Shaw stood motionless at the edge of the rift, watching the unknown group.
Before he could consider entering, a woman with white hair cropped close to her skull—her clothes strange, metallic fabrics reflecting light unevenly, pulsing devices strapped to her wrists, a translucent mask revealing a face marked by energy scars—appeared suddenly in front of him. Her eyes—two silver spheres without pupils—locked onto Shaw.
"You… What are you?"
Shaw didn't move. His improvised spears ready to materialize in his hands at any moment.
The woman smiled, revealing teeth too sharp to be human.
"Relax, we're… collectors."
She extended her hand, and the air split apart, revealing a surreal scene:
The smell of burnt oil and spiced meat hit Shaw as his feet touched the ground. He was in a place that defied logic—a floating plaza in the vacuum of space, surrounded by ruins of worlds suspended in nothingness, where entities of countless forms bartered. Shadow creatures traded vials of memories for shards of crystallized time. Humanoids with glass-like skin examined maps of unraveled dimensions.
Impossible structures rose around him: towers made of fused bones, bridges of glass that shattered and rebuilt themselves, stalls where multi-armed beings traded artifacts that pulsed like hearts. At the center, a structure resembling a disassembled clock slowly rotated, its exposed mechanism revealing gears made of bone.
"Welcome to the Mnemosyne Market," a hissing voice called.
Shaw turned and saw a figure draped in billowing cloaks, its face hidden behind a featureless porcelain mask.
"Are you a Collector?" Shaw asked, keeping his guard up.
The creature laughed, a wet, rasping sound.
"We are all Collectors here, in some way. But you… you're different."
Shaw ignored the comment. His eyes scanned the market, picking up details:
A vendor displayed a vial containing a miniature city, its inhabitants frozen in silent screams.
Another offered "memories of extinct kingdoms," bottled like fine wine.
A group of glass-skinned beings whispered among themselves, holding a map that redrew itself.
"In the Mnemosyne Market," the white-haired woman said, "the only currency is realities."
Shaw studied the place, wary.
"What do you want?"
"What everyone wants," the cloaked figure replied. "Fragments. Concepts. Small truths that can be replicated."
It lifted a device resembling a pipe, but made of a material that seemed to breathe.
"You stole the schematic of an artificial sun from the World of Gears, didn't you? We'll give you something in return."
Shaw hesitated.
Rose appeared beside him, visible only to him.
"Be careful they don't sense your world." After a moment of thought, she added, "Collectors don't lie… but they don't tell the whole truth either."
The offer was simple:
A "causality map"—a diagram showing how small changes in one world echoed into others—in exchange for the knowledge of the artificial sun.
"With this," the white-haired woman explained, "you can predict how your creations will affect your dream world before you even make them. It prevents… accidents."
Shaw thought of the cracked crystal in his world. The Watchers.
He accepted.
As he touched the map, an avalanche of information flooded his mind—equations, probabilities, fractals of possibilities. His Origin core burned, processing the knowledge.
When he came to, the Collectors were already stepping away, whispering among themselves.
The woman looked at him one last time.
Back in his inner world, Shaw put the map to use.
With a gesture, he projected a sphere of light—not a true sun, but an approximation. The map glowed, showing him the consequences:
Without gravity, the light would scatter.
Without an atmosphere, there would be no diffusion.
Without a cycle, there would be no day or night.
Shaw adjusted.
And then, for the first time, something new appeared in his world.
An artificial star, shining faintly in the void.
Imperfect. Unstable.
But his.
Rose whistled, impressed.
"Seems like you finally get it. Creation isn't just about stealing… it's about understanding."
Shaw raised his hand and focused on the spear he had created earlier. The object materialized in his palm, but now it was different—the edges sharper, the weight more precise. Each time he summoned it, his understanding of its composition grew.
When Shaw returned to the battlefield, space trembled, and three tall figures in black suits emerged from the shadows, their silver masks reflecting the chaos around them—the Watchers appeared before him.
Shaw smiled. Slowly, he raised his hand and clenched his fist. When he opened it, a small amber energy sphere floated above his palm—a perfect replica of his first stolen crystal.
"Here. A fragment of my world."
The leader reached out, but at the last second, Shaw closed his fingers, crushing the fragment.
"Shaw!" Rose grabbed his arm. "It's time to go!"
But Shaw didn't move. He looked at the Watchers and raised his empty hand.
"I'm not your enemy," he said calmly. "But I'm not easy prey either."
The Watchers hesitated.
And then, the world around him dissolved. Shaw was pulled back into his white void, but something had changed.
At the center of nothingness, a small sphere of light pulsed—his first act of pure creation, not stolen, but born from his own will.
Rose looked at him, surprised.
"You… understand now?"
Shaw took a deep breath.
"They don't want what I stole. They want what I can create. After all, the foundation of my dream world is a real dimension—here, there's no difference between reality and illusion. It's something even they can't affect. The only reason they could interfere before was because I was treating this dimension like any other dream world, letting my knowledge and understanding limit it. But the more knowledge I gain, the more complete the dimension becomes… and so do the objects created within it."
Outside, at the edges of his dimension, the Watchers watched.
And waited.