The City of Fragments

 
The city didn't get closer as Akira walked.
For three hours—or what felt like three hours; time moved strangely here—the twisted towers remained at the same impossible distance, as if the ground itself was moving backward beneath his feet. His legs ached. His throat burned with thirst. But the Mark of Silence on his arm pulsed steadily, a cold metronome reminding him he was still here, still *something*.
The wasteland around him was littered with debris that didn't belong: a rusted bicycle half-buried in purple sand, a grand piano with keys made of bone, street signs in languages that hurt his eyes to read. Evidence of other worlds, other lives, all ending up here.
*How many people have died and woken up in this place?*
He passed a crater filled with what looked like frozen lightning—blue-white branches suspended in mid-strike, crackling faintly. He gave it a wide berth.
Then, without warning, the city was right in front of him.
One step: distant horizon.
Next step: towering walls of dark stone, sixty feet high, covered in the same geometric patterns that marked his arm. A massive gate stood open—or rather, the gate was *missing*, leaving only the archway and the shadows beyond.
Akira stopped at the threshold.
From inside came sounds: voices, movement, the clang of metal on metal. Life. Or something approximating it.
He stepped through.
---
**The City of Fragments** sprawled before him like a fever dream architecture.
Buildings leaned at angles that defied gravity. Streets spiraled upward into the air before ending abruptly. Staircases led to nothing. Bridges connected towers that shouldn't exist in the same spatial dimension. The sky visible between structures was a different color than the sky above—green-tinged and cloudy, as if each district existed in its own pocket reality.
People moved through the chaos with practiced ease.
*No—not people.*
Akira's breath caught.
Some were humanoid, yes—but others had too many limbs, or eyes that glowed from within, or skin that seemed to shift between solid and translucent. A woman passed him with moth wings folded against her back, their patterns forming words in a language he almost recognized. A child ran by, laughing, leaving footprints of blue fire that faded after three seconds.
And there—a man whose shadow moved independently, carrying a basket while the man himself stood still.
*Wanderers,* Akira realized. *All of them. People from other worlds, changed by this place.*
Or changed by themselves.
No one paid him attention. He was just another lost soul in a city of the displaced.
Akira walked deeper, trying to process everything at once. Market stalls sold things that shouldn't exist: bottled emotions in glass vials, memories on strips of paper that moved like film, weapons that whispered promises. Currency seemed to be crystallized belief—small shards of colored light that people exchanged.
He had none.
His stomach growled, reminding him that philosophical crises didn't exempt him from biological needs.
"First day?"
Akira spun.
A girl leaned against a wall that was simultaneously vertical and horizontal, depending on the angle you looked at it. She appeared around sixteen, with short silver hair and eyes too old for her face. She wore mismatched armor—a pauldron that looked futuristic, a breastplate that seemed medieval, and boots that belonged in a punk concert.
"How did you—"
"Know?" She smirked. "You're staring at everything like it personally offended you. Plus, your Mark is still fresh. See how it pulses?" She tapped her own wrist, where a different symbol glowed—a flame consuming itself. "Mine's stabilized. Means I've been here at least a month."
"A month." Akira's voice came out hollow. "You've only been here a month?"
"In Fragment City, yeah. In Astraeon?" She shrugged. "Time's weird. Could be a month. Could be a year. Depends on which Sovereign's domain you're in."
She pushed off the wall and approached him with the confidence of someone who'd learned to survive. Up close, Akira noticed scars on her hands—thin, precise cuts that formed patterns.
"I'm Yuki," she said. "And before you ask the three questions everyone asks: One, no, you can't go back. Two, yes, this is real. Three, you will die for real here if you're not careful." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Now. You hungry?"
Akira's stomach answered for him.
Yuki laughed—sharp and bitter. "Come on. I know a place that takes charity cases."
---
The tavern was called **The Hollow Reprieve**, which Akira thought was either poetic or deeply depressing.
Inside, it was crowded with Wanderers of every possible description. A man with clock gears visible through his transparent chest played cards with a woman whose hair was literal water, flowing and dripping but never emptying. In the corner, someone was crying silently while their tears formed tiny crystals that clattered on the table.
Yuki led him to a booth in the back.
"Grayson!" she called. "Got a newbie. Needs orientation and food."
A massive figure emerged from the kitchen—eight feet tall, with skin like weathered stone and four arms, each holding a different cooking implement. His face was surprisingly gentle.
"Another one?" His voice rumbled like distant thunder. "How'd they die?"
"Train accident," Akira said quietly.
Grayson nodded, as if this was ordinary. "Vehicular trauma. Common. You'll want the stew." He didn't wait for confirmation before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Yuki sat across from Akira, studying him. "So. Akira, right? Your Mark told me."
"It... what?"
"Marks recognize each other. Resonate. Yours is screaming 'Silence,' which means negation, which means you're either going to be incredibly powerful or incredibly dead." She leaned forward. "What were you, back home? Before?"
"Student. Philosophy."
