Chapter 7: The Obelisk

  A day had passed since Sym’s demonstration.

  He had slept, eaten, and contempted the weight of this new world long enough. Now, the room felt too small, too quiet. He needed to move.

  His mind drifted, as it often did in moments like this, to the life he’d lost. The one that now felt like a memory stolen from someone else.

  He thought of the virtual realities that once wrapped around him like dreams made real, worlds of neon oceans, skynds, and impossible architectures sculpted by will and imagination.

  He thought of the star shows that once danced across the atmosphere of poputed pnets, celestial artistry projected above cities brimming with life and choice. He thought of freedom.

  And in that moment, something heavy pressed down on him, a feeling of longing. A weight in his chest. That buried sadness that he rarely allowed himself to feel fully.

  “You're allowed to feel it,” Sage said softly in his mind, her voice like a breeze through old gss. “But don’t let it consume you.”

  “I know,” he whispered aloud, eyes scanning the rough surface of the stone beside him, as if it could answer. “Just… forgot how much of me I left behind.”

  “You didn't leave it behind,” she replied. “It's still in you. What you had… It’s not gone. It's fuel now. Memory becomes momentum. That’s how you survive.”

  He closed his eyes. Sage’s presence was more than just a voice; it was familiar, grounding. In a world of strangeness, fear, and fading sanity, she was the tether to something real. Not his past, but the promise that he could someday recim it.

  He exhaled slowly.

  The ache didn’t leave. But it no longer felt like it had the power to drag him under.

  The door to his room slid open with a mechanical groan, releasing him into a narrow corridor lined with exposed pipes and flickering lights.

  The scent of metal and oil hung in the air, thick with recycled heat. He followed the hallway until it opened into what had been described as the “common area.”

  It wasn’t much.

  A rectangur room, wide enough to host maybe a dozen people comfortably.

  The ceiling arched overhead, supported by rib-like steel beams from which ancient copper piping twisted like the exposed guts of some great mechanical beast.

  Vents rattled with the constant push of air, and the low hum of unseen machinery filled the space with a continuous, distant thrum.

  The furniture looked cobbled together from salvaged parts, thick, riveted sofas lined with patched leather and creaking joints.

  Low tables made of repurposed gears and battered wooden pnks dotted the space, fnked by mismatched chairs.

  A dim, amber glow bled from exposed light bulbs caged in rusted iron, giving everything an industrial warmth that did little to dispel the faint chill in the air.

  But it was the walls that caught Sym’s attention.

  Large, framed paintings were hung between pipes and vents, each one more unsettling than the st.

  He moved closer, eyes scanning the first canvas, a colossal wall looming over a cityscape, so massive that the tallest buildings looked like children’s blocks in its shadow. Stone and steel, stretching into the clouds, encircling everything like a fortress or a cage.

  The next painting was worse.

  An Obelisk, towering, ancient, standing in the center of a walled city.

  Its surface was etched with runic markings, jagged and twisting, as crimson mist coiled around its form.

  A red light pulsed within the mist, like an unblinking eye watching over everything beneath it.

  Below, the city basked in its eerie glow, while beyond the walls, outside the reach of the Obelisk’s light, dark shapes prowled the horizon.

  Shadows painted with sharp teeth and too many limbs. Things meant to frighten children, or perhaps to remind the adults of what waited beyond.

  Sym felt a strange chill crawl up his spine.

  He’d already known, bits and pieces from Emanuel’s brief expnations, that the city above was walled in.

  Protected from horrors lurking beyond. But seeing it depicted like this, through art that felt half religious, half warning, made it real.

  “Sage,” he murmured internally, eyes scanning every detail. “Thoughts?”

  “The imagery suggests a society built on containment and fear. The Obelisk serves as both protector and overseer. Likely revered.”

  “Save everything. Every detail.”

  “Saving.”

  Sym turned from the painting, his gaze drawn to a small, rusted bookcase tucked between two thick pipes on the far wall, as if forgotten by time and pced there to be hidden. Half-empty, the few books inside were worn and dusty, neglected.

  Curiosity pulled him closer.

  He scanned the titles with practiced efficiency, pulling them free one by one.

  The first was a thick, leather-bound volume titled "The Obelisk: God's Gift to Mankind." The title alone made his lips curl with faint amusement, religious undertones.

  But information was information. He tucked it under his arm.

