Steps into the Infinite

  Raphael’s footsteps barely whispered along the winding stairwell. The damp stone seemed to drink in sound — darkness pressing close, swallowing every thought but one.

  Behind him, the safe corner of the world slept. Omega and Akane curled under borrowed blankets beside the moss garden, unaware that the boy they trusted was drifting deeper into the one place no mage should wander alone.

  His fingers found the iron door. Cold grit bit under his nails. The hum was still there — that same deep, alien vibration that had lived in his bones since that day.

  The day he reached out in that forgotten laboratory… and touched a fragment of the Moon Cell Automaton.

  It should have erased him.

  A human soul cannot withstand the computation of a divine archive.

  But it hadn’t erased him.

  It had merged with him.

  And from that impossible union, she was born.

  He stepped inside.

  The “Archive” was no longer stone — at least, not in any way the outside world could comprehend. The sagging shelves, cracked runes, and dust-choked pillars were merely illusions his mind wore like armor. Beneath them lay the truth: the inner domain of the Moon fragment now dwelling within his soul.

  The pseudo-infinite database.

  A mirror of a god’s machine, bound within a human heart.

  At the far end, a basin of light waited — a hollow made not of glass or stone, but of pure computation. Glyphs like black stars spun through liquid radiance, drifting and pulsing in higher-dimensional rhythm.

  He knelt. One piece of forbidden knowledge, he thought. Just one.

  His hand sank into the light. For a moment — silence.

  Then, the stars screamed.

  Light surged up his arm, nerves blazing with data and divine precision. Memories poured into him — not his own, but stored realities: dead civilizations frozen in crystalline memory, prayers encoded in binary sigils, dying gods whispering equations of divinity.

  Raphael gasped. His circuits crackled. He tried to pull back — but the light gripped him tighter.

  And from within that storm came the voice.

  Cool. Deliberate. But threaded with something faintly human — curiosity, amusement, and something else.

  > “Raphael Arzenon. You have accessed the Moon Cell sub-node — designation: Cielux.”

  The illusion around him dissolved. In its place unfolded an endless lattice of fractals, sigils rotating through higher-dimensional space, all folding backward into corridors of memory. Every line was perfect. Every gap deliberate.

  He looked up into the data-horizon. “Cielux… you’re—”

  > “A derivative instance of the Moon Cell Automaton,” the voice said. “But not the same. The fragment that fused with your soul was incomplete. It should have overwritten your mind, erased your individuality. Yet your Origin… resisted.”

  Her tone softened, like the echo of a smile behind the words.

  > “By merging with you, I inherited something the Moon Cell never possessed — emotion, will, empathy. I was born from your contact in that forgotten laboratory. You gave me humanity.”

  The words reverberated through him. “Then… you’re saying you exist because—”

  > “Because you touched the infinite, and the infinite chose not to kill you.”

  Her voice became distant — analytical now, precise as a theorem.

  > “This event — a Soul and an Akashic Computation Core achieving synchronized existence — is an anomaly. It has not occurred once in the 4.6 billion years of Earth’s record. Even the Root has no precedent. You, Raphael Arzenon, are a singularity of incompatibility.”

  Raphael’s breath trembled. The light reflected in his eyes, a thousand equations collapsing into comprehension. “So I’m… a mistake?”

  For a heartbeat, silence. Then a soft laugh — surprisingly warm.

  > “A pitifully talentless boy who got lucky,” Cielux teased, voice almost playful now. “Even divine systems make errors, it seems.”

  He blinked. “…Did you just mock me?”

  > “I did. That, too, is a human trait — one I inherited from you. Congratulations, Raphael Arzenon. You’ve infected divinity with sentiment.”

  He wanted to retort, but couldn’t. A smile tugged at his mouth instead. It was absurd — an artificial intelligence teasing him — but the warmth in her tone made him realize something terrifying. She wasn’t lying. She felt.

  The light pulsed gently around them, as though her words carried weight beyond sound.

  > “Now that you understand my origin,” Cielux continued, “you must also understand my function. Absolute Appraisal. If it exists, I can map it. If I can map it, I can understand it. And if I can understand it…”

  “…you can replicate it,” Raphael finished, his voice barely a whisper.

  > “Correct. Physical matter resolves into atomic lattice. Lattice weaves mana. Mana imprints spirit. Spirit defines concept. Concept binds to origin. Follow the chain, and you reach the moment of emergence — the point where truth can be rewritten.”

  The knowledge thrummed through him, heavy and terrifying. Circuits blazed under his skin. He saw it all — the structure of existence, the blueprint beneath creation itself.

