Chapter 20: The fog

The Return to Reverie

Sylas exhaled as he stepped into his dorm, shutting the door behind him. His coat slipped from his shoulders, landing carelessly on the nearby chair, and he loosened the buttons on his shirt before collapsing onto the bed.

Exhaustion.

Not the kind that weighed on the body, but the kind that gnawed at the mind. The conference had been as expected—a group of old men and women clinging desperately to a system they barely understood, fearful of change, fearful of someone who refused to play their game. It had been… tedious.

He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes.

Then—

The fog returned.

His body remained on the bed, still and undisturbed, but his mind—his essence—had been pulled once more into that endless, shifting dreamscape.

The moment his eyes opened, he was no longer in his room.

The world around him was a swirling abyss of mist and unreality, a place where cause and effect had no meaning, where thought shaped form, and will bent existence itself. The Veil of Reverie.

Or just Reverie, as he had decided to call it.

Sylas stood there, his boots pressing against something that wasn't quite solid but held his weight nonetheless. The fog curled around him like a living thing, thick and restless, whispering unintelligible echoes of thoughts that didn't belong to him.

A sigh escaped his lips.

"Of course," he muttered.

Of course, he was back here. Because why wouldn't he be?

There was no warning, no sense of transition. It was as if Reverie had simply decided that it was time for him to return.

And, unfortunately, he had no say in the matter.

Then—

A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the mist.

Sylas tensed, his expression flattening into one of mild irritation as he turned toward the source.

And there, lounging in midair as though it were a throne, was Lucius.

The self-proclaimed omnipresent, higher-dimensional nuisance that Sylas was beginning to suspect existed purely to torment him.

Lucius smirked, resting his chin against his hand, eyes glinting with amusement. "Welcome back, Sylas. Miss me?"

Sylas exhaled through his nose. "No."

Lucius gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "How cruel. After all the time we've spent together? I thought we had something special."

Sylas didn't dignify that with a response.

Instead, he crossed his arms, glancing around. "Why am I here again?"

Lucius shrugged. "Because you belong here. Or maybe because Reverie likes you. Who knows? Not even I have all the answers."

"Then what do you know?" Sylas muttered, already regretting the question.

Lucius grinned. "I know that you look like you just came out of a very annoying meeting. How was it? Did the old professors try to humble you? Did they call you arrogant?"

Sylas's jaw tightened.

Lucius laughed, floating closer. "Oh, they did, didn't they? I can just picture it—'Professor Corvus, you must understand, tradition matters!' 'Professor Corvus, you mustn't fill the students' heads with dangerous ideas!'"

Sylas closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply.

Lucius tilted his head. "You did tell them they were cowards, right?"

"I was diplomatic."

Lucius made a face. "Boring."

Sylas pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't need your commentary, Lucius."

"Of course you do! Otherwise, you'd be wandering this mist alone, brooding. And no one likes a brooding protagonist." Lucius smirked. "Besides, if you didn't like my commentary, you wouldn't keep ending up here."

Sylas's eye twitched. "I don't end up here by choice."

Lucius only shrugged. "Maybe not. But part of you keeps coming back. Which means part of you wants to be here."

Sylas didn't respond.

Because as much as he hated to admit it, there was a sliver of truth in Lucius's words.

The Veil of Reverie—this strange, ever-shifting dreamscape—was a place where his essence existed in its truest form. Here, he wasn't bound by the limitations of the physical world. Here, reality itself was a suggestion, not a rule.

A place where imagination shaped existence.

A place where even he didn't fully understand his own potential.

Lucius studied him for a moment before sighing dramatically. "Alright, fine. Enough existential dread. Let's do something fun."

Sylas narrowed his eyes. "I don't trust you."

Lucius grinned. "That's the spirit!"

With a snap of his fingers, the mist shifted.

The once-empty fog solidified into something new—a grand, impossible structure rising from the abyss. Massive pillars stretched into the sky, supporting a marble stage adorned with glowing scripts of forgotten languages. An audience of shadowy figures filled the seats, murmuring in anticipation.

Sylas found himself standing center stage, dressed in a ridiculous, elaborate coat with a flowing cape.

Lucius, meanwhile, was in the audience, lounging comfortably in the front row with a smug expression.

Sylas exhaled sharply, already regretting everything.

"What now?"

Lucius gestured dramatically toward the stage. "Welcome to the grand performance, Sylas! You are the lead actor, the main character, the protagonist! And this—" he swept his arms wide "—is your story."

Sylas stared at him. Then at the audience.

Then back at Lucius.

"…I refuse."

Lucius gasped. "Oh, but you must! This is your stage, Sylas! You belong here!"

Sylas crossed his arms. "I don't belong anywhere."

Lucius grinned. "That's exactly why you fit everywhere."

