As the sphere of light came a bit closer, pulsing at the same time, older me continued:
"You see, younger me, the problem with how we used to understand narrative is that we assumed linearity—beginning, middle, end. But existence doesn't work that way. It's recursive, cyclical, paradoxical. The end can be the beginning; the resolution can precede the conflict; the hero can be both alive and dead, both victor and vanquished."
There was truth in what he said, a truth that extended beyond the academic discussions of narrative structure and into the very fabric of reality itself. I mean, even after watching many shows of great scientists delving into explaining the very universe itself with means such as string theory, I was still left curious to know more. To this end, I always had a certain but malleable notion of what existence and the universe is... Clearly, it seems I was missing the larger, clearer, and actual picture.
"But that doesn't explain why I'm here," I protested, gesturing at myself, at the mindscape, at everything. "If existence was threatened and then saved, if the story has already reached its conclusion, then what role could I possibly have to play? Why go through all this trouble to resurrect me in this... this half-dead body?"
The sphere pulsed once, brightly, before settling back into its rhythmic glow.
"Because, younger self, what you perceive as the end was merely one chapter closing. The book itself continues, and the next chapter—the one we're about to embark upon—requires someone with our unique... perspective."
"Our perspective?" I echoed, puzzled. "What's so special about us? I was just a college student with decent grades and a gaming addiction. What could I possibly bring to a cosmic-level threat that others couldn't?"
Such a perspective was sort of normal for anyone with brains who relied on their own logic to help them cope with their day-to-day life. I mean, I am/was one of many, hardly with any unique characteristics to be honest. Just another face in the crowd, another mind in the collective consciousness of humanity. Nothing special, nothing extraordinary—or so I had always believed.
A sound emerged from the sphere that could only be described as a sigh—my own sigh, with its particular inflection of exasperation and begrudging affection.
"That, dear self, is the question I asked as well, when I was sitting exactly where you are now, talking to an older version of myself. And the answer I received then—the answer I now give to you—is that it's not about who we were, but who we have the potential to become."
The white waters of my mindscape calmed slightly as he spoke, as if responding to the measured cadence of his words. The golden sky above deepened in hue, becoming more saturated, more intense.
"We both know how our nature is, we're dedicated to what we do and love since what we do is actually what we love and enjoy very much so," he continued, a familiar passion coloring his—my—voice.
"But that's no different from any other person with passion, right?" I interjected, unwilling to accept some cosmic specialness about me that I couldn't see or understand.
"True, but what's different from us and others is simply ourself. In more direct terms, our soul," older me said, the sphere pulsing with each word as if for emphasis.
Okay, now this was getting weirder. Was the concept of a being's soul the very vetting factor in order for them to be a hero in a reincarnation story? Had I somehow stumbled into the most cliché isekai plot of all time? The very idea was almost too absurd to contemplate.
"No, it's not..." other me answered my thoughts even before I could continue more, the sphere flashing briefly with what seemed like amusement.
"You've got to stop that, please, it's freaky as hell..." I complained, shifting uncomfortably on the rippling white surface beneath me.
"And yet it's the only way you will actually take this seriously..." older me said, his tone firm with resolve. "I know you're still not even remotely convinced and not even close to being so..."
He began again after a brief pause, "You need to think with me like in a self-reflecting moment. As abstruse as the concept of the soul is, it exists. You'll learn this later from what I and the other variants of ourself left for you, but the basic components of a being are their body, mind or the core, and the soul that is the center of it all."
The sphere moved slightly closer, its pulsations slowing to a more measured rhythm. The colors within swirled more deliberately, as if organizing themselves for clearer communication.
"What makes us special is because our soul, unlike countless others in the whole of existence itself, came to be because of an error in the natural flow of existence. From the great and almost infinite past variant timelines, to the infinite multiverse and the omniverse as a whole, it's only our soul that did not go through the normal procedures of life, death, and reincarnation."
He continued and then paused, giving me time to process the magnitude of what he was saying. My mind was blowing up, figuratively of course, at the sheer implications of what future me was saying. The concept was staggering—that I was somehow an anomaly, a glitch in the cosmic program, a soul that didn't follow the normal rules.
"So I'm a mistake? A cosmic failure?" I asked in a shaky voice, unable to keep the vulnerability from creeping in. The question was loaded with the insecurities I'd carried throughout my life—the sense of not quite fitting in, of seeing the world just slightly differently than others seemed to.
