Is a "sword" a euphuism? (BL)

Seated on the palanquin throne, I watched as the cultists left Andrew's body like an offering to the Chthonic god.

This was a solemn occasion, so I did not speak. Even if I had, they would not hear. Their ears were sealed with wax. Blind, deaf, numb—every sense locked away.

For their own sake.

This place was not kind to men. At least, not to living ones.

Only one among the cultists was allowed to see. Nero, my high priest. He was not mine alone; he served many gods. Unlike the Christian god, I was not a jealous one. I was a fake one, though that was of lesser importance.

With a wave of my hand, I dismissed him. Nero hesitated for a moment, then turned and led the rest of the cult out. From his perspective, it would be a long time before we met again. Not until his mortal life reached its end. For me, the wait would be shorter. Such were the ways of gods, even false ones.

As they passed through the gates, leaving my domain, I spoke aloud for the first time.

"Seal the Roman Gates, Cid."

"As you command," came the disembodied reply

Radio signals were sent through the gates, triggering a chain of small detonations. The devices attached to the gates burned out in a series of muffled cracks. No grand spectacle followed. The gates remained standing, intricate and imposing as ever. But without the devices, they were just that—gates. Painstakingly built, yes, but now ordinary.

I stood and descended the dais until I was beside Andrew. He lay before me, clad in Pretorian armor. His gladius remained sheathed at his belt, and an amulet rested over his breastplate. It was not of Roman design but crafted by far more skilled hands. A long time ago, in another world, I had found it in the ruins of Amon Sûl.

Andrew had served me well for eight years. Now, that service had come to an end.

Not that he was dead. His condition resembled a medical coma—but it reached deeper. Much deeper.

As I have said, this place was not kind to the living. Soon, it would be even less so.

I spread my arms and ordered, "Undress me."

Servant androids emerged from the shadows—pale, slender figures with the beauty of youths on the cusp of manhood. They moved with quiet precision, piece by piece removing my elaborate robes. Each item was handled with reverence, carefully stored away.

My role as the god of this mystery cult had come to an end. But that did not mean the costume itself had lost its power. For eight years, it had been an object of veneration. Faith still lingered in its fabric, and I could certainly find a use for that.

Soon, I was dressed only in a skintight jumpsuit. One of the androids offered me a lab coat, and I slipped it on. This lab coat was the sixth-generation Mystic Code. From experience, I knew that if I had chosen to wear power armor instead, I would have been far less protected.

Another android approached, offering me an assortment of rings and necklaces adorned with gemstones. I donned them, their design more fitting for the modern era.

It was a bit garish for a man to wear so much jewelry, but for someone of fame and status, eccentricity was allowed. And in truth, these accessories were hidden weapons. Each gemstone was imbued with mana. I had learned my lesson.

Now armed and armored, I issued my next command. "Open the portal to the Entrance Hall. It's time to close the Time Bridge."

Situated within a perfect square of eight by eight kilometers, Irem was slightly larger than Manhattan. It was far too large for me to traverse on foot. The city's skyline was defined by a ring of towers, each reaching heights beyond any human skyscraper—monoliths that dominated the horizon like guardians of this strange metropolis.

Aperture portals connected critical locations, allowing near-instant travel where necessary. For everything else, an intricate network of electrical trains and conveyor systems transported both people and goods to active sectors. Even so, much of Irem remained unused. I had more space than I knew what to do with.

I had begun to use parts of Irem to store additional resources—like bees gathering for the fall. After all, I could feel it: my time in this world was coming to an end. And who knew what I would need in the next one?

Tools and weapons. Fuel and ammunition. Not food—the greenhouses provided that in abundance. What I stored were metals, both common and rare, as well as complex compounds and chemicals.

These resources could prove essential. Or they could be useless.

Still, it was better to be prepared than caught without. This was not my first world, but I had yet to cross into double digits. It would be an overstatement to call myself an experienced traveler of the kaleidoscope of worlds.

"Bring him," I ordered as I passed through the portal, emerging in the Entrance Hall.

I had not named it. Some parts of Irem, which I did name, had arrived with names already assigned. There was the Entrance Hall, the Garage of Gods, and the Guardian's Greenhouse—though I usually just called it the greenhouse. Then there was the one that always made Archer laugh: the Infinite Office Worx. With an 'X.'

Not me. I had outgrown such childishness. This was not a smile on my face. Anyone who claimed otherwise deserved a good whipping.

The DnD Room, which also housed other role-playing games from different worlds and eras. Some of the editions wouldn't be published for decades.

And last—but certainly not least—the Aperture Science Data Collection and Human Suffering Enablement Chamber. 

That one had proven useful for more than just generating data. I had also used it as a cover—a classified test site requiring both materials and workers, though the chamber itself had no real need for either.

