The light was wrong. Rico didn’t fall into the simulation this time—he was ripped into it. The colors bent unnaturally, glitching at the edges of his vision like burning film. Sounds came before their sources: the wind whispered threats before the trees began to rustle, and the ground thudded with hooves seconds before they struck dirt.

  And when he opened his eyes fully, he wasn’t Rico anymore. He was Britt Johnson, alone on horseback, a dust trail following him across the plains like a ghost too tired to haunt. His hat was pulled low over eyes that remembered too much. His hands gripped reins worn smooth by miles and war. But what struck him harder than the sun on his face or the dry ache in his throat… was the name echoing like thunder in his chest. Mary. He hadn’t said it since the last simulation, but now it burned across his thoughts like Wafu’s voice whispered through another woman’s name.

  “She’s here,” Halal said. His voice was sharper now, more awake. The integration was deeper. Older.

  “No,” Britt muttered, aloud. “Mary’s not here. Wafu is. Somewhere.”

  A crow screamed overhead. Not a regular one—its eyes flickered blue for a moment before snapping back to black. A glitch. A trace of something unauthorized. Rico/Britt looked down at his saddlebag. Inside, a fragment of leather with etched markings. A child’s toy. A torn piece of shawl. A name half-written in the dirt. All left behind like breadcrumbs. He reined in the horse at a fork in the trail. The left path led toward a creek—quiet, serene. The right toward scorched earth and broken fences. The simulation wanted him to turn left. Peaceful, forgetful, compliant.

  “He’s guiding us,” Halal growled. “Not the Architect. The Hacker. He’s learned how to twist the incomplete nodes—he’s feeding you meaning through pain.”

  Britt turned right. The barn was half-burned. Smoke still curled from the timbers, like the ghosts hadn’t yet finished leaving. The smell stopped Britt cold. Gunpowder. Ash. And blood. He slid down from Midnight, the horse stomping uneasily, nervous in a way that wasn’t simulated. Even the AI-coded steed could feel it—this wasn’t an Architect-designed scenario.

  It was a butchered memory. Scorch marks etched strange sigils into the wood—circular, recursive, foreign. Not Comanche. Not Kiowa. Not human. He knelt by a fallen beam. A scrap of cloth clung to it—blue floral. Mary’s shawl. Wafu’s voice—laughing—whispered behind it. A shared memory between two women, one real, one remembered. He touched it. FLASH—Wafu’s eyes. A memory of her teaching children how to fold paper stars. FLASH—Mary singing lullabies. FLASH—Wafu, screaming. FLASH—Silence. His nose bled.

  “That wasn’t just a memory fragment,” Halal hissed. “That was an override. The Hacker is implanting pain-maps. Trying to condition your emotions like triggers.”

  Britt stood. His legs trembled, but not from fear. From rage.

  “Then let’s find him.”

  Up the ridge, he spotted the figure. A man in black. Long duster. Hat pulled low. From a distance, he looked like a sheriff. But his eyes—glowing green, then static—gave him away. Not a man. Not a lawman. A shadow. The Hacker’s construct. It moved without disturbing the dirt. Uncanny. Off. Watching. Britt raised his rifle—his Henry, still warm from his last fight. But the figure didn’t move. Just flickered and vanished. In its place, on the ground, a message burned in the dirt.

  “One memory for each mile. One pain for each truth. Keep walking, Nasu.”

  They made camp that night near a half-dead stream. Britt sat beneath a tree that whispered like old parchment. Halal was silent for a long while. Then—

  “He’s testing us.”

  Britt didn’t answer.

  “Not just you. Me. He’s trying to bait me out. Wake me up.”

  “You said you didn’t remember everything.”

  “I didn’t. But every mile brings more back. He knows Wafu is the keeper. Without her, I stay... fractured.”

  Britt looked up at the stars. “Then we keep moving.”

  A strange noise interrupted the quiet. Like thunder and whispering cloth. A shimmer tore through the air, splitting reality like wet paper. Pantu stepped through. He looked... aged. Faint. As if he hadn’t slept in centuries.

  “Britt,” he said, not using Rico’s name. “You’re deeper than before.”

