"Alright. Alright. Stop showing off. You got it. Happy? Pay your tuition in pieces of jewelry if we survive, okay? Can we move on now? It's not like it matters before you imprint a Vision onto it."
Vern nodded. She was right. From what Cera had told him, his Thought Space would remain unstable until he imprinted a Vision on it. And according to Esther's new information, he was better off imprinting an original Vision than anything else.
That it would lead to the most flexible Thought Space. He didn't know what it meant to have a 'flexible' Thought Space, but it was clearly better than the other way around.
However, there was a problem.
A big one.
Now that he knew she was just assessing him based on emotional cues and not literally reading his innermost thoughts, he let the memories of that event surface in his mind. And of that man.
Hensen Vehen.
It was like waking up from a dream only to find yourself at the edge of a cliff. Sure, all this talk about the Third Rune, creating original Visions, and having a malleable Thought Space sounded enticing, almost liberating.
But what about the cost? There was a reason he hadn't dared mess with that rune up until now. He went so far as to muddle through the whispers caused by that scar in the sky head-on, instead of relying on the rune to soothe his nerves.
Hensen wasn't just some abstract concept or a distant authority—he was a guillotine waiting to fall. It was already a miracle that he hadn't come knocking on Vern's door, demanding him to pay the toll.
Who knew how many times Vern could trigger the Rune before Hensen was alerted?
Using the rune was nothing short of Revolver's reckoning—a few chambers, but just one bullet. Maybe the next pull of the trigger would be the one that spelled his doom—alerting the madman.
But then what should I do?
.
.
.
What would be a good balance?
And this launched him into another tangent. How much usage could he eke out of a single trigger of the rune? If he could—
Cutting off his thoughts, Esther spoke, "This much Synergy should be enough. Come. Reach out to the Essence Strands. Let's see if the hope you gave me was worth not being depressed over."
"Umm, Esther, actually, one more question."
She glared at him, "This conversation may not cost us time, but it costs me my Representation. Can it wait?"
Representation?
She had also used this word a while ago when she described what her mother could offer him. But given the context she just used it in, it seemed as if this was the resource that depleted when one used their Visions.
But it's quite a peculiar term to use as a depletable resource. If I think about it literally in this context, Representation should mean the amount of things she could represent through her own viewpoint.
That felt right. It might not be the exact definition, but he had to be close. He could maybe even figure out the amount of Representation he had at some point.
Taking his silence as an answer, she decided, "So it's not important. Now, get to it. If I end up being just a little short of the Representation needed to envision all the changes in the station, I will blame you for our death."
Ughh.
Shoving the stray thoughts to the back of his mind, he focused on the task at hand. His best shot would be to make this work so they never have to turn towards Plan B and let the revolver do the reckoning.
He closed in on the world of strands, but something was different this time. In the center of glowing blue strands was a ball of light.
No, it was—someone. It was Esther.
She was sitting on a bench in the empty void, surrounded by a tapestry of glowing threads congregating before her. The glow around her shone so brilliantly that her body seemed almost submerged in its luminescence, casting her in an ethereal silhouette that eclipsed even the vibrant threads themselves.
She had a physical presence here. How?
Did she manifest an image of herself with the thoughts? Is it Efficient?
But she must have had a reason. So, as he got closer to her, he attempted to conjure a physical form himself. Everything was just thoughts and figments of his imagination, so it was quite easy.
He willed it, and it became so. Walking over with his two legs, he stood next to her as she gracefully lifted the fallboard of the celestial piano, which was actually the nexus where all those glowing strands converged.
The filaments pulsed rhythmically, like the arteries of some divine organism, each feeding into the diaphanous keys below. It was as if the very essence of the universe had chosen to express itself through this otherworldly instrument, and she, its virtuoso.
He looked at the display in front of him with awe. Is this what being a Lightvein means?
Just what exactly was happening underneath all this? What was her fundamental Viewpoint? Does she perceive everything as some sort of mass of veins? And then she uses Thought Synergy to assert control over them? Then, this piano has to be an artistic way to control her Visions.