It gave me cover for stockpiling resources and some other black projects. A project that appeared profitable wouldn't normally be suspected as a front—and that made it ideal.

While my mind wandered, the androids had quietly completed the task I had set for them. One carried Andrew in a bridal carry, while the others followed close behind. It was almost comical.

The androids were designed to look like frail, slender boys, just on the verge of starting college. Meanwhile, Andrew was anything but frail. He wasn't overly burly, but he was solid—well-proportioned and large enough to make the android look absurd by comparison.

"Strip him," I ordered. In truth, I only needed to relieve him of his armor. It would also be prudent to check the bindings on the gladius. The blade housed a minor demonic entity—not particularly dangerous, but even minor entities could become a problem if not properly secured.

Still, the cover story for his absence was an alien abduction. And, well... it was tradition, wasn't it? Drop the abductee buck naked in a field somewhere.

Piece by piece, more of Andrew's taut muscles were revealed. The job of a Pretorian Prefect had done him wonders for staying in shape. Terry was in for a treat.

Still, alien abductees weren't supposed to age. He was eight years older now, but that was easy enough to fix. A trivial detail, yes, but crossing every t mattered. And besides, it made for a nice bonus—a reward for a job well done.

"Feed him Vril. Eight years' worth," I ordered.

One of the androids produced a chocolate bar infused with Vril, broke off a piece, and chewed it. With perfect precision, it leaned over and fed the unconscious Andrew mouth-to-mouth, like a mother bird tending its chick.

Warm, golden light spread from his throat and stomach, rolling back the years. But I paid little attention to that. I had enough experience with Vril now that such observations held little value for me.

Instead, I focused on the removed armor. It was a Mystic Code I had created for a singular purpose. The premature death of Marcus had left a void in history—a change that would have caused the timeline to diverge. This armor allowed Andrew to act as the proverbial Dutch boy, plugging the breach and maintaining the timeline's course.

The metaphor was apt. The void had a specific shape, and the armor made Andrew fit that shape perfectly. But without Marcus's death, there was no void to fill, leaving the armor inert. Still, I suspected I could find another use for it.

As I examined it, I hoped to confirm that the past connected to the Time Bridge was truly this timeline's past. But I suspected I wouldn't know for certain until the bridge was sealed. It was like quantum mechanics—unknowable until measured.

The Time Bridge was merely a shorthand term for a combination of effects. From what I understood—and it wasn't much—Irem existed adjacent to normal reality.

This adjacency created a peculiar phenomenon, allowing me to project parts of Irem into any location I could perceive—most notably, the entrance doors. Thus, the time machine I had built was less a device for traveling through time and more one for perceiving the past and embedding portions of Irem within it.

With the other gates in Rome now sealed, only the first gate remained active. Once I closed that, the connection between ancient Rome and twentieth-century America would decohere. Time itself would reassert its natural order, separating past and present once again.

But the problem was that the device wasn't strictly a time travel machine. If that wasn't obvious from the fact that it connected ancient Italy and twentieth-century America, it was also because it wasn't just a time-space travel machine. It could align alternate timelines as well—and that complicated things.

What I needed was a stable time loop.

The item I had left in Rome was the same one I had found in the future. Twisting time like that made for strange tenses and even stranger paradoxes.

And if it wasn't a time loop, I'd have to do this all over again—with additional steps. Retrieve the item, find the proper past, and place it there. I didn't think I had time for that. Strange to admit, coming from a time traveler—but it was true.

Was I hesitating? Or was it because of what had happened after closing the Time Bridge to 14th-century Germany?

"Cid, is the welcoming committee ready?" I asked. Once the bridge was closed, Nero would be long dead—and thus eligible for a proper welcome to Irem. I might be a fake god, but I kept my promises. The same had happened to the witches after I deliberately closed the Time Bridge to the Black Forest.

A disembodied voice replied, "Grimhilde reports that everything is ready. They're eager to welcome Nero and the others."

It was time. No more delays.

I focused and plucked the last connection linking now and then.

Reality didn't shake, but it felt like it.

I could feel Irem the way I felt my own body. The sensation that followed the closing of the Time Bridge was difficult to describe—the closest comparison was pins and needles spreading all over. And then, something new. A part of Irem that hadn't been there before. It was like suddenly gaining a new finger.

The Computer Hub. And something else. Something I didn't want to think about.

"Cid, report all changes," I ordered immediately.

"I seem to have gained a body. It is… very strange. But my capabilities have increased," the disembodied voice answered. Though, perhaps not so disembodied anymore. The governing intelligence of Irem now had a server to host itself in.

"Can you specify?" I asked.

"It will take time to properly catalog my new capabilities," Cid replied. "But for example, I now have video feeds from all personal androids."

"You could see what they saw before," I pointed out.

