Chapter 31: Lost Chapters [3]

  The title of Techpriest was rarely bestowed—an inheritance of a bygone era. It stood as a remnant of forgotten histories, of pasts that had come and gone, and futures yet to unfold. Estelle remembered it as a fitting, natural aspect, a foundation upon which another's purpose was built, shaped by a culture long cultivated and now lost to time. It was an anchor of meaning in the world she had written.

  And to someone of such grand stature in this world—

  Her eyes widened. She bit her lip, drawing a sharp breath as the cold air stung her lungs, thick with the stench of blood. The death of a Techpriest lingered profoundly—a scent that carried the weight of their significance. The woman's eyes appeared vacant, staring at the ground with an indifferent reflection of light, as thick red liquid pooled around her, tracing the curved markings infinitely repeating across the floor.

  Estelle was dumbstruck. The situation was unnaturally jarring. The woman appeared ordinary—no tattoos, tails, or animalistic features, no signs of divine power or marks of blessing. Then, Estelle noticed small, dark horns peeking through her wet hair. She desperately tried to recall the world she had created, listing character names and tags associated with black horns and the transhumanist ascension into the ranks of a Techpriest.

  But each attempt yielded nothing, her mind a blank, a sudden, sharp pain erupting with every probing thought. Despite everything, regardless of any explanation, this situation was undeniably abnormal—the death of a Techpriest meant another severed link to ancient technology, progression, and history. She felt, with chilling certainty, that this moment, the Techpriest’s death, was a historical turning point, a mark being indelibly stamped upon time.

  They weren’t supposed to die like this. Techpriests were too important, too vital. Murdering one wasn’t normal—at least, not by the common sense of this world.

  Estelle’s head snapped to the side. She scanned the far reaches of the room, then the statue, then the tunnel that led into the total darkness. She swallowed hard; their murderers wasn’t here. Or had they already fled?

  Then she saw it: a smear of red caught her eye—blood. Its trail, mingled with visible droplets of water, snarled from the tunnel, and the chilling implication settled her, plunging her mind into sudden silence.

  A moment passed, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as Estelle took the chance to reign her thoughts. ‘We’re they attacked and forced to hide here?’

  She turned her head, her gaze falling on the mechanical arm. ‘Those prosthetics—whatever their official name—if this hadd been a target murder, the killer would have taken them. The Mechanical limbs like these were too valuable to leave behind.

  Seeing it here, this could potentially be the work of a person… but a monster… Or maybe it is—the techpriest are also powerful, they would be able to escape many assasination alive, depending mostly on scenario’s if I remember correctly.’

  Abruptly, a flash of memory redirected her attention to the person who had slid from the sarcophagus's lid earlier. As her eyes settled on him, something seemed... off. It was a young man—almost a child—lying on his side. His wet hair clung to his face, revealing delicate, unmarked features.

  No wounds. Yet his skin had turned a deep, unnatural blue, with reddish vein-like roots spreading beneath the surface. He was dead. She knew it from the unnerving stillness of his body, unresponsive despite the fall.

  As she processed the scene, her eyes caught a strange object—a tube-like structure that tentacled its way and attached to the child's head, with a suction-like cup at its very end, wrapping itself around the child in a perfect fit. Recognition flashed through her mind—she had seen these images before, that structure from the reports she had received.

  Estelle's head snapped up, her eyes widening. "What? Isn't this... Isn't that the tube I saw earlier? This is the tube from one of the ModPods for transfer, no?" Her words tumbled out in confusion, a frown drawing her eyebrows closer toward the bridge of her nose.

  "How...? How did they do it...? They are natives—they are... Wait... The Techpriest," her words slurred as her mind recalled the details of the dead woman, making her head bob slowly. "That must have been... the case... That woman must have known how to use the facility... But how? It's already 800 years past the Ecliptic Era… Who had taught this woman the knowledge of the past? Wait, no. Now's not the time to think about this—I have to go before someone comes and misunderstands."

  Estelle swallowed, her breathing erratic as her vision blurred. Her grip on the sarcophagus's rim tightened as she muttered, "I can fix this... I can still fix this. Let's go back. Double check everything, check the logs of the facility. We can always return—we can always fix things."

  Her voice, a gravelly bass she barely recognied, strained to maintain its steadiness. ‘Who was that?’ The question echoed, then fractured, as a chilling understanding seeped into her confusion. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. ‘Get up. Just get up.’