Ideas churned in his mind as he contrasted and compared this with his own lackluster Vision. He felt like he was missing out on the flair and theatrics big time.
He couldn't even fathom being able to do something so…complex with Balance.
If he had to perform this from his viewpoint, he would have to individually figure out a lot of basic blocks. The first would be how to achieve movement. He can probably do so by playing with gravity's balance around the object.
Then, he would have to figure out how to manipulate an object's parts with more nuance to actually have them perform meaningful actions like release steam, shoot projectiles, or modulate speech.
He would need a special solution or Vision for each kind of object. Once he had these building blocks, he would have to find a way to assemble them together, and even then, it'd be a cheap imitation of what she could achieve with her fingertips.
He shook his head.
Some Viewpoints are just not meant to be emulated.
Her Viewpoint was optimal for this kind of Vision, whereas Balance presented itself as somewhat of a jack of all trades.
But these were all his assumptions based on how his viewpoint acted during his Enlightenment in the library. Sadly, things weren't rainbows and sunshine after that. He couldn't even look at the sky without succumbing to the whispers.
"Will you just stand there, contemplating the majesty of Lightvein, or actually do something?" she said, tapping at the spot next to her on the bench.
He chuckled and sat next to her.
It was uncanny how this Vision recreated all the sensory information. The touch of the seat on his back, the warmth of humans, even her scent—a curious blend of old parchment, a hint of lavender, and the unmistakable tang of freshly-cut copper.
It was curious because her copper Cogwings, as she dubbed it, were nowhere to be seen on her back. Heck, even her armor wasn't there. She wore a loose white dress—fitting for this casual piano performance.
Is this how she imagines herself? Her natural state of being?
"You can keep marveling later, but right now, I need you to lend me a hand. You know how to play?"
Grazing the ethereal keys of the piano with his hands, he rested them at optimal positions, looked her in the eye, and said, "Never touched one in my life."
She looked back and broke into a grin, "Skills wouldn't have helped anyway."
Resting her palms gently over his, she took a deep breath and spoke in a solemn tone, "Time to get serious, Vern. You give ideas, and I help execute them. A little background if you haven't figured it out already. I perceive inanimate objects as entities. Entities with veins running through them, with a personality that's inherent to them."
"But that's the catch. Most objects don't have a personality. So I have to assign them one. The better my guess at the personalities, the less I have to pay. Simple rule," but then she mumbled, "or if I am wrong, they get polluted, and we lose them to the whispers and echoes."
So that's how the pollution started upstairs?
Before he could ponder further, she continued, "Anyways, once that's done, I communicate with those personalities and have them perform the tasks I want. For example—I perceive this whole station as a huge entity with a complex anatomy."
Well, his guess wasn’t too off the mark.
She held his palm in her own and moved it to the rightmost key of the piano. With a gentle force, she made him press the key.
TING
A melody resonated in his surroundings, followed by the sensation of a pulse unlike his own.
BADUMP
.
BADUMP
.
BADUMP
As if waking up from a slumber, the beating gained momentum, rapidly picking up speed. Vern found himself faced with that feeling of rigidity and a purpose yet again. This had to be the personality she decided was a fit for the pneumatic tubes.
"These are the veins."
Then she guided his other palm to a key in the middle and pressed it.
PLUNK
He felt…cogs, pistons, and gears as they began to churn and thump in synergy with hundreds of others of the same—releasing steam in huffs and puffs. This time, he got a feeling of wanting to rush and do everything, burn as brightly as possible, to generate the most output.
This is the backup steam generator? But where is this energy coming from? Just how—
"This is the heart."
Well, that too.
Then, one after another, she guided his fingers to other keys.
DING
"Whistles are the throat."
TINK
"The nexus we're sitting in is the brain."
DING
"These are the muscles"
.
.
.
This was…fascinating.
He had conjectures, but he couldn't believe this Vision really had so much thought put into it. There was a completely rational system behind how this all worked. It wasn't some fancy handwavy logic where everything just fit into place because of…magic.
