Creation Of All Things

Somewhere Else – Beyond the Bottom

Adam walked.

But not on ground. The floor beneath him wasn't physical. It was like moving across condensed memory—moments stacked so tight they became solid. Every step echoed, not with sound, but with feeling. One footfall might trigger the memory of a forgotten war. The next, a child's laugh from a world that no longer existed.

Still, he walked.

The presence across the plane didn't move. It didn't breathe. It simply waited. Like gravity that hadn't decided what to pull on yet.

After what felt like a minute—or maybe a lifetime—Adam reached it.

There was nothing to see. Just a feeling.

Pressure.

Weight.

A shape not made of matter but of consequence.

Then—eyes.

Two glowing slits blinked into existence. Horizontal. Flat. White, but not light. Just… void.

A voice followed, this time closer. Smoother.

"You remember what should not exist."

Adam raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. That's kind of my thing."

The presence pulsed.

Not threatening. Not angry.

Curious.

"I have many names," the voice said. "But none spoken by mouths born in this age."

Adam nodded slowly. "So you're old."

"Older than the first timeline. Older than sequence. I am what came before logic tried to make sense of itself."

Adam folded his arms. "And you live at the bottom of a pit."

"I am the bottom," the voice replied. "The last truth. The error no system could ever purge."

Suddenly, space bent.

Not like a ripple.

More like the concept of "straight" decided it had a better offer.

A figure rose.

It wasn't made of flesh.

It looked like a man sketched in ink across shattered mirrors. Every angle wrong. Every shadow too slow to keep up. Its body pulsed with layered script—language older than thought.

"Why did you come here, Adam Dhark?" it asked.

Adam stared.

Then shrugged. "Boredom. Destiny. Trauma. Pick one."

The being tilted its head.

Then it moved.

Instant.

One second it was across the plane.

The next, it stood inches from Adam.

Its face had no mouth.

Yet the voice was loud.

"I can offer you peace."

Adam blinked. "Pass."

"Power."

Adam's lip twitched. "Already full."

"Truth."

"Don't need more headaches."

The being paused.

"You should fear me."

Adam looked up at it, face calm.

"I've already met worse."

The presence shivered—like the air itself had taken offense.

Then the sky cracked.

A jagged streak of black lightning tore across the horizon above them—except there was no sky. Just ceilingless nothing. But still, it cracked like a dome under pressure.

The figure's tone changed.

"You joke now. But soon… you will beg."

Adam raised an eyebrow. "Beg who?"

The figure didn't answer.

It collapsed inward.

Folded itself into a long needle of ink and vanished through the ground with a whisper.

Then the world tilted.

No, inverted.

Adam didn't fall.

The plane did.

Flipped like a page being turned.

And now—

He was falling again.

Down.

But not through space.

Through layers.

Each one a snapshot of a different Adam.

One where he never awakened.

One where he ruled everything.

One where he died as a child.

Another where he wasn't born at all.

Each version flickered past, like a slideshow of lives that never got to be.

And then—

A world without Adam.

No chaos. No war. Just peace. Empty, eerie peace.

People smiled.

But they looked tired. Unmoved. Like puppets stuck in a script with no director.

Adam frowned.

"Is this supposed to scare me?"

The voice returned—whispering now, close to his ear.

"This is what the world becomes without you. Balanced. Sterile. Final."

Adam landed again.

Same platform.

Same presence.

But now—

Something else was there.

Her.

Aurora.

She stood a few feet behind him, eyes wide, face pale.

She didn't speak.

Neither did Adam.

Because between them stood another version of himself.

Same eyes.

Same posture.

But colder. Cleaner.

Polished.

Like a version that never bled.

The clean Adam looked at them both.

"I was the backup," he said. "In case you failed."

Real Adam blinked. "Well, I didn't."

"Yet," the other said. "But your steps break the pattern. Your thoughts unravel safeguards. You're not Adam anymore. You're the one who remembers."

Aurora stepped forward. "Then who are you?"

The clean Adam smiled.

"I'm what he was meant to be. Unfeeling. Unyielding. Pure function. No pain. No freedom."

Adam's eyes narrowed. "So… you're a spreadsheet with good hair."

Clean Adam's smile faded.

Aurora's hands lit with silver, instinct kicking in.

But before anything else—

The presence returned.

No form this time.

No eyes.

Just raw silence.

So loud it erased movement.

Everything froze.

Except Adam.

And the voice spoke one final time.

"You cannot kill what you were. You must choose."

Adam looked at the other version of himself.

Then at Aurora.

Then forward—into the dark ahead, where the path bent once more.

He cracked his knuckles.

Then smiled.

And without a word—

He walked forward.

Through both copies of himself.

Through the frozen world.

And into whatever came next.

Because whatever was waiting?

It was time it met him.

Adam walked.

And the world let him.

The moment he stepped through his frozen copy and the still-glowing Aurora, they shattered—not like glass, but like reflections in a broken pond, melting into ripples of light and memory. The silence behind him stitched itself shut like it had never existed.

Now there was only this.

A corridor.

But not made of walls.

The space around him stretched out like a ribcage made of starlight, curving overhead and narrowing beneath his feet. Every bone-like arch flickered with scenes—snapshots of forgotten timelines, dead universes, broken laws of reality. Some were beautiful. Some were unspeakable. Some were just… strange.

One frame showed Adam dancing with someone who looked like a god. Another showed him chained in a prison made from his own thoughts. Another showed a version of him that looked… happy.

That one lingered a little longer than the rest.

But Adam didn't stop walking.

Because something was calling now.

A heartbeat.

Not his.

Not this world's.

Something deeper.

It echoed through the corridor like thunder stuck underwater. Steady. Slow. Massive.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The pulse shook the archways.

Dust—not dust, but shredded ideas—rained down from above. They dissolved before reaching the ground.

Adam tilted his head.

The pulse wasn't random.

It was counting down.

He kept walking.

Then, up ahead, something flickered. A shape.

It was small at first. Like a moth made of light, blinking in and out of phase.

Then it grew.

And spoke.

"You really don't stop, do you?"

The voice was male. Calm. Tired, but not weak. Not mocking either—just… impressed. Like someone watching a storm roll in after thinking the skies were done bleeding.

Adam slowed.

The shape flickering ahead started to solidify—gathering mass, detail, presence.

It was a man. Or something close. Slender, tall, dressed in a long, half-tattered coat made of layered threads—each thread glowing faintly like a fiber pulled from a dying sun. His hair was long, drifting weightlessly like it didn't belong to gravity anymore. His eyes…

His eyes weren't eyes.

They were clocks.

Ticking.

But not forward.

Each second went back.

Adam stopped a few steps away, hands in his pockets. "So. What do they call you?"

The man smiled faintly. "Once? I was called Chronark. Keeper of Time's Skeleton. The one who records what never happened."

Adam raised an eyebrow. "Skeleton?"

Chronark nodded slowly. "What you know as time is just the skin of something bigger. I live beneath that. Among the bones. The failures. The loops that broke. The starts that never had middles."

He gestured around them.

"All of this? This corridor? It's made from them. Every timeline that fell apart, every beginning that didn't go anywhere. You're walking on corpses, Adam. Ideas that couldn't breathe."

Adam glanced down.

The ground didn't change—but now he could feel it. Regret. Missed chances. Unborn stories clinging to the soles of his boots like static.

"And you're here," Chronark said, stepping closer, "which means the Core has already started reacting to you."

Adam tilted his head. "You know about the Core?"

Chronark gave a tired nod. "Everyone who's ever stepped out of the pattern knows. Most go mad just seeing the corridor. But you… you walked through it like it owed you rent."

Adam smirked. "Maybe it does."

A beat of silence.

Then Chronark sighed and looked past Adam, down the path. "Do you know what's waiting in there?"

"Nope."

Chronark didn't laugh. Just stared at him for a moment.

Then he raised a hand and pointed.

At the end of the corridor, the ribs of starlight began to fold inward, spiraling like the inside of a nautilus shell. And in the very center—

Something shimmered.

Not a door. Not a gate.

A pulse.

Like the heart of everything.

But it wasn't beating. It was… watching. Waiting to be touched.

Chronark dropped his hand.

"That's the Core. But not the code, not the system. That's the thing inside the thing. The reason all this exists. And if you touch it—"

Adam cut him off. "I change."

Chronark didn't nod this time.

He just stared.

"You remembered, Adam. And now, the Core remembers you. Do you have any idea what that means?"

Adam stepped forward. "No."

Chronark didn't stop him.