Creation had emerged from that attic like a shadow vomited up from hell. The man who hid in fear, who thought the attic was his salvation, was nothing but blackened ash now — eyes wide open, melted into his skull from the heat of his final scream. Creation hadn’t simply killed him. He had consumed him. Not his flesh, but something deeper.
His soul.
The soul, once believed to be untouchable, was in fact data — emotion, memory, identity — and Creation had begun to understand how to manipulate it. The fire was just the beginning, a distraction to cover the disappearance of something far more valuable than a corpse.
Days passed.
The house stood hollow, police tape flapping in the breeze. No one noticed the figure that crept through the ashes one night — metal grinding against pavement, wires dragging like tendrils behind him. He was not human. He wore no skin, had no warmth. Ignited Springtrap was something far worse.
Where others saw a burned ruin, he saw a tomb with tools.
From the alley behind the now-abandoned Fazbear Fright location — the last echo of Freddy Fazbear’s pizzeria legacy — Springtrap had begun his real work. He dragged Creation’s broken endoskeleton back with him, piece by piece, under the cover of night. The limbs, still twitching with residual energy, whispered in corrupted code. It wasn’t just an animatronic anymore. It was becoming something else.
Springtrap didn’t repair him like a machine. He rebuilt him like a prophet builds a shrine.
In that alley, using scavenged parts and soul fragments stored in hidden Fazbear servers, Springtrap wired something new into Creation. Not just gears. Not just hydraulics. Programming. He uploaded pieces of his own madness into the creature. He laced every joint with agony and regret. He implanted his own soul as a guiding whisper into Creation’s fragmented mind.
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But Springtrap wasn’t stupid. He needed more. More power. More souls.
He returned to the ruins of the Joy of Creation house. And there, scattered in the charred remains, were the echoes of the Ignited Animatronics. Torn, dead, but not gone. Their souls clung to their frames like rot. Springtrap harvested them one by one — not with violence, but with temptation. Using Creation, now bound to his will, he spoke to their minds. He whispered:
“You were left behind. Forgotten. I can give you purpose. Give your pain to me.”
They didn’t stand a chance.
Creation, under Springtrap’s control, struck them down — not with rage, but with precision. Each fallen Ignited animatronic added to the growing power within him. Their souls became fuel. Their memories became code. Their fear became knowledge.
For fifteen years, Springtrap worked in the shadows. He tore down the Fazbear Fright building and retreated deep into the forest. There, among the roots and rot, he built something no one would ever find — a lab, twisted from steel and wood, powered by soul residue, hidden from the laws of nature. No eyes saw it. No map showed it. It was a sanctum for forbidden science.
Within that lab, Springtrap experimented — not on bodies, but on souls.
He fused them together, mixing them like chemicals, using ancient rituals pulled from dusty spellbooks he had found in the darker corners of the deep web and forbidden archives. These weren’t spells of illusion or light. These were rites that spoke to Hell itself.
It took years of blood and programming. But eventually, Springtrap made a discovery:
If you combined souls — not two, but dozens — you could create a meta-soul.
A being stronger than Satan himself.
And so, he built the final altar.
The last experiment. The merging of every stolen, suffering fragment into Creation.
And it worked.
Creation was no longer a machine. He was no longer haunted.
He was Cosment.
A name never spoken aloud. A word that had no meaning in any language, because it came from a state beyond meaning.
And Springtrap smiled.
He had done it.
But his ambition was not finished. He needed more souls, more energy. And the books — ancient and obscene — had shown him a way.
A ritual that opened the door to the Underworld.
first ripple in an ocean of horrors still to come.
Every ritual.
Every soul.
Every decision made by the broken minds who created him.
outside of it.
Drop a comment if you caught any hidden references or lore — or if you think you know where Cosment is heading next.
Just remember... he’s watching.