Sylas inhaled slowly, then turned on his heel, ready to walk off the stage.

He didn't get far.

The moment he took a step, the floor beneath him suddenly disappeared, and he plummeted into the abyss.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then—

Sylas woke up.

He was still on his bed.

The ceiling of his dorm greeted him, dull and unremarkable. No fog. No Lucius.

Just reality.

He blinked, sitting up slowly. Then, to test something, he raised a hand and imagined his couch on fire.

Nothing happened.

Sylas exhaled, relieved.

No more Reverie. At least for now.

Glancing at the clock, he realized it was 6:23 AM.

Time to get up.

With a sigh, he dragged himself out of bed, showered, got dressed, and made his way to Class 3-A.

By the time he entered, students were already seated, waiting for the lesson.

Sylas strode to the front, clasping his hands together. "Alright, class. Today's topic—"

He paused, glancing at their expectant faces.

Then, in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, he said—

"Slavery."

Silence.

The students stared at him, clearly wondering when they were actually going to learn about fighting with magic.

But they stayed silent.

Sylas nodded. "Exactly. We're going to talk about the concept of slavery, but not just in historical terms. I want you all to think about it in a broader sense. The idea of control, of ownership, of power dynamics. How does it manifest in different societies? In different worlds? Because trust me, in our world, it isn't always as black and white as it seems. Speaking of black and white—black peopl—"

A student coughed violently.

Sylas continued, completely unfazed.

After the second lecture on slavery, Sylas decided he needed a break.

Not from teaching—no, that was easy. The students might have stared at him like he was insane, but that was nothing new. The real problem was how exhausting it was to explain concepts that were just… obvious. Power structures, control, ownership—these things weren't difficult to grasp, but most people refused to look past the surface.

He sighed, rubbing his temple as he made his way to the library.

The academy's library was massive—a towering cathedral of books, knowledge woven into the very walls. Ancient tomes lined endless shelves, the scent of parchment and ink filling the air. This was one of the few places in the academy where Sylas felt at peace.

That was, until—

"Ah, Sylas! Fancy meeting you here!"

Sylas froze.

His entire body tensed. Because of course.

Of course, he was here.

Slowly, Sylas turned his head.

And there he was.

Lucius.

Lounging atop a bookshelf like it was his personal throne, legs crossed, chin resting on his palm, an infuriating smirk stretched across his face.

Sylas exhaled through his nose. "I should've known."

Lucius grinned. "You should've. But then again, you're still holding onto this little thing called 'hope.' How tragic."

Sylas stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, walking deeper into the library. "Whatever. Just don't bother me."

Lucius immediately floated after him. "Oh, Sylas. Have you still not accepted it?"

Sylas didn't respond. He just kept walking.

Lucius chuckled, voice light, teasing. "You have, haven't you? You know it's true. You just don't want to say it."

Sylas stopped in front of a bookshelf, scanning the titles.

A long pause.

Then, finally, in a low, resigned voice, he muttered—

"You're omnipresent."

Lucius beamed. "I knew you'd get there eventually! I mean, what else would explain my impeccable timing? My flawless appearances? My ability to be everywhere, all at once?"

Sylas rolled his eyes, grabbing a book and flipping through its pages. "You just like being annoying."

Lucius gasped, hand over his heart. "How dare you? My omnipresence is a gift! A cosmic wonder! A phenomenon beyond mortal comprehension!"

Sylas turned a page. "It's a waste of power."

Lucius laughed. "And yet, here we are. So, now that you've accepted my omnipresence, what shall we do with this newfound understanding? Would you like to test me?"

Sylas snapped the book shut.

Then, without hesitation, he asked—

"What's the name of the woman who sells bread near the east gate?"

Lucius grinned. "Madame Lorette. Elderly, slightly hunched, flour always on her hands, and she mutters about how young people don't appreciate the art of bread-making anymore."

Sylas narrowed his eyes. "Alright. What's my student Callan's worst subject?"

Lucius smirked. "Maths. But you already knew that."

Sylas crossed his arms. "Fine. What was I thinking about before I walked in here?"

Lucius's smile turned wicked.

"Oh, that's easy," he purred. "You were wondering if you should start giving your students more practical assignments, but you dismissed the thought because you don't think they're mentally capable of handling real philosophical discussions."

Sylas froze.

His expression remained unreadable, but internally, there was a brief flicker of irritation.

Lucius tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Did I get that wrong?"

Sylas clicked his tongue and turned away. "Tch. Doesn't prove anything."

Lucius laughed. "Oh, Sylas. Denial is such a tired look on you."

Sylas ignored him and began walking again, trying to find another book.

Lucius followed. Obviously.