"Yes, but now I can store it as video files. To be reviewed. Edited. Analyzed. Also, I have noticed I can plan much more efficiently," Cid responded. Then, after a brief pause, added, "There is movement in the forest outside."

"Nero has arrived?" The question was rhetorical. The moment he stepped into Irem, I knew—just as I knew all who dwelled within and everything stored inside.

"Yes. But not just him. There are now animals in the forest."

Curiosity mingled with annoyance. What kind of creatures would dwell in a primordial twilight forest—where the trees towered above even the pillars of Irem? Where no sky was visible beneath the canopy? And where the forest itself had no end?

I knew horrors lurked in the depths. I had seen a glimpse of one once, and even I had been driven to temporary madness.

And then there was the annoyance—because there was already so much to deal with, and I could not afford to indulge my curiosity. Yet neither could I ignore the new anomaly.

But there was something else. The thing I did not want to think about. The thing I now had to face.

Fortunately, I would not have to face it alone.

Once—long before Irem, before I even knew of the forest that lurked outside—I had given Archer a key. A very special key. One that could be inserted into any door and open it to Irem and the places that preceded it, no matter where that door was meant to lead.

But as my bond with Irem grew deeper, I had learned that there was even more to that key. If I focused, if I searched, I could sense him. Waiting where we had agreed—a field suitable for dropping Andrew. Close enough to the Enrichment Center for someone from Aperture to find him, but far enough to avoid immediate surveillance. Somewhere he would be discovered soon—but not too soon.

I reached out and pushed. I could not see it, but I knew the blue police box had materialized beside him. Yes, just like that. And yet… not.

From experience, I knew that what was fiction in one world could be reality in another. So I wondered, in my wandering, if I'd ever run into the Doctor. If I did, I supposed we'd have to settle it the old-fashioned way—see whose was bigger. TARDIS or Irem.

For now, he would win, if the BBC series depicted him truthfully. But Irem had grown before, and it could grow again. Who knew?

I was distracting myself. Avoiding thinking about it.

The door that once led to ancient Rome opened again, and Archer stepped through, bringing with him the scent of lemon and something sharper.

"Drop Andrew through the door," I ordered.

It was not too soon. Feeding him Vril had more than one purpose. It was a precaution—to prevent any sickness from ancient Rome from exploding into America, after all, immunity was lost after the passage of years. And to neutralize the potion I had given him, the one that put him into a deep, deep sleep.

Archer passed by the android carrying a naked Andrew toward the open door—the same one he had just stepped through. He moved until he was at my side, then gently took my hand in his and asked, "Did everything go as planned? You look worried."

"I thought I controlled it better," I admitted, taking some small comfort in the warmth of his hand.

"For someone else, maybe. But I know you too well," he said. "If it were urgent, you wouldn't be prevaricating like this. But I can see something is bothering you."

"Wasn't that the plan?" Archer rolled his eyes. "Using the new arrivals' testimonies to check if the Time Loop is stable? Did we get the wrong Nero?"

"I'm not worried about them. My worshipers are here, led by Nero." I gestured vaguely. "And Cid—are the androids taking their testimonies as I ordered?"

"Yes, the process is proceeding as planned," Cid confirmed. "With my expanded capabilities, I can now link each testimony not just to past events, but to each other. That will allow us to confirm that all lives form a continuous chain—proof that the timeline remains singular and self-contained."

I nodded, satisfied. That would save me effort.

Then, turning back to Archer, I added, "But there's someone unexpected. Someone… perhaps native to the forest."

All traces of levity vanished from his face. "Is Götterdämmerung ready for launch?"

I blinked at the sudden shift. "Automation is nearly complete. We'll need GLaDOS for full capabilities," I answered, slightly thrown off. "But yes, it can launch."

"Can the main gun fire?" His voice was serious now.

"Yes, but… why would we—" I stopped, realization hitting me. My lips curled into a frown. "Oh. You're thinking of using ultra-heavy relativistic kinetic nuclear howitzers against our visitor?"

Archer didn't smile. "You don't think it would work. Is it too big?"

"No, our visitor is human-sized," I replied.

"So you don't think it's enough?" Archer asked. "Perhaps something more exotic?"

"No, it could kill our visitor. But that might make things worse."

I exhaled, steadying myself. "You know I can feel everything and everyone in Irem. Not much—just location, shape, a name, and a few properties. And that's how I know our visitor's name."

I met his gaze. "He Who Abides."

Archer's expression darkened. "You're saying it's dangerous?"

"I know two things about our visitor," I continued. "One—it does not resort to immediate violence. And two—if killed, it will rise again in a greater and more terrible form."

"So, quarantine?" he asked.

"I don't think we have enough information to isolate it properly," I said, considering the options. "Instead, let's greet our visitor. It would only be polite."

