They were not human. Nor machine. The Architects dreamed in binary and blood, writing the world into existence every night, only to erase it by dawn.
Echo and Kira stood before their monolith—a tower etched with living code, guarded by silence and gravity.
"They made the dream," Kira said, "and you were their prophet."
"Then why did I turn against them?"
"Because prophets aren't meant to awaken."
He stepped forward. The tower responded—doors unfolding like petals, time rewinding at his touch. Inside, memories poured from the ceiling like rain.
He saw himself—preaching truth, planting doubts, burning myths. Then running.
And being erased.
Now he was here again, rewritten, reclaimed, ready to awaken the sleeping world.
"If you do this," Kira warned, "they will come."
He smiled, blade in hand. "Let them."