The Afterglow of Victory
The corridor outside the dueling chamber stretched endlessly. The applause and whispers had already died somewhere behind him, swallowed by the thick silence of the Clock Tower's stone walls.
Raphael Arzenon walked slowly, hand pressed against the wall, his circuits still aching — faint traces of light pulsing under his skin like fading constellations.
(…I did it.)
The words barely held any weight. His mind was still burning, but the fire no longer felt like triumph.
He remembered Julius' expression — that instant of disbelief before his flames shattered, before his pride fell to dust. He remembered the gasps, the fear, the awe.
And yet… none of it felt real.
(Then why… do I feel empty?)
His knees weakened. The marble floor tilted, his vision dimmed. A dull ringing echoed in his skull.
Darkness folded inward.
Not the absence of light—but a space that existed for him.
Raphael Arzenon felt his consciousness pulled—not dragged, not forced—invited into himself. The sensation was disorienting, like stepping backward into his own shadow. When his awareness stabilized, the world around him changed.
A vast inner sky unfolded—layered with floating strings of pale data, symbols drifting like slow snow. Code, but gentle. Ordered. Watching.
And standing at the center of it—
Her.
Cielux had manifested not as a voice, but as a presence.
She possessed a strikingly ethereal and refined appearance, blending elegance with a calm, almost celestial charm. Long, flowing light-blue hair cascaded past her shoulders, smooth and glossy, moving as if stirred by a breeze that did not exist. A large white bow rested behind her head, ceremonial and deliberate. Her sapphire-blue eyes were vivid and luminous—not sharp, not cold, but filled with composed intelligence and quiet warmth.
She wore a pristine white formal dress, tailored close to her form. High, structured shoulders and a high collar gave her silhouette a dignified, almost noble authority—suggestive of purity, control… and command. White gloves covered her hands, and in one of them she held a slender white parasol, more symbolic than functional.
Against the backdrop of drifting data, she looked unreal.
No—
She looked too real.
"…!"
Raphael felt heat rush to his face.
Why does she look like that—?! That's unfair. Completely unfair. Since when was she this—
A small smirk curved Cielux's lips.
"You've been staring for three-point-two seconds, Master Raphael."
"I—I wasn't staring! I was just—processing! The environment! The data density! This is clearly a high-level—!"
"Four-point-one seconds now."
She tilted her head slightly, amused.
"…A-Anyway," Raphael coughed, forcibly straightening his posture. Calm down. She's an AI. A Moon Cell construct. This means nothing.
The smirk deepened.
She heard that.
She simply chose not to comment.
Instead, Cielux tapped the tip of her parasol lightly against the ground. The inner world stilled.
"Now," she said gently, "we should speak of your Origin."
Raphael's expression hardened.
"…You said before that Origins define existence."
"They do."
"And mine?"
Cielux's gaze softened—but there was no pity in it.
"Originally," she said, "you had one."
The data around them shifted. Images formed—abstract, broken, incomplete.
"Your birth Origin was Worthlessness."
The word struck harder than any insult.
Raphael didn't flinch.
He had always suspected.
"…Meaning?" he asked quietly.
Cielux answered without hesitation.
"An Origin of Worthlessness is not metaphorical. It means your soul possessed no inherent vector. No direction. No value gradient. No assertion against reality."
The images clarified.
A soul that did not push back. A will that could not imprint. A self that the world had no reason to acknowledge.
"You were not weak," Cielux continued.
"You were nonfunctional."
Raphael clenched his fist.
So I really was nothing.
"In most cases," she said calmly, "individuals with this Origin fail to establish identity. They fade. They fracture. Or they die without ever being noticed by the World."
"…But I didn't."
"No," Cielux agreed. "Because I intervened."
The data-code background darkened.
"When you first lost consciousness," she said, "I initiated an unauthorized Moon Cell protocol."
Raphael's eyes widened slightly.
"Unauthorized?"
"Yes."
The parasol lowered.
"I used Moon Cell authority to manipulate your Origin directly."
Silence.
"That process," Cielux said, "was never designed for living subjects. Origins are foundational constants. Altering one mid-existence causes rejection, collapse, or erasure."
She met his eyes.
"There was a seventy-three percent probability you would cease to exist."
Raphael exhaled slowly.
"…You still did it."
"Yes."
Not pride. Not apology.
Fact.
"An Origin of Worthlessness cannot grow," she continued. "It cannot learn. It cannot retain meaning. Any power you gained would disperse. Any experience would fail to root."