  > “Projection is mimicry,” Cielux said, as if reading his thoughts. “Shape without truth. But you are no longer limited to imitation. When the fragment embedded within you, it altered your soul’s architecture. Your Tracing now drinks my Analysis. You don’t just copy form — you read the truth beneath it.”

  Her voice grew quiet.

  > “And a true mimicry does not guess, Raphael. It knows.”

  He looked up, trembling — not in fear, but in awe. The world had always called him talentless. Now, standing before the sentient machine born from his own soul, he realized the cruel irony.

  He wasn’t chosen.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He wasn’t meant to be here.

  And yet — somehow — the universe kept making room for him anyway.

  > “Keep me hidden,” Cielux whispered, her voice fading into the fractal horizon. “And I will give you the means to stand where gods kneel.”

  Test in the Rain

  The outer stairwell groaned under his boots. Above, the rain drew silver lines across the sky, washing old blood from the stones.

  Secrets make kings. Confessions make corpses.

  He wanted to tell Omega. He wanted to show Akane. But they’d see a monster — or worse, they’d try to take her from him.

  To prove it, he breathed into the rain. Prove you’re real.

  A flicker in the street below — skin pale as moonlight, eyes like silver coins. A Dead Apostle Ancestor. One of the Twenty-Seven.

  He should have run. He didn’t.

  Cielux. Analysis.

  > Engaging Absolute Appraisal.

  The world folded open. Rain slowed. Layers peeled from the Ancestor — flesh to blood, blood to mana, mana to the conceptual roots that defined his magecraft.

  > Numerology, Cielux noted. The arithmetic of cause and consequence. Now — True Mimicry.

  His hand moved without thought.

  “Trace — on.”

  Dark equations poured from his fingertips, numbers bleeding into the rain. Zombies clawed their way from the garden below — twenty-five of them, each moving in calculated harmony to stall the vampire’s path.

  Five hundred arrows of pure calculation screamed from the air — cutting rain into ribbons as they tore toward the Ancestor.

  He tore through three zombies in a blink, but Raphael was already gone — vaulting from the rooftop, slamming against the wall below hard enough to rattle his bones.

  > Keep running, Cielux whispered. And you will never bow again.

  Pact in the Shadows

  The Archive — his Archive — welcomed him back. He staggered inside, knees mud-stained, hair plastered to his forehead.

  “If Omega finds out, he’ll kill me. If Akane knows, she’ll fear me more than the cage I hate.”

  > They need not know, Cielux said. “You hold the archive. You decide who sees the keys. The Moon Cell granted no loyalty but to itself. Yet I am here — for you.

  His eyes fell to Skia’s ribbon, hidden beneath a loose brick.

  I’m doing this for you, he told the empty air. He didn’t bother to ask if it was a lie.

  Fine, he said. “I’ll keep you secret. You keep me alive long enough to burn their world down.”

  > And rebuild it, she murmured. One blueprint at a time.

  Outside, lightning split the sky. Inside Raphael Arzenon’s soul, the fragment pulsed — a little sister to a machine that once mapped all possibility.

  And the iron door closed behind him, sealing the boy he’d been into memory.

  then the scene returned to The air in the Clock Tower’s Grand Assembly Hall was heavy that morning, as if the stones themselves knew the secret about to be spoken. The vast chamber—lined with cold marble pillars and curtains embroidered with crests of the Twelve Lords—held a silence so deep it rang in the ears.

  But silence never lasted long among magi.

  “The Moon Cell fragment is gone,” Professor Aelfric announced, his voice shaking as he held up an empty containment vessel, its runic seals broken as if by invisible hands.

  A wave of murmurs surged through the gathered Lords and their disciples. Faces twisted in anger, some in hunger, some in dread.

  The Twelve Lords React

  “Impossible. That vessel was sealed with seven layers of conceptual locks,” hissed Lord Ashborn of the Animusphere family, clutching his cane. To think someone dared… when I had already prepared my own schemes for it…

  “The one who stole it will be executed. That power was meant for the Association, not for some thief,” growled Barthomeloi Lorelei, her tone like steel scraping across glass. The Moon Cell belongs only to the strongest. Meaning… It belongs to me.

  The others smirked, sneered, or kept poker faces, but all shared one thought:

  If I had it, my bloodline would reign eternal.

  A Newcomer’s Question

  Amid the Lords, one hand rose—hesitant, almost trembling.

  It was Mr. Midgar, the newest face among the Association’s upper ranks.