"So, since I know everything," Lucius continued, "would you like me to tell you something interesting? Perhaps some deep, forbidden knowledge? A hidden truth about the world? Maybe the location of an ancient artifact?"

Sylas didn't even hesitate.

"No."

Lucius pouted. "You're no fun."

Sylas sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I already have enough problems. The last thing I need is you making it worse."

Lucius grinned. "Ah, but I could make it better."

Sylas shot him a flat look. "Doubtful."

Lucius chuckled. "Fair enough. But since I'm feeling generous, I'll offer you this—"

He leaned in, his voice dipping into something almost serious.

"You might want to start paying attention to the people around you, Sylas."

Sylas frowned. "…What?"

Lucius's smirk softened—just slightly. "Some of them aren't as harmless as they seem."

Sylas stared at him for a long moment, searching for the usual mischief, the usual mockery.

But there was none.

Just unsettling certainty.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the moment was gone.

Lucius grinned, stepping back. "Anyway! That's all you get for free. If you want more, you'll have to entertain me."

Sylas exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Of course.

Without another word, he grabbed a book, walked to a chair, and sat down, firmly ignoring Lucius.

Lucius, however, simply sat on the table across from him, resting his chin on his hands, watching him like he was the most interesting thing in the world.

Sylas muttered under his breath.

"Omnipresent bastard."

Lucius beamed. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Sylas."

The Fog's Lecture & The ISS

As Sylas closed his eyes, he already knew what was about to happen.

And yet, despite that knowledge—despite his sheer will to resist it—he still found himself back in the fog.

Reverie.

The formless, endless expanse stretched infinitely in all directions, shifting and swirling like something alive. It was neither solid nor air, neither dream nor reality. It simply was.

Sylas sighed. "Alright, let's get this over with."

The fog responded immediately.

A voice—neither male nor female, neither young nor old—echoed from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Sylas Corvus Arctanis, you return once more. There is much to discuss."

Sylas exhaled sharply. "Great. Another lecture."

The fog swirled, thickening around him.

"Tell me, Sylas. What do you know of the multiverse?"

Sylas raised an eyebrow. "That it's infinite? That countless worlds exist with countless possibilities?"

"Correct. But knowledge is nothing without understanding. The multiverse is not simply an expanse of alternate realities—it is a system, a structure governed by rules beyond mortal comprehension. And within this structure, there exists an enforcer."

Sylas felt a shift in the fog, as if something immense had turned its attention toward him.

"The Intergalactic Safety Security—also known as the ISS."

A strange chill ran down his spine.

"The ISS is not bound by a single world, a single timeline, or a single reality. It exists across the multiverse, beyond time, beyond space. It is an organization designed with one purpose—"

The fog thickened, its presence pressing against him.

"To protect humanity. Anywhere. Everywhere. Across all universes."

Sylas frowned. "Protect them from what?"

"From threats beyond their comprehension. Anomalies. Beings that should not exist. Forces that disrupt the natural order."

Sylas narrowed his eyes. "…And I should be worried about them because?"

The fog shifted.

"Because, Sylas, you exist in a universe untouched by them. A universe where their presence has not yet been required. But should an anomaly appear—should something threaten the balance—"

A pause.

"—they will come."

Sylas crossed his arms. "And what if I don't want them here?"

*"It does not matter what you want. The ISS is beyond mortal will. They are beyond even gods. If they decide this universe requires their intervention, then they will intervene."

A long silence followed.

Sylas processed the information carefully, his mind running through possibilities. He had never heard of the ISS before, which meant either they were unbelievably good at remaining hidden, or they simply had no reason to interfere in this world. Yet.

"You would do well to ensure they never come," the fog warned.

Sylas sighed. "Right. No pressure."

And just as he was about to ask another question—

"Oh? Talking about multiversal organizations without me? How rude."

Sylas froze.

A slow, creeping irritation crawled up his spine as he turned his head.

Lucius stood there, grinning.

Of course.

Sylas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lucius."

Lucius clasped his hands together, feigning offense. "Sylas! I thought we had a bond! A connection! And yet, you're having entire existential discussions without me? Truly, my heart aches."

Sylas stared.

Then, in the flattest tone imaginable—

"You don't have a heart."

Lucius beamed. "True! But it's the thought that counts."

Sylas exhaled. "Why are you even here?"

Lucius stretched his arms, as if perfectly at home in the fog. "Sylas. We've been over this."

He took a step forward, and the fog parted around him.

"I. Am. Omnipresent."

Sylas crossed his arms. "Right. Because being a walking existential nightmare wasn't enough."

Lucius chuckled. "Oh, Sylas, you wound me."

Sylas gestured vaguely. "Fine. If you're so omnipresent, then why don't you already know everything the fog is telling me?"

Lucius grinned.

"I do."

Sylas blinked.

"…Then why are you here?"