There was clearly a reason for everything. Starting from simple decisions like which part of the station was designated to what organ of the 'entity,' to the arrangement of 'veins.' Not just that, the personalities she designated to each object had a distinct sense of…correctness to them.
There was no way he could mimic this with Balance. Even if he was sent back to the library with unlimited access to any and all Visions, he doubted he would be able to build up to something so complex.
No! Not right now. I will have to pick up this train of thought later.
Time for idle thoughts was over. They were interacting with physical objects now. Every second counted.
This was it.
So Vern started, "Obviously, you were unable to make the station send something coherent. You've got it all wrong. That's not how frequencies are encoded. Power isn't meant to be supplied rhythmically, and what the hell is this personality? Why would a pressure valve want to be free? This is dumb."
Taking a deep breath, he lifted his fingers from the piano and looked her in the eyes.
"Here's the deal, Esther." Vern started, looking serious for a moment, "When you work with these strands, you see the bigger picture, like the flow of the energy, harmony between different parts, and the 'spirit,' so to speak, of the station. That's the high-level stuff, I will leave that to you."
"What I can do," he continued, "is focus on the fine details—the settings, the calibration, and the sequence of operations. Handle the Fundamentals. Sounds good?"
She nodded, a solemn look in her eyes.
Shinsei nodded as he rubbed the hilt of his sword, narrowing his eyes. Today, the air felt wrong. It was as if an indistinct shadow was cast across the world, not a physical one, but something intangible that nagged at the corners of his instincts.
Can't be deflected. Can't be controlled, he thought. And that made it irresistibly interesting.
It wasn't as bad as the eve of Duskfall or the kid he'd seen crossing the bridge yesterday. But it was a welcome change nonetheless. It just meant there was another phenomenon to be brought under his control.
His worn boots pounded against the uneven cobblestones as he moved through the maze-like city streets. People were merely obstacles to navigate around—their potential hostility easily deflected if it ever came to that.
His instincts led him, pulling him toward the anomaly like a moth to a flame. Yet it wasn't recklessness that drove him but a compelling need to probe the boundaries of his own capabilities. What can't be deflected, he pondered, challenges the deflector. And that's where growth happens. Or death. But it’s all the same—just endpoints on a line one needs to walk every day.
His pace quickened as the ripples of disturbance accelerated towards the outer district. Anticipation bubbled within him. Whatever it was, it was going fast. So he turned up the ante and focused. It was about figuring out the path of least resistance.
He was in control. He could subconsciously feel the path that he must take. Crossing street after street of those somber gravestones, he reached the demarcation of inner and outer districts.
Bothering with Kingsmen wasn't the path of least resistance, and he didn't have the time to go through their exclusive routes or take a detour to smaller gaps. So, as he reached the river bank, he jumped with great vigor, pulling on the scarf on his neck.
It unfurled, but right as his neck was about to be greeted with the chilly air, it extended and coiled tighter around his neck. It hurt, but it was within his control. He could deflect the pain, and it was worth it.
Right as the other end of the scarf dipped into the water, it turned rigid as bones. As Shinsei landed on it, the grip around his neck became tighter, but he paid it no heed. Sprinting at full speed, he traversed on the narrow bridge created by his ever-extending and tightening scarf.
By the time he reached the outer district, his face had turned pale from the lack of air, but it was better than that time when the scarf had broken his neck.
When he clambered over the outer district's riverside parapet, the scarf began to shrink in length as it slowly handed over the control back to Shinsei, deservingly so.
But he didn't have the time to deal with his unhappy scarf that wanted to throw a fit for being unable to strangle its master to death. He had an uncontrollable variable to handle.
Jumping over the ledges and store signages, he quickly reached the roof and continued on his path of least resistance.
One district.
Two districts.
A hill.
An abandoned station? The one Akira's team was working on.
As he rounded his hundredth corner of the day, his eyes met the source of disturbance head-on. His pulse quickened in the thrill of the unknown. This friend sure knows how to run, he mused as the edges of his lips upturned.
Let's see what you're made of.