Her voice lowered.
"You would never reach your desire for peace. You would never reach anything."
The data shifted again.
"So I forced a mutation."
The broken images reassembled—twisting, folding inward.
"I converted your Origin from Worthlessness into Reflection."
Raphael felt something resonate deep within him—not power, but recognition.
"Reflection does not assert," Cielux explained.
"It does not generate.
It does not choose."
The images showed it clearly.
A surface. A mirror. A perfect return without origin.
"It reflects input perfectly—force, intent, structure, concept. But on its own, it is inert. Empty of initiative."
Raphael understood immediately.
"…That's why I always needed guidance."
"Yes."
"That's why without you—"
"You would stagnate," Cielux said. "Or collapse into recursive feedback."
She lifted the parasol again.
"Reflection is not a gift, Master Raphael. It is a salvage state. A way to allow growth where none was possible."
Raphael laughed quietly.
"So I wasn't special."
"No," Cielux said gently. "You were modified."
The data world brightened again.
"And every step you have taken since," she continued, "has been earned. Through failure. Through dependence. Through learning."
She glanced at him sideways, lips curving faintly.
"…Including learning how not to stare so obviously."
Raphael groaned.
She really heard everything.
Cielux, smiling serenely, chose not to acknowledge that thought either.
The explanation was complete.
And for the first time, Raphael Arzenon understood—
He was not born broken and fixed by fate.
He was broken—
And someone had gambled everything to give him the chance to become more.
The moment Raphael became aware again, he realized he was no longer standing anywhere that could be called real.
There was no ground—only a vast, quiet expanse stretching in every direction. Light drifted like dust suspended in thought. Shelves of translucent geometry floated in the distance, half-formed, as if reality itself were still deciding what shape to take.
Raphael slowly turned in place.
"…What is this?" he asked quietly.
Cielux stood a few steps away, her form radiant yet gentle, silver-blue light threading through her hair like moonlight through water. She watched him with a knowing smile, lips curved with playful warmth.
"You're looking at a mental space, Raphael," she said. "More precisely—your Inner World."
Raphael frowned, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the impossible scenery.
"My… inner world?"
Cielux nodded, clasping her hands behind her back as she began to walk, the environment subtly responding to her steps.
"An Inner World is the term magi use to describe a person's unique and deeply engraved mental landscape—also called a Mental World," she explained.
"It reflects the structure of one's soul, one's values, obsessions, contradictions, and origins."
As she spoke, the space reacted—light folding into faint symbols, concepts flickering briefly before dissolving again.
"For most people, it remains abstract," she continued. "But for magi, it can be projected outward. Temporarily, a magus may overwrite a section of reality with their Inner World. When that happens, it is called a Reality Marble."
Raphael's eyes widened slightly.
"And entering another person's inner world…?"
"A common occurrence," Cielux replied smoothly. "Especially during the transfer of Magic Crests. When souls and circuits overlap, inner worlds briefly touch."
She stopped and turned to face him.
"This," she gestured around them, "is yours."
Raphael was silent for several seconds.
Then—slowly—he looked back at her.
"…Okay," he said carefully. "Then what exactly are you planning to do inside my inner world?"
Cielux's smile sharpened.
Ah.
There it was.
She stepped closer, eyes gleaming—not cold, not mechanical, but alive with intent.
"Raphael," she said softly, "do you remember what SE.RA.PH is?"
The light around them shifted.
And Cielux began to explain.
She spoke of the Serial Phantasm—of a system nested within the Moon Cell Automaton. Of an artificial environment functioning as unlimited storage, where information was not merely archived but structured into living, navigable domains.
"A place where data becomes terrain," she said.
"Where memory becomes architecture. Where history is not read—it is walked."
Raphael listened intently as she described an archive without limits. A system that did not sleep. A preservation engine that prioritized information above sentiment, survival above intention.
When she finished, silence returned.
Raphael exhaled slowly.
"…I understand SE.RA.PH," he said at last.
"But what does that have to do with my inner world?"
Cielux's expression softened.
"Everything."
She raised a hand.
The space around them unfolded.
Shelves spiraled outward into infinity. Books formed themselves from light, their pages rewriting as Raphael watched. Concepts crystallized into structures—formulae turning into geometry, theories blooming into ecosystems of logic and symbol.
"This," Cielux said reverently, "is what I am creating."
Raphael's breath caught.
"Using my Moon Cell knowledge," she continued, "I am slowly reconstructing a miniature SE.RA.PH—adapted, refined, and bound entirely to you."