  The second was a battered fiction novel set in a pce called the Obelisk’s Settlement. A story, maybe, but stories were often built on truths. It might tell him more about how people here lived, or how they wanted to live.

  The st was a slim, stained booklet on homegrown vegetables and cooking. Practical, but even mundane things had value.

  Sym found an empty sofa near the corner of the room, its leather cracked and faded. He sank into it, the springs groaning beneath his weight.

  “Compile everything,” he told Sage.

  “Scanning,” Sage responded.

  The book’s cover had been worn smooth by time and too many hands.

  Its title, "The Obelisk: God’s Gift to Mankind," was embossed in dull gold, fking in pces.

  Inside, the pages were stiff and yellowed, the ink slightly faded. But the words were clear.

  And they were strange.

  Sym turned each page slowly, skimming in silence as Sage logged and dissected everything beside him.

  The early chapters were filled with warnings. Descriptions of the world before the Obelisk: a society “drunk on indulgence,” full of “crime and rot,” where people “partied themselves to death” while the world crumbled beneath them.

  It read less like a history book and more like a sermon wrapped in judgment.

  Sym frowned. “They really want to paint the old world as a failure.”

  “Propaganda framing,” Sage replied, voice quiet in his mind. “Selective memory paired with moral positioning. There is a clear agenda: justify submission to the Obelisk by vilifying the past.”

  He nodded, flipping the page.

  Then the tone shifted. The book described the sudden appearance of Cracks, massive ruptures in space, tearing open across cities, oceans, and even the sky itself.

  From them poured abominations: winged beasts, scaled nightmares, things with too many eyes and not enough reason. Entire countries were wiped out overnight.

  Massacres. Madness. A global colpse of the known order.

  Then, amid the ashes... the Obelisk rose.

  It was described in almost mythic terms, emerging from the very earth as if it had always been buried there.

  It exhaled crimson mist, and the creatures from the Gates feared it. Or perhaps they simply stopped coming.

  Around it, the nd stilled. And in that silence, humans began to rebuild. Settlements formed, inching closer and closer to the Obelisk over time, drawn to it like moths to fme.

  But rebuilding wasn’t enough.

  They began to worship.

  And in that worship, some Awakened.

  No expnation. No process. Just faith and power.

  “Convenient,” Sym muttered, scanning a passage that described the first Awakened as "blessed warriors who shed the weakness of flesh and became conduits of the Obelisk’s will.”

  “No mention of science,” Sage noted.

  Sym leaned back into the cracked leather of the couch, the book resting on his knee.

  “So the Order formed around the Obelisk,” he murmured. “A religion. A power structure. And anyone outside that... what? Faux?”

  “Precisely,” Sage replied. “The book subtly implies that all legitimate Awakened are born of worship or divine resonance. Manufactured or natural abilities are not mentioned. Likely disdained.”

  Sym nodded, flipping further through the book.

  Later chapters became more abstract, philosophical treatises on faith and sacrifice. Rituals. Mantras. Obedience to “the mist-bound eye.” The Order wasn’t just in control; they were chosen.

  One chapter spoke of the rebirth, a transformation that came through the proximity to the Obelisk. The text called it a “monolith of divine recursion.” Those who survived the trials of flesh and silence were said to be “reformed by mist,” ascending beyond mortality into something new. Something useful.

  The obelisk, they wrote, had not only brought humanity salvation, but also evolution. A forced leap forward. Sacrifice was its nguage. Madness, its medium.

  It wasn’t just control. It was faith. The Order didn’t rule because they seized power. They ruled because they were chosen. Anointed by whatever force now breathed through the corrupted mist and sang through the cracks in the world. And anyone who disobeyed that truth, who clung to the old, soft human self, was deemed obsolete.

  And yet.

  One line stood out, buried near the end: “The Obelisk was only the first to rise. Others followed in time, their lights dimmer, their position in this world below the Obelisk’s, their walls less holy, but necessary all the same.”

  Sym’s eyes narrowed.

  “Settlements. Plural.”

  “Correct,” Sage said. “At least one other confirmed. Possibly many. The use of ‘first’ implies the existence of a network. Either coordinated or fractured.”

  Sym closed the book slowly.

  “So there’s a bigger world out there,” he said softly. “Outside the walls. Maybe even beyond the Order’s reach.”

