The arrival of the Hermit of the Folds brought a chilling silence to the flowered valley of Amnesty. The Synod fleet, now draped in vines and blossoms, hung in the sky like forgotten monuments. But the air around the Hermit’s wooden boat felt different—it was thin, sharp, and tasted like metal.
"True Authors?" X asked, her hand tightening on Han’s shoulder. "You mean the people who wrote the original code? I thought they were long gone, lost in the 'Real World' beyond the Root."
"Time is a loop for those who own the clock," the Hermit grunted, stepping out of his boat. He didn't look at the beautiful lilies; he looked at the sky, where the stars were beginning to "jitter." "To them, this entire multiverse is just a hard drive that’s been running for too long. They didn't care about the S