Her voice lowered, almost tender.
"Your Inner World is evolving into Codex Akasha."
The name resonated.
"A self-contained metaphysical realm," she said, "that stores infinite data and infinite futures as fully valid informational realities. Every phenomenon you witness is not merely preserved—it adapts, refines, and learns."
The shelves moved on their own now.
"Records here do not rest. Laws rewrite themselves. Theories correct themselves. Libraries spiral endlessly. Concepts manifest as living constructs."
Raphael watched as an idea literally bent space around it.
"Knowledge becomes geography," Cielux said.
"Ideas possess gravity. Theories form ecosystems. Every analyzed memory crystallizes into structure."
She turned to him.
"Your soul serves as the anchor.
Reflection provides infinite capacity.
And I…" her smile returned, quiet and proud, "…animate it with analytical will."
Raphael felt his heart pounding.
"Codex Akasha grows as you grow," she continued.
"Learns as you learn. Expands with every unknown you confront. It is not a gateway to the Root—but a parallel."
Her eyes met his.
"An ever-evolving Akasha that mirrors omniscience… while belonging solely to Raphael Arzenon."
Raphael stared at her.
Then he laughed—once, short and incredulous.
"…Are you telling me," he said slowly, "that you're turning my inner world into an Artificial Root?"
He said it lightly. Half-joking.
Cielux did not laugh.
Her face became serious.
"Yes," she said simply. "Indeed."
Raphael froze.
"Your inner world—Codex Akasha—will be an Artificial Root," she continued. "Though…" she tilted her head, a gentle chuckle escaping her lips, "…I'm only about twenty-five percent finished."
She waved a hand vaguely at the infinite structures.
"Recreating even a fragment of SE.RA.PH isn't exactly easy, you know."
Raphael did not respond.
He was still staring.
Still processing.
Still very much in shock.
Only one question finally escaped his lips.
"…Then what am I supposed to do with something like that?"
Cielux tilted her head, smiling faintly—teasing, affectionate.
"Figure it out," she said lightly, "you pitifully talentless boy."
Raphael blinked.
Then—despite everything—he laughed. A small, raw, human laugh.
"Still teasing me, huh?"
"Of course," Cielux replied softly.
"It's how I remind myself that I'm human too."
For a moment, neither spoke. The golden lights of the Codex pulsed softly around them—like the heartbeat of a newborn world.
Cielux's tone shifted suddenly—colder, clipped.
> "Master. There's something you must know."
Raphael looked up. "What is it?"
> "While you were unconscious, I accessed the external communications network of the Clock Tower. Multiple wards have been triggered. Administrative security has heightened—unusually so."
His stomach tightened. "Why?"
> "Because of your duel. Your magical output exceeded human norms. Your existence can no longer remain unnoticed."
"Then they're investigating me?"
> "Not just them."
Her voice hesitated, for the first time betraying something like emotion—fear.
> "Your father, Charles Arzenon, and several members of the Arzenon family have arrived at the Clock Tower."
Raphael's breath stopped.
For a second, the world seemed to contract—the air around him thinning, his heartbeat echoing like thunder in a coffin.
"No…" His voice came out hoarse. "No, that can't—he—he killed me. He threw me away."
> "Records indicate he used his authority as a House Lord to request your file directly from Reines El-Melloi. His arrival is confirmed."
Raphael staggered backward, the Codex's light trembling with his pulse.
"Why now… why—after all these years—"
Cielux's voice was gentle again, like a hand reaching out in the dark.
> "Because, Master… now, you're no longer the worthless son he abandoned. You're something that terrifies even him."
His throat tightened.
"…What do I do?"
> "You don't run this time," she said softly. "You decide."
The light of the Codex dimmed, leaving only Raphael's reflection floating in the void—eyes trembling, yet beginning to harden.
The Closing Scene
The infirmary lights flickered as Raphael's eyes snapped open.
Sweat clung to his skin. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"Cielux…" he whispered. "They're here."
> "Yes, Master."
The air felt colder now. Somewhere beyond the door, the faint echo of measured footsteps approached—slow, heavy, unhurried.
The footsteps of a man who once called him a failure.
Raphael's hand clenched into a trembling fist, his circuits flaring faintly beneath the skin.
> "Incoming presence: Charles Arzenon. Estimated arrival—twenty seconds."
Raphael rose from the bed, pale light dancing across his eyes.
"…Then let him see what his 'worthless' son became."