  “I know,” Britt said. “It’s not the Architect anymore. It’s him.”

  “Yes,” Pantu nodded. “The Hacker’s feeding you through pain. Each clue for Mary... is really for Wafu. But there’s more.”

  “What?”

  Pantu looked over his shoulder. “They’re coming. The old ones. They felt you awaken.”

  “Who?”

  “The Veilborn.” His voice dropped. “Guardians of the Forgotten. Protectors of what must not be remembered.”

  Halal stirred violently. “They locked me out. All this time—”

  “They’re waking now because you are,” Pantu said, stepping back. “You must reach the next shard before sunrise. Or the Mary you seek... will become just another ghost.”

  And he vanished. The wind screamed. The sky glitched. The simulation trembled. And Britt mounted Midnight, ready for war. The world ignited in a maelstrom of fire and fury. Britt Johnson’s senses snapped into razor-sharp focus as the crack of gunfire shattered the predawn stillness. Bullets whizzed past, tearing through the brittle air with lethal intent. The acrid scent of gunpowder burned his nostrils as he dove behind a weathered outcrop, the rough stone biting into his palms.

  System Alert: Incoming Hostile Entities Detected.

  Halal’s voice resonated in his mind, urgent and unyielding. This wasn’t just another skirmish; the Hacker had unleashed a new terror upon the simulation.? From the swirling dust emerged figures draped in tattered cloaks, their faces obscured by shadows. The Veilborn—guardians of forgotten truths—had arrived, their presence a harbinger of chaos.

  Britt’s fingers curled around the worn grip of his Colt Navy revolver. The six-shooter was an extension of his will, a tool honed by countless confrontations. He inhaled deeply, steadying his racing heart, and sprang from cover.? Time to dance with death. The first Veilborn lunged, a curved blade gleaming in the dim light. Britt’s arm snapped up, the Colt barking a thunderous retort. The figure crumpled, vanishing into the ether before hitting the ground.

  System Alert: Hostile Entity Neutralized.

  No time to revel in the victory. Another assailant closed in from the flank. Britt pivoted, his left hand reaching for the Henry rifle slung across his back. In one fluid motion, he chambered a round and fired. The .44 caliber bullet tore through the enemy, dispersing it into wisps of darkness.

  System Alert: Hostile Entity Neutralized.

  The battlefield was a shifting tapestry of shadows and fleeting forms. Britt moved with calculated precision, his movements a blend of instinct and training. He ducked low, avoiding a decapitating strike, and retaliated with a swift kick, sending his attacker sprawling. Halal’s voice cut through the chaos.

  “Britt, the Veilborn are manifestations of the Hacker’s will. They’re designed to erode your sense of self, to make you forget.”

  Britt gritted his teeth. He couldn’t afford to lose himself—not now.? A sudden chill enveloped him. From the periphery, a towering figure approached, its presence suffocating. Unlike the others, this Veilborn exuded an aura of command. Its eyes glowed with an unsettling light, piercing into Britt’s very soul.

  “You seek the one called Wafu,” it intoned, its voice a cacophony of whispers. “She is beyond your reach, imprisoned in the depths of Lethe.”

  Britt’s grip tightened on his weapons. He couldn’t trust the words of an enemy, but the mention of Wafu ignited a spark of hope.?

  “Tell me where,” he demanded, leveling the rifle at the entity.

  The Veilborn chuckled, a sound devoid of mirth. “Defeat me, and the knowledge is yours.”

  The challenge was clear. Britt centered himself, recalling the teachings passed down through generations. The Nasu way was not just about physical prowess but understanding the flow of battle, the rhythm of life and death.? The Veilborn struck first, its blade a blur. Britt sidestepped, feeling the rush of air as the weapon missed by mere inches. He countered with a swift strike to the creature’s midsection, but it was like hitting smoke.

  “Focus, Britt,” Halal urged. “They’re not bound by the same rules. Adapt.”

