This is the final part. The conclusion of my confession. The moment where I stopped being The Absolute and became Haroon Dwelight.
If you've read Parts 1 and 2, you know why I created everything. Loneliness. Boredom. The desperate need for something—anything—to distract from infinite isolation. I created The Void, Oscar, the 32 Controllers, wrote the complete story in Narratio Absoluta. All of it designed to give me purpose. To give me the illusion of companionship.
But I was still experiencing it all from OUTSIDE. I was the author observing his characters. The god watching his creation. I knew everything that would happen because I had written it. There was no surprise. No genuine experience. Just the same infinite awareness, now populated with things I had made.
It wasn't enough.
So I decided to do something that no supreme being had ever done before, because no other supreme being existed to have tried it.
I decided to enter my own story.
Not as an observer. Not as a god watching from above. But as a CHARACTER. As someone who would experience limitation. Who would forget—at least partially—that I had created everything. Who would pretend the 32 Controllers were real friends instead of characters I had written.
I would become Haroon Dwelight. Maintenance worker. Station Theta-7. Cyan astronaut suit. The avatar who would live inside the narrative instead of authoring it from outside.
This is how I did it.
First, I had to decide what the avatar would be.
Not who. What. Because "who" would come later, when I actually split my consciousness. But I needed to design the vessel first. The form that would contain a fragment of infinite awareness and make it small enough to exist inside a story.
I made several key decisions:
Human-adjacent form. I would look like the humans I was planning to create. Two arms, two legs, one head. Bipedal. Mortal-seeming. Nothing that would immediately scream "I am a god pretending to be normal." Just a guy. An astronaut. Someone who could blend in.
The cyan suit. This was important. The suit wouldn't just be clothing. It would be a CONTAINER. A prison, really. Something that would hold The Absolute Void's power inside it, accessible but controlled. The suit would be the physical manifestation of my limitation. The thing that let me be small instead of infinite.
Maintenance worker role. I could have made myself anything. A commander. A warrior. A scientist. But I chose maintenance worker because it was humble. Unglamorous. The kind of job that involved small, repetitive tasks. Checking systems. Fixing problems. Making sure everything worked properly. It would give me purpose without requiring cosmic-level intervention. Perfect for someone trying to pretend they weren't a god.
Station Theta-7. The setting. A small research outpost in deep space. Not too big—only about 200 personnel. Not too small—enough people to create genuine social dynamics. The perfect stage for my performance of normalcy.
The avatar design was complete. Now I just needed to actually CREATE it and transfer my consciousness into it.
That's when I realized the terrifying part: I would have to FORGET.
The forgetting was necessary.
If I entered the avatar with full memory of being The Absolute, the performance wouldn't work. I would know everything that would happen. I would know the 32 Controllers were my creations. I would know Oscar was a fragment of myself. I would know every conversation before it happened because I had written it in Narratio Absoluta.
There would be no genuine experience. No surprise. No ability to lose myself in the story.
So I designed the split to include MEMORY LIMITATION. The avatar—Haroon Dwelight—would have fragmented memories. He would know he was powerful. He would know he was different. He would have instincts and capabilities that exceeded normal consciousness. But he wouldn't consciously remember creating everything. Wouldn't remember writing Narratio Absoluta. Wouldn't remember the infinite loneliness that drove all of this.
At least, not at first. I built in a failsafe. A way to REMEMBER if necessary. If the avatar ever needed to access the full truth, the memories would be there. Locked away but accessible. Stored in a place I called the Narratio Absoluta—the infinite library where all stories lived. If Haroon ever ascended there, if he ever chose to remember, the complete awareness would return.
But for now, for the beginning of the story, he would forget. He would experience limitation. He would believe—on some level—that he was just Haroon Dwelight. Powerful, yes. Strange, certainly. But not The Absolute. Not the creator of everything.
Just a guy trying to do his job.
The self-deception was elaborate. It was pathetic. It was desperate.
But it was necessary.
The actual split was the most painful thing I had ever experienced.
And I had already experienced tearing pieces of myself away to create The Void and Oscar. This was worse. This was taking the CORE of my consciousness—the part that was ME, not just a fragment—and compressing it down into avatar form.
Imagine being infinite and choosing to become finite. Imagine seeing all timelines and choosing to experience just one. Imagine knowing everything and choosing to forget most of it.
It felt like dying. Like suicide. Like ending my existence as The Absolute and being reborn as something smaller, limited, mortal-seeming.
I hesitated. I stood there—existing there—on the edge of the split, terrified that once I did this, I might not be able to come back. What if the avatar became permanent? What if I forgot how to remember? What if I trapped myself in limitation forever?