  With a surge of desperation, she gripped the cold, metallic rim of the sarcophagus and hauled herself upright. Her legs wobbled, leaden and unfamiliar, threatening to buckle beneath her. ‘Don’t fall. Not now,’ she leaned forward, knuckles felt strained to crack, but they didn’t.

  She clung to the edge, the metal biting through her gloves, into her skin. Then—a searing, paralyzing shockwave. It wasn’t just pain; it was a violation. Lightning bolts of agony, raw and electric ripped from her toes to her shoulders, muscle locking into a brutal, relentless spasm. A strangled gasp escaped her lips, the taste of feat metallic on her tongue. Her vision blurred, the world tilting precariously.

  “Argh,” Estelle gasped heavily, collapsing forward against the rim for support. “Fuck, fuck.”

  Instinctively, she flexed her sides, attempting to ease the pain. Yet, before her body could stretch, the agony vanished as abruptly as it had arrived. The searing pain that seemed to eat her muscles like a parasite disappeared as if she had taken medication. It was too sudden, even for Estelle’s mind and brought her into confusion.

  Still, wary of its return, she rubbed her ribs, only to find her movements hampered by the strange, elastic fabric—heavy drapes that wrapped around her. She realized she was clad in an unfamiliar garment, reminiscent of a toga from her past life, but woven with an unnatural material. The black threads shimmered with an odd, crystalline glint, a synthetic quality that was far from rubber or other durable textile.

  Multiple stola-like layers wrapped around her shoulders, intertwining in a complex arrangement before cascading over her shoulders and draping past her elbows—an elaborate costume fit for a stage performance. Gingerly, she lifted the clothing, attempting to slip her hands beneath its intricate folds to touch her skin, but the garment proved far more complex than she had anticipated.

  Even when she pulled it taut or shoved the fabric aside, searching for an opening, she found nothing. Estelle clicked her tongue in irritation and shook her head in defeat. She decided to ignore the strange pain that had assaulted her body. 'It's probably just this vessel—sleeping too long and unused...' she reasoned. 'Yeah, definitely.'

  She inhaled deeply, straightening her legs to examine them. Though the long fabric draping from her upper body obscured most of her attire, she could see the lower portions of her legs. They were encased in black pants, their unnaturally polished surface rippling with an almost otherworldly texture. The subtle, tiled pattern seemed to shift and reshape, a momentary glint of cold metal morphing into a smooth, synthetic sheen that pulsed upwards, as if the material itself were breathing alive.

  She lifted them—heavy, unfamiliar—unable to truly feel their movement, yet they responded, as if disconnected from her senses. Estelle shivered. Just another vessel. She lifted one leg, crossing the sarcophagus's rim, and paused, then slid both legs over the ledge. Her feet landed with a sudden, wet splash. The floor felt strangely slick, and as the sensation registered, the realization hit her: she had stepped directly into the pool of blood spreading from the woman just meters away.

  Just as when she had finally gotten somewhat used to the air, the nauseating smell returned, twisting her stomach. Estelle felt a shiver run from head to toe, closing her eyes and holding her breath. ‘Oh… god… dead bodies. Even though it’s not as gory—even though I’ve create 3D model renders far worse than this, with exposed bones—’

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  As those words registered in her mind, images suddenly flashed before her: flesh gashed open into a large open wound, unnatural red meat pulsating with dripping blood, textures of flesh meeting the stark white of bone. Estelle remembered working on that scene—a somewhat gruesome project commissioned by some long-forgotten client—where she had to research and render gore in meticulous detail. She involuntarily shivered as her mouth salivated, something climbing up the back of her throat. She ground her teeth, covering her mouth.

  She fought to calm herself, forcing the images away from her mind. Counting sleeping sheep, waking sheep, running sheep in the plain fields, employing any mental trick to banish the vision of the bleeding zombie. Despite having been desensitized to the sight of blood before, she couldn’t understand why she couldn’t handle it now.

  She shook her head, taking a deep breath—and caught a strange scent from her gloves, something minty mixed with rust. ‘Fuck—What the fuck… Why is this happening?’ Estelle wondered, brow knitted. ‘I don’t want to throw up… Why do I feel like throwing up? Is it the smell? Is it because reality differs from viewing through a screen? This is just weird…’

  Even with the questions swirling in her mind, she had a degree of understanding for her assumptions. Models could never replicate the full sensory experience—the scent, the taste, the feel, the way blood appeared in actual light, not rendered illumination.