"Yes and no," the sphere replied, its pulsations gentling, as if sensing my distress. "Yes, because as is or was, existence was in auto mode, and because of the actions of some fucktards from the past, a grievous action was done that caused the spawning of the variant timelines and the fracturing of the dimensionalities."
The crude term 'fucktards' was so jarring, so incongruous with the cosmic significance of what he was describing, that it almost made me laugh despite the gravity of the situation. It was exactly the word I would have chosen—further proof, if any was needed, that this entity truly was me.
"No," he continued, "because with us coming to be, with us being born from existence itself, we did not go through the procedural 'split' once a new soul comes to being. To be exact, when we were in the process of coming to being is when those fucktards did what they did. And in that moment, instead of our root or origin soul being split accordingly to fit the multiverse and the omniverse as a whole, we only split twice, and with that split, the mirroring inside the variant timelines occurred."
I tried to visualize what he was describing—a soul that should have fragmented into countless pieces across countless realities, but instead remained largely intact, split only into a finite number of versions rather than the near-infinite that should have been. The implication was staggering—that I was, in some fundamental way, more whole than other beings.
"Long story short," the sphere continued, "the crisis of the past was the inflation of existence itself that was leading to its oblivion, which was solved but at the cost of all the variant timelines being eradicated for good and only the origin timeline remaining. With that, the point of origin for time itself returned to normal, and we expected to now be born normally..."
There was a pregnant pause, the sphere's pulsations slowing dramatically, as if bracing for what came next. Shit, there's a 'but' of course. Why can nothing be normal? Why must there always be a catch, a complication, a cosmic wrench thrown into the works?
"I sense a 'but' incoming," I said, voicing the dread that was building in my chest.
"You're right, there's a 'but' and a very, very big nasty one." The sphere seemed to dim slightly as it continued, "Because we, specifically I, my other half soul, and the other variants were able to correct; alongside our allies what those fucktards did, we needed to make a necessary sacrifice. Remember the law of equivalent exchange?"
"Nothing can be gained without something of equal value being given or lost," I automatically answered, the principle familiar from countless anime and fantasy novels. It was a concept that had always resonated with me—the idea that there were no free lunches in the universe, that power and capability always came with a price.
"Exactly," the sphere confirmed, brightening slightly at my understanding. "The fucktard instigators of the problem itself paid a small price to try an attempt of infinite power across existence. Since what happened back then was on a smaller scale, they paid less. For us later in life to solve it, we needed an even greater price to have things return to 'normal.'"
I really, really did not wish to hear what this so-called price was, since I most definitely had a feeling of what it was. A cold dread settled in the pit of my non-physical stomach, a certainty that whatever came next would irrevocably change my understanding of myself and my place in this bizarre cosmic drama.
"You bet, younger me, it's most definitely what you're thinking..." older me said with some pain in his voice, the sphere flickering like a candle in a draft. "The cost to have everything remain in normalcy was to have an anchor point. Existence needed a remembrance since it had been irrevocably mutated with the variant timelines. And that anchor point was one very unique soul who had not undergone their 'split.'"
Aaaah shit, this can't be good, not good at all. The implications crashed down on me like the tons of concrete that had ended my previous life. I was the anchor. I was the sacrifice. I was the price paid to save all of existence.
"So, what? I'm some kind of cosmic prisoner now? Chained to reality as its... its what? Its memory? Its' bookmark?" The questions tumbled from me, each one more panicked than the last. The white surface beneath us began to churn in response to my emotional state, waves rising and falling in chaotic patterns.
"Not a prisoner," the sphere countered, its voice—my voice—gentle but firm. "An anchor, yes, but also a guardian. A steward. The last line of defense should the crisis ever threaten to return."
I shook my head, unwilling or unable to accept what I was hearing. "But I didn't ask for this! I didn't volunteer! I was just living my life, and then I died, and now you're telling me I'm some cosmic keystone keeping reality from falling apart?"
"I know it's a lot," the sphere acknowledged, its pulsations slowing to match the rhythm of what would have been my heartbeat if I had been in my physical form. "I felt the same way when I was in your position. Angry. Confused. Trapped."