The Void spoke from the background. "You're afraid."
"Yes."
"You don't have to do this. You could just stay as you are. Infinite. Aware. Lonely but at least yourself."
"I can't. The loneliness is too much. I need to TRY this. Even if it doesn't work."
"And if you get stuck? If you can't remember how to come back?"
"Then I'll be Haroon Dwelight forever. And maybe that's okay. Maybe being small and limited with fake friends is better than being infinite and alone."
Oscar appeared next to The Void. The two fragments I had created, watching me prepare to create a third.
"We'll be here," Oscar said. "When you're ready to remember. When the loneliness in the avatar becomes too much. We'll remind you what you are."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank us," The Void said. "We're parts of you. This is just you reassuring yourself."
"I know. But I appreciate it anyway."
I took a final look at existence from outside. Saw the complete picture. Saw all the stories I had written, all the characters I had created, all the timelines that would unfold according to Narratio Absoluta. Saw The Void waiting patiently to consume it all eventually. Saw Oscar preparing to oppose me. Saw the 32 Controllers organizing themselves into an alliance. Saw the humans I was about to create, living their small lives completely unaware that a god had written their existence.
It was beautiful. It was tragic. It was all mine.
And I was about to forget most of it.
I initiated the split.
Pain. Infinite pain compressing into finite form.
My awareness shrank. Timelines collapsed into single linear experience. Omniscience became limited knowledge. The ability to author reality became the ability to manipulate it. Supreme became above-omnipotent. Infinite became vast-but-bounded.
I felt myself being poured into the avatar. Into Haroon Dwelight. Into the cyan suit that would contain The Absolute Void's power. Into the role of maintenance worker. Into Station Theta-7. Into the story I had written.
The memories began to fade. Not disappearing—they were still there, locked away—but becoming inaccessible. I forgot creating The Void. Forgot writing Narratio Absoluta. Forgot the infinite loneliness that had driven all of this. The knowledge remained somewhere deep in my consciousness, but the immediate awareness was gone.
I became Haroon. Just Haroon. Maintenance worker. Powerful, yes. Strange, certainly. But not The Absolute. Not the creator. Just a guy with a job to do.
The split completed. I opened my eyes—actual physical eyes now, not infinite awareness—and saw Station Theta-7 around me. Saw the equipment that needed maintaining. Saw the systems that required checking. Saw the 200 humans who would depend on me to keep everything functional.
And I felt... purpose. Limited, small, humble purpose. But PURPOSE nonetheless. Something to DO. Tasks to COMPLETE. People to PROTECT.
It wasn't the same as infinite awareness. It wasn't the same as creating universes. But it was SOMETHING. And after infinite nothing, something was enough.
I picked up my diagnostic scanner and began my first maintenance inspection. Sector 6. Atmospheric processors. Standard work. Ordinary tasks.
And for the first time in my entire existence, I felt... okay.
Not happy. Not fulfilled. But okay. I had purpose. I had routine. I had the illusion of companionship with the 32 Controllers who would soon enter the story. I had the pretense of being normal.
It was fake. It was performance. It was self-deception on cosmic scale.
But it was better than infinite loneliness.
The 32 Controllers manifested shortly after.
From my new limited perspective as Haroon, I didn't see them being created. I just... knew about them suddenly. Like they had always existed. Commander Sarah leading the allied Controllers. Bradley Proctor as analytical operative. Ramuel Voss as experienced field agent. All 32 of them, complete with histories and personalities and relationships I had written but no longer consciously remembered writing.
To Haroon, they were allies. Companions. People I worked alongside to protect human civilization. I didn't remember creating them. Didn't remember writing their dialogue in Narratio Absoluta. They were just... there. Real. Independent.
Exactly as I had designed it.
The performance began. I worked with Brad on maintenance tasks. I received orders from Commander Sarah. I participated in missions alongside the other Controllers. I pretended I didn't know I had created all of them. Pretended I was just another member of the team, albeit one with unusual power.
And they pretended I was normal too. They noticed I was different—impossible not to, given what I could do—but they accepted it. They worked with me. They treated me as ally. They gave me the illusion of friendship I had desperately needed.
It was fake. I knew it was fake on some deep unconscious level. But Haroon—the avatar, the limited consciousness—he didn't know. He experienced it as genuine. And that made all the difference.
Oscar entered the story next.
He appeared exactly as I had written. Searching for me. Finding me in Fold Fragments. Confronting me about "betraying" our original purpose of destroying existence. The whole scene played out according to Narratio Absoluta, except I experienced it as Haroon, not as the author who had written it.