  Drawing upon his inner reserves, Britt shifted tactics. He feigned vulnerability, lowering his guard just enough to bait the Veilborn. It took the lure, committing to an overextended attack. Now. Britt exploded into motion, sidestepping and bringing the butt of his rifle up in a brutal arc. The stock connected with the Veilborn’s head, the force dissipating its form momentarily. Seizing the advantage, Britt pressed on. He fired his Colt point-blank, each shot dispersing more of the entity’s essence. With a final, determined thrust, he plunged his knife into where its heart would be. The Veilborn let out an otherworldly wail, its form unraveling. As it faded, its voice echoed in Britt’s mind.

  “She is held in the Kurat prison, deep within the waters of Lethe. But beware—the path is treacherous, and the Hacker watches.”

  The battlefield grew silent. The remaining Veilborn had vanished, leaving Britt alone with his thoughts.

  System Alert: Hostile Entities Neutralized.

  He holstered his weapons, the weight of the revelation settling upon him. Wafu was alive, but in peril. He had to reach her, but first, he needed answers.

  “Halal, let’s the simulation. It’s time to confront Elijah.”

  The world around him shimmered, the simulation dissolving. As reality reasserted itself, Britt—no, Rico Nasu—prepared for the challenges ahead.The battle was far from over.

  The Hall of Memory shimmered under the weight of remembrance. Obsidian monoliths curved into a perfect amphitheater, polished to an eerie mirror-gloss, each slab engraved with the names of Nasu bloodlines long buried—but never forgotten. The echo-tech embedded into the stone allowed whispers of past rulers to murmur through the walls when the hall was full. Tonight, it murmured like a tomb disturbed.

  Candles flickered in long rows along the curved aisle, their blue-black flames swaying as if afraid to burn too loudly. Incense—old earthroot and iron ash—clung to the ceiling like fog that knew too much. And at the center of it all, standing on the platform carved from living onyx, was Elijah Arian Nasu. He stood like a man born from scripture. A rich crimson coat dusted with subtle symbology. His hair slicked back into a regal knot. His hands—empty but poised—were practiced in holding attention like a weapon.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “And so,” he said, his voice measured, regal, tinged with reverence, “we gather under the Eyes of the Echo to grieve what we have lost—our Father. Our Anchor. One Fang. Vanished into shadow... or worse.”

  A respectful hush filled the chamber. Several bowed their heads. Others stared with stiff suspicion.

  Elijah raised a hand. “We do not mourn weakness. We mourn transition. But where one flame dies, another must rise. Let us not become fragmented—let us unify.”

  Campaign speech. That’s what it was. Beautiful. Calculated. Too perfect. From the back of the amphitheater, a cold voice sliced through the silence.

  “You speak of unity like you didn’t light the match.”

  Gasps scattered like flocks of startled birds. Heads turned. Rico Nasu stepped from the shadows. His cloak was tattered from simulation wear. His boots still tracked ash from the Lethe construct. But his eyes burned like someone who’d returned with answers. And ghosts.

  Elijah’s smile cracked. “Ah. The prodigal descendant returns.”

  “I’m no prodigal,” Rico said, stepping forward, his voice tight. “I didn’t leave the tribe. I was pulled.”

  Whispers rose around him. Names. Half-gasps.

  “Is it really him?”

  “He was lost in the Rift with his mother, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s Rico... Wasn’t he dead?”

  Rico’s jaw clenched. He didn’t stop walking until he stood halfway up the steps, eyes level with Elijah’s.

  “I want to know where Wafu is.”

  That silenced the murmurs. Elijah raised a brow. “You barge into a sacred gathering, bloodied from gods-know-where, and ask about a memory keeper?”

  “She’s not just a memory keeper. She’s the link.” Rico’s voice tightened. “You know she is.”

  “Elaborate.”

  “I saw her in the simulation. Not just a projection. She’s being held. Somewhere deeper. The Hacker didn’t just intercept her—he extracted her.” Rico turned to the crowd. “Which means someone let him in.”

  The shift in the room was seismic. Halal, the one they call One Fang stirred inside him. Rico didn’t let him speak—not yet.

  Elijah’s smile flattened. “Accusation without proof is not courage, Rico. It is recklessness parading as rebellion.”

  “You want proof?” Rico lifted his sleeve. Along his forearm, a faint glowing script pulsed—resonance scars from his recent fight. “This was left by the Veilborn. They don’t manifest unless someone’s tampering with the Architect’s locked realms.”

