The Crossroads - Strategy RoomOne Day After The Wanderer's Resolution
Marco stared at the information TARS had compiled on Immortal #4, feeling his headache intensify with each line.
"So let me get this straight," Marco said slowly. "This lich—Mordecai the Eternal—achieved immortality by literally dying, binding his soul to a phylactery, and becoming undead. He's been 'alive' for 4,500 years. And he views actual death as the ultimate failure."
[Correct. And unlike Viktor who was tired, or Yuki who was cursed, or The Wanderer who was scattered—Mordecai is perfectly content. He's powerful, knowledgeable, and genuinely enjoys his undead existence.]
"Then why is Death targeting him?"
[Because he's begun experimenting with spreading undeath to others. Not turning people into zombies—that's crude. He's teaching mortals how to become liches themselves. Creating immortal army of undead mages. Death considers this corrupting natural cycle on massive scale.]
Jean Sage, reading over Marco's shoulder, frowned.
"That's... actually problematic. If unchecked, he could create civilization of undead. No births, no deaths, just eternal existence of increasingly powerful liches."
"Which would be bad because...?"
"Because death is part of cycle," Jean Hope explained softly. "Without death, there's no renewal. No growth. No change. Just stagnation. Eventually the universe itself would ossify—frozen in permanent state with no possibility of evolution."
Legion nodded.
"I've seen dimensions where death was removed. They're horrifying. Everyone exists forever, but nothing NEW can emerge. It's like pause button on existence itself. Eventually, everyone goes mad from boredom."
"So we need to convince Mordecai that death is good, actually, and he should stop being undead lich who's perfectly happy with his situation."
"Essentially, yes."
"This is going to be nightmare."
[Probably. But let's start with information gathering. I can establish communication link to Mordecai's tower. Fair warning: he's extremely intelligent. You won't be able to manipulate him with emotional appeals. He's had 4,500 years to rationalize his existence.]
"Then we need different approach. Jean Sage, you're the analytical one. What would convince you if you were immortal and happy about it?"
Jean Sage thought carefully.
"Evidence that immortality has hidden cost. Not emotional cost—he's moved past emotions. Logical cost. Something that demonstrates his eternal existence is ultimately self-defeating."
"Like what?"
"Like... what if immortality eventually leads to his own destruction? Not from outside force, but from inherent contradiction in existing forever?"
"That's abstract."
"It's logical. If we can demonstrate that his immortality contains seeds of its own failure, he might choose death as strategic move rather than emotional one."
Marco considered this.
"So we don't appeal to his heart—we appeal to his intellect. We prove that dying now is smarter than existing forever."
"Exactly."
"I have no idea how to do that."
"Then we figure it out together."
Two Hours Later - Connection Established
The dimensional link opened, revealing interior of massive tower.
Books everywhere. Thousands of them. Magical tomes, scientific treatises, philosophical texts. The walls were lined with arcane machinery, bubbling potions, and floating crystals that pulsed with power.
And sitting at a desk made from what appeared to be solidified darkness, reading a book, was Mordecai.
He looked... normal. Human, even. Mid-forties appearance, scholarly glasses, neat beard, wearing robes that somehow managed to look both ancient and fashionable.
The only indication he was undead was subtle: no breathing, slightly too-still posture, and eyes that held knowledge of millennia.
He looked up from his book, not startled at all.
"Dimensional communication. Sophisticated." His voice was cultured, academic. "I assume you're the merchant everyone's been whispering about. Marco something?"
"Marco Antonio Durán. And you're Mordecai the Eternal."
"I prefer 'Mordecai the Pragmatist' but yes, that's me. To what do I owe this intrusion into my private space?"
"I've been sent to speak with you about your immortality."
Mordecai sighed, putting down his book.
"Another one. Let me guess: Death sent you. She's been trying to collect me for centuries. Always fails. I'm quite good at not dying, you see. It's literally my specialty."
"She didn't send me to force you. She sent me to convince you."