"Ah. That explains the existential crisis look." She grinned. "Let me guess—read too much Nietzsche, decided nothing matters, then got really upset when the universe agreed with you?"
The accuracy stung.
"Something like that."
Grayson returned with two bowls of stew that smelled like comfort and spices Akira couldn't name. He ate mechanically, realizing he hadn't had food since—
*Since before I died.*
The thought should have been horrifying. Instead, it felt distant, like something that happened to someone else.
"Okay, orientation," Yuki said, picking at her own food. "Astraeon 101. This world is shaped by conviction. The stronger your belief, the more real your power becomes. People who believe they're strong *become* strong. People who believe they're fast *become* fast. Identity equals ability."
"That's... insane."
"No, that's philosophy weaponized." She gestured around the tavern. "Everyone here died. Everyone here couldn't accept it. So we ended up in a place where belief literally writes reality. The Sovereigns—the seven big players—they've perfected it. Each one embodies a philosophy so completely that they've become demigods."
Akira thought about the figure from the wasteland. "Someone told me I was marked because I 'reject meaning.'"
"The Mark of Silence, yeah." Yuki's expression grew serious. "It's rare. Maybe one in a thousand Wanderers get it. It means your power comes from negation—from denying the reality others create."
"How does that even work?"
"That's the thing." She leaned back. "Most people spend weeks or months figuring out their Gift. They meditate, they train, they find their conviction. But you?" She pointed at his Mark. "You got the nuclear option right away. The ability to say 'no' to existence itself."
"That doesn't sound like power. That sounds like—"
"Suicide?" Yuki finished. "Yeah. Using the Mark of Silence costs you. Every time you negate something, you lose a piece of yourself. Memories. Personality. Eventually, identity." Her eyes held something that might have been pity. "There was a guy, three years ago. Had the same Mark. Became the most powerful Wanderer anyone had seen—could cancel entire armies with a thought."
"What happened to him?"
"He won every battle. And then one day, he woke up and didn't remember why he was fighting. Didn't remember his name. Didn't remember *that he should exist*." Yuki's voice dropped. "They found him in an alley, faded into nothing. Just the Mark left behind, burning itself out on empty air."
Akira stared at his arm. The spiral pattern pulsed, cold and patient.
"So I'm cursed."
"No." Grayson's voice made them both jump. The massive man had returned, wiping his hands on an apron. "You're a question given form. Whether that's a curse or a gift depends on how you answer it."
"Everyone here talks in riddles," Akira muttered.
"Because this is a world of riddles." Grayson sat—or rather, *folded*—his huge frame into the booth, making it creak. "Astraeon exists because millions of souls across countless worlds couldn't accept death's finality. We pooled here, in this space between existence and void, and our collective refusal to end created... this." He gestured broadly. "A place where the only law is conviction."
"The Sovereigns rule because they have the strongest convictions?"
"Exactly. They've each chosen a philosophy and become it so completely that reality bends around them." Grayson counted on his fingers. "The Sovereign of Order believes structure is meaning. The Sovereign of Freedom believes choice is sacred. The Sovereign of Nihilism believes nothing has inherent value. And so on."
"And they're at war?"
"Constantly. Not with armies—though they have those too—but with ideas. Every battle is a debate made physical. Every victory proves their worldview correct, which strengthens them." Yuki traced patterns on the table. "Wanderers like us get caught in the crossfire. Some choose sides. Some try to stay neutral. Most just try to survive long enough to figure out what they believe."
Akira absorbed this, his mind racing. "What happens if a Sovereign's philosophy is completely disproven?"
The tavern went quiet.
Several nearby conversations stopped. Faces turned toward their booth—some curious, some afraid.
"Don't," someone whispered.
But Grayson answered, his voice heavy. "They cease. Not die—cease. Erased from reality because their foundation collapsed. It's only happened once, two hundred years ago. The Sovereign of Love."
"What happened?"
"Someone proved love was just chemical reactions and evolutionary impulses. Reduced it to biology. The Sovereign tried to fight back, to prove love transcended mechanism, but..." Grayson's expression darkened. "When her conviction broke, so did she. Along with everyone who'd tied their existence to her philosophy. Forty thousand Wanderers gone in an instant."
Silence.
Then Yuki spoke, forced levity in her tone. "So, yeah. Don't go around destroying worldviews unless you want mass casualties."
Akira looked down at his Mark. *The ability to negate existence itself.*
"I'm dangerous," he said quietly.
"We're all dangerous," Grayson replied. "The question is what you'll do with it."
---
They talked for another hour—Yuki explaining the city's districts, Grayson offering advice on surviving a world where reality was negotiable. Akira learned that Fragment City was considered neutral territory, a place where Wanderers could rest between conflicts. Beyond its walls, Astraeon was divided into seven domains, each reflecting its Sovereign's philosophy.
"Most new Wanderers stay in Fragment City for a while," Yuki said. "Figure out their Gift, build up their conviction, maybe join a faction."
"Or they get recruited," Grayson added grimly. "The Sovereigns send scouts. They look for useful talents."