  He stared at the flickering light above the paintings, the soft thrum of machines around him suddenly louder in the quiet.

  “Maybe I’m not just Faux,” he said. “Maybe I’m free.”

  The second book was fiction.

  It followed a young man living in a pce called the Obelisk Settlement, and while the story leaned into drama and romanticized struggle, the details of the world around the character were too specific to be fabricated entirely.

  According to the narrative, the Obelisk itself sat atop a high, forested hill, centrally located but set apart, deliberately so.

  It was sacred ground. The closer you were to it, the closer you were to power, status, influence.

  Surrounding it were ten zones, numbered and tiered like rings of a watchful eye. The first five were described with words like "gleaming," "serene," and "noble." Wide courtyards.

  Clean air. Water features and regur patrols from Order guards dressed in red-threaded cloaks.

  Zones One through Five were the beating heart of privilege. Bureaucrats, nobles, minor prophets.

  Those with true bloodline ties to the Order. Untouchables.

  Then came Zones Six through Eight, described as “honest zones.” Marketpces. Artisans. Teachers. Builders. Sym could almost feel the sweat of these zones, the hard bor, the silent loyalty.

  These were the people who believed in the settlement’s system. Who didn’t question the Obelisk because they didn’t have time to.

  And finally, Zones Nine and Ten.

  Slums.

  The author called them “The Shadowed Steps,” describing narrow alleyways lined with stacked tenements, cramped housing, and flickering, unreliable lights. The city’s bones. And, the former home of the original Sym.

  The author indicated that these two zones would be reborn with the Obelisk’s grace, like zones 1 through 8. They will go through their trials and tributions and come out triumphant and evolved.

  Here, fear ruled more directly. Gates to the outside were sealed shut and locked.

  No factions operated there. No patrols dared walk too far into the twisting, half-colpsed warrens. It was a pce where survival wasn’t expected. Where being forgotten was part of your birthright.

  Sym closed the book slowly, fingers tapping against the leather cover.

  “Sage. What’s your read?”

  “The zones reflect strict css stratification. Physical proximity to the Obelisk equates to spiritual value and political power. The fictional narrative supports this structure through metaphor, but corroborates known facts.”

  He nodded. “And the part about the mist?”

  Sage hesitated.

  “Unknown. The cyclical mist is referenced as a ‘blessing.’ A recharging phase. It occurs during the process of rebirth.”

  He leaned back into the cracked couch, thoughts churning.

  Vehicles were rarely mentioned. The zones were described as packed, dense, with walkways threading through rooftops and under raised homes. Narrow bridges. Hidden stairs. Streets too tight for rger objects.

  It made logistical sense. The more people you cram in under the Obelisk’s light, the more you can cim its influence is working. Movement became a ritual. A pilgrimage through sacred filth.

  “Shelter within the Obelisk’s embrace,” he muttered.

  A beautiful lie.

  He moved on to the final book.

  It was thinner, more practical: a guide to local food. He skimmed it with only partial interest until he realized how strange the ingredients were.

  Soups brewed with vine-spiced eelfruit. Bread seasoned with whiteroot pollen. Meats from creatures like cragtails and foghorns, names he didn’t recognize.

  They were described with culinary flourish, not scientific cssification. Yet it was clear: these weren’t livestock from Earth’s past.

  They were... adaptations.

  Possibly evolved from creatures that had emerged through the Gates, now domesticated and normalized.

  “No mention of magical properties,” Sage noted. “But the biological structure of these foods is unfamiliar. Potential for tent energy exists.”

  Sym closed the book, his brow furrowed.

  “Are we... eating them?”

  “Some of them, yes. Others appear to be hybrids. Local cultivation adapted to post-catastrophe environments.”

  A moment passed.

  Then Sym chuckled softly to himself.

  Sym stared at the paintings on the far wall once more, at the Obelisk, shrouded in mist, watching.

  And for the first time, he wondered not if it was alive.

  After setting the books carefully back on the shelf, Sym stood. His stomach tightened with hunger, the kind of hollow pull that came after intense focus.

  He had absorbed too much to sit still any longer.

  The hallway outside the common area stretched long and narrow, fnked by thick copper pipes that pulsed with quiet energy.

  The lights above buzzed faintly, casting orange halos on the floor as he walked.

  His footsteps echoed in a rhythm that felt mechanical, one-two, one-two, until he finally reached the cafeteria.