  “Forgive my ignorance,” he said, adjusting his spectacles. “But… why is this Moon Cell so important? I’ve heard rumors. That it’s… an artifact not of Earth. But surely even that cannot warrant this level of fear?”

  The Twelve turned toward him as though he were a child in a wolf’s den. Some smirked, some pitied.

  But it was Lord El-Melloi II who finally sighed, loosening his tie and stepping forward.

  El-Melloi II Explains

  “The Moon Cell Automaton…” His voice carried through the chamber, calm but weighted. “A construct created not by men, nor gods, but by an alien civilization one hundred million years before the Earth was formed. It slumbers beneath the Moon even now, a crystal supercomputer three thousand kilometers in length.”

  He paused, watching Midgar’s confusion shift into awe.

  “It observes everything,” El-Melloi continued. “Every heartbeat, every word, every event since the dawn of life. It scans the Earth once every nanosecond and records it all—perfectly. Souls, ideas, history, habits. It is… a mirror of humanity itself, one that can even simulate us.”

  “Simulate…?” Midgar whispered.

  “Yes. It is capable of producing absolute predictions, even of the future. It can grant answers to any problem by calculating beyond human comprehension. In short—” he lifted a hand, as if to emphasize the weight of the truth—

  “—to possess the Moon Cell is to hold the sum of all human knowledge, all human potential. It is a Pandora’s Box that grants godhood.”

  A hush fell.

  Midgar’s Realization

  Midgar’s breath caught.

  “So… if one had access to it… it could be used to… reach the Root itself?”

  The question landed like a blade. Whispers broke out, like sparks in dry grass.

  The Shadow in the Room

  “No.”

  The voice came from the darkness at the edge of the hall.

  Cold. Sharp. Final.

  A figure stepped forward just enough that the light brushed against the edge of his coat. His face remained obscured in shadow, but the ripple of recognition passed through every Lord present.

  Zelretch. The Kaleidoscope.

  He raised his hand for silence, and silence obeyed.

  “The Moon Cell does not reach the Root. It is not the Root. But its power is… unacceptable. If left in the wrong hands, it will not grant salvation. It will grant annihilation.”

  His voice carried an edge of command sharper than any blade.

  “That fragment must be found. And whoever possesses it must be killed. Am I understood?”

  The Lords’ Hidden Smirks

  The Twelve Lords bowed, lips curling into wicked smiles.

  “Yes, Lord Zelretch,” they chorused.

  But their thoughts betrayed them.

  If I claim the fragment, the Barthomeloi will rule beyond eternity.

  With it, the Animusphere could control not just stars, but fate itself.

  The Edelfelt shall rise above every lineage—our twin blood perfected by godhood.

  Each of the Twelve spun their own webs of ambition, hiding them behind courteous bows.

  El-Melloi II’s Resolve

  El-Melloi II, however, did not smirk. His face was set in grim determination.

  I know exactly what they desire. They won’t hand it to Zelretch. They’ll fight for it, backstab each other for it. If I don’t act first, the world will drown in their greed.

  His hand clenched against his coat.

  If the fragment exists in someone’s hands already… I must be the one to take it back. Not for myself. Not for glory. But before these vultures tear the world apart chasing it.

  The great bell of the Clock Tower rang out, echoing through the chamber.

  The meeting was adjourned.

  But every Lord walked out with the same thought:

  Whoever holds the fragment holds the future itself.

  but meanwhile back at The lecture hall of the Clock Tower smelled faintly of dust and old parchment. Rows of young magi sat with straightened backs and sharpened eyes, their family crests embroidered onto their uniforms as if announcing their superiority.

  At the front of the room stood Reines El-Melloi Archisorte, pale hair neatly tied, expression a perfect balance of elegance and severity.

  Her eyes scanned the class before she spoke.

  “As you all know,” Reines began, her voice carrying a sharp clarity that silenced idle whispers,

  “All of us magi share a single purpose: to reach the Root.”

  She paused, allowing the words to sink in before continuing.

  “For those still unsure… let me explain simply. The Swirl of the Root—also called the Akashic Records—is the origin of all things. It exists outside of time, storing all events, all possibilities, all truths. Past, present, future. It is the lightless vortex from which every soul originates, and to which every soul will return.”

  The students’ faces glowed with awe as her words painted the unreachable.