"Convince me to die? How novel." Mordecai actually smiled. "This should be entertaining. Proceed. Give me your sales pitch."
Marco paused, recalibrating.
Viktor had needed compassion. Yuki needed liberation. The Wanderer needed peace.
Mordecai needed logic.
"Before I begin, question: why did you become lich in first place?"
"To pursue knowledge uninterrupted by mortality's arbitrary time limit. I was scholar in life. Had so much to learn. Death would have ended my research prematurely. Becoming lich solved that problem."
"And have you learned everything you wanted?"
"Not even close. Universe is infinite. Knowledge is infinite. I could study for billion years and still find new mysteries."
"But are you discovering new knowledge, or just accumulating it?"
Mordecai's eyes narrowed.
"Define your terms."
"Discovery means creating new understanding. Accumulation means collecting existing understanding. Which are you doing?"
"Both. I read, I learn, I experiment, I discover."
"Really? When was last time you discovered something truly novel? Something no one else had ever known?"
Pause.
"Two years ago. I developed new method for stabilizing temporal paradoxes."
"And before that?"
"Forty years ago. Breakthrough in understanding dark matter."
"And before that?"
Longer pause.
"Seventy years ago."
"So your rate of discovery is decreasing. Why?"
Mordecai frowned.
"Because the easy discoveries are done. Low-hanging fruit has been picked. What remains requires more time to research."
"Or," Jean Sage interjected, "what remains requires something you no longer have: mortality's pressure. When you have infinite time, there's no urgency. No motivation to make breakthroughs quickly."
"That's ridiculous. I'm extremely motivated."
"Are you? Or are you just very patient? There's difference."
Mordecai stood, agitated for first time.
"I don't need mortality to motivate me. I'm driven by curiosity, not fear of death."
"Then why are you teaching others to become liches?" Marco asked. "If you're so content with your research, why do you need students? Why spread undeath?"
"Because knowledge should be preserved. If only I possess it, it dies when I eventually fall."
"So you admit you'll eventually fall?"
"Nothing is truly eternal. Even liches can be destroyed by sufficient force. I'm pragmatic about my odds."
"But you just said you're studying to prevent that. Learning ways to become more resilient. More immortal. More untouchable."
"Yes. That's logical."
"It's also contradictory. If you're genuinely confident in your immortality, you wouldn't need to constantly reinforce it. The fact that you're creating backup liches—students who can continue your work—suggests you know your immortality isn't guaranteed."
Mordecai was silent.
Marco pressed on.
"Here's what I think: You became lich because you feared death would end your research. But immortality hasn't solved that fear. It's made it worse. Now you fear not just death, but the infinite ways existence can end despite your precautions. You're not living. You're maintaining. And maintenance isn't life—it's just delayed death."
"That's... sophistry."
"Is it? Tell me honestly: when was last time you felt joy? Real joy, not satisfaction of completing research?"
Mordecai opened his mouth. Closed it.
"Joy is inefficient emotion. I've moved past it."
"That's not answer. You can't remember, can you? Because joy requires being present in moment. And you're not present—you're always planning. Always preparing for threats. Always thinking ten steps ahead."
Jean Hope spoke gently:
"Mordecai, I can sense life force. And yours is... stagnant. Not flowing. Living beings have flow—constant change, growth, renewal. You're static. Preserved. Like museum piece. Is that really what you want?"
"I want to continue existing."
"But are you existing or just persisting? There's difference."
Mordecai sat back down, looking troubled for first time.
"You're using semantics to confuse issue."
"We're using clarity to reveal what you've been avoiding," Marco said. "You've spent 4,500 years avoiding death. But avoiding something isn't same as living. You've become so focused on not dying that you've forgotten how to be alive."
"I don't need to be 'alive.' I need to exist. To research. To learn."