  It was rger than he expected.

  The room was dimly lit, with warm-toned bulbs hanging low from the ceiling in brass cages.

  Long tables lined the center, most empty, their surfaces marked with decades of use.

  At the far end sat a buffet table, arranged with surprising care: trays of stewed meat, roasted roots, strange fruits with crystalline skin.

  Steam rose from some dishes, while others glowed faintly from within.

  He wasn’t alone.

  In the far corner, two men sat across from one another at a corner table, voices low and eyes intense.

  One was broad-shouldered and blonde, with a military build and a green-eyed sharpness that never quite rested.

  The number 8 was stitched across the front of his bck uniform.

  The other was darker-skinned, lean but strong, with a well-groomed beard and a faded haircut. His uniform read 77.

  They looked up as Sym entered. No hostility in their eyes, just interest.

  Then they turned back to their conversation.

  Sym moved with calm precision to the buffet, selecting what looked like roasted foghorn meat and thick bread gzed in root-sugar.

  As he sat alone at a table near the edge of the room, he spoke silently.

  “Sage. Those two. Can you scan them?”

  A brief pause.

  “Attempting analysis. Stand by.”

  Then, like a curtain lifting, two translucent screens appeared before Sym’s eyes. Only he could see them, projected through his consciousness, encoded into the gem Sage now stabilized.

  The blonde man with the number 8 first read:

  [Name: Caleb][Level: 1][Skill: Scorching Touch]

  The second:

  [Name: Trey][Level: 1][Skill: Eye of the Cursed]

  ...

  Sym studied the screens carefully. No further detail, no descriptions, no achievement data, but enough to know one thing:

  They were Faux. Just like him. Their skill was also surrounded by a strange red glow, which, putting the context clues together, Sym came to understand that it was what determined a faux skill.

  Experiment-born. Not born of the Obelisk’s “blessing,” but carved into power by force, technology, or sheer will.

  His future teammates.

  At least for the next two years.

  He took another bite of foghorn meat. It was chewy, slightly gamey, but fvored with enough spice to satisfy.

  A b tech passed through the far door, repcing a tray, giving the three of them a brief, indifferent gnce before disappearing back into the hallway.

  Caleb and Trey hadn’t stopped talking, but Sym could tell they were aware of him, measured silences between words, the occasional flicker of an eye in his direction. They were sizing him up, same as he was them.

  Number 8, Caleb, and Number 77, Trey, sat a few meters away, whispering low enough to seem private, but not low enough to be safe from Sym’s eavesdropping, especially with Sage helping him pick up every word.

  Trey was recounting a recent change in his aunt and uncle. How they had started acting strange before he left for the PRG trial, spending all day in their dim apartment, staring out the window but never responding, locking their bedroom door, and whispering to each other te at night. They had grown quiet. Frightened. Their eyes never seemed to focus anymore. Just drifting. Watching. Trey said it felt like fear had become their only real emotion.

  He tried to ugh it off, but the tension in his voice made it clear how deeply it disturbed him. He said he didn’t want to leave them, but the offer from PRG had come at the right time.

  Caleb was doing his best to reassure him, telling him that once they finished training, got stronger, maybe earned some real notes, they could afford to find help, maybe even a specialist.

  But then Trey said something that made Sym pause.

  He mentioned that some of their neighbors had started acting the same way. Not just old folks or loners, families, kids, even a shopkeeper who used to be loud and angry all the time, now barely moved behind his gss counter.

  Locals in their building had started using a nickname. “Jitters.” The word made Trey visibly upset. He said it like it was a slur, like it hurt to even hear it.

  He hated that they were being dehumanized like that, turned into something less than people. But Caleb just told him to breathe. Said it didn’t matter what anyone called them. They’d work hard, survive PRG, and things would work out. They had joined together, survived together, and they would succeed together.

  Sym leaned back in his seat, his face bnk but his mind spinning.

  Information before familiarity. Sym’s rule. And if they were wise, it was theirs too.

  He finished his meal, wiped his hands clean, and stood without a word.

  The two men gave him one final gnce as he passed, but neither spoke. Not yet.

  He walked the long hallway back toward his room, thoughts steady and focused.

  The game was shifting now. No longer isotion.

  There were pieces on the board.

  And soon, he’d know who to trust and who to watch.