Archer pulled his hand from mine, his expression darkening. "You want to talk to it?" His voice was sharp with disbelief. "Did you forget what happened last time—when you caught just a glimpse of something from the deep forest? And now you want to have a conversation with one?"

"It won't attack us," I said. "I know that."

"And how certain are you?" Archer asked. "How can you be sure of something you know—but not how you know it?"

"It hasn't been wrong before," I replied.

"There's always a first time," he countered. "And even if it doesn't mean us harm, does that matter? If just being near it is enough to break our sanity?"

"We don't know that," I said. "Better to learn in circumstances we can control—rather than by chance."

"This is reckless."

"Well, it's my turn." I shot him a glance. "Last time, it was you with the reckless plan—assassinating Thatcher alone and using yourself to bait the Vril-ya retaliation squad."

"It worked, so it was a calculated risk." His voice was edged with irritation. "And besides, being reckless isn't something we should take turns on."

"Don't be greedy." I smirked. "You can't hog all the fun." Then, with a more humorous tone, I added, "Just to be clear, you're allowed to lecture me now about being reckless."

Archer let out a growl. "What's the point if you won't listen?"

"Exactly what I said before."

Archer exhaled sharply, then crossed his arms. "I'm coming with you."

"Now who's being reckless?" I countered. "It would be more prudent if I went alone. After all, who'll take care of me if I start raving mad?"

"Once was enough," Archer said flatly. "We go together or not at all."

I sighed, then smirked. "I thought we would look cute in matching straitjackets."

"Great. I'll pick the color."

"It's not far—we can take your bike." Khenumra's chariot might have been more dignified, but riding together on a motorcycle would probably calm Archer more. And I wouldn't mind being pressed against him. "Near the pool."

Archer frowned. "Since when does Irem have a pool?"

"Since our visitor arrived." I gestured vaguely. "Hopefully, it's a gift. That would indicate peaceful intentions."

Archer scoffed. "For a human, maybe. For an eldritch abomination? It could mean anything."

"Cid, open the portal to the garage," I ordered, and it obeyed immediately.

As I stepped through, I turned my head back and called, "Coming? You insisted."

Archer scoffed. "For the record, I still think this is a bad idea."

"Well, Cid, you heard him—record that," I said, a trace of irony in my voice.

"With my new capabilities, I'm recording everything," Cid replied.

The portal opened into the same place as before: the main hall of the garage. A large, open space, capped by two massive doors—one leading back into Irem, the other connected to anywhere the devices were configured to reach.

Smaller doors lined the sides, each leading to an individual berth. My palanquin was gone, taken by androids to one of those berths. Archer's bike was in another, out of sight.

I wasn't quite sure which berth the bike was in and was about to focus on my connection to Irem when Archer confidently headed toward one of the doors. I followed without question.

The bike looked familiar enough, but there were differences: a sleeker engine, slightly different tires wound from metallic alloys, and a pair of guns mounted on the front.

"Made some upgrades?" I asked.

"You're not the only one who likes to tinker," Archer answered, running a hand along the handlebars. Then, casually, "By the way, why was Andrew naked?"

"Well, it's tradition for alien abductions, isn't it?" I said with a smirk.

"Where did you pick up that tradition? Late-night TV?" Archer shot back. "I mean, the only aliens we've encountered in this world are the Vril-ya, and they don't give people back. Is that why you wanted to dump him in a field?"

"Isn't that what people expect? Waking up naked in a field after an alien abduction?"

"Or after partying heavily," Archer said.

"Eight years is a long time to party," I replied as he mounted the bike.

"Well, harmless enough—unless you probed him."

"Jealous?" I teased as I swung my leg over the seat, pressing tight against his back.

He didn't laugh. "No. It's just… too much like rape for me."

The words hit like a slap. I went still for a moment. Then I leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "I'm all about consent," I whispered, tightening my grip around his waist.

"He looks mostly the same as when you first put that armor on him," Archer said, starting the bike. "Did the armor stop him from aging?"

I chuckled. "No. I just fed him some Vril. He spent eight years in my service—I thought it was only right to give them back."

"Making him eight years younger than his wife? That's a double-edged gift." He revved the engine, and we sped from the berth into the main hall, then out into Irem's streets. "There are better ways to deal with guilt than giving people gifts they never asked for—or needed."

"I don't do guilt. It's a useless emotion," I countered. "I just felt the scales were unbalanced."

"That's just saying you feel guilty—just more poetically."

I didn't have a good retort to that, so I nipped at his ear—a bite sharp enough to feel, but not enough to draw blood. I savored the taste of him.

The bike swerved slightly to the right, and I had to tighten my grip around his waist to keep my balance, pressing against his back and feeling the warmth of him.

"No need for that," I said, flirty but faintly displeased.