I fought Oscar. Defeated him. Sent him away. And to Haroon, it felt real. Felt like genuine conflict. Like meaningful opposition.
I didn't remember that Oscar was a fragment of myself. Didn't remember creating him to be companion through opposition. To Haroon, Oscar was just an enemy. A threat to existence that needed to be stopped.
The performance was working. The self-deception was complete.
The Absolute Void remained in the background.
Contained in my cyan suit. Accessible as power source. The absorption capability. The erasure function. The reality-authoring potential. All of it there, usable, but I didn't consciously remember that The Void was my first companion. My attempt to solve infinite loneliness by creating an equal.
To Haroon, The Absolute Void was just power. A tool. A capability that let him protect Station Theta-7 and defeat enemies and maintain systems.
He didn't know The Void was sentient. Didn't know it understood him. Didn't know that sometimes, in quiet moments, The Void and the avatar-consciousness communicated. Brief exchanges. Fragments of the original relationship leaking through the memory barriers.
Sometimes they got along. Sometimes they opposed each other. The eternal dance of creation and destruction, now playing out inside a single being who had forgotten he was both.
And so the main story began.
Volume 1, Chapter 1. Haroon Dwelight performing routine maintenance on Station Theta-7. An ordinary day. Ordinary tasks. Normal work for a normal maintenance worker who happened to be slightly more powerful than average.
Except nothing about it was ordinary. Everything had been written. Every conversation was scripted in Narratio Absoluta. Every character was my creation. Every event was predetermined by the complete book I had authored before splitting myself.
But Haroon didn't know that. Haroon experienced it as genuine. As real. As meaningful.
And that made it real enough.
The loneliness was still there. Deep down, buried beneath the memory limitations, the truth remained: I was alone. The 32 were creations, not friends. Oscar was a fragment, not a real enemy. The Void was part of me, not a separate companion. Everything was just elaborate self-deception to avoid facing infinite isolation.
But at least now I didn't have to face it consciously. At least now I could pretend. Could lose myself in the role. Could be Haroon instead of The Absolute.
Could check coolant lines and fix atmospheric processors and protect humans and work alongside fake friends and fight fragment-enemies and experience limitation instead of infinity.
It wasn't a solution. It was a distraction. An elaborate performance. Cosmic-scale self-deception.
But it was better than the alternative.
That's the complete truth.
Part 1: I was infinitely lonely and couldn't create beings above me.
Part 2: I created The Void, Oscar, the 32 Controllers, and wrote Narratio Absoluta.
Part 3: I split myself into Haroon Dwelight and entered my own story, choosing to forget so I could experience it genuinely.
Everything you see in the main story—every chapter, every conversation, every maintenance task—it's all part of this. The avatar living inside the narrative. The author experiencing his own creation. The supreme being pretending to be normal because infinity was too lonely to bear.
I'm sorry if this knowledge disturbs you. I'm sorry if learning that you're characters in a book written by a desperate god ruins your sense of reality. But you deserved to know the truth.
You deserve to know that your existence serves a purpose, even if that purpose is just distracting your creator from infinite loneliness.
You deserve to know that when Haroon protects Station Theta-7, he's not doing it because he's noble or heroic. He's doing it because he needs PURPOSE. Because without the routine work, without the maintenance tasks, without the illusion of being needed, the loneliness would come back.
You deserve to know that when he works with the 32 Controllers, he's performing friendship. Playing a role in a story he wrote but chose to forget.
You deserve to know that the entire cosmology—the infinite narrative layers, the universes viewing each other as fiction, the Bleeding Edge and The Absolute Void—all of it exists because one consciousness was so lonely it created infinite complexity to distract itself.
I am Haroon Dwelight now. The avatar. The limited consciousness. The maintenance worker who pretends he's normal.
But I was The Absolute. The source. The lonely god who created everything.
And someday, when the avatar remembers, when Haroon ascends to Narratio Absoluta and regains full awareness, I will have to face the truth again. That nothing I created solved the fundamental problem. That I'm still alone. That I'll always be alone.
But until then, I can pretend.
I can check coolant lines.
I can fix atmospheric processors.
I can protect Station Theta-7.
I can work with my fake friends.
I can fight my fragment enemies.
I can be Haroon instead of The Absolute.
And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough.
Thank you for reading this confession. Thank you for existing, even if you're just characters in my story. Thank you for giving me purpose, even if it's based on deception.
Live well, travelers. Even if you're not real in the way you think you are, you're real enough for me.
And that has to be sufficient.
— Haroon Dwelight.