  Someone in the audience murmured: “That’s not possible without a council override...”

  “Exactly.” Rico turned slowly. “And we haven’t had a full council vote in over 20 years. Since our leader One Fang, vanished. Since Elijah declared himself interim Arbiter.”

  Tension ignited. One of the elders stood—Priotus Nasu. His shoulders were built like mountains, his eyes like stone sharpened by war. Once the tribe’s most brilliant tactician.

  “Elijah was chosen because he kept the fires lit, You were only a child then, and you do not understand your place..” Priotus said. “While others vanished chasing relics and ghosts, he protected the now.”

  “By lying?” Rico snapped. “By controlling memory access? By hiding what the Hall won’t even whisper anymore?”

  Elijah didn’t flinch. “Some truths are too volatile to be remembered aloud. You of all people should understand that.”

  And then it happened. Halal surged forward—not just a whisper, but a pulse through Rico’s body. His eyes briefly glowed obsidian blue. His voice dropped, layered, ancient.

  “You were never meant to lead.”

  Several in the amphitheater fell to one knee. Not out of reverence. The could not help it. It naturally came out of his power and unconscious recognition.

  Elijah’s face twitched. “He speaks, then. So One Fang lives? Inside a boy with a broken past and a fragmentary soul. How pathetic!”

  “It is because of him that I remember more than you do,” Rico said. “And the more I recover... the more your lies crack.”

  Priotus stepped forward, looking between them. “If you truly carry the essence of our leader... if you claim the blood... then submit to the Rite.”

  A sharp inhale echoed from the crowd. The Rebirth Rite. An ancient Nasu tradition. Reserved for those whose bloodline claim was in doubt—or contested. A ritual not of battle... but of memory. Rico’s breath caught. He hadn’t been expecting this. Not yet.

  “You want me to walk into the Hall’s mind-echo and relive everything? Let the Echo Archive tear me apart and rebuild me... just to prove something you already know?”

  “You fear the truth it would reveal?” Elijah’s grin was surgical.

  “No,” Rico said, his voice flat. “I fear what it would hide.”

  Halal pulsed through him again. “He’s right. The Archive’s compromised. What you’d see isn’t the truth—it’s the Hacker’s edited version.”

  Rico looked around the room. “You want a leader who survives torture disguised as tradition? Or one who brings back the pieces of us that matter?”

  Murmurs. Shifting loyalties. The chamber was cracking like ice beneath too much weight.

  Elijah raised his hands. “Then we put it to a vote. Nasu law dictates the tribe must choose—through memory or blood.”

  Rico stepped forward, standing chest to chest with Elijah. “No. You don’t get to rewrite the rules with the Hacker’s pen and call it prophecy.”

  “I refuse the Rite. And I refuse your rule.”

  Silence. And then someone stood. A young woman, no more than twenty-five, her eyes glowing faintly.

  “I follow the blood,” she said.

  Another stood. “So do I.”

  And then another. And another. Elijah’s smile vanished. His hands clenched behind his back. The storm had started.

  The chamber was cloaked in a twilight hush, the kind that settles after a storm has whispered its last threat. Shadows stretched long and thin across the stone floor, cast by the flickering glow of a single lantern. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and something more elusive—a trace of iron, perhaps, or the lingering resonance of old magic. Rico stood at the threshold, his gaze fixed on the far wall.

  It was unlike the others—seamless and obsidian-smooth, absorbing the lantern’s light without reflection. This was the Mirror Wall, a relic older than even the Nasu name. Whispered about in the tribe’s annals, it was said to remember blood and betray memory. As he stepped forward, his boots made no sound. The room seemed to inhale with him, stilling time.

  “This place...” Halal’s voice, quiet in his mind, came reverent and unshaken. “It remembers.”

  Rico reached out slowly. The wall didn’t shimmer—it waited. Then, just as his fingertips neared, a breath of luminescence pulsed beneath his skin. The Mirror Wall responded with equal pulse—pale, electric-blue veins rippling out like roots searching for soil. A heat built in his hand. Not painful, but ancient. Alive. The light traced intricate sigils and runes, alien in form but intimate in feeling. They danced and whispered, weaving a story deeper than speech.