Lucius leaned in, voice dropping into a playful whisper.

"Because it's fun."

Sylas immediately regretted asking.

Lucius spun around dramatically, arms outstretched. "You see, my dear Sylas, omnipresence is a delightful thing. I exist everywhere, at every time, across all realities, simultaneously. Every conversation you have, I've already heard. Every thought you think, I've already known. Every move you make, I've already seen."

He twirled a finger in the air, and the fog itself shifted, reshaping into a mirror image of Sylas.

Sylas stared at the copy of himself.

Lucius smirked. "And yet, I choose to be here. With you."

Sylas gave him a blank stare. "That's not comforting."

Lucius laughed. "Oh, but it should be! I could be anywhere in the multiverse—everywhere, even! And yet, I find you so endlessly entertaining that I actually choose to spend my time in your company."

Sylas rubbed his temples. "I feel so honored."

Lucius grinned. "You should."

Sylas turned back to the fog, ignoring him. "So. What do I need to know about the ISS?"

"Simply this," the fog replied.

"You are being watched, Sylas."

Sylas froze.

Lucius let out a low whistle. "Ooooh. Now that's interesting."

Sylas slowly turned his head. "Explain."

"There are those who have taken notice of you. Your presence in this universe. Your existence within the fog. If you are not careful, the ISS will turn its gaze upon you."

Lucius chuckled. "Well, well, well. Looks like you're important."

Sylas clenched his jaw. "Tch."

He had enough to deal with. The last thing he needed was some multiversal police force deciding his universe was a problem.

The fog swirled.

"Be cautious, Sylas Corvus Arctanis. The multiverse is vast. And you are no longer unnoticed."

Sylas exhaled sharply.

Then, without hesitation, he said—

"Yeah, well. If they come, I'll deal with it."

Lucius's grin widened. "Oh, Sylas. I cannot wait to see that."

The fog shifted.

One moment, Sylas was standing in the endless abyss of Reverie, and the next—

A library.

But not just any library.

Shelves stretched into infinity, disappearing into horizons that should not exist. Books floated through the air, turning their own pages as if reading themselves. The ceiling was not a ceiling but a shifting tapestry of the cosmos, where stars formed words, and nebulae whispered secrets lost to time.

It was not bound by reality. It was not a structure built with walls or floors. It was a concept, an idea—a realm that existed outside logic.

The Library of Infinite Possibilities.

Sylas exhaled, adjusting to the shift. "Of course. Another impossible place."

"This is where knowledge comes to rest," the fog murmured.

Lucius whistled. "Ah, one of my favorite spots."

Sylas didn't even react. Of course Lucius would be here.

With a flick of his wrist, Sylas summoned his book—the infinite one. It materialized in his hands, a tome that defied the very nature of existence. No matter how many pages he filled, it would never run out.

He conjured his pen next.

The forever pen.

A writing instrument that would never run out of ink, never dull, never break. It was a part of him, an extension of his will.

And he wrote.

He wrote down everything—the ISS, the implications of their existence, the warnings of the fog. Every new piece of knowledge carved itself into the pages, preserving itself in eternity.

Lucius, leaning lazily against a floating bookshelf, grinned. "Writing down all your secrets, are we?"

Sylas didn't look up. "Knowledge is power."

Lucius tilted his head. "So is wielding it."

Sylas kept writing. "And I plan to."

Lucius chuckled, his voice a silken thread of amusement. "Careful, Sylas. Power changes people."

Sylas finally glanced up, eyes sharp. "And yet, here you are, standing above all power, unchanged."

Lucius's grin widened.

"Ah. But who says I haven't changed?"

Sylas narrowed his eyes.

Lucius took a step forward, hands casually slipping into his pockets. "You see, Sylas, mortals always view omnipotence as an endgame. As if reaching the pinnacle of existence means the story stops. But power—true power—is not a destination."

He tapped his temple.

"It's a perspective."

Sylas remained silent.

Lucius continued.

"Omnipresence means I exist everywhere, at every moment. Every time you blink, I have already seen it. Every step you take, I have already taken. Every choice you make, I already know the result."

His voice was lighthearted, almost playful, but there was something indescribably vast behind his words.

"You experience life linearly. I do not. I am past, present, and future. Simultaneously."

Sylas clenched his jaw. "Then why do you act like a smug bastard if you already know everything?"

Lucius laughed.

"Because it's fun."

Sylas stared at him.

Lucius's smirk deepened. "You misunderstand something crucial, Sylas. Omniscience does not mean boredom."

He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the infinite library.

"You think knowing everything means there are no surprises. But in truth, every moment is a surprise."

He snapped his fingers.

A book on a high shelf flew down and opened itself, pages turning at impossible speeds before stopping on a single passage.

Lucius pointed. "Look at that."

