The Archived Past

The dust had settled. The flickering torches buzzed softly in the chamber, casting orange light over the blood-slicked floor. Bodies – rogues and scholar alike – lay strewn about, some breathing shallowly, others ominously still.

Ren sat curled beside Yume, his knees tucked to this chest, trembling.

Yume flinched. She gently wrapped her arms around him, her hand brushing through his hair. “It’s over,” she murmured. “You’re safe.”

But the words didn’t feel real.

Nearby, two survivors stirred. A man with silver-streaked hair leaned against the wall, clutching his side, while a younger woman with thick glasses crouched beside him, checking his bandages.

“You’re not with the Order, are you?” the man rasped.

Asahi stepped forward, still dusting ash from his coat. “We’re here for a different purpose. Besides, didn’t we just save your lives?”

The man gave a weak smile. “Then I suppose we owe you a thanks.”

Haruto narrowed his eyes. “Are you the Archivists?”

The woman nodded. “…We were.” She stood and offered a short bow. “I’m Mei. That’s Elder Jiro. The rest of our ‘companions’ are either unconscious or…”

Her voice faltered. She didn’t finish.

Haruto didn’t press.

Yume stood. “I… remember you,” she said softly. “Mei… Elder Jiro…”

Mei’s face shifted with recognition and guilt. “Yume?! How are you? It’s been so long!”

Haruto turned to ask: “You know each other?”

Mei responded: “Yes. When she fled the Sanctuary, she came here first. But we feared the Order would return… our base wasn’t safe.”

Elder Jiro looked at Yume with a steady gaze. “We never meant to turn you away. We just hoped you’d survive long enough to find allies.”

Yume’s shoulders eased. There was a strange, unexpected warmth in hearing she’s been protected.

“You’re lucky,” Jiro continued. “The ones who found us back then… weren’t nearly as kind.”

“So,” Haruto said, stepping forward. “Can you explain what’s going on? No riddles. Just the truth.”

Jiro’s lips thinned.

“Our ancestors were tasked with guarding the Veil. They never told us what would happen if it broke – only that it must not. It was passed down through generations like scripture: watch the Veil, preserve the balance, ensure its sustenance.”

“And yet,” Mei added bitterly, “not everyone believed in obedience.”

Jiro nodded. “A few years ago, a splinter formed among us. An extremist faction. They called themselves the Order. Led by someone they refer to as the Sovereign. They believed the Veil wasn’t a barrier, but a door. A path to truth.”

"His real name," Mei added with a low and grim voice, "was Ishikawa. Though, its known only to a few people close to him."

“The Order…” Haruto muttered. “They been planning this for years.”

“They infiltrated everything,” Mei said. “Politics. Research facilities. They orchestrated an entire infrastructure behind our backs.”

“Then, Sanctuary 7…” Yume said, frowning.

Jiro added. “It was a research lab built to study the Veil fragments. Headed by three scientists: Ishikawa, Naomi, and… Yukawa.”

Asahi’s eyes flicked to the side, but he said nothing.

“The Order believes they can harness what lies beyond,” Mei continued, “but the Veil was never meant to be touched. Their experiments fractured it. They didn’t break it completely but they sure as hell damaged it. Besides, they were also running other experiments on small kids.”

Jiro’s voice grew grim. “The world’s descent into chaos – the madness, the sudden violence, the strange behaviors you’ve witnessed – all of it is a result of their actions. The Veil leaked something into the world. Null energy”

“Null energy? So is the Veil-sickness a consequence of that?” Yume echoed.

“It’s not physical,” Jiro explained. “It’s… metaphysical. It east at thoughts, memories, identity. And yes, it is suspected to be the cause of the Veil-sickness.”

Yume’s expression faltered. “That explains so much…”

Asai nodded, but again, with a strange hollowness.

Jiro’s gaze hardened. “Now, all that’s left is to complete what the Sovereign started. The fracture was the first step. But to fully awaken the Veil… they need a ritual.”

Ren went still.

Jiro turned solemn. “The ritual calls for the sacrifice of those ‘touched’ by the Veil – those who’ve been affected by the Null energy. Their lives fuel the final breach.”

Ren’s breath caught in his throat. His fingers clenched around the hem of Yume’s coat.

A memory surfaced – Aoi, bound on the cross, while her body was twisted in grotesque ways he couldn’t comprehend.

He lurched forward and dry-heaved.

Yume pulled him into her arms, whispering softly. “I don’t know much but… don’t look back.”

Haruto crouched beside Jiro. “So, this accident… wasn’t an accident after all?”

Mei nodded grimly. “Yes. It was a controlled descent into chaos. And now, they just need a few more… sacrifices.”

Silence fell.

Then Yume looked up, frowning slightly. “Back there… you called Ren the Painter. Why?”

Mei’s eyes widened. “You’ve heard of the Traveler?”

Haruto and Asahi shared a glance before immediately turning back.

“According to our ancestors,” Mei said slowly, “the Traveler is a being who exists across timelines – fragments of their mind scattered across possible words. They came to our ancestors once and warned of the future. This is where the prophecy came into being.”

She turned to Ren.

“And they said: The Painter will be the last one who remembers.”

Ren blinked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Asahi asked.

Mei shrugged faintly. “We don’t know. Only that this ‘Painter’ would be the key to either stopping or accelerating the end.”

Ren stared at the floor.

Yume reached out, placing her hand over him. “You’re more than prophecy. That’s all that matters.”

Jiro leaned back against the wall. “We’ll need time to recover. But if you truly intend to stop this ritual, we’ll tell you everything we know.”

Haruto nodded once, steady and intense. “We’re not walking away.”

Asahi lingered near the back. A flicker of expression crossed his face. Something unreadable.

Asahi gave a strange little smile, but his eyes didn’t match it. He put his hands in his coat pockets.

And behind him, the photo’s folded edge peeked out slightly from his pocket.

Aiko’s face.

A memory best left buried.