  Estelle bit her lip and opened her eyes, pointedly focusing on the walls, acutely aware of the woman's body nearby. She shifted along the sarcophagus's edge, directing her attention to the statue on her left. With each sidestep, the sensation beneath her feet grew more distinct.

  It wasn't a whisper, it was a sudden, electric surge—a demand to look down. Her peripheral vision seemed to blur, pulling her gaze downward. The urge was a physical tremor, like static electricity in her fingertips. She knew this feeling, the way her mind latched onto something, wouldn't let go. She wouldn't give in. The images in her mind were already too detailed, too real.

  Then—the holographic monitor caught her attention, still flickering as light beams projected from the black screen. The sight prompted her to slide further along, shuffling her feet until the wet sounds beneath them gave way to dry thuds.

  ‘I need to connect with the Trigon Space Station using the session join,’ Estelle recalled. ‘That way I access things from here, and return to my original body. Should I try to take the techpriest arm? Or, alternatively, we can spend time here a bit more, and try to figure out a way to create a blueprint of it—if that is even possible.’

  As she prepared to stand, her ears tingled, capturing a distant disturbance in the air—a sound echoing from her left, causing her head to jolt toward the darkness of the tunnel.

  ‘Huh?’ She frowned. ‘Did I imagine it?’

  A spark flashed bright light within the darkness without warning, a crystal floating with an atmospheric blue glow, cradled by a long staff. The staff was held by someone creeping through the shadows—a figure draped in white clothing that concealed most of their face, with a black stole wrapped around their neck and draping loosely down their chest.

  Estelle’s lips fell, her eyes broke open in recognition. Despite the distance, there was no mistaking those burka-like uniforms. After all, she had designed them herself, created their meaning, their histories, and determined who would wear them. She swallowed hard, as another glow appareard just behind the first, their footsteps now becoming distinct to her ears.

  ‘Oh—my fucking—god. That looks so cinematic as fuck,’ her thoughts blanked, scattered. ‘Those people… No… that can’t be… They look like cultists of Lumina—they weren’t associated with the Techpriest… Or were they? Are these people allied with each other or not?’ Estelle wondered, confused, yet the corners of her lips curled upward as she watched light spill over their shoulders and down their limbs, showcasing what could have been an intimidating entrance of a villain in a film.

  “Woah…” The word tumbled from her lips, her jaw slack. It was real. Too real.

  Her creations—once mere clusters of shapes sculpted into a form, rendered in color and light—now moved with weight, with presence. She could feel them in her bones. Her hands hadn’t guided their movement—no interface, no render queues, no frame-by-frame tweaking. Yet, they breathed. Moved. Existed.

  The sheer, visceral naturalness of it all made her head spin.

  Had there been music playing, she was certain she would have giggled in fascination, indulging the part of her that hungered for anything to hyperfixate on. She was aware of her own face—smiling. Smiling at the scene built from assets she had created, smiling with no regard for the approaching danger despite the scene being designed to instill fear. Perhaps the only sane part of her was her heart, pounding loudly in her chest as if protesting.

  ‘This is bad. If they see me now, they'll blame me. I have to leave, right now,’

  Words she repeated to herself, a desperate attempt to anchor herself to logic. It was a simple truth, a common sense she clung to like a lifeline, but fascination hummed, a dangerous, irresistible song.

  She knew she had to move, escape. Even without fully recalling the details of this faction, she knew their arrival meant one thing—force. They brought only trouble, their motives always ruthless and uncompromising. Yet, despite the danger screaming at the edges of consciousness, Estelle couldn't tear her eyes from the design details manifesting before her. She bit her lip, ‘Am I really focusing on the wrong thing? Am I this stupid?’

  Her fascination only intensified as two more crystal lights flickered to life behind the group, revealing a figure that dwarfed the others. A hulking giant, nearly twice the size of those at the front, the figure wore distinctive headgear—a helmet of metallic texture, intricately lined like the walls of an Architect’s facility. Faint, reflective glints distorted the light erratically. Estelle swallowed hard. It resembled a common sci-fi helmet, seamless yet ordinarily featureless, a complete head encasement. And despite that—

  The helmet seized Estelle's attention. Her fingers twitched, an itch of phantom pen strokes, unconsciously aligning themselves as if ready to sketch.