"Alright. Alright. Stop showing off. You got it. Happy? Pay your tuition in pieces of jewelry if we survive, okay? Can we move on now? It's not like it matters before you imprint a Vision onto it."
Vern nodded. She was right. From what Cera had told him, his Thought Space would remain unstable until he imprinted a Vision on it. And according to Esther's new information, he was better off imprinting an original Vision than anything else.
That it would lead to the most flexible Thought Space. He didn't know what it meant to have a 'flexible' Thought Space, but it was clearly better than the other way around.
However, there was a problem.
A big one.
Now that he knew she was just assessing him based on emotional cues and not literally reading his innermost thoughts, he let the memories of that event surface in his mind. And of that man.
Hensen Vehen.
It was like waking up from a dream only to find yourself at the edge of a cliff. Sure, all this talk about the Third Rune, creating original Visions, and having a malleable Thought Space sounded enticing, almost liberating.
But what about the cost? There was a reason he hadn't dared mess with that rune up until now. He went so far as to muddle through the whispers caused by that scar in the sky head-on, instead of relying on the rune to soothe his nerves.
Hensen wasn't just some abstract concept or a distant authority—he was a guillotine waiting to fall. It was already a miracle that he hadn't come knocking on Vern's door, demanding him to pay the toll.
Who knew how many times Vern could trigger the Rune before Hensen was alerted?
Using the rune was nothing short of Revolver's reckoning—a few chambers, but just one bullet. Maybe the next pull of the trigger would be the one that spelled his doom—alerting the madman.
But then what should I do?
.
.
.
What would be a good balance?
And this launched him into another tangent. How much usage could he eke out of a single trigger of the rune? If he could—
Cutting off his thoughts, Esther spoke, "This much Synergy should be enough. Come. Reach out to the Essence Strands. Let's see if the hope you gave me was worth not being depressed over."
"Umm, Esther, actually, one more question."
She glared at him, "This conversation may not cost us time, but it costs me my Representation. Can it wait?"
Representation?
She had also used this word a while ago when she described what her mother could offer him. But given the context she just used it in, it seemed as if this was the resource that depleted when one used their Visions.
But it's quite a peculiar term to use as a depletable resource. If I think about it literally in this context, Representation should mean the amount of things she could represent through her own viewpoint.
That felt right. It might not be the exact definition, but he had to be close. He could maybe even figure out the amount of Representation he had at some point.
Taking his silence as an answer, she decided, "So it's not important. Now, get to it. If I end up being just a little short of the Representation needed to envision all the changes in the station, I will blame you for our death."
Ughh.
Shoving the stray thoughts to the back of his mind, he focused on the task at hand. His best shot would be to make this work so they never have to turn towards Plan B and let the revolver do the reckoning.
He closed in on the world of strands, but something was different this time. In the center of glowing blue strands was a ball of light.
No, it was—someone. It was Esther.
She was sitting on a bench in the empty void, surrounded by a tapestry of glowing threads congregating before her. The glow around her shone so brilliantly that her body seemed almost submerged in its luminescence, casting her in an ethereal silhouette that eclipsed even the vibrant threads themselves.
She had a physical presence here. How?
Did she manifest an image of herself with the thoughts? Is it Efficient?
But she must have had a reason. So, as he got closer to her, he attempted to conjure a physical form himself. Everything was just thoughts and figments of his imagination, so it was quite easy.
He willed it, and it became so. Walking over with his two legs, he stood next to her as she gracefully lifted the fallboard of the celestial piano, which was actually the nexus where all those glowing strands converged.
The filaments pulsed rhythmically, like the arteries of some divine organism, each feeding into the diaphanous keys below. It was as if the very essence of the universe had chosen to express itself through this otherworldly instrument, and she, its virtuoso.
He looked at the display in front of him with awe. Is this what being a Lightvein means?
Just what exactly was happening underneath all this? What was her fundamental Viewpoint? Does she perceive everything as some sort of mass of veins? And then she uses Thought Synergy to assert control over them? Then, this piano has to be an artistic way to control her Visions.