"There was a pothole," he said, more seriously.

I chuckled. "That's a silly excuse. Irem's streets are pristine."

He swerved again, sharper this time, forcing me to clutch him even harder. The warmth was still there, but so was something colder—a twinge of unease.

"Not anymore," Archer said. "Look."

I looked down at the road blurring beneath us. It was hard to make out details at this speed, but I could do it if I focused.

The last time I'd paid attention to Irem's streets, they had looked so new and perfect I could almost imagine the smell of hot asphalt—if the roads of Irem were made of asphalt at all.

Now, they were worn and cracked, riddled with potholes and splintering lines. A jagged chunk of debris flashed past, and that was enough to make me look up.

It wasn't just the road.

The towers of Irem were changing too.

Ruin had come to the city—not by fire or flood, but by something slower, subtler, and more final. Entropy. Age.

The gleaming new city had aged in an instant, turning ancient and decrepit.

Irem was rotting.

No. It wasn't rotting.

It had rotted.

So long had it decayed that the flesh had stripped away to bone, and the bone had crumbled to dust.

Cracks crawled like vines up the impossibly tall towers of Irem. The air, once crisp and clean, now carried the scent of ages—dry, hollow, lifeless.

The pristine city was gone.

Irem was now a ruin of an Elder Age.

"Still think it means no harm?" Archer asked dryly, eyes fixed on the crumbling skyline. "But maybe it doesn't. Perhaps this is just... a gift. Unwanted and unwelcome. But maybe it meant well."

He glanced at me. "Like the gift you gave Andrew."

"And perhaps this has nothing to do with our visitor," I said, shivering. There was a sense of unease, like hostile eyes stared from the cracks snaking up the towers. Irem felt abandoned—and resented being left behind.

"You're grasping at straws," Archer muttered, glancing around, eyes sharp and alert, tracking potential threats.

So it wasn't just me. He felt it too.

"Anyway," I continued, forcing calm into my voice, "if the effect is still active, we should take forms more resistant to aging."

I shifted into the shape of an elf.

My limbs stretched, growing about a handspan longer, my skin tightening over lean, graceful muscles. Archer followed my lead—his hair turning blood-red, his features sharpening into something timeless.

My senses sharpened with the transformation—mundane and otherwise. My eyes could now see how the stone beneath us had worn away like mountains eroded into valleys over millennia.

Time had passed here. More than it should have.

And yet, it didn't.

The stones bore no memory of ages passed, no imprint of time's slow erosion. Only the consequences remained.

It was as if the city had aged without living, skipping across the centuries in a single, jagged leap. No progression, no sequence of events—just one moment pristine, the next decrepit.

Newborn stone, suddenly ancient.

We continued in silence, save for the occasional direction I gave when necessary. Our eyes scanned the surroundings, wary of threats.

Yet, for all the oppressive atmosphere, nothing manifested. We weren't ambushed or stalked. No sudden assault.

In fact, we saw no one. Not even a distant glimpse of movement.

The feeling of being watched never left us, but there were no watchers we could detect.

The tension curled tighter with every passing moment. The world around us remained perfectly still.

Still as a grave.

No. Not a grave.

A barrow. The resting place of a people so old that even history had forgotten them.

We saw the light first.

Even in the dim twilight, it was impossible to miss.

Irem was perpetually shrouded beneath the canopy of the Twilight Forest, where the sky never changed, and the streets were lit by the steady glow of enchanted lamps. But now, those lamps were dead and crumbling—like everything else.

And yet, ahead of us, something still shone.

A crackling violet-blue corona shone between two towers, casting perfectly still shadows across the cracked street.

As we moved closer, we saw it: an enormous obelisk of black stone, crowned with electric fire. It stood tall—monolithic and ancient—yet dwarfed by the decaying towers around it.

Mist coiled at its base, shifting in fractal patterns that twisted and reformed with an unnatural precision.

When we drew closer, we saw the mist was thin and deceptive. Beneath it lay a massive pool of water, perfectly still, reflecting the forest canopy above and the crumbling towers of Irem.

We dismounted the bike. I went first; Archer followed.

I closed my eyes, reaching out for the indescribable sensation I now recognized. When I opened them, the feeling sharpened into certainty.

"Follow me," I said softly. "I know where our visitor is."

He just nodded, clenching his fist.

We moved along the stone seats surrounding the pool, following their spiral pattern toward the figure by the water.

We advanced cautiously, slowly, but if the figure saw us, our visitor did not react.

Even when we were close enough to reach out and touch, our visitor remained still, eyes fixed on the dark water.

Up close, the figure was... underwhelming.

Our visitor appeared human—slim build, with skin the color of sun-warmed stone. The features suggested a familiar ancestry—Mediterranean, perhaps, or Egyptian—but the symmetry was too precise, the proportions unsettling in ways the mind couldn't quite grasp.

