breathed: waterfalls hung suspended, trees swayed without wind, and the air shimmered with untold life.
Energy ribbons of black and white danced violently around him, twisting through the air like serpents made of light and memory. Each movement of his hands pulled threads from one reality to another. These threads were not mere energy; they were Pahtem conduits, lifelines connecting Salemadon's pulse to the very structure of existence.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the echo of his lineage course through him. Each pulse of Pahtem demanded a price — fragments of sound, sparks of memory, slivers of reality itself. But he was no longer afraid.
The silver-coated man hovered above, poised on floating crystal shards, serene as ever. "You move too quickly," he said. "Pahtem is not force. It is conversation. It is balance. Rush, and the universe will correct you — often harshly."
Salemadon narrowed his eyes. "Then I will move deliberately," he muttered, sending three measured pulses of S–M–D through his veins. The black and white ribbons responded differently this time — flowing like molten glass, coiling with purpose rather than snapping violently.
Across the fractured horizon, Redaction Echoes stirred. These were no mere threats — they were fragments of erased potential, entities born from the absence of memory and sound. They moved with awareness, bending paths to avoid his threads, probing the space around him like predators hunting invisible prey.
Salemadon extended his hands, letting the threads weave around a Redaction Echo approaching the paradise waterfalls. The black ribbon didn't strike, it embraced. It split the Echo into two Echo Shards — one tethered to him, one to the cascading water — holding it suspended, alive but restrained.
The silver-coated man's eyes glimmered. "Do you feel it?" he asked. "They hear you now. You are no longer alone. The world listens."
Salemadon's gaze swept the horizon. The water's roar, the city's hum, the whispered echoes in the wind — all now bent toward him. Pahtem threads resonated through existence itself, but each pulse cost him something intangible, a tiny sliver of memory, a fragment of certainty.
A whisper came from the paradise world, faint but impossibly clear:
"Salemadon… remember who you are. Remember what has been lost."
It was familiar, yet unknown — a voice that could belong to the past, the future, or a memory erased before it could exist. Salemadon felt it resonate deep within, a pulse in harmony with his S–M–D rhythm.
The platform vibrated beneath him, lifting slowly. Crystals spun, reflecting fractured light into both worlds. Redaction Echoes hesitated, adjusting their course, confused by the resonance tethering them to life and memory.
Testing the Limits of Pahtem
Salemadon closed his eyes, feeling the threads hum. This was not power for attack, but power for resonance — for connection. He let the S–M–D pulses flow naturally, letting Pahtem interact with the memory of his lineage, the echoes of Bali Kumbat, the stories of ancestors never spoken aloud.
The Redaction Echoes froze midair. The floating crystals shifted in orbit, reflecting a hexagonal lattice pattern, mirroring the sigils on Salemadon's armor. For the first time, he felt control, influence, even subtle mastery.
But it was fleeting. A pulse of awareness struck him: every echo he touched had consequences. Some disappeared, some shifted unpredictably, some left him feeling a void within himself. Pahtem did not obey blindly. It demanded respect, patience, and awareness.
The silver-coated man hovered closer. "You are learning," he said. "But mastery is not control. Mastery is dialogue. Every action will ripple across these worlds, every echo you create will require repayment. The universe never forgets a debt."
Salemadon's eyes glimmered. "Then I will learn to repay it. I will not vanish. Not today."
The First Agents of The Redaction
From the chrome city, dark forms began emerging: Nullborn Sentinels, creations of erased memory and fragmented sound. They moved silently, tethered to nothing, yet perfectly synchronized. Their eyes glowed faintly red, reflecting the fractures in the sky.
Salemadon lifted his hands, crystalline shoulder pieces glowing fully. Energy ribbons jagged, sharp, and alive. S–M–D–Pahtem activated, threads snapping into defensive coils around him.
He realized the first real battle for his existence had begun. The Nullborn Sentinels were not here to kill — they were here to erase, to untether him from reality itself.
Every step, every breath, every pulse mattered. One wrong move, and he could vanish completely.
Understanding Resonance
He remembered the whisper from the paradise world. Resonance was more than power — it was a choice. Every action must harmonize with memory, with existence, with the worlds themselves. He was not just fighting enemies; he was negotiating with reality.
Pahtem was alive. The threads hummed. They stretched across the chrome towers, flowed through waterfalls, spiraled into the cosmic expanse beyond. The Gemini constellation overhead pulsed faintly, reflecting duality, mirrored fates, and the path ahead.
Salemadon exhaled. He was ready. Not fearless. Not invincible. But he would not vanish.
Closing Scene
The Nullborn Sentinels advanced. The Redaction Echoes moved in strange, chaotic formations. The floating crystals shimmered, reflecting light into the fractured worlds.
Salemadon stood at the center of the platform, the first audible name in centuries. His energy ribbons spiraled violently, controlled yet unpredictable, alive yet tethered.
A single truth burned in his mind: he would not be erased. Not by them, not by time, not by silence itself.
The first resonance had been claimed. The war for existence had begun.
And Salemadon — the boy who carried a name heavier than life itself — would stand as the first echo in a universe that had forgotten sound.
"When existence itself tests the first audible echo, survival is no longer enough — you must command reality, or be erased from it."