Ideas churned in his mind as he contrasted and compared this with his own lackluster Vision. He felt like he was missing out on the flair and theatrics big time.
He couldn't even fathom being able to do something so…complex with Balance.
If he had to perform this from his viewpoint, he would have to individually figure out a lot of basic blocks. The first would be how to achieve movement. He can probably do so by playing with gravity's balance around the object.
Then, he would have to figure out how to manipulate an object's parts with more nuance to actually have them perform meaningful actions like release steam, shoot projectiles, or modulate speech.
He would need a special solution or Vision for each kind of object. Once he had these building blocks, he would have to find a way to assemble them together, and even then, it'd be a cheap imitation of what she could achieve with her fingertips.
He shook his head.
Some Viewpoints are just not meant to be emulated.
Her Viewpoint was optimal for this kind of Vision, whereas Balance presented itself as somewhat of a jack of all trades.
But these were all his assumptions based on how his viewpoint acted during his Enlightenment in the library. Sadly, things weren't rainbows and sunshine after that. He couldn't even look at the sky without succumbing to the whispers.
"Will you just stand there, contemplating the majesty of Lightvein, or actually do something?" she said, tapping at the spot next to her on the bench.
He chuckled and sat next to her.
It was uncanny how this Vision recreated all the sensory information. The touch of the seat on his back, the warmth of humans, even her scent—a curious blend of old parchment, a hint of lavender, and the unmistakable tang of freshly-cut copper.
It was curious because her copper Cogwings, as she dubbed it, were nowhere to be seen on her back. Heck, even her armor wasn't there. She wore a loose white dress—fitting for this casual piano performance.
Is this how she imagines herself? Her natural state of being?
"You can keep marveling later, but right now, I need you to lend me a hand. You know how to play?"
Grazing the ethereal keys of the piano with his hands, he rested them at optimal positions, looked her in the eye, and said, "Never touched one in my life."
She looked back and broke into a grin, "Skills wouldn't have helped anyway."
Resting her palms gently over his, she took a deep breath and spoke in a solemn tone, "Time to get serious, Vern. You give ideas, and I help execute them. A little background if you haven't figured it out already. I perceive inanimate objects as entities. Entities with veins running through them, with a personality that's inherent to them."
"But that's the catch. Most objects don't have a personality. So I have to assign them one. The better my guess at the personalities, the less I have to pay. Simple rule," but then she mumbled, "or if I am wrong, they get polluted, and we lose them to the whispers and echoes."
So that's how the pollution started upstairs?
Before he could ponder further, she continued, "Anyways, once that's done, I communicate with those personalities and have them perform the tasks I want. For example—I perceive this whole station as a huge entity with a complex anatomy."
Well, his guess wasn’t too off the mark.
She held his palm in her own and moved it to the rightmost key of the piano. With a gentle force, she made him press the key.
TING
A melody resonated in his surroundings, followed by the sensation of a pulse unlike his own.
BADUMP
.
BADUMP
.
BADUMP
As if waking up from a slumber, the beating gained momentum, rapidly picking up speed. Vern found himself faced with that feeling of rigidity and a purpose yet again. This had to be the personality she decided was a fit for the pneumatic tubes.
"These are the veins."
Then she guided his other palm to a key in the middle and pressed it.
PLUNK
He felt…cogs, pistons, and gears as they began to churn and thump in synergy with hundreds of others of the same—releasing steam in huffs and puffs. This time, he got a feeling of wanting to rush and do everything, burn as brightly as possible, to generate the most output.
This is the backup steam generator? But where is this energy coming from? Just how—
"This is the heart."
Well, that too.
Then, one after another, she guided his fingers to other keys.
DING
"Whistles are the throat."
TINK
"The nexus we're sitting in is the brain."
DING
"These are the muscles"
.
.
.
This was…fascinating.
He had conjectures, but he couldn't believe this Vision really had so much thought put into it. There was a completely rational system behind how this all worked. It wasn't some fancy handwavy logic where everything just fit into place because of…magic.