The clothing was simple at a glance: a button-up Hawaiian shirt patterned with fruits and flowers, paired with knee-length shorts. A pair of sandals lay beside our visitor, carelessly placed but perfectly aligned.

Our visitor's bare feet dangled in the water, toes occasionally breaking the surface, sending out ripples that never fully faded.

But it wasn't right.

The clothes were too fine, the stitching too precise, the fabric too smooth. Like a billionaire with more money than sense had convinced Hermès to craft "laid-back" vacation wear—for the price of a small island.

The pattern shifted slightly when we weren't looking, the fruits and flowers morphing into unfamiliar shapes.

There are as many ways to greet a stranger who might be more than they appear as there are cultures that fear them.

It's a common staple of myth and legend—encounters with wandering gods, veiled spirits, and things without names. But even across diverse rites and customs, some rules remain the same:

Neither arrogance nor deference.

One was a challenge, the other an invitation to be dominated. Hospitality was paramount, though what "hospitality" meant could vary. And to give one's true name to the unknown? Unwise at best. But a lie might present its own problems.

Inspired by our visitor's appearance, I chose to follow a rite once practiced in old Khemet, back when the pyramids still smelled of sun-baked mortar.

I stepped forward, back straight, hands open and palms up in cautious acknowledgment. As I spoke, I mentally traced spell formulas—layered defenses against malice, intrusion, or sudden assault.

"Hail, stranger who comes unbidden but not unseen.

May the sands of time bear no grudge against your passage,

and the waters of Irem reflect your steps without distortion.

This place knows you, though it has not called you.

By the old rites of guest-right and the bonds of stillness,

I ask: Do you come in peace or with purpose?"

Our visitor did not lift their gaze from the reflection in the pool, but after a moment, our visitor spoke.

The voice was... perfect.

Every word was pronounced with flawless clarity, each intonation precisely calibrated, like a native speaker of English. No accent. No regional hints. Nothing to grasp onto.

And there was no emotion. None at all.

I was used to reading more from tone than words—subtle shifts of pitch, the weight of meaning woven into inflection. But this voice was empty. Flat.

A subtle warning in itself.

"All purpose equals futility. Every peace is a lie."

That line sounded familiar.

The final sentiment of the Sith Code. The last component of the Anti-Life Equation.

Not the most auspicious greeting.

Perhaps it was coincidence. Both were grounded in well-trodden philosophical ideas—nihilism wrapped in fictional trappings. At least, in this world. And in every world I'd visited so far.

But it was neither a declaration of violence nor an acceptance of hospitality.

This was going to be... tricky.

I just needed to find the right formula.

Because that was how these encounters always went, didn't they?

A pattern. A logic. A riddle hidden in the words, waiting for the right response to unlock understanding. That was how the old myths worked—how gods were placated, how spirits were bound, how the story unfolded.

Find the pattern. Solve the riddle.

I just needed to figure out which one this was.

I turned the phrase over in my mind, examining it from different angles.

The structure. The rhythm. The cadence.

It didn't feel random. Words like that never were—not in these kinds of encounters.

Khemet? Possibly. The tone had a certain weight, the kind found in priestly invocations carved into temple walls. But Khemetian rites relied on naming, on acknowledgment of hierarchy. And our visitor… didn't care to be acknowledged.

Greek? Perhaps. The phrasing echoed the fatalism of the Chthonic gods—the cold, unavoidable truths uttered at the mouths of underworld rivers. Persephone's silence. Hades' inevitability.

Or… Norse?

That was the closest fit so far. Blunt. Stark. Like the wisdom contests of Odin when he wore the guise of a wanderer. A verbal trap: invite the challenger to respond, and in the response, reveal their ignorance.

I took a slow breath.

Yes. That had to be it.

A riddle-game. A test of perception. An ancient pattern, well-worn across countless cultures.

Find the pattern. Solve the riddle.

I just needed to play my part.

I exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch.

"All riddles have an answer. All things that walk have a name."

I met our visitor's gaze—or would have, had they ever looked away from the water.

"You sit on the edge of a city that does not know you, feet in water that does not stir.

You speak of futility, yet you remain.

You name all things as nothing. But what are you named?"

I let the words settle like stones dropped in a still pond.

"Name yourself, or be named."

It was a moment when, in myth, there should have been a pause.

A crack of thunder, a shiver in the earth, a gust of wind to mark the weight of the question.

But there was no pause.

No thunder, no shiver, no change.

Calmly. Indifferently.

Our visitor replied, voice flat, devoid of any inflection:

"Names are things people inflict. Call me whatever you want. It won't matter."

That response shouldn't have come so quickly.

The second question had passed, just like the first: without weight, without pause.