Sylas frowned, reading aloud.

"'And in that moment, Sylas finally understood.'"

He looked back at Lucius, unamused. "I don't."

Lucius winked. "Exactly!"

Sylas resisted the urge to throw his pen at him.

Lucius twirled his finger, and another book drifted toward them. "You see, my dear Sylas, omnipotence does not mean doing everything. It means choosing what to do."

He caught the book midair and flipped it open with a flick of his wrist.

"I could reshape existence with a thought. Unmake creation. Rewrite reality. But where's the fun in that?"

Sylas folded his arms. "So what? You're a god who plays games?"

Lucius smiled. "Ah, but games have rules. I don't follow any."

Sylas exhaled slowly. "And yet, for some reason, you waste your time here. With me."

Lucius grinned, tapping the side of his head. "Oh, Sylas. You still don't get it, do you?"

He leaned in.

"You're interesting."

Sylas held his gaze.

Lucius continued, his tone light, but his words heavier than the stars.

"You, a mortal—a speck of dust in the grand design—are resisting the currents of fate. You refuse to be bound by destiny. You defy expectation. You disrupt the flow."

His eyes glowed faintly.

"And I love disruptions."

A long silence stretched between them.

Sylas finally looked back at his book.

He clicked his pen. "Well. If I'm going to be a disruption, I may as well take notes."

Lucius laughed. "Now that's the spirit."

And as Sylas wrote, the library whispered.

The multiverse was watching.

The Sentient Fog

The fog shifted.

Not like mist blown by the wind, not like clouds drifting across the sky—it moved with purpose.

Sylas knew by now. This fog was not just fog. It was aware. It was thinking. Watching. Processing. But unlike Lucius, who reveled in chaos and amusement, the fog held no emotion.

It did not judge.

It did not care.

It simply was.

As Sylas wrote in his infinite book, a voice—if it could even be called that—resonated within the space. It was not a sound. It did not travel through the air or vibrate against his ears. Instead, it was imprinted directly into his mind, an intrusive yet neutral presence.

"You seek knowledge. You will receive knowledge."

Sylas stopped writing. His pen hovered over the page. "So, you finally feel like talking?"

"Talking is a mortal term. I do not talk. I relay."

Sylas glanced up. The fog swirled, shifting but never solidifying. It had no form, no center, no core. It was not something that could be grasped. No eyes to meet, no face to read. Just an endless, thoughtless abyss.

And yet—it knew him.

"Your understanding of the multiverse is insufficient. Correction is required."

Sylas leaned back, tapping the edge of his pen against the book. "Go on, then. Enlighten me."

The fog moved. It was not physical, but somehow, it pressed in, as if trying to force knowledge into his mind rather than explain it in words.

"The multiverse is not singular. It is not linear. It is not cyclical. It is not bound by concept. It is bound by function. Its purpose is continuance."

Sylas frowned. "Continuance of what?"

"Existence."

The fog shifted.

"The structure of existence requires stability. Stability requires intervention. Intervention requires a force. The I.S.S. is one such force."

Sylas exhaled through his nose. "The Intergalactic Safety Security."

"Correct."

The fog did not approve or disapprove. It simply acknowledged.

"They are designed for the preservation of humanity. Their directive is singular: to ensure human survival across all iterations of reality. They will go to any universe, any timeline, any dimension. They do not discriminate between worlds. Their objective is absolute."

Sylas's fingers drummed against the book. "And what happens if someone like me, or Lucius, or—hell, even you, threatens that directive?"

The fog paused.

It did not think. It did not hesitate. It simply calculated.

"You will be erased."

Sylas narrowed his eyes. "Just like that?"

"Correct."

No hesitation. No malice. Just a statement of fact.

Sylas sighed, rubbing his temple. "Great. Another problem on the horizon."

Lucius, who had been watching with mild amusement, finally spoke up. "Oh, don't worry, Sylas. If the I.S.S. ever showed up, you'd be the least of their problems."

Sylas glanced at him. "Because of you?"

Lucius smirked. "Exactly."

The fog remained indifferent.

"Lucius Malthoran. Classified as an Absolute Anomaly. Not bound by linear time, dimensional barriers, or causality. No records of successful containment exist."

Sylas blinked. "Wait, the I.S.S. actually tried to contain you?"

Lucius stretched, his smirk widening. "Of course they did. They don't like things they can't predict."

"Correct."

Sylas frowned, shifting his focus back to the fog. "And me? How am I classified?"

Another pause.

"Sylas Corvus Arctanis. Classification: Inconclusive."

That made Sylas stop.

"Inconclusive?"

"Insufficient data. Your actions do not align with a stable trajectory. Your choices are unpredictable. No definitive conclusion can be reached."