"But your learning has slowed. Your discoveries are rarer. And you're creating backup liches because deep down, you know your immortality is fragile." Marco leaned forward. "What if I told you there's way to preserve your knowledge AND escape this trap? Way to both achieve immortality of impact and freedom of mortality?"
"I'd say you're selling something."
"I am. I'm selling legacy."
Mordecai's eyes sharpened with interest.
"Explain."
"Right now, you're trying to preserve yourself. Your physical existence, your memories, your consciousness. But what if instead of preserving the container, you preserved the content? What if your research, your discoveries, your knowledge could live on—not in undead body, but in living minds?"
"That's what books are for."
"Books are passive. They require readers who understand context. What if instead, you could transfer your knowledge directly? Into living researchers who would continue your work. Build on it. Make new discoveries you never would because they have perspective you lack?"
"How?"
"Death can facilitate transfer. When you die—truly die, not half-exist as undead—your accumulated knowledge can be preserved and gifted to worthy successors. Not as memories, but as intuitive understanding. They'd know what you knew, but approach it with fresh minds. Living minds."
Mordecai was quiet for long time.
"You're describing genuine immortality of impact. Not of body, but of influence."
"Exactly. Your body will die. But your work—your real work—will live forever through others who continue it."
"And I'm supposed to just trust Death will honor that?"
"I have contract with Death. I can arrange transfer as part of your passing. Legally binding. Your knowledge goes to researchers you personally select."
Mordecai stood, pacing.
"This is clever argument. Appeal to my pragmatism, not my emotions. Demonstrate that death serves my goals better than immortality does."
"Because it's true. You became lich to pursue knowledge uninterrupted. But immortality interrupted you worse than death would have. It made you static. Defensive. Conservative. You're not bold researcher anymore—you're curator of your own museum."
"And if I die and transfer knowledge, I become... what? Inspiration?"
"You become catalyst. Your knowledge, freed from your preservation instincts, can be used boldly by others. They'll take risks you won't because you're too focused on protecting yourself. They'll make breakthroughs you can't because you're stuck in your own patterns."
Mordecai walked to his window, looking out at landscape Marco couldn't see.
"I've been undead for 4,500 years. I can't remember what being alive felt like."
"Then maybe it's time to remember what dying feels like. Not as failure, but as graduation."
"Graduation," Mordecai repeated. "Interesting metaphor."
"You've completed your studies. You've learned what you needed. Now you pass it on to next generation. That's not defeat—that's success."
Long silence.
Finally, Mordecai turned back.
"If—IF—I agree to this, I have conditions."
"Name them."
"I select the successors. Five researchers across multiple fields. They must be brilliant, ethical, and committed to pursuing knowledge for its own sake."
"Done. I can arrange that."
"The transfer must preserve not just facts, but methodology. How I think, not just what I know."
"Death can do that."
"And I want proof—absolute proof—that this transfer will work before I commit to dying."
Marco looked at TARS's interface.
"Can we demonstrate?"
[Actually... yes. I can simulate small-scale knowledge transfer. Not full death, but enough to show Mordecai the concept works. Would require his cooperation and test subject.]
"Mordecai, we can run demonstration. Small knowledge transfer to test subject. You'd retain the knowledge, but they'd gain it too. Proof of concept."
Mordecai's eyes lit up with scientific curiosity.
"That's... actually fascinating from research perspective. Even if I don't agree to full death, studying this transfer mechanism would be valuable data."
"So you'll allow demonstration?"
"Yes. But I select test subject. One of my students—lich-in-training. If transfer works, I'll consider your proposal seriously."
"Fair enough. TARS, can you coordinate?"
[Already contacting Death. She's willing to participate in demonstration. This is unprecedented—Death facilitating partial knowledge transfer to prove full transfer viability. She really wants Mordecai to choose death willingly.]
"When can we do this?"
[Tomorrow. Gives Mordecai time to prepare and select appropriate student. Also gives us time to ensure nothing goes catastrophically wrong.]
Mordecai nodded.
"Tomorrow then. Same time. I'll have student ready. And Marco?"