And that was... wrong.

Two questions down. One left.

In myth, the third answer always mattered.

The Greeks knew it. The Sphinx's riddle—three ages of man, three chances to get it right. Fail, and you died.

The Norse knew it. Odin tested three questions when he sought wisdom from the giant Vafþrúðnir. Answer wrong on the third, and the wisdom cost you everything.

The Celts knew it. The threefold death, the tripartite soul—break the pattern, and your fate unraveled.

The ancient Hebrews knew it. Jonah prayed three times in the belly of the great fish; three days marked his trial.

Even the shamans of the Lakota spoke of three journeys of the soul—the last one leading to the void beyond the world.

Three was never arbitrary.

The third answer was the hinge—the turning point, the moment when the truth was revealed or the trap was sprung.

And I'd already wasted two.

I felt a sting in my palms and realized I'd clenched my fists hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks. My breath shuddered in my chest.

Two answers. Both dismissed without care.

Did I miss the pattern?

The visitor's voice had been too casual, the words too simple. No riddling misdirection. No verbal bait. No sign of the game I'd expected.

Unless... that was the trick.

Reverse logic. Simplicity as deception.

But if that were true, I needed the third question to pierce the veil. The right words. The right formula.

My mind scrambled for anchors:

Egyptian invocation? Failed. Gods of Khemet demanded structure. The visitor hadn't even acknowledged it.

Norse riddle structure? Irrelevant. No playful turn of phrase. No clever parry or counter.

Greek chthonic fatalism? No. Those gods at least cared enough to judge.

Japanese kami traditions? Unlikely. Kami reacted to offense or respect, but our visitor showed no reaction at all.

Hindu cosmology? No. The great devas wield cycles of time; this presence brought only erosion.

Mesoamerican death gods? No. They demanded blood, memory, sacrifice. This one demanded... nothing.

Two questions answered. Two wrong turns.

What happened when the third came?

The stories said it could bring...

Disaster. Madness. Death.

Or revelation.

If I could just get it right.

I forced my hands open, tried to breathe. The third question was the fulcrum. I could feel it like a weightless stone balancing on a knife's edge.

I had to get it right.

I had to.

I opened my mouth. It was dry.

But before I could speak, Archer beat me to it.

His words were dire, and his tone promised violence:

"Do you mean us any harm?"

Simple. Direct. Unburdened by ritual.

I stared at him, heart still racing, the thought pounding in my mind:

What if that was the wrong one?

"All meanings are false," our visitor replied.

The words came in the same unbothered tone as before—flat, uncaring, untouched by either the formality of ritual or the threat of violence.

I braced myself.

My fingers traced the gemstones woven into my rings and bracelets, while my mind cycled through defensive formulas—offensive wards, containment spells, anything that might hold if things turned violent.

I stared at our visitor, watching for the telltale distortions of a human guise unraveling. Claws. Tentacles. A voice that cracked minds open like ripe fruit.

I waited for the whisper of madness, for the unbearable pressure of a will beyond reason.

But... nothing happened.

And in some ways, that was worse.

All my assumptions were wrong.

The weight of that thought settled into my chest like a stone in a still pond, sending ripples of cold dread through my body.

Beside me, Archer shifted. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he stepped forward. I saw the muscle in his forearm flex as his hand reached—recklessly, instinctively—toward our visitor.

I grabbed his wrist without thinking.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He shot me a sideways glance, eyes gleaming with that familiar, reckless glint.

"Your way didn't work," he said, voice low, lips curving into a tight, dangerous smile.

"So I'm going to apply a little physical persuasion."

"That's going to make things worse," I said, voice tight.

"I'm not going to kill him," Archer replied, grip tightening slightly. "Just shake him a little. You know... until some answers pop out."

"Let me try again," I said, sighing. "I think I understand more now."

Archer hesitated, jaw tight. "All right. But we have people living in Irem. Well... dead people, but they still inhabit the city."

His eyes didn't leave the visitor. "If he's a danger to them, we have a responsibility to act. We owe them that."

I frowned. "Why are you being so aggressive? This isn't like you."

I cast a quick glance toward our visitor, watching for any flicker of reaction—a twitch, a shift, a sign of interest.

Nothing.

Our visitor sat there, feet still in the water, utterly oblivious to our argument.

Archer exhaled through his nose, knuckles whitening on the grip of his sidearm. "He just rubs me the wrong way."

His voice was low, taut.

"There's something about him... It feels like a threat."

I had flirted with nihilism before.

I didn't think there was a serious magus alive who hadn't.

Magecraft drew power from belief—from meanings shared and reinforced until they became structural truths, whether those beliefs reflected objective reality or not.

If there even was such a thing as objective reality.