There was clearly a reason for everything. Starting from simple decisions like which part of the station was designated to what organ of the 'entity,' to the arrangement of 'veins.' Not just that, the personalities she designated to each object had a distinct sense of…correctness to them.
There was no way he could mimic this with Balance. Even if he was sent back to the library with unlimited access to any and all Visions, he doubted he would be able to build up to something so complex.
No! Not right now. I will have to pick up this train of thought later.
Time for idle thoughts was over. They were interacting with physical objects now. Every second counted.
This was it.
So Vern started, "Obviously, you were unable to make the station send something coherent. You've got it all wrong. That's not how frequencies are encoded. Power isn't meant to be supplied rhythmically, and what the hell is this personality? Why would a pressure valve want to be free? This is dumb."
Taking a deep breath, he lifted his fingers from the piano and looked her in the eyes.
"Here's the deal, Esther." Vern started, looking serious for a moment, "When you work with these strands, you see the bigger picture, like the flow of the energy, harmony between different parts, and the 'spirit,' so to speak, of the station. That's the high-level stuff, I will leave that to you."
"What I can do," he continued, "is focus on the fine details—the settings, the calibration, and the sequence of operations. Handle the Fundamentals. Sounds good?"
She nodded, a solemn look in her eyes.
Shinsei nodded as he rubbed the hilt of his sword, narrowing his eyes. Today, the air felt wrong. It was as if an indistinct shadow was cast across the world, not a physical one, but something intangible that nagged at the corners of his instincts.
Can't be deflected. Can't be controlled, he thought. And that made it irresistibly interesting.
It wasn't as bad as the eve of Duskfall or the kid he'd seen crossing the bridge yesterday. But it was a welcome change nonetheless. It just meant there was another phenomenon to be brought under his control.
His worn boots pounded against the uneven cobblestones as he moved through the maze-like city streets. People were merely obstacles to navigate around—their potential hostility easily deflected if it ever came to that.
His instincts led him, pulling him toward the anomaly like a moth to a flame. Yet it wasn't recklessness that drove him but a compelling need to probe the boundaries of his own capabilities. What can't be deflected, he pondered, challenges the deflector. And that's where growth happens. Or death. But it’s all the same—just endpoints on a line one needs to walk every day.
His pace quickened as the ripples of disturbance accelerated towards the outer district. Anticipation bubbled within him. Whatever it was, it was going fast. So he turned up the ante and focused. It was about figuring out the path of least resistance.
He was in control. He could subconsciously feel the path that he must take. Crossing street after street of those somber gravestones, he reached the demarcation of inner and outer districts.
Bothering with Kingsmen wasn't the path of least resistance, and he didn't have the time to go through their exclusive routes or take a detour to smaller gaps. So, as he reached the river bank, he jumped with great vigor, pulling on the scarf on his neck.
It unfurled, but right as his neck was about to be greeted with the chilly air, it extended and coiled tighter around his neck. It hurt, but it was within his control. He could deflect the pain, and it was worth it.
Right as the other end of the scarf dipped into the water, it turned rigid as bones. As Shinsei landed on it, the grip around his neck became tighter, but he paid it no heed. Sprinting at full speed, he traversed on the narrow bridge created by his ever-extending and tightening scarf.
By the time he reached the outer district, his face had turned pale from the lack of air, but it was better than that time when the scarf had broken his neck.
When he clambered over the outer district's riverside parapet, the scarf began to shrink in length as it slowly handed over the control back to Shinsei, deservingly so.
But he didn't have the time to deal with his unhappy scarf that wanted to throw a fit for being unable to strangle its master to death. He had an uncontrollable variable to handle.
Jumping over the ledges and store signages, he quickly reached the roof and continued on his path of least resistance.
One district.
Two districts.
A hill.
An abandoned station? The one Akira's team was working on.
As he rounded his hundredth corner of the day, his eyes met the source of disturbance head-on. His pulse quickened in the thrill of the unknown. This friend sure knows how to run, he mused as the edges of his lips upturned.
Let's see what you're made of.