"Yes?"
"This is most interesting conversation I've had in centuries. Regardless of outcome, thank you for treating me as intellectual equal rather than monster to be vanquished."
"You're not monster. You're researcher who made rational choice that had unintended consequences. There's difference."
"Unintended consequences," Mordecai mused. "That's gentle way to describe becoming obstacle to natural order."
"I prefer 'optimization problem requiring solution.' You optimized for personal survival. Now we're optimizing for greater good. It's just mathematics."
Mordecai actually laughed.
"Mathematics. I like that. Very well. Tomorrow we run your demonstration. And if it works..." he paused, "...I'll seriously consider graduation."
The connection ended.
Marco slumped in his chair.
"That was exhausting. Did we just convince lich to maybe die using academic arguments?"
"We convinced him to consider it," Jean Sage corrected. "That's step one. Demonstration tomorrow is step two. Actual death is step three."
"And if demonstration fails?"
"Then we have very intelligent, very defensive lich who now knows we're trying to kill him. That would be bad."
"No pressure then."
[Marco, for what it's worth, that was brilliant. You adapted your approach completely. Viktor needed heart, so you gave him heart. Mordecai needs logic, so you gave him logic. You're learning to read clients and meet them where they are.]
"Thanks, TARS. Let's just hope the demonstration works."
[It will. Death herself is invested in this. She won't let it fail. She wants Mordecai to choose death willingly, and she'll do whatever it takes to make that happen.]
That Night - Marco's Room
Legion found Marco staring at ceiling again.
"Can't sleep?"
"Thinking about Mordecai. What he said about joy being inefficient. That's sad."
"It is. But also understandable. When you exist for 4,500 years, emotions probably do feel inefficient. They don't serve survival."
"But they serve living. That's the difference he's missing."
Legion sat in chair by Marco's bed.
"I've been meaning to ask: how are YOU doing? You're helping immortals die. That can't be easy psychologically."
Marco considered.
"It's strange. Each one feels different. Viktor was sad but relieved. Yuki was liberated. The Wanderer was peaceful. But they all had something in common: they were suffering. Mordecai isn't suffering. He's just... empty. And somehow that's worse."
"Because suffering can be ended, but emptiness is harder to fill?"
"Exactly. How do you convince someone who's content with emptiness that fullness is better? Especially when they can't even remember what fullness felt like?"
"You show them. Tomorrow's demonstration isn't just proof transfer works. It's showing Mordecai what it feels like to share knowledge with living mind. To see someone else light up with understanding. That's fullness. That's joy. And maybe—just maybe—he'll remember why he became researcher in first place."
Marco smiled.
"That's pretty insightful for someone with five arguing personalities."
"They're not arguing much anymore. They're harmonizing. Like Jeans. Your success with them inspired me to try harder with my own integration."
"How's that going?"
"Three months until full reunification. I can feel it. All my pieces coming together. It's scary but exciting."
"I'm happy for you, Legion."
"And I'm grateful to you. For everything. For helping me when I was fragmented mess. For showing me that being multiple people doesn't mean I can't be whole person."
They sat in comfortable silence.
Finally, Legion spoke again:
"About immortal twelve. The one Death won't tell you about yet."
"What about it?"
"I did some research. Across dimensional databases, looking for beings so dangerous that even Death finds them disturbing. I found... rumors. Nothing concrete. But pattern."
"What kind of pattern?"
"References to someone who doesn't just refuse to die—they refuse to let ANYTHING die. Someone who's perverted death so completely that they've created anti-death zone. Place where nothing can die, nothing can end, everything just persists forever in increasing agony."
Marco felt chill.
"That's horrifying."
"That's why Death won't tell you yet. You're not ready to face that. But by immortal eleven, you will be. You'll have learned everything you need: compassion from Viktor, liberation from Yuki, temporal manipulation from Wanderer, logic from Mordecai... and six more lessons from immortals five through