"And the Mark of Silence would be *very* useful," Yuki said. "Which means you need to keep a low profile until you figure out what you're doing."
Too late.
The tavern door exploded inward.
Not with force—it simply *ceased*, the wood and hinges and concept of "door" negating into non-existence. Through the empty frame stepped three figures in identical white armor that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
The symbol on their chests: a perfect circle, bisected by a single straight line.
"The Sovereign of Order sends greetings," the lead figure announced, voice distorted and mechanical. "We seek the one who bears the Mark of Silence."
Every head in the tavern turned toward Akira.
He stood slowly, heart hammering. "What do you want?"
"To extend an invitation." The figure's helmet tilted. "The Sovereign has watched your arrival. She believes chaos erodes meaning, and your Gift—properly controlled—could bring silence to the disorder plaguing Astraeon. Serve Order, and you will understand purpose."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you will be eliminated as a variable. Order cannot tolerate wildcards."
The temperature in the tavern dropped.
Yuki's hand moved to a blade at her hip. Grayson stood, all four arms tensing. Around the room, other Wanderers prepared for violence.
But Akira felt something else stirring.
The Mark of Silence, responding to his fear, his confusion, his fundamental rejection of being forced into choice.
It pulsed.
Cold spread from his arm through his entire body.
"I..." Akira's voice came out strange, layered with something that wasn't quite sound. "I refuse."
The word *refuse* carried weight—physical, metaphysical—and the lead figure *staggered*, as if struck.
"Impossible—" they started.
But Akira wasn't done. He didn't know what he was doing, operating purely on instinct and terror, but the Mark responded to his rejection, his negation, his fundamental unwillingness to be defined by anyone else's philosophy.
"I reject your invitation," he said, and reality rippled.
The three figures' armor began to *crack*—not physically, but conceptually. The idea of their protection, their identity as soldiers of Order, started to unravel under the pressure of Akira's negation.
Then pain hit him like a freight train.
His vision blurred. His knees buckled. The Mark burned cold, so cold, and he could feel something *tearing* inside his mind—a memory, a piece of himself, being consumed as payment for the power.
He collapsed.
The last thing he heard before darkness took him was Yuki shouting something, and the sound of the Order soldiers retreating, their cracked armor screaming like broken glass.
Then nothing.
---
**When Akira woke, he was in a small room, lying on a cot that smelled like old leather.**
Yuki sat in a chair beside him, sharpening her blade with methodical strokes.
"Welcome back," she said without looking up. "You were out for six hours."
Akira tried to sit up, winced. "What... did I do?"
"Scared the shit out of Order's scouts, that's what. They ran like you were contagious." She finally met his eyes. "You negated their conviction. Attacked the *idea* of who they were. That's advanced stuff. Most people with the Mark take years to figure that out."
"It hurt," Akira whispered.
"Yeah. It does. You paid for it." Yuki set down her blade. "What did you lose?"
He searched his memory, felt the gap immediately. "My... my childhood pet. A cat named Haru. I can remember *that* I had a cat, but not what she looked like, or how she felt, or..." His voice cracked. "She's just... gone."
"That's the price." Yuki's expression was sympathetic but firm. "Every time you use the Mark, you lose something. Small at first. Bigger later. That's why it's so dangerous."
Akira looked at his arm. The Mark had dimmed slightly, as if satisfied.
"Grayson says you can stay here," Yuki continued. "The Hollow Reprieve has rooms for people in trouble. But Akira?" She leaned forward. "Order will come back. And next time, they won't offer an invitation. You made yourself known. The other Sovereigns will hear about this."
"So what do I do?"
"You have three options." She counted on her fingers. "One: hide. Stay in Fragment City, keep your head down, hope everyone forgets about you. Two: choose a Sovereign. Pledge yourself to a philosophy and gain protection. Three: get stronger. Fast. Strong enough that no one can force you into anything."
"Which would you choose?"
Yuki smiled, sad and sharp. "I already chose. I serve Freedom—the Sovereign who believes choice is sacred above all else. But I chose that." She tapped his chest. "You need to figure out what *you* believe. Because in Astraeon, your conviction is your lifeline."
Akira thought about the question the hooded figure had asked in the wasteland.
*What are you willing to become to prove you exist?*
He'd spent his whole life rejecting meaning, rejecting purpose, believing that nothing fundamentally mattered.
And now he was in a world where that belief could literally unmake reality.
"I don't know what I believe," he admitted.
"Then you better figure it out," Yuki said, standing. "Because the world won't wait for your existential crisis to resolve itself."
She left him alone in the small room.
Akira sat in the darkness, feeling the weight of his Mark, the absence where a memory used to be, and the terrifying knowledge that he was powerful precisely *because* he believed in nothing.
Outside, Fragment City hummed with countless lives, countless convictions, countless souls trying to prove their existence mattered.
And somewhere beyond the walls, seven Sovereigns waged their endless war of philosophies.
Akira closed his eyes.
*What do I believe?*
The question echoed in the silence.
Unanswered.
---