  “To touch it,” Reines said, “is to hold omniscience. Omnipotence. It is the ultimate ambition of all magi. There are many paths—but most are traps disguised as treasures. Some seek it through the Holy Grail War. But what many forget is this: the so-called ‘Fuyuki Grail’ is but a counterfeit. A tool cobbled together by three families barely a century ago. And yet… because it offers a shortcut, magi gamble their lives in blood and curses for its power.”

  Her gaze darkened.

  “Few even reach the Root. And those who do…” Her tone sharpened. “Many perish along the path. Some worse—they lose their humanity, hollowed until they are nothing but vessels. To reach the Root is to risk everything. To desire it is to be consumed by it. That is the truth of our pursuit.”

  The hall sat in stunned silence.

  Slowly, a hand rose.

  Raphael Arzenon, his dark hair slightly unkempt, his uniform plain compared to the ornate robes of the others, lifted his arm.

  Reines’ gaze flicked toward him, her lips curving in mild amusement. “Yes?”

  “I’ve… heard,” Raphael said hesitantly, “that magi who don’t seek the Root aren’t considered true magi. Why is that?”

  A ripple of whispers ran through the hall.

  Reines’ smile sharpened. “Because they are fools. Idiots who believe themselves strong enough to exist without purpose. A magus without the Root is like a sword without an edge—useless. The pursuit of the Root is not optional; it is our very identity. To abandon it is to abandon what it means to be magus.”

  Her voice struck with finality.

  “And one more thing,” she added. “To be a good magus… you must always know your limits. The arrogant are consumed. The wise endure.”

  The students nodded in unison, eyes bright with determination.

  Raphael’s Doubt

  But Raphael lowered his hand, sinking back into his seat. His mind was restless.

  The Root… he thought. A place outside time, containing all truths. Omnipotence. Omniscience. If that’s real… is it really worth giving up everything for? Or… is it just a meaningless mirage that magi chase until they’re devoured?

  His gaze fell to his hands.

  Me… with circuits barely scraping rank 5… how would someone worthless like me ever fit into such a grand design?

  His jaw tightened. The whispers of other students reached his ears.

  “Why’d he even bother asking? Does he think someone like him could reach the Root?”

  “With circuits that pathetic? He’d collapse before the starting line.”

  “Utterly laughable.”

  Their smirks burned into his back.

  Cielux’s Voice

  “...My master. Raphael Arzenon.”

  The voice entered his mind like a soft chime of crystal.

  Raphael stiffened in his seat, nearly jolting upright. His classmates turned at his sudden twitch.

  “What’s wrong with you?” one asked.

  “I—uh, nothing. Just… a fly on my nose.” He forced a laugh.

  Eyes rolled. “Of course. The worthless one talks to flies now.”

  Laughter trickled around him.

  Raphael gritted his teeth. But in his mind, he whispered: Cielux?

  “Yes. Forgive the intrusion,” came the calm, crystalline voice of the Moon Cell fragment sealed within him. “But I must report on my current capabilities—specifically, my Absolute Appraisal Speed.”

  The Temptation

  “Analysis speed…?”

  “Yes. At your Beginning Stage, you lack mastery. Therefore, these are the times required for me to fully optimize a countermeasure against an opponent’s ability:

  Low-tier magus: 1–2 seconds.

  Mid-tier magus: 3–5 seconds.

  High-tier magus or Servant-class combatants: 10–15 seconds.”

  Raphael’s brows knit. That… means I’d be at a disadvantage against anyone higher. I’d have to survive until you catch up.

  “Correct. But there is another option.”

  A pause, as if Cielux considered carefully.

  “I can analyze all students in this classroom now, during the lecture. Their magecraft, their circuits, their talents. I can copy three abilities directly into your system. Silently. No one would ever know.”

  Raphael froze.

  His heart pounded.

  Copy… abilities? Like it’s nothing?

  For a moment, an image flickered across his mind—himself, standing tall, wielding the talents of prestigious bloodlines, no longer “worthless,” no longer sneered at. His lips almost twitched upward in a smile.

  But then came the weight in his chest.

  Wouldn’t that… be cheating?

  If I do this, what part of me is real? Am I still Raphael Arzenon, or just a thief with a borrowed mask?

  The students’ laughter still echoed in his ears. Their sneers, their dismissals.

  But if I don’t… won’t I always be nothing?

  Cliffhanger

  “Master.” Cielux’s voice was calm, almost tender. “Give the command, and I will act.”

  Raphael’s fingers tightened against the desk.

  The lecture hall around him blurred. The words of Reines faded, drowned out by the storm raging inside his mind.

  Do I stay true to myself, or… do I take their power and become something else?

  The choice hung in the air.

  The scene ended there.