  "Focus!" she hissed under her breath, but her creator's mind was already cataloging every curve and angle, even as danger loomed. She strained to see lower, to discern the neckline above the torso, to determine if the giant wore armor. But like the others, he was shrouded in heavy, wet drapes, and the tunnel's darkness obscured the finer details. "Damn," she muttered, 'they're terrifyingly amazing.'

  Then, a spark ignited in Estelle's mind. Her face abruptly turned impassive. 'Should I risk it?' she thought. 'What if they don't blame me? How would I explain myself? What if I could fabricate a reason—a lie? I've just taken possession of a body asleep for millennia—in this era, I’m not that different from an anomaly, appearing out of nowhere. I'm too suspicious, especially standing at what looks like a crime scene. They won't let me leave without consequences—not with a dead Techpriest. Oh god, why is this happening' Her thoughts spiraled.

  Estelle caught herself staring too long—overwhelmed by the impulsive need to watch, to take it all in. She pinched her thigh, forcing herself to regain focus. ‘Nope. Fuck—better safe than sorry.’"

  With a throb in her chest, Estelle pushed herself to her feet, hands braced against the sarcophagus's rim. She expected some hindrance from the body, a wave of nausea, or some distortion to her vision—but her expectations were betrayed. She was fine—and she inwardly cursed herself for hesitating to move, propelling her feet forward to close the distance to the terminal.

  Loud thuds echoed in the distance—footsteps accelerating into a sprint, as if they had spotted her and were closing in. Thin air whistled through Estelle’s nose as her fingers shot toward the display, ready to write—to write. Her mind faltered, momentarily paralyzed. The words evaporated, leaving her fingers hovering uselessly above the screen.

  'Oh fuck, what wa—' Her eyes snapped open as memory blessed her with a reminder. Her focus sharpened through her fingers as she wrote: [Connect to the Trigon Space station, and join the session: Consciousness Vessel Transfer.]

  Letters written as though a freshly crippled child had struggled to clutch a pen with trembling, useless tendrils. Estelle’s eyes narrowed into a glare, her own writing a pathetic mess—crooked, malformed, an insult to literacy itself. She lifted her fingers the moment the last words collapsed into a doctor’s incomprehensible scrawl. Her hands twitched, impatience simmering under her skin, her breath unsteady with the urge to erase it all and start over. But time didn’t grant that mercy. She knew that. She knew it too well—forced to swallow the irritation clawing its way up her throat.

  She clicked her tongue, biting her lip as her restless legs rustled, tapping against the ground. 'Oh, fuck, fuck. Hurry! Hurry! Oh—' Estelle abruptly paused—one thing became clear in her mind. 'There's just not enough time to transfer.'

  A series of loud footfalls slapped against stone behind her—echoing too closely for Estelle's sanity. A tingle ran down her neck and spine like a shiver, her mind screaming danger, unconsciously making her body pivot swiftly in response to the sound.

  In that moment, her eyes caught a sharp bright light piercing through the darkness—too bright, too close—a silhouette overshadowed by its own radiance, approaching rapidly. Before Estelle could even process how to react, she found herself in a dumbfounded stare.

  The silhouette leaped, leaving the light behind, entering the room as the green glow cast across its figure—their clothing fluttered, soaring with long white drapes that expanded like wings—and from their outstretched hand, something formed—a flare of fire coalescing into something beautiful—a long, sharp sword.

  The world slowed before her—but her heart pounded loudly, hastened, yet defying the time that stretched. Estelle muttered, "Woah—" despite fully knowing death was coming for her head. Yet she was still processing—understanding why the image of Sinclair appeared like a mirage, overlapping between the imaginations she had created and the figure before her.

  The sword brandished in a bright flare—everything happened too quickly. Estelle blinked, and before she knew it, the blade threatened to pierce her neck, hovering just before her skin.

  She gasped, unconsciously trying to move backward, but a force pushed her in that moment, pinning her against the wall as something clung to her body, immobilizing her before she could comprehend what was happening.

  'Woah, woah, woah!' Estelle trembled, her mind slowly restarting. She could feel the searing heat prickling against her chin, shoulder, and neck. She could feel the dampness of the figure's clothing—and as Estelle focused on the figure's head, her eyes found contact with another's—a red glare, mimicking the bright flare from earlier.

  "Who are you!" a woman's voice boomed, the words sharp and clear. They spoke in a language that should have been alien to her ears, yet Estelle understood every single word.