Die. Respawn. Repeat.

Chapter 220: Book 4: Connections Through Time

Despite the loops, Fyran turns out to be both surprisingly stable and surprisingly kind. It's no surprise that the Integrators had to resort to more underhanded tricks to change him into someone they could more easily control. I didn't consider it before now—that their manipulation could extend beyond the psychological.

With the nature and existence of Firmament, all they need to do is catch someone at exactly the wrong moment. If they're pushed right to the edge and forced to undergo a phase shift...

Well, we saw what almost happened to Fyran. It's not exactly a pleasant thought. Even now, the fire-man winces as he walks, the lingering aftereffects of his aborted phase shift sending small shocks of pain through his body.

He's grateful, though. He makes his way through the mostly-abandoned tunnel, leading us toward a tavern he assures us will still be open.

"I'm doing all this for my daughter," he tells me. "She was young when I was taken. I don't know how old she is now. I think I've been in this Trial for... a year, maybe two. It's hard to keep track."

I grimace. Unlike me, Fyran hasn't encountered anyone else that can remember the loops. The Hestian Trialgoers are the closest he can get to that, and even then, all they remember are the messages they send to their past selves—and it's not like any of them are inclined to be particularly friendly.

No, for the most part they hunt him down for sport. He's had a rough time of it, from what he says. I'm surprised he's kept it together for this long, but then again, he's clearly had a very good reason.

"What's she like?" I ask. "Your daughter."

Fyran is silent for a moment. A small ripple of instability passes through his form like a wave of pain he's trying to shake off, and then he sighs. "I don't know," he says. "That's the problem. Or part of it, I suppose. She was only three when the Integration started, and her mother... isn't with us anymore. I'm sure my parents would have taken care of her, but I've missed years of her life."

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. It doesn't feel sufficient.

Fyran shakes his head. "You're the reason I remember her at all," he says. "I could feel what was happening, you know. I even wanted it to happen. I would have forgotten about her. About my wife." He hesitates. "I let myself think it would be better that way."

"Because if there's no way out, why not enjoy the trap we're in?" Ahkelios mutters. Fyran glances at him, and I see the flicker of understanding that passes between the two of them.

"Yes," Fyran admits, the word emerging a little hollow. There's an exhaustion that's wrung him through, even now. Being with the four of us—with people who understand—helps, but there's only so much we can do, especially given we don't know how long we'll be here or if we can take him back with us.

"Thank you, by the way," he adds after a moment. He doesn't quite look at me when he says the words. His fists are clenched—I don't think he's managed to get quite all his anger out—but he's calmer now, and he knows what that phase shift would have meant for him. "It would've been easier to forget, but it wouldn't have been worth it."

"That's what it always comes down to, isn't it?" I say.

"Indeed," Fyran agrees. He snorts, his fists loosening slightly as he relaxes. "That and I'm sure you scared Soul of Trade more than I could've hoped to. The look on her face was definitely worth it."

I laugh at that. "Sometimes it's the little things."

Even if I'm still going to have words with Gheraa about his impromptu little display. I have to admit, though: the look on Soul of Trade's face was definitely worth it. Even now, the Integrator looks all too smug and proud of himself. Fyran keeps throwing him curious looks, but he seems to have decided to reserve his questions for later.

Which is probably for the best. If we're going to explain everything we've been through, we're going to do it sitting down.

We walk back across the tunnel we're in for a time. Most of the people here have evacuated, but there are a few shops and inns that remain open, run by particularly brave keepers. The tavern Fyran eventually leads us to is situated not all that far from the section of the wall Guard was drawn to, and I see the way he keeps glancing in that direction, so I pull him aside as the others step in.

"There was something you were looking at," I say quietly. "We'll be nearby. Do you want to take a look without us? I'll join you when we're done."

Guard visibly relaxes and gives me a jerky sort of nod; clearly, he's been holding himself back. "I... would be grateful," he says, his voice a little strained.

"Call out if you need me." I give the bond we share in our Firmament a gentle tap to signify what I mean. We clasp our hands briefly, and I watch him for a moment as he leaves.

Then I slip back into the tavern to join Fyran, Ahkelios, and Gheraa.

The first thing I notice—with no particular surprise, considering the commotion outside—is that the place is apparently being run by a single lone bartender. She has the appearance of a giant mouse, which throws me off slightly; she also has the appearance of someone entirely too done with life, which I can relate to. She eyes us for a moment like she's evaluating whether or not it's worth confronting us about the fight, then shrugs.

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"You know what," she announces. "As long as you have coin, I don't care."

She stares at us expectantly. I don't actually have coins with me—if anything, I've actively avoided dealing with any form of currency on Hestia—but Fyran certainly does; he pulls out a small sack of coins from nowhere, then tosses her the entire sack. The bartender takes a moment to peer inside it.

Her eyes widen slightly. Just like that, she's all smiles and business. She sweeps us over toward a table,

"Welcome to the Inverted Sky!" she says cheerfully. "I'm Junia, and I'll be your server today. Mostly because everyone else ran away and I don't think I'm going to be getting a replacement for another eight hours, but also because that tip is going to cover my rent for the next three years. Thank you, by the way."

