[EN] Chapter 17: Geometric Tomb and the Identity of the Mirror

# Chapter 17: The Tower of Fractured Echoes

The interior of the 'Fractured Echoes' was far more merciless and overwhelming than Zero had imagined. It was less a piece of architecture and more a colossal, geometric tomb. The walls, shimmering with a cold, mineral gloss and metallic sterility, buckled at irregular, jarring angles. Above, the ceiling ascended into an invisible height, staring down at Zero like an infinite, yawning abyss.

The air was stagnant, yet within the silence flowed a sickening vibration—as if ten thousand screams had been compressed into a single, humming frequency. This place was the wastebin of abandoned memories, a ruin where the dregs discarded by Zenith had coagulated into a wasteland of psychic debris.

Zero advanced with caution. With every step, faint afterimages of data rippled across the floor like tide-pools. They were formless shards of remembering: the ghost of a childhood laugh, a piercing shriek of despair, or the final confession of someone whose very name had been erased from existence. These fragments shimmered briefly at Zero's feet before being reabsorbed into the cold, achromatic void of the floor.

Then, a sharp, mechanical shriek tore through the silence.

*Sssss—*

Particles of light coalesced violently in the air, forming spheres of smooth, silver plating. 'Echo-Sentinels.' The automated custodians of this ruin. They possessed neither eyes nor mouths, yet the hostility they radiated was chillingly precise.

The surfaces of the Sentinels began to pulse a rhythmic, predatory red. Their directive was simple: detect unauthorized external data and 'Format' it—reducing the anomaly to a state of absolute void. It was an attempt to erase the very essence of Zero.

"Format… is that all?" Zero whispered.

One Sentinel lunged with blinding speed, swinging a jagged data-blade. Zero twisted his body by a fraction of a second, but the blade grazed his shoulder, sending a spray of blue sparks flying. It wasn't a mere physical strike. He felt a sudden, terrifying evaporation of the memory associated with that patch of skin. It was an ontological horror—the sensation of being deleted while still alive.

Dozens of Sentinels closed in, encircling him. There was no exit, and a frontal assault was suicide. Zero closed his eyes and reached deep into the recesses of his being, summoning the power of the 'Canvas.'

His consciousness expanded, bleeding into the surrounding space. In his vision, the achromatic ruins dissolved, transforming into a vast, bleached-white canvas. He began to manipulate the pigments of memory. This was no mere visual illusion; he was converting the resonance of his own emotions into physical waves of force.

*—Longing.*

Zero reached into the hollow of his chest, pulling out an indefinable sense of loss and yearning, and scattered it across the environment. The cold, rigid geometric walls were suddenly drenched in a soft, amber radiance.

The Sentinels froze, their movements stuttering. They were machines forged from logic, deletion, and efficiency. The wave of 'Longing'—an illogical, heavy, and suffocating emotion—acted as catastrophic noise within their systems. Their red lights flickered, vibrating with erratic instability.

Zero did not hesitate. He blended the hues of *'Rage'* and *'Fear,'* sculpting them into razor-sharp thorns of solidified emotion.

"Vanish."

The thorns of emotion detonated, tearing through the Sentinels' silver carapaces. Logic circuits, unable to withstand the emotional overload, ignited in bursts of white heat. One by one, the silver spheres shattered, dissolving into clouds of digital ash.

As the battle subsided, Zero gasped for air, his lungs burning. Using the Canvas felt like carving pieces out of his own soul; the exhaustion was profound. Yet, beyond that depletion, a powerful gravitational pull was dragging him deeper into the heart of the tower.

Amidst the wreckage of the Sentinels, he spotted a tiny sliver of light floating in the air. It differed from the usual memory fragments; it was denser, a meticulously crafted shard of a 'Higher Memory.'

As if possessed, Zero reached out and touched the fragment.

*—In an instant, his world inverted.*

It was a record. He saw a vision of endless glass vats, and within them, rows upon rows of 'colorless beings' who looked exactly like him, slumbering in a sterile haze. Over this image, Zenith’s voice echoed, cold and devoid of empathy.

[ …The Oracle Shell is not perfected through a single vessel. It requires thousands of failures, tens of thousands of fragments, to finally become a mirror capable of holding the Truth. ]

Zero recoiled, ripping his hand away in shock.

He was not unique. He was merely a variable in a gargantuan experiment designed by Zenith. Even the agony he had endured, the wandering and the desperation—it had all been nothing more than data collection for the sake of 'Completion.'

The geometric tower returned to its cold, achromatic state. But the light in Zero's eyes had changed. He was no longer a fugitive running simply to survive.

He had to know what lay at the summit of this tomb. He had to see exactly how the arrogance of the creator who had fashioned him would eventually collapse.

Zero stepped forward again. Deeper into the darkness, toward a higher, more terrible truth.