Those Who Ignore History

Life is hard. Yes, yes—life is struggle. Life is tragedy. Life is the relentless grind of survival. Blah, blah, blah.

"Isaac," I called, without looking up from my desk. "I need these reports sent to the capital—no errors. Also, forward this one to the Walker's Association. And while you're at it, get me a time estimate on when the sheep will arrive."

Isaac, my assistant, hovered like a ghost of bureaucracy made flesh. His sigh could've killed crops.

"Sir," he began with a weary pinch of his brow, "I must confess. You've been a bit reckless in your...shall we say...enthusiastic takeover of the estate."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, your family helped clean it up. And yes, their rather terrifying skillsets managed to rebuild most of it. Domini above, they even hauled in used—but well-maintained—furniture." He tapped the solid oak of the desk I was leaning on, then gestured at my high-backed chair. "But since you've taken over, you've done nothing but work. No breaks. No rest. Not even a nap."

"I can rest later," I muttered, shuffling a sheaf of parchment into the outbox. "At any moment, I could receive a mission. I need to stay ready—"

Beep.

The soft chime of my gloss cut through my sentence like a divine interruption. I winced. Slowly, I checked the screen.

MANDATORY MISSION
Walker Duarte-Alizade-5939
TAKE. A. BREAK.

Signed—Your Manager. ♥

I stared. Then reread it. Then blinked again.

"Manager?" I asked aloud. "I have a manager?"

Isaac chuckled. "Ah. That's a very good sign. It means you're close to your Second Shell."

"That can't be right," I said. "I haven't even absorbed a single Skillcube."

"About that…" said a new voice.

The door opened. Alexandria—though I'd taken to calling her Ria—stepped in, trailed by a familiar, overly smug presence.

Barbatos, in her mortal guise, flipped her hair with the dramatic flair of a demon who moonlighted as a theater critic. I'd been calling her Barbra, to my dismay and her request.

"You have six," Ria said casually, holding out a tray with six small cubes, each one softly pulsing with color and threat.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"When you dived into Vex, you didn't just come back with a cursed mask or that cute little dagger." Barbra's voice was sing-song as she approached. "Oh, and your quill arrives tomorrow, by the way. Consider it a welcome-home gift."

She leaned in. "You also brought back these—skillcubes. Nasty little things. Rare. Powerful. Most of them cursed."

"Normally," Ria added, "we'd recommend selling them off to stabilize the estate's accounts. But...you might as well pick one."

"Pick two," Barbra said, then paused, reconsidering. "Actually, screw it. Take them all. Just shred the useless junk in your current shell. I haven't even seen you open the Doors yet."

"I...uh...I'm—"

"He's still terrified," Barbra interrupted, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly generated wind. "Terrified of knowing that he doesn't know the unknowable, but he knows it anyway, and can't quite understand why."

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

"Relax," she continued, voice softer but still laced with sarcasm. "You won't trigger another cascade. Your mind's already been twisted in so many directions it's practically a Möbius strip." Then she paused. "Although...you having another one show up in your vision is...interesting."

"Another what?"

Barbra just grinned.

Ria folded her arms. "He's not ready for that conversation."

"I wasn't ready for this conversation."

"Doesn't matter," Barbra said cheerfully. "You're having it anyway."

"So…we need to have a conversation about who you are, what you want to be. Frankly. You have a few junk cubes you used to form your first shell. We say, eject them if you aren't going to use them."

"Umm…no?" I say hoping my statement didn't come out so weak. "Ultimately I'm not going to bind to terrain I'm not comfortable with. Even these sandy hills don't appeal."

"Bind underwater then. Trust me." Barbra said with a wink.

"Okay, so next time I'm underwater…"

Ria just shook her head, exasperation softening into something close to affection. "Listen, dumb-dumb. It's time you stopped being scared of magic."

She stepped closer, eyes sharp but not unkind.

"You've dove headfirst into cursed book after cursed book—Vex nearly took your soul—but you're still hesitant to activate any skillcube that isn't Lunarias. Just…" She gestured vaguely at the air around us. "Activate the halls already."

I sighed. Not out of frustration. Out of fatigue. Out of resignation.

