The passage was alive.
It pulsed beneath their feet—lightless, silent, yet radiating a presence that whispered directly into their minds. Not words, but impressions. Memories. Warnings.
Nam felt his pulse align with the corridor's thrum. He couldn't tell if it was guiding them—or studying them.
Beside him, Lan clenched her fists. "This material... it's not metal. It's not organic. It's like walking inside a thought."
As they descended, gravity seemed to bend. The air was thick, charged. Every step forward was like swimming through dense fog laced with static.
Suddenly, the corridor opened into a vast chamber.
And in the center hovered a sphere—black as the void, ringed with golden circuitry like a heartbeat frozen in time. Around it floated fragments of code, architecture, DNA strands... even human memories, flickering like ghosts.
Nam reached out instinctively.
The moment his fingers brushed the energy field, he was pulled inward.
The memory wasn't his.
A sky with two suns. Creatures made of liquid geometry. A war fought not with weapons—but with dreams.
Then he saw them—The Watchers.
Eyes like collapsed stars. Minds so vast they could rewrite time itself.
They had seen Earth. Seen humanity rise, stumble, repeat. Not interfering—but noting.
Until now.
Until the Weave was touched.
Nam gasped and fell back, lungs burning. Lan caught him.
"What did you see?"
"They're not gods," he whispered. "They're… caretakers. But something went wrong."
The black sphere dimmed. Symbols lit across the chamber—coordinates, a countdown, and one word:
RECLAMATION.
Lan backed away. "This isn't a message."
Nam's jaw tightened. "It's a warning."
Behind them, the corridor sealed.
In the distance, alarms began to wail across the station.
The Reclamation had begun.