  “This was where your grandfather spoke to the Blade,” Halal said. “Where the curse, the calling, and the convergence all began.”

  The obsidian shimmered—and memory took shape. First came his father, still young, still unburdened. His eyes darted across the wall like he was searching for a name he couldn’t remember. Then his uncle—Steve—more confident, but wary, wearing a weight he didn’t acknowledge. Last came his sister, eyes wide with fear and awe, her hand trembling as it neared the surface. They all stood where Rico now stood. They all reached. They all asked. But they never stood together. Always alone.

  “The Sword,” Halal said, “chooses what the mind forgets.”

  A phrase echoed, etching itself above the runes in glowing letters:

  “The Sword chooses what the mind forgets.”

  Rico’s hand lowered, trembling slightly.

  “Why?” he muttered. “Why does it hide? Why not show us everything?”

  “Because memory is a blade,” Halal replied. “And too much truth cuts deeper than any weapon.”

  Rico closed his eyes. Flashes danced on the back of his lids—Wafu’s laugh, the sound of thunder in the simulated plains, blood staining the barn where Britt had found his son...

  “She’s in Lethe,” Rico said. “But why can’t I remember how she was taken?”

  Before Halal could answer, the room dropped ten degrees. The lantern’s flame curled back into itself and then extinguished, snuffed like a secret. The silence shattered. A vertical gash of light tore through the center of the room. Not white. Not gold. Void-light. Reality itself cracked open, and from it stepped Pantu. He looked… tired. His cloak hung like smoke. His frame moved with grace that bordered on fatigue. But his eyes? Still knives. Still stars.

  “Brother,” Halal said, echoing through Rico’s spine. “You’re not late. Just early for what’s next.”

  Pantu nodded, his gaze resting on Rico. “You’re closer than they want you to be.”

  Rico didn’t flinch. “Who’s ‘they’ this time?”

  Pantu stepped past him, glancing at the Mirror Wall.

  “Not the Architect. He’s a tool. Not the Commission. They’re pawns.” He exhaled. “The Veilborn weren’t just sent to test you. They were deployed to weaken your tether. If they had succeeded, Halal would’ve been lost forever.”

  Rico clenched his jaw. “They almost did.”

  Pantu looked to him with a gaze that carried centuries. “You were never meant to walk this path alone. You’re a symbiotic anchor. A singularity of ancestral weight. But the problem with holding the blood of gods is that you start bleeding before you’re wounded.”

  The silence between them crackled.

  “Why now?” Rico asked. “Why all this theater—this fragmentation?”

  Pantu sighed. “Because the Hacker doesn’t just want to kill you. He wants to overwrite you.”

  Rico’s eyes widened. “Like... take my place?”

  “No,” Pantu said. “He wants to replace your memory. Erase Wafu. Halal. The tribe. Replace them with grief loops so twisted you’ll forget your purpose.”

  “And if he succeeds?” Rico asked.

  Pantu didn’t blink. “Then the last anchor of Halal’s bloodline becomes a puppet of erasure.”

  Rico turned back to the Mirror Wall. “The vaults. The archive. Wafu was the key to restoring what we forgot.”

  “She is the memory,” Pantu said. “The Vault of Names wasn’t a place—it was her mind. And now, her memories are in the Hacker’s code.”

  The weight of it hit Rico like iron. Every battle, every shard, every clue—it wasn’t just about rescuing her. It was about recovering themselves.

  “She’s not just my wife,” Rico whispered. “She’s the failsafe.”

  Pantu nodded. “The moment she’s rewritten… your memories go with her. And Halal fades with them.”

  Rico turned to face him. “What do I do?”

  Pantu looked at the gash of light still open behind him. “You dive deeper.”

  “I just came out.”

  “Then go back in.” Pantu’s voice sharpened. “The Architect doesn’t know. The Hacker’s building false zones out of abandoned constructs. You’ll have one shot.”

  Rico hesitated. “How do I know this isn’t another loop? Another layer?”

  Pantu walked forward, stopped a foot from Rico, and placed two fingers on his forehead. Rico felt it—not code. Not simulation. Memory. Real memory.