She's somehow already laying out plates as she talks, which is impressive, considering I don't think I noticed her moving to get any plates. "We also guarantee complete privacy for our VIP customers," she tells us. "By which I mean I'm the only one working here right now and I'm entirely deaf. If you want to call me over, use the button over there, then point to what you want to order. Otherwise, I'm going to pretend you don't exist. Sound good?"

Junia is very much the forward type, it seems. I take my seat, a little bemused but mostly impressed; Gheraa seems absolutely delighted, and Ahkelios is already halfway deep in the menu. Fyran signs a "thank you" at her, and she beams at him before disappearing into the back.

"I'm guessing you threw her a lot of money?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. Fyran shrugs.

"It's not the first time I've been here, and she's struggling more than she lets on," he says. "Besides, it's not that hard to get money in the loops. I usually do a few gambling runs in Coricia at the start. Why?"

I chuckle. "I never bothered. Maybe we should exchange notes."

"I might enjoy that," Fyran says, offering me a small smile.

He's learned a few things through the loops, it turns out. Fyran's approach has been very different from mine—many of his early loops were spent on searching for the exit to the Trial. It didn't take long for him to figure out the same thing many of us did, though: that the exit is a trap, and that passing the Trial has nothing to do with leaving it.

"I spent a long time wandering, after that," he admits. "Exploring, earning credits, gaining skills. You know the drill."

He doesn't seem to have encountered the same density of problems I did, at least not at first. Once the Hestian Trialgoers identified him, it was a different story—Fyran details chase after chase, dozens of loops where he's hunted for sport. It took him time to learn how to evade them.

Time he spent mostly in the Fracture.

Something in the room changes when he begins to talk about it. The Thread of Evolution begins to circle around him, a half-dozen of its connections suddenly pulling taut; the Thread of Purpose stirs from dormancy, once more wrapping itself around his core. It's only when he begins to talk about what he discovered within that I understand why.

Turns out I'm not the only one to have extracted secrets about Firmament from Hestia and her loops.

One of the biggest hurdles that Gheraa and I faced during our time in the Quiet Grove was, essentially, trying to understand what I'd done with my core. It was strong. Stronger by a large margin than any third-layer core should be, and by Gheraa's estimates capable of contending with anyone up to the fifth layer. Once he got over his awe—something that took several days of muttered examination and not a small amount of drooling—he gave me his best guess as to what I'd done.

"It looks like you somehow managed to start the imbuement process on your own soul," he said. "I had no idea that was even possible. And you're saying the Interface's categories are wrong?"

"As I understand it," I said. "Ahkelios hasn't managed to do the same thing, though."

"No," Gheraa said. "No, he wouldn't have. What you did is... I don't think you understand how incredible this is, Ethan. You cannot imbue a core

"Is that a problem?" I asked. He stared at me.

"No?" he said, but more as a question. "Yes? I don't know, Ethan! If you'd done this while the Interface connected we'd be holding entire meetings about this! And just in case you don't understand how ridiculous that is, we hate meetings."

"And here I thought I'd never relate to an Integrator besides you," I said dryly.

"I am going to pretend you didn't say that, because it's going to distract me from the very impossible thing you apparently did," Gheraa said. He grabs both sides of my chest and presses his face into it, like he can see my core just by peering close enough. Which I suppose he technically can. "Seriously, Ethan. How did you do this?"

"I just did," I said, for probably the seventh time. Gheraa groaned in frustration.

"I give up," he said. "Look, I know how fourth-layer shifts are supposed to work, so let's just... do some experimentation. Make sure you're not going to, I don't know, explode your core or something when you try it."

That led to a series of meditation exercises and several uses of Soul Space, poking and prodding at my core each time. It wasn't the only experiment we performed, but the conclusion we'd reached at the end was this:

There's one more sub-evolution I need to achieve.

What I've done to my core is something like an imbuement, and the parallels exist through the process of imbuement in general. In perfecting my core, I created pillars of stability on the third layer—a support structure of sorts that mirrors what the Integrators or the Interface do when performing an imbuement. In refining it, I transformed its base structure into something more malleable: a fluid capable of receiving any imbuement.

In its current state, my core is already capable of growing. Any absorption of Firmament makes that pool of power greater. But there's a final step needed before I can build the fourth layer on top of it.

Deepening.

It's the theoretical term Gheraa came up with, anyway. His theory is that the fourth layer will be imbued onto my existing core, but in order for that to work, I need to have a core that's large enough to support the entirety of that layer. In imbuement, the size and purity of the stone matters, and it's the same idea here.

Basically, my core is pure enough, but it isn't big enough to support the kind of fourth layer I'd probably end up imbuing into myself.

The problem we ran into after that was that while absorbing Firmament deepens my core, it doesn't do that at a rate that's anywhere near acceptable. Spending time in Firmament-dense places like the Fracture helps, of course, but even in the depths a moment ago the rate of growth wasn't particularly sufficient. Just borrowing power from Guard isn't enough, either.

What Fyran is describing, though, is perfect for it. It's exactly the evolution I thought the Web of Threads might lead to.

All I need to do is die.