Those of us who practiced magecraft were well-versed in the weight of meaning. And, inevitably, the emptiness left when meaning failed.

But this...

This was something else.

This was a presence to whom "meaning" was no more significant than the pattern of cracks in old pavement. A thing that made the quest for the Root of Akasha feel less significant than crossing the street.

I swallowed hard. My throat was dry. My heart hammered in my chest.

I took a slow breath, forced my voice steady, and asked:

"Are you He Who Abides?"

No ritual. No riddle. No formula.

Just the name I had gleaned from my connection with Irem.

"I have been called that," came the reply.

The voice was the same—bland, unaffected, and empty.

No trace of truth or lie. No hesitation. No weight.

"What are you doing here?" I continued.

"I abide."

Archer snickered. It wasn't a happy sound—it was like two swords grinding together.

"Enough," he said, voice sharp. "We have people to protect. Give us some assurance you're not a threat—or we won't let you stay here."

His conviction was unwavering, his stance resolute.

There was a whisper of metal on leather as he drew his sword.

But beneath that sound, I heard something else.

The guardian angel bound to the blade stirred—a faint, familiar presence I had sensed before in battle. Its voice was like the rustle of a single wing, moving in slow, cautious beats.

But now, that presence did not rise.

It curled inward, like a child hiding beneath a blanket.

The whisper grew thin, strained.

As if the angel sought to vanish into the steel.

I didn't remember him reaching for it.

But here it was.

"You have neither power nor right to forbid or allow me," came the same bland reply. "Also, you cannot save them."

Archer's jaw tightened. "Who?"

"Anyone, really."

Our visitor's voice remained casual, detached—the kind of tone someone might use to describe a passing raincloud.

"In time, all things fall. Trying to prevent it is futile."

Archer's breath caught, and for a moment, he stood perfectly still.

I recognized that stillness.

The weight of it.

Because I felt it too.

The kind of truth that sank like ice into the bones, not because it was unfamiliar, but because we'd both thought it before.

"Maybe it is," Archer said at last, voice low. "But we try anyway."

Our visitor didn't react.

Didn't move. Didn't speak.

Because our visitor didn't care.

I saw Archer's knuckles whiten on the hilt of his sword. The urge to fight, to push back against the void, was as much a part of him as breathing.

And I couldn't blame him.

Because, deep down, I felt it too.

He had infected me with a disease called "heroism".

But I did know a cure.

Heroism only thrived in chaos and crisis. Peril was the soil where it grew like a weed.

In a perfect, well-ordered world, there would be no one to save—and thus, no heroes to be infected.

Arrange the system well enough, and no one would ever need saving again. There'd be nothing left to save them from.

But... wasn't that futile too?

Not just because of the impossibility of creating such a society—but because, even if I somehow succeeded...

No matter how pretty the sandcastle was, the tide would still come.

I didn't like thinking like that.

Because that was where philosophy led in the end:

Care for nothing. Do nothing.

Just sit by the edge of the pool, watching the water and gazing at reflections that don't care if you're there or not.

Like our visitor.

And that was when I understood.

We'd both been wrong.

To fight our visitor was like tilting at windmills.

To try to understand him was like trying to grasp empty sky—seeking meaning where there was none.

Ignorance was a bitter medicine, but it was one I had to swallow.

For now.

But I also saw the trap.

Apathy was hard to endure. We wanted to matter. And when we stood face-to-face with something that cared nothing for us, for the things we held sacred, for the meanings we wrapped around ourselves like armor—that was when we risked lashing out.

Violence born of frustration.

And if we gave in to that... if we attacked our visitor out of pride or fear...

Violence unopposed would escalate.

We'd lash out. Others would follow.

Until, inevitably, our visitor would be killed.

But that wouldn't be the end.

He would return.

In a greater, more terrible form.

And we'd have no one to blame but ourselves.

Such a simple, elegant trap.

I exhaled slowly, rolled my shoulders, and stepped back from the pool's edge.

"Whether you wish it or not, I offer you welcome," I said at last, my voice calm, my mouth quirking into a dry smirk. "And just so there's no misunderstanding, I'll assign you a guard. For your own safety. You don't mind, do you?"

I half-expected some pushback—some flicker of resistance.

Instead, I got a simple, "No. I don't mind."

I should have felt like this was a triumph—a trap sidestepped.

But with He Who Abides, even winning felt like nothing at all.

"What?" Archer's voice broke the silence. "You can't just leave it at that."

I glanced at him, eyes dry, heart hollow.

"It's a trap," I said. "I'll explain everything later. But first..."

I reached out, took his wrist in mine, and pulled him closer.

"...we're going somewhere quieter. And then we're going to fuck like rabbits."

He blinked. "What?"

"Because," I said with a grin that didn't quite reach my eyes, "nothing beats sex for dragging you out of an empty place."