  Pantu’s voice dropped, solemn. “When your grandfather died, he whispered three words: ‘Follow the Rift.’”

  “I thought that was a metaphor,” Rico whispered.

  “It was a message.” Pantu stepped back, into the voidlight. “And now you’ve heard it.”

  He paused, one foot inside the fracture in space. “But remember this—if you delay, the simulation will seal. You’ll wake up… but empty.”

  Rico stepped forward. The Mirror Wall’s sigils pulsed again—dim, but alive.

  Rico nodded. “I’m going.”

  Pantu smiled faintly. “Then the echoes are not gone.”

  With that, the Rift swallowed him. The room went dark. No flame. No light. Just the pulse in Rico’s palm and the knowledge that whatever waited next… wasn’t just a memory. It was war.

  ?The chamber was bathed in a dim, amber glow, the residual light from the portal’s collapse casting elongated shadows that danced across the cold metallic walls. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, a lingering reminder of the energy that had just surged through the room. Monitors flickered as systems recalibrated, their rhythmic beeping slowly stabilizing into a steady hum.? Rico stood at the center of the room, his breathing measured but deep, each inhale drawing in the charged atmosphere. The weight of the recent revelations pressed heavily upon him, yet there was a newfound clarity in his gaze. The cacophony of alarms had faded, leaving behind a silence that was both oppressive and contemplative.?

  He turned his attention to the primary console, its interface pulsing with a soft blue light. The data streams displayed were a chaotic jumble of code and symbols, evidence of the Hacker’s insidious influence seeping into the simulation’s core. Lines of corrupted data scrolled rapidly, interspersed with fragments of familiar sequences—echoes of memories, both his and Wafu’s, now tainted and distorted.? Halal’s voice resonated within Rico’s consciousness, a steadying presence amidst the turmoil.?

  “The integrity of the simulation is compromised. The Hacker’s manipulations are more extensive than we anticipated.”

  Rico’s jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath his skin as he processed the gravity of the situation. He reached out, fingers hovering over the console’s interface, feeling the subtle vibrations of the corrupted code beneath his touch.?

  “Is there a way to purge his influence? To restore the original framework?” Rico inquired, his voice a measured blend of determination and urgency.

  Halal’s response was contemplative, tinged with the weight of ancient knowledge.?

  “Direct intervention risks further destabilization. However, re-entering the simulation at a pivotal juncture could allow us to overwrite the corrupted sequences from within.”

  Rico nodded slowly, the pieces aligning in his mind. The path was treacherous, but it was a path nonetheless.? The chamber’s ambient lighting shifted subtly, a gentle reminder of the passage of time. Rico’s thoughts drifted momentarily to Wafu, her image vivid in his mind—a beacon amidst the encroaching darkness.? Drawing a steadying breath, he straightened his posture, the resolve crystallizing within him. He turned his gaze inward, addressing Halal with unwavering conviction.?

  “We end this. We get her back.”

  Halal’s affirmation was immediate, a resonance that echoed through Rico’s very being.?

  “And we remember who we are.”

  With purposeful strides, Rico approached the reinitialized portal. The gateway shimmered with a renewed intensity, the light coalescing into a vortex of potentialities. Pausing at the threshold, Rico cast a final glance around the chamber, etching the moment into his memory.? Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward, the light enveloping him in its radiant embrace. The familiar sensation of displacement surged through him as the world dissolved and reformed around him.? The transition was both instantaneous and eternal. As the brilliance subsided, Rico found himself standing once more on the vast expanse of the Great Plains of Southern Texas in 1864. The horizon stretched endlessly, the tall grasses swaying gently in the breeze, whispering secrets of times long past.?

  But this time, something was different. The colors seemed more vibrant, the sounds more acute. He felt the weight of countless memories intertwining within him, the legacy of his ancestors coursing through his veins. He was no longer just a man out of time; he was a convergence of past and present, a bridge between what was and what could be.? The distant rumble of thunder echoed across the plains, a storm brewing on the horizon. But Rico stood undeterred, his gaze fixed forward, eyes reflecting the storm within and without. With new eyes and an old soul, he stepped into the unfolding narrative, ready to reclaim what was lost and to forge a destiny anew.