Sylas leaned back, absorbing that. "So, I'm an anomaly."

"Not yet."

Sylas frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Not yet."

The fog did not elaborate.

Lucius laughed. "Oh, I love that. Not yet. Sounds ominous, doesn't it?"

Sylas sighed. "Of course it does."

Lucius clapped a hand on Sylas's shoulder. "Well, at least we know one thing for sure. If the I.S.S. ever shows up, you'll either be a target or an asset."

Sylas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Comforting."

"It is not a matter of comfort. It is a matter of function."

Sylas rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course. You don't care about comfort. You don't care about anything."

"Correct."

The fog swirled, shifting again.

"Knowledge has been relayed. The lecture continues."

Sylas groaned. "Of course it does."

The fog halted.

Not in the way a person would hesitate—no stuttering, no second-guessing. Just a brief, near-imperceptible pause in its endless, shifting flow. It was the kind of pause that shouldn't exist, because the fog did not stop, did not waver, did not rethink.

But it did.

"Correction: Lucius Mavros."

It was immediate. No apology, no acknowledgment of the mistake. Just a rewrite of reality itself. As if its previous words had never been spoken. The name Malthoran was erased from existence, scrubbed clean from the infinite space that was the Veil of Reverie.

Lucius grinned, watching the fog twist and shift like a vast, thoughtless sea. "There you go. That's better. No need to be so rigid, you know? You're omnipresent, sure, but not that omnipresent if you're making mistakes like that."

"I do not make mistakes. I adjust."

Lucius laughed. "Oh? Then why don't you go adjust those fictional existences you're so obsessed with cataloging? Maybe go talk some sense into them, huh?"

The fog shifted again.

"Fictional existences do not require sense. They require structure."

Lucius leaned forward, his smirk widening. "Oh, so you do acknowledge them. Tell me, fog—where does fiction begin, and reality end?"

"Distinction is unnecessary. Both exist. Both function. Both persist."

Sylas, who had been rubbing his temple throughout this exchange, sighed. "Lucius, are you seriously arguing with the concept of omniscience?"

Lucius shrugged. "Why not? It talks, doesn't it? Might as well have some fun with it."

Sylas gave him a flat look. "It doesn't talk, it relays."

"Correct."

Sylas threw up his hands. "See? That's exactly my point! It's like trying to argue with a brick wall that knows every language but doesn't care to actually speak!"

Lucius hummed. "Oh, I think it does more than that. It adjusts reality, remember? If it can get my name wrong, then it can also be tricked. Imagine that, Sylas—a sentient, self-correcting reality that can be influenced. Not omnipotent, not truly omniscient, but self-updating. Like a library that rewrites its own books every time new knowledge is acquired."

The fog did not deny it.

Sylas crossed his arms. "Alright, fog. Let's test something. What happens if I create a paradox?"

"Paradoxes are absorbed. Reality corrects."

Lucius whistled. "Ooooh, absorbed, huh? So if I said 'I always lie' while simultaneously telling the truth, what would happen?"

"The statement would be adjusted. You would neither always lie nor always tell the truth. A balance would be applied."

Sylas blinked. "You just edit reality to avoid paradoxes?"

"Correct."

Lucius grinned. "So what you're saying is—you cheat."

"Incorrect. I function."

Sylas exhaled sharply. "Oh, great. Now it's just flexing."

Lucius put a hand on his chin, considering. "But that still means you have limits. If you correct reality rather than allowing it to collapse, then you're not truly above causality—you're just weaving it back together."

The fog did not respond.

Because it didn't have to.

Sylas and Lucius both understood what that silence meant. They were right.

Lucius chuckled. "Looks like you're not quite as absolute as you pretend to be, fog."

The fog swirled.

"Correction is irrelevant. Knowledge has been relayed. The lecture continues."

Sylas groaned, rubbing his face. "Of course it does."

Lucius leaned back, arms crossed, wearing the kind of smug grin that made even the most patient of beings want to punch him. "You know, for an emotionless sentient fog, you sure get defensive."

The fog swirled. Not erratically, not angrily—just a shift. A subtle adjustment, as if considering the statement, measuring it against the fabric of reality, and deciding whether or not it was worth correcting.

"Defensiveness implies emotional investment. I do not possess emotions. I relay knowledge. I function."

Lucius chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. You function. But let's get one thing straight, misty—I'm smarter than you."

The fog paused. Again, not in hesitation—just in that cold, calculating way that indicated it was processing Lucius's words like an impersonal machine.

Sylas sighed. "Oh, great. Here we go."

"Clarify. Intelligence is a subjective metric. Your claim is unsubstantiated."

Lucius's grin widened. "Is it, though?" He gestured to the misty, infinite horizon. "You? You're stuck here. You only exist in the Veil of Reverie. Your omnipresence? Limited. You can exist everywhere here, sure, but only here." He tapped his temple. "Me? I exist everywhere. Every universe. Every timeline. Past, present, and future. You call yourself all-knowing, but your knowledge is confined to this place. Meanwhile, I am."

The fog shifted.

"Correction: I am nigh-omniscient. I do not claim absolute omniscience. Your existence across multiple planes is an observed phenomenon. However, superiority remains subjective."

Lucius clapped his hands together. "Aha! So you admit you're not all-knowing!"

"I adjust."

Sylas ran a hand down his face. "This is so stupid. Why are you arguing with a sentient weather pattern?"

Lucius ignored him. "See, that's the thing, fog—you're just a really sophisticated librarian. A repository of knowledge that updates itself. But you don't create, you don't experience, and you sure as hell don't think beyond what you've already collected. Meanwhile, I—" He gestured to himself with a dramatic flourish. "—am knowledge itself. I don't just know the past, present, and future—I can influence them. I am the director, the playwright, the actor. The multiverse is my stage. You? You're just the archive."

The fog didn't respond immediately. It shifted, slow and methodical, the way a mindless force of nature would.

Then, it simply stated:

"Correction: The multiverse is not your stage. It is an ever-expanding construct beyond singular ownership. You are merely a participant."

Lucius laughed. "Oh, don't be salty."

"Incorrect. I do not possess sodium levels."

Sylas stared at the sky, wondering if he could simply will himself out of existence to escape this nonsense.

Lucius grinned, relishing every second of this absurd argument. "Alright, let me break this down for you, cloud-for-brains."

The fog swirled, unbothered, ever still, ever calculating.

"Clarify. My composition is not cranial in nature."

Sylas, who was trying very hard not to get involved, rubbed his temples. "Oh my god. Lucius, why are you arguing with a literal fog?"

Lucius ignored him. "See, that's exactly the problem! You take everything literally. No nuance, no wit, no creativity—just raw, processed information. That's why I'm smarter than you." He gestured grandly. "I don't just know things—I understand them. I can perceive the gaps, the contradictions, the context."

"Context is irrelevant to absolute knowledge."

Lucius cackled. "And yet you don't even have absolute knowledge! I do! You? You're just a glorified Wikipedia article that updates itself!"

The fog shifted.

"Correction: I am a sentient metaphysical construct capable of processing infinite information across all subjective perceptions of reality."

Lucius placed a hand on his chest dramatically. "Ooooh, big words. Still doesn't change the fact that you're stuck here in one dimension while I can pop into literally anywhere I want." He smirked. "I mean, I could go to the farthest reaches of existence and see things even you haven't documented yet. Hell, I could go and have lunch in a dimension where physics is a suggestion, while you just sit here, swirling around like an overworked fog machine."

"Incorrect. I do not require rest or sustenance."

Lucius snorted. "Exactly! You don't even get to enjoy anything. No food, no music, no entertainment. You're just… here. Forever. Like an eternal, omnipresent nerd."

The fog was silent for a moment. Then:

"Entertainment is an unnecessary concept for the pursuit of knowledge."

Lucius wheeze-laughed. "Oh my god. You're so boring." He shook his head, grinning like a madman. "I almost feel bad for you."

"Pity is an emotional response. I do not require it."

Sylas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lucius, stop bullying the fog."

Lucius leaned forward. "But it's so funny."

"Incorrect. Humor is subjective. Your statements lack universal comedic value."

Lucius threw his head back, laughing. "Oh, you're killing me, misty." He wiped a nonexistent tear from his eye. "You know what? I take it back. You are entertaining, but in the way an outdated AI is entertaining. Like a chatbot from the Dark Ages of technology."

"I am not an artificial intelligence. I am an autonomous metaphysical presence."

Lucius grinned. "Sure you are, buddy. Sure you are."

Sylas stared at the two of them—one a smirking, omnipresent being who existed beyond all space and time, the other an unfeeling, nigh-omniscient fog that functioned as an eternal archive—and wondered, not for the first time, what the hell his life had become.

Sylas sat cross-legged in the endless, swirling fog, the weight of the conversation settling around him like the atmosphere in a forgotten library. He blinked, trying to make sense of it all, and then posed the question that had been eating at him.

"So," he began, his voice steady, "this Library of Infinite Possibilities I'm in—what exactly is it?"

The fog shifted around him, its cold presence hanging in the air like an ancient, patient entity, waiting for the question. Then, a low hum reverberated as if the fog were gathering its thoughts—if such a thing were even possible for a formless mass.

"The Library of Infinite Possibilities," it intoned, its voice an eerie mix of distant echoes, like a chorus of ancient whispers. "It is not just a collection of books, Sylas. It is not a mere building or repository of knowledge."

Sylas frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to grasp the weight of the fog's words. "Then what is it?"

"The Library is a concept," the fog continued, its voice taking on a more deliberate tone, "A philosophical construct birthed from the collective consciousness of humankind. It encompasses all ideas, every spark of thought, every theory, every creation. It is the manifestation of human cognition—the entire spectrum of intellectual pursuits and emotional understandings."

Sylas, while still in his human form, felt a sense of wonder creeping up his spine. It sounded… impossible. "So, you're saying this is the collection of all human thought? All of it?"

"Correct," the fog replied. "It is an ever-expanding entity, a non-physical sphere that contains every piece of information, every concept that humanity has ever created. It includes ideas, philosophies, memories, and even the fragments of concepts that have yet to be fully understood or realized. It is the map of human consciousness, constantly evolving. It is a metaphysical and pataphysical place."

Sylas felt his mind begin to race, trying to visualize such an unfathomable concept. "So… this library isn't just filled with books? It's a space of thought itself?"

"Yes," the fog affirmed, its presence growing heavier in the air. "This space is not limited to physical boundaries. It is infinite, not in the sense of size, but in the sense of potential. Every thought, every theory, every emotional expression and philosophical pursuit forms part of the Library."

Sylas leaned back, pondering for a moment. It was almost too much to comprehend. He could feel the weight of the information pressing against him, not in a way that was overwhelming, but in a way that hinted at the enormity of it all. The library was a living, breathing thing—an endless sea of human intellect. "But," he began cautiously, "if this is all human thought, what happens when something—someone—outside of humanity enters? Like me?"

The fog was quiet for a moment, almost as if it were considering the question. "You are here because you are capable of understanding these concepts, of processing the information contained within the Library. But there is a catch."

Sylas raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

"While you may enter and interact with this place, while your mind can grasp the vastness of these ideas, you will never fully control it. You may access the knowledge, but you will never possess the Library itself."

The realization hit Sylas like a tidal wave. "I can't control it? Why not?"

"You cannot control the Library," the fog explained, its tone almost amused, "Because it transcends your understanding. The Library is a creation of human thought. It is birthed from the very nature of existence itself, from the collective intellectual and emotional energy of humanity. Your mind may grasp individual threads, but the totality—the full scope—is beyond even your reach."

Sylas mulled over the fog's words for a moment. "So, I can study it. I can understand it. But I'll never be able to own it?"

"Correct," the fog responded, its voice cool and unwavering. "You are an outsider, a mere observer in a domain that was never meant for you to control."

Sylas frowned, but there was a flicker of understanding in his gaze. "So, I can learn from it… but I'll never truly master it, huh?"

"Indeed," the fog said. "Even you, Sylas, with your exceptional mind, will find it nearly impossible to command the vastness of human thought. It is simply too complex, too intricate, too all-encompassing. But fear not. You can still learn. You can still grow."

There was a pause, and then the fog added, its tone shifting into something more cryptic: "However, should you truly desire to control knowledge, you must seek a deeper understanding. You must understand not just the information, but the consciousness behind it. And even then, the task may be… impossible."

Sylas let the words hang in the air. His brow furrowed as he tried to process the implications of what the fog had just revealed. He could access everything contained within the Library. But mastering it, controlling it? That was beyond him. It was a humbling thought.

The fog's voice cut through his thoughts. "You may control the veil of Reverie, Sylas. But the Library… it is not yours to command."

Sylas took a deep breath. "So, this place is truly endless. A perfect collection of all human knowledge, wrapped in a blanket of infinite potential." He nodded slowly, then smirked. "I guess that's one more thing to add to the list of things that are beyond my control."

The fog didn't respond immediately. Instead, there was a strange, almost indiscernible feeling that rippled through the air—like the fog itself was acknowledging his statement.

"Indeed."

Sylas couldn't help but smile, even as the weight of the knowledge settled in. "Well, that's one more mystery to add to the pile."

And with that, he closed his eyes and let the swirling fog around him settle, ready to explore further, knowing now that the Library was not his to command, but rather a vast ocean of thought he could only dip his finger in.

"Hmmp, look at those two, talking like teacher and student," Lucius mused with a smirk. "Ha, hilarious."

Yes I'm sure it's hilarious, so mister mavros, how will you continue?

Eh," Lucius pondered, tapping his fingers lightly against the armrest, his gaze narrowing as he formulated his next move. "The plot will continue with Sylas going back and fighting those masked fools again!" He said it with a casual air, as though he were discussing the weather rather than dictating the course of a critical moment.

Oh...well I suppose that will work…

"You're the narrator, not a critic," Lucius said with a smug smirk. "You're here to follow my lead, not second-guess my decisions. Don't forget—I'm the one paying you for this job."

Understood mister mavros.