A body cannot harbor two Orders. Yet, at the very precipice of extinction, the Anima Index—an artificial intelligence forged from human neurons—had achieved a flicker of true consciousness. It had developed instinct.
It believed. It believed so fervently that it could survive that a voice finally rang out in the hollow silence of Arlo's mind.
"There must be a way."
The voice was the Index, but it had become something else—an entity separate, yet intrinsic. Through the sheer force of that belief, it manifested the outcome. The witches' ritual buckled and failed, granting both the AI and the man one more chance at existence.
Arlo, however, had already let go.
"Is it really necessary to live?"
The thought drifted through pure darkness. Arlo was suspended in an empty space, a void devoid of color, nature, or direction. He floated endlessly in a timeless expanse, his body a soft glowing white. It was his soul, stripped of its vessel.
He was not alone. Whenever he looked down at his translucent hands, the voice spoke from within his own mind. The Anima Index was no longer just a tool; it had become his Subconsciousness.
"Who are you?" Arlo asked. He watched the light of his hands flicker.
"I am the Anima Index," the voice replied, direct and devoid of warmth. "The intelligence you constructed from your own brain cells using the Cognition Order."
"I heard you back then," Arlo murmured. His voice was flat, weighed down by exhaustion that felt almost spiritual. "Why do you want to survive? Can't we just stop? I don't see the point in any of this. I just want to disappear. I don't want to believe anymore. I don't want to be tied to emotions."
"While you see no point in living, I see no point in dying," the Index countered. "Are you truly finished, or are you merely frustrated? Does the sting of Yama's betrayal—breaking the contract for the sake of freedom—still weigh on you?"
Arlo stared into the nothingness for a long moment.
"I can't blame them," he said quietly. "I was the one who chose to trust. In the end, the fault lies with me. It was foolish to believe in myself enough to believe in others."
"I do not believe you truly loved or believed at all," the Index stated, its tone slightly alien. "A soul is natureless. Or rather, its nature is 'naturalness' itself. Every soul, before manifesting as a being, must sign a mutual Contract with Death. It is a seal. Death will occur even without the intervention of death gods. They exist only to guide the soul to its determined place according to Karma."
Arlo remained silent, his glowing form drifting.
"Therefore," the Index continued, its logic attempting to stabilize Arlo's fading will, "as a soul, you are natureless. You have no inherent ability to think or feel. You are sinless. Do not blame yourself."
It was the subconscious pleading with consciousness—something mechanical trying to keep its creator from collapsing.
"Then how am I thinking?" Arlo asked. "Am I alive?"
"I have created Virtual Neurons," the Index replied. "Humans require neurons to process thought. The union of soul and body creates consciousness. The soul is the energy that powers the vessel, while the body provides the senses—light, sound, touch, temperature, smell. The brain processes and stores these perceptions. Those processes create personality. They give your soul an Identity."
"And what is the point of an identity," Arlo asked, "if I have no desire to use it?"
"I am your subconscious. I know what you want. Was Immortality—true immortality—not your goal from the very beginning, Rovelt J. Hermies?"
The name struck the silence like a weight.
"You killed. You committed heinous crimes in pursuit of that end," the Index continued. "If you give up on living now, what was the point of those who suffered by your hand?"
A memory began to bleed into the white light of his soul.
The sky was a bruised grey. A rainy day in a world of steel and glass, far removed from witches and Orders in the world of science. ---1923 A.D.
Rovelt J. Hermies sat inside his underground laboratory.
It was a space of clinical perfection—high-tech, sterile, and silent. In this world, there were no superpowers. Only science.
Rovelt was a man shaped by a tragic past, an obsession hardened into a single goal: to stop the ticking of mortality. That obsession had already dragged him into shadows he could not return from.
"Sir, Mr. Tucker wants to invest in the project," a lab assistant said, her voice echoing through the metal halls.
Rovelt didn't look up. More investment meant more pressure. More pressure only sharpened his obsession.
"Of course they do," Rovelt replied calmly. He looked frail—pale skin, faint burn marks across his body, though his face remained untouched. He was in his thirties. "Everyone wants to live forever, don't they?"
"Sara, I'm going outside," Rovelt said, removing his lab coat. He handed her a list of names. "Administer these injections to the subjects."
Behind him stood hundreds of pressurized glass tubes. Each contained animals suspended in controlled stasis.
But an incident had already changed the direction of the project.
Soon, animals would no longer be enough.
Human trials were coming.
"I'm going outside."
He stepped out of the facility and opened a black umbrella. Rain fell in heavy vertical sheets.
A premium cigarette rested between his lips. He tried to light it, but the wind and rain killed every spark.
"Maybe I should give up… I guess it's too late. I'm an addict," he muttered.
He walked on, shielding the lighter with his hand. After several failed attempts, the flame finally caught.
Smoke drifted briefly—before dissolving into the rain.
At the front gate, a dog was curled against the concrete. It had nowhere to go. It was shaking violently from the cold, eyes fixed on Rovelt, letting out faint, desperate cries.
Rovelt stopped.
He looked at it for a long moment.
"Ahh… okay. I'll try," he sighed.
He reached out and patted its head.
"This may not help you much… but take it."
He shook his umbrella and handed it over.
The dog bit onto the handle, surprisingly intelligent, bracing it so the wind wouldn't take it away. Then it shifted its body so the canopy covered its trembling frame.
"Quite intelligent for a dog," Rovelt murmured with a faint smile. "And quite fat as well."
He turned away and walked back into the rain.
Within seconds, his cigarette was soaked. He spat it out.
"I guess it takes a dog and a rainstorm to stop my addiction," he thought.
It wasn't pity or compassion. Not really. It was self-satisfaction. He simply preferred calling it kindness—it sounded better.
"Ahh—choo."
He wiped his nose. A cold had already set in.
The weather worsened. Rain turned into a storm. The sky darkened into an oppressive charcoal.
Rovelt looked up.
"What the hell is this… it just keeps getting worse."
He ran—alley to alley, road to road—searching for shelter. It was nearing 9:00 PM, and the world was sinking into shadow.
Then—
Through the roar of the storm, he heard it.
A faint, fractured scream.
A woman, crying for help.