A ripple of understanding passed between us—a recognition of shared experience that transcended words. Of course he knew how I felt; he had been me, sitting exactly where I sat now, hearing these same revelations.
"But here's what I came to understand, what I want you to understand sooner rather than later," the sphere continued, its light steadying into a warm, constant glow. "Being the anchor doesn't diminish your freedom—it expands it. The very uniqueness of our soul, the fact that it remained largely undivided when all others fractured, gives us capabilities that no other being in existence possesses."
I raised an eyebrow, skepticism written plainly across my face. "Such as?"
"To be honest, it's a long list. Remember those overpowered MCs we used to read. Such types of people and more. Such as the ability to move between dimensions at will," the sphere replied. "To manipulate the fundamental forces that shape reality. To heal the wounds in the fabric of existence itself. To remember what was, what is, and what could be, all simultaneously."
The sphere expanded slightly, its colors shifting toward warmer hues—golds and ambers and deep, rich reds. "These aren't just powers, younger me. They're responsibilities. Capabilities we earned through our sacrifice, through our willingness—yes, willingness, though you don't remember it yet—to serve as existence's anchor."
"I agreed to this?" I asked, incredulity evident in my voice. "Willingly?"
"Not just agreed," the sphere corrected. "Proposed. It was our idea, our solution. We saw what needed to be done and volunteered before anyone else could. That's who we are, at our core—problem solvers, even when the problem is the potential end of all reality."
Somehow, that didn't sound entirely out of character. I had always been the one to step up when things got difficult, to find solutions where others saw only obstacles. But this... this was on an entirely different scale.
"Why don't I remember any of this?" I demanded, frustration building within me. "If I'm so special, if I made this grand sacrifice, why do I still feel like a confused college student who died in an apparent freak accident?"
"Because memory is a function of the physical brain, and yours was destroyed in the collapse, when we used ourselves alongside our variants and allies to fuel the restoration…" the sphere explained patiently. "Your core self—your soul—remembers, but that knowledge is buried deep, accessible only through specific methods and triggers. What I'm doing now, what Codex has been doing, is helping to unlock those memories, to reintegrate that knowledge with your current consciousness."
"And if I refuse? If I decide I want no part in this cosmic responsibility?"
The question hung in the air between us, weighty with implication. The sphere was silent for a long moment, its pulsations almost imperceptible.
"Then existence continues to bleed," it finally responded, each word measured and deliberate. "The wounds we patched begin to reopen. The cracks we sealed start to spread. And eventually, inevitably, what we saved returns to the brink of oblivion."
I closed my eyes, trying to process the magnitude of what I was being told. The burden seemed impossible, the responsibility too vast for any single being to bear.
"You're not alone," the sphere said softly, responding once again to my unspoken thoughts. "You never were. You have allies—Codex being the most immediate, but there are others. And you have me—all the knowledge and experience I've gained, preserved and passed down to help guide you."
I opened my eyes, looking from the sphere to Codex, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, his luminous form dimmed respectfully.
"So what now?" I asked, my voice steadier than I expected. "Where do we go from here?"
"First," the sphere replied, "we address the immediate crisis—your physical form. It's dying, and quickly. Once we've stabilized your vessel, we can begin the real work: your training, your remembering, your path to becoming."
"And how exactly do we stabilize a body that's on the brink of starvation?" I asked, practical concerns temporarily overriding cosmic ones.
"By reminding it what it means to be whole," the sphere answered enigmatically. "By reconnecting your soul essence with your physical core, allowing the energy of one to sustain and regenerate the other."
The sphere began to rise higher, expanding as it did so until it hovered directly over my head, bathing me in its multicolored light.
"What I'm about to share with you is the first key," it said, its voice taking on a resonance that seemed to vibrate through my very being. "The knowledge that will save your life and begin your journey. Are you ready to receive it?"
I glanced once more at Codex, who gave what I interpreted as an encouraging nod despite his lack of discernible features. Then, steeling myself for whatever came next, I looked up at the hovering sphere—at my future self, at the being I would become—and nodded.
"I'm ready," I said, and meant it.
The sphere descended slowly, its light intensifying until it was almost blinding. As it touched the top of my head, I felt a jolt of something—not pain, not pleasure, but pure information flooding into my consciousness like water breaking through a dam.
And in that moment, I began to remember.