The obsidian walls had grown star-like patterns on them, twinkling in the dim light produced by the golden tesseracts rotating on the seven spires. The eighth spire—that completed the octagon, was left dark, its structure just barely together, close to crumbling and so close to becoming consumed by the darkness around it—the small linings of ancient runic architecture still managed to hold it up with the help of little ice at its base and corners.

  It wasn't like there was any way out of the space in that the eight spires circumscribed, outside it was a type of void, one with astronomical syngils imprinted into every visible part. Perhaps the walls weren't even walls to begin with, but were just there for the sake of enclosure to keep the human mind from going insane.

  In the middle of the eight spires, was a bright white circular array formation on top of which a man lay, curled up into himself and exhaling frosted breaths as he held a broken compass close to his chest in his hand—the cover glass had already cracked and caused a gnash in the man's palm, but he didn't seem to care the slightest.

  The blood dribbled from the wound ever so slowly, like even it was as affected as the compass needle which refused to stay in one direction. Maybe it was, maybe that was why, despite his unyielding counting providing him with the answer that he had been here for years, nothing had changed. His throat was parched, but his stomach wasn't famished. His hair was messy but not outgrown, his hands were bloody and unhealed—his eyes seeing everything but nothing at once.

  It was eternal prison, a paradox created by the universe to keep him here as the repercussion for the sacrifice he made. It had been his choice, he had been the one who had given his life up, but he wondered if there would have been another way. He opened his eyes and blinked softly, unable to see much more than the intricate designs of the array underneath him. He wondered if there was a way out—a penalty for him following the rules for this long.

  Regardless, he pushed himself to sit up wearily and cast a glance around him for the millionth time—sighing heavily.

  The criteria for his removal from the Celestium had been the collection of eight tesseracts, which honestly, the man doubted was possible at this point. Maybe his companions were already consumed by the and there was no one to continue bothering to go through the painstaking process of going to each macrocosm and collecting its part. He honestly wondered if there was any point in even getting out, since nothing bad had occurred—in the definition of bad, he meant the outbreak of Armageddons.

  As for him? Bad seemed to happen at each second. He wasn't sure why the silence echoed through the prison at the moment however, usually it was plagued with a rolodex of his memories repeating themselves to him; he wasn't sure why the cold wasn't biting him as it usually did either, sometimes he woke up with his body frozen, blood hardened within him but death eons away.

  A screen opened in front of him when he thought of the Armageddon, showcasing yet another fight in . He closed his eyes and the screen vanished.

  He could fall asleep for days and dream about the part of him that still coexisted in the worlds around, but he could no longer recognize that version of him as 'himself'. He couldn't sympathize with that person's actions and couldn't call the person that looked exactly like him—'I', either. The feeling of desolation was perpetual, and he wondered if it was envy that was gnawing at his insides.

  Things would have been so different if he hadn't thrown his life away in , if he hadn't made the oath with his others to collect the eight tesseracts of each macrocosm. If they hadn't bound themselves to it, perhaps they wouldn't have been the targets of the macrocosm architects and arbiters. He closed his eyes again and let himself collapse back into the fetal position.

  He let out a long exhale of frosted air, shivering the slightest and pulled his black coat close to his body, uncaring that the glass shards were pinching him from underneath his skin.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  He opened his eyes and stared directly at the empty part on top of the eighth spire. Just before he could resume his thoughts, a sickly familiar voice vibrated faintly in his ears.

  [ The Tranium Oath of the Eighth Macrocosm is looking at you]

  [ The Tranium Oath of the Eighth Macrocosm is suggesting a contract.]

  The man's eyes widened automatically—it was the first time in so long that he'd heard the sound of the of the System reaching out to him. A part of him wanted to close his eyes in disbelief but the other part of him immediately nodded, attempting to speak but ending up sputtering for a few moments.

  "Y—yes," he said, voice suddenly desperate and awfully dry. He braced himself to pay the repercussions, but to his surprise the black shards never came, instead a holograph opened in front of him.

  [1. . . ?? must give up certain memories and expect others to be forgotten or remembered only after ? ?

  2 . . . ?? must be willing to face the Repercussions.

  3 . . . ?? should visit the 9th macrocosm.

  4 . . . ?? may have the capabilities to change designated events if willing to lose the course of others.

  5. . . ?? must be willing to make the story more interesting for the Architects will be displeased—

  6. . .]

  He didn't care about more than half the things, other than realizing that it was a way back. In trade for the higher percentage of himself that existed within the physical world, he could go back. But to the [Ninth Macrocosm], according to the architect of the [Eighth Macrocosm].

  He stiffened. There were only eight macrocosms. What did they mean by the ninth macrocosm? He glanced around, but just as he did, he clutched his head with the same bloody hand as a pang of pain reverberated through it.

  He didn’t want to live in this circle of torture anymore and neither could he bring himself to wait anymore. He didn’t want to suffer. "I agree to the terms," he said, voice a mess.

  The hologram that appeared in front of him began dissipating into thin particles that slowly began surrounding him, resembling tiny stars that were persistent on prodding at his entire body. He stayed resilient, though, holding the compass close to his chest as he curled into himself, closing his eyes tight as the particles turned into shards and drew gnashes into his body as their velocities began increasing.

  The world around him kept spinning and the only thing he could register was the sensation of floating. Regardless of the pain, he felt faintly glad. He didn't know how many years had actually passed in the eternal prison. His body was stuck in the same age as when he'd arrived, but his mind was held elsewhere. Stuck in a time far different than this.

  [Conditions related to exclusive skill have been met!]

  [Exclusive Skill, 'Crystal Memories' has been earned!]

  [ The Tranium Oath of the Eighth Macrocosm has blessed you with the contract]

  [Censorships have been applied!]

  However, just as he opened his eyes to see his surroundings for the last time, he noticed a faint spark on top of the eighth pillar. It looked as though it'd been there for a while. It didn't make sense, the eighth tesseract had been missing. His eyes widened as his vision was partly incapacitated by the dark ether surrounding him.

  "Wait—!" he called out. But to his horror, in the distance, he saw the spires rearranging themselves to accommodate another pillar. The architect's message became clear. A new world had been formed. That's what they meant by the .

  [The are looking at you]

  [ of the Ninth Macrocosm is smiling at you]

  He reached out but the ether swallowed him whole until it had entered his body entirely, through his mouth, his nose, his eyes. When it finally cleared, a single message welcomed him.

  [You've traveled 10 years into the past!]

  [You've been sent to the ]