You catch the scent of book pages. “May the flowers in Alpani never wilt.” That's your mother reciting one of Adrian's fables to you. The Architects lifted their silver shields high to defend the land, crushing the sins of the flames of Antimatter.

But where have they gone? A flower blossoms deep in your brain, wherein you traverse the desolate city of Trodar, brave through the trenches in Sybilch, and climb the ruins of the war. In Alpani, they are in full bloom, nourished by forgetfulness.

You pick up a blood-stained medal and record a stranger's name. The perished warriors are engraved in stones, and their shattered armor is sent back to their faraway homeland by boat. Then, you move on tot he next world, following the footsteps of the Architects to uncover another legend.

You had a beautiful dream in which you and your friends raised your glasses under three suns, toasting to the great peace! The dome hovering in the sky envelops the planet, shielding it from intense light and heat. It is the masterpiece you designed, and you witness with your own eyes how it crumbles at daybreak.

Collapse, screams, bursts of gamma rays from he supernova. Your eyes, hands, and every single cell in your body wail in agony. The villains set the atmosphere on fire, reducing the tower that has stood for 290 Amber Eras to ashes. Deadly microbes are dancing on the ice crystals of Ring of Smya, and you vow to make them suffer tenfold.

You sketch the outline of the colossal ship that has ignited the galaxy. The bombs incinerate all viciousness under the night sky. Before everything you cherish turns to ruins, you inflict the necessary devastation upon the enemy.

With a single clap of your hands, skyscrapers spring forth, towering to shelter the world. In the blink of an eye, birds take flight amidst the winds, and flowers burst into bloom upon dead trees. You knead the beautiful dream in your palm, molding it like play dough as it starts to metamorphose effortlessly, until the waves of imagination crash upon the shore, and time halts, capturing the narrative in its most captivating frame. In this instant, startling dreams and memes are banished, while peace and tranquility hold their place forevermore. In this instant, the twelve hours shimmer in the night sky, while the vibrant festival illuminates the darkness with revelry that lasts till dawn.

You've created a world brimming with life, which prospers in joy and safeguards the smiles within people's dreams. The stars serenade, and a soft rainfall ensues. There you stand amidst the melody, without an umbrella, basking in the ethereal violet hue of the morning glow.

This is yet another tragic calamity. The vessel is torn apart, probably after encountering detestable pirates or bumping into a Swarm looking for food. Dead bodies are floating in the vacuum, like goldfish in the water. For some reason, you think of the eccentric Bretadens, who believe that souls belong to the land, and those who die in a vacuum will be forever lost.

You clean their bodies and stitch up their wounds, salvaging their last shred of dignity. The death of the unnamed is sprinkled into the sky. While their bodies begin their descent towards land, they burn in the atmosphere, transforming into shooting stars that carry wishes. For those with names, their departure starts from silence, yet the mourning is unceasing.

You are certain as to which category these bodies belong, but you wish you could hear the weeping.

Through the dome of the ecosystem, you have an unobstructed view of the lush interior of the cabin. Tens of millions of residents come from lost worlds and obtain this safe haven they could only dream of. The space station, hovering high above the outer orbits of Asto-II, graciously opens its arms to those with tears of grief.

You wave your arm and let it drizzle. When new shoots start growing, you awaken the sunlight. Insignificant humans harness the magnificent power of nature in an insignificant world, not for destruction, but to protect the vulnerable creatures in the world. You pick a fiery red fruit from the forest you have watered yourself. It tastes so sweet that even the fruit farmers would drool at the sight. People sing and dance, throwing you high into the air in celebration of the first bumper harvest.

You lean against the window of the ship, with a desolate world in despair beneath you. The fires of war have utterly ravaged its lands — the penetrative destruction of the Antimatter Bomb even boring a gaping maw over the plains itself, crushing the undercity in its wake. The people's heads lifted, their gazes trained on you. Those are eyes you are unflinchingly with — devoid of hope and sadness, with hollowed sockets that have eventually lost even the will to feel anger.

But you do not despair. Even if the eternal night annihilated a hundred Amber Eras of the Kardian Republic, you would sift through the earth for silvery vestiges of the past, all just to dig up its tapestries of history. Even more so for present-day Halover — as long as its people survived, a thousand, nay, ten thousand decimations could not prevent the sprouting of civilization from blossoming once more. You will walk towards those numbed faces, rebuild their walls for them, and restore civilization one tile at a time, one brick at a time.

Extrapolation Rewind

When distant worlds fade away amidst the howls of destruction, the people of Bavelli-3 would have never once fathomed that the ray storm heralding death and destruction would penetrate the magnetic field's protective measures, stripping their flesh from their bones. You lean against a window aboard the interstellar rescue ship, witnessing your homeland with your brethren rotting away, now a horrific hellhole. Even if you managed to flee in time, you'd have to sustain your health with genetic reconstruction medicine for the rest of your life.

The reaper is a madman, knocking on the gates of every civilization without warning or notice. You finally understand the meaning of the wall-building journey of that “foolish” god: To survive, one must prepare for a rainy day. Your world may be dead, but there are many more who still hold the right to live. You will build high walls for them, with their towering shadows interwoven into mountains that will blanket the sky, like the embracing arms of their mothers and fathers that will protect them from rain and snow, storm, and frost.

Extrapolation Rewind

On Natural Day No. 10,238, the Kuvida Nebula's pollution has yet to clear. You sit atop the glass mountain. Before the leaked energy melted and evaporated, this was once the corner of a desert. Your modified body creaks and hums as you slowly adjust its readings. It then begins to absorb the remaining radioactive particles from the air and organized them into blazing, colorful crystals.

On Natural Day No. 27,349, the pollution of the third planet of the Kuvida Nebula has still yet to clear. You planted a seed that has still yet to bloom. They mock you, saying that your efforts are pointless and that your home planet is now no more than a giant graveyard, doomed to never see life again. You turn the soil and apply a potion that accelerates the decay process. You walk every inch of this land in silence until the day that life returns to this planet.

If there is one thing that should be despised by you, it is the barbaric concept that the weak are no more than prey to the strong. No matter how great a civilization may be, if their knowledge cannot reach the great heights of the sun in the sky, then it's doomed to be reduced to no more than a vassal. In the eyes of the IPC and other great forces, these nascent lifeforms are no more than cheap labor at the location of raw material extraction.

You bring knowledge to the stars and attempt to force this knowledge on its inhabitants, letting these children suckle on wisdom as much as they want. From savage hunting to taking to outer space, the wheels of civilization are moving too fast to be stopped now. Much like a babbling child learns to run after sunset, a Torment Eagle that just breaks out of its shell takes flight immediately after its first call.

In a generation where danger lies at every turn, the only way to ensure the safety of your civilization is to run forward at all cost.

A cluster of silver frigates glides through the infinite darkness, their holographic cabins illuminated by the pale earth beneath your feet. That place contains a collection of defunct computers, and cities long paralyzed lie smothered in moss and grass. You have no idea what secrets are buried beneath the rubble, only that it remains your duty to guard it.

The rebels of the clan depart in foul words, venturing into the vast expanse of interstellar space. You yearn to leave as well, but the accusing eyes of your kin weigh heavily on you. You cannot betray your education, your family, or the primitive logic etched into your brain chip. Instead, you relinquish your physical form, merging your cerebral neurons with the fleet, just as the kindred who created you once did.

You will guard the dead city for eternity, yet you no longer question for whom you protect this tomb.

The Wrath King's judgment extends across every inch of land illuminated by the stars, with the Law of Entropic Restriction killing off song, dance, and poetry. He declared that words that evoke smiles usurp the authority of the emperor, and carefree citizens desecrate the crown. In the stifling winds, warmth no longer lingers, and under the oppressive night sky, even the insects dare not chirp in unison.

You will rise up, embodying passion, and speak words of madness before the army. Bearing the burden of thorns, you will protect the books filled with stories and return fairy tales to the world. Steel-forged slaughterers cannot kill laughter, and even billions of mechanical Swarm cannot suppress dreams of bliss. Dragging your blood-soaked body, you march into the iron jungle, setting fire to the absurd decrees.

You are the stolid warrior, but you have sworn to defend the people's right to laughter.

You feel a phantom pain, your decaying legs are long gone. He screws bearing the emblem of the Architects and the impenetrable giant shield were disassembled piece by piece and sold to the IPC as relics of Preservation. You traded away the crystal oscillator — that was your ears, etched with scars from wartime. You parted with the fused alloy arms, the corrosion from Swarm blood still visible. You even took off the crystal sensors and sold that to them, your most proud eyes that once gazed at the Amber Lord.

But it's still not enough, not by a long shot — hunger and poverty are far worse than the chelicerae of arthropods. So, you made a deal, sacrificing the Architects' mechanical heart, and in return, the people of this land will never weep from hunger again. Something brushes against your face — perhaps a bird, or maybe the sound of people's joyful laughter.

Extrapolation Rewind