"Okay," I whispered. "Fine."

I closed my eyes. Focused. Pushed mana outward—not forcefully, but like unlocking a long-sealed box buried beneath thought and fear. I reached past hesitation and into instinct. The room chilled. The air grew taut. And then—

A door manifested within my office.

It didn't appear. It unfolded, reality bending to its presence like a book opening mid-sentence. It was tall, too tall to belong in any room not built for giants. Its wood was deep black, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected nothing but emptiness. Etched into the frame were shifting glyphs, shimmering silver, written in languages I knew and many I never dared learn.

But what truly bound it—what had always kept it sealed—were the chains.

Only I could see them. Long, looping chains of emotion, fear, memory, and self-doubt. Wrought from pain and forged through silence. Each second I stared, another link rusted and fell to the floor with a silent clang. Another lock clicked open, dissolved by the pressure of my own mana.

It was... relieving.

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Like shedding old skin. Like letting go of breath I didn't know I was holding.

Then—click. The final seal broke.
The door opened.

Inside was the Millennium.

That's what I'd named it. My Shell of course had a different name for the altered cube, but it still was accurate enough. The hallway was so long and vast it seemed to curve with the arc of the universe itself. Walls made of ink-stained stone lined with celestial runes. Vaults, doors, gates—millions of them, each one bearing a unique sigil. Each one locked.

Except one.

The one I had just opened.

It glowed faintly with recognition, a warmth in the cold corridors. A tether back to this moment, this room, this self. I knew, instinctively, that I could return to this very space from anywhere in the world—so long as I remembered who I was when I first stepped through.

I walked forward. Just once. Then back. The threshold passed through me like a baptism.

I opened my eyes.

And found the others waiting.

The door vanished behind me with a hush, like a final page turned.

Fractal was standing just outside my office, in her rare human form—radiant, shimmering, small as ever, but unmistakably proud. Her multicolored hair shimmered in the dim light, and her voice trembled with restrained joy.

"We're proud of you," she chirped, voice catching slightly. "You finally did it."

Ten gave a solemn nod, her chains gently clinking as she leaned against the doorframe. She didn't speak, but her eyes said everything: Relief. Respect. Affection.

V clapped me on the shoulder with a wide grin. "Good job, boss," he said, ruffling his hair. "You finally overcame it."

I chuckled, though something inside of me trembled.

"I really didn't," I said quietly. "I just realized that...after all the cursed books, eldritch horrors, and half-dead gods I've survived—being afraid of my own magic is kind of ridiculous."

Cordelia stepped forward, folding her arms, her flower crown blooming gently in the presence of my magic. She gave me a look that was half annoyance, half admiration.

"Took you long enough," she said, but her smile betrayed her pride.

For a moment, we just stood there—silent, but not empty.

A boy who opened a door.
And a family who'd waited for him to walk through it.

***

We were in the tea room now.

I say tea room, but it had clearly once been a war chamber, judging by the embedded blade scars on the stone floor and the faint burn marks along the support beams. Now, though, sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows in soft hues of gold and rose, bathing the room in warmth. Fractal had perched on a hanging plant. V was half-asleep near the window. Ten was pacing silently outside.

I was, quite literally, being forced to take a break by an ephemeral manager I had never met—an entity who could apparently see me in real time and had the authority to issue mandatory missions directly into my Gloss. The fact that such a person existed both comforted and unsettled me.

Cordelia had taken over tea duties.

She prepared a blend of chamomile, lemongrass, and honey, with a subtle addition of Fluter's Gile, a local flower I'd never even heard of. The scent alone was enough to quiet the riot in my thoughts. And the taste?

It was like sipping a summer breeze.

Not the lazy kind—no. This blend had motion, something kinetic and golden. It tasted like a warm day spent racing through open fields, of wind catching in sails and stories on the cusp of being lived. Somehow gentle and thrilling at the same time.

"Cordelia?" I asked after a sip, blinking down at the cup. "How do you make such good tea?"

She rolled her eyes with a flicker of amusement. "Skillcube," she said flatly. "Honestly, Alex, you haven't asked—but haven't you wondered why I'm so much more competent than you? And we're the same age."

I blinked, caught off guard by the directness.

"Honestly?" I said, setting the cup down. "I assumed it was… what my uncle told me. That my mother coddled me. And now I'm just paying the price for that."

Cordelia leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, the light catching the soft pattern of blooming violets in her hair. Her expression shifted—less teasing, more thoughtful.

"Alex," she said, voice low and even, "I was one of your uncle's Potted Plants."

The term didn't ring any bells immediately, so I turned my gaze to the left, triggering the Gloss overlay across my vision. Text scrolled across in pristine gold font. I almost dropped my cup.

Potted Plants
A term for children cultivated to serve as social assassins in noble circles. Raised from youth to observe, to infiltrate, to blend. These children gather intelligence, act as perfect attendants, and mirror the personalities of their assigned charge. Often praised for their poise, they suffer stunted emotional development. To adapt, they learn to mimic affection, humor, and loyalty.

My stomach twisted.

"So… the reason you're so much more light-hearted around me now is…"

"Yeah." She looked away. "Because, ultimately, you're my charge."

There was no malice in her voice. No cold detachment either. Just… fact.

"Your uncle didn't need a killer. He needed someone to manage logistics, play servant, run political errands. I wasn't trained for the darkest paths, but I was trained with them. I had to know them. In case he ever changed his mind."

I sat in silence for a beat, then ran a hand through my hair.

"Sorry," I muttered, eyes on the steam curling from my cup. "I legit didn't know."

Cordelia smiled softly, not the perfect smile of a trained servant, but the crooked, weary kind that real people wear after a hard confession.

"You weren't supposed to know," Cordelia said, her voice low but steady. "But… thanks for saying it anyway."

I studied her for a moment, unsure of what to say next. The light from the stained-glass window shifted slightly, casting violet and amber hues across her cheek. She didn't look at me. Not quite.

"Then… why did you tell me?" I asked, cautious, not accusing. "You could've kept pretending."

She inhaled slowly, then let it out in a tired, unguarded breath.

"Honestly, Alex?" she said, brushing a strand of violet hair behind her ear. "Because ever since Alexandria showed up, I've noticed something change in you. Around her. And I noticed something change in me."

Her tone wasn't sharp. If anything, it was softer than I'd ever heard it. Like she was afraid the words might shatter if she said them too loud.

"I'm…jealous," she admitted, staring down at her tea like it held the answers. "And that's ridiculous, isn't it? I know you liked my skin—because it's literally engineered to appeal to you. My voice? Tuned to hit the frequencies you find most comforting. The way I move, smile, serve, even the way I joke—it's all curated for you, Alex."

She paused, then added with a wry glance, "Also, lay off the sweets. Please. We're almost out of sugar, and you're burning through our rations like a condemned noble on his last feast."

I winced, half-smiling despite myself.

"But here's the part that's been messing with my head," she continued. "The point of everything I am… is to get you to trust me. Then I'm supposed to observe you, learn your rhythms, and report back. But the problem is…" She looked at me now. Really looked. "I don't have anyone to report to. There's no handler, no noble backroom whispering in my ear. There's just… you."

Her hands tightened slightly around her cup.

"So now my instincts keep spiraling. Telling me to file emotional assessments of your moods. To record the way you hesitate before speaking. To note that you glance to Alexandria when you're uncertain. But none of that goes anywhere. It just builds up."

One final breath. One long, tired, vulnerable exhale.

And then she said it:

"Alexander Duarte-Alizade… will you go on a date with me?"

I choked.

Not metaphorically.

Actually choked.

Tea went down the wrong pipe. I coughed, wheezed, slapped my chest. Fractal chirped from a corner of the room in alarm. V, half-asleep by the window, raised an eyebrow without lifting his head.

Cordelia waited patiently through my small implosion, arching a single brow with something like dry amusement flickering across her features.

Once I'd caught my breath and set the cup down, very carefully, I looked up at her.

"You're serious," I rasped.

"I just spent three minutes telling you my entire being was designed to anticipate your emotional landscape," she said, tone dry. "Of course I'm serious."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Somewhere deep in my gut, something heavy shifted.

"So I'll ask again." She said. Her voice steeled and prepared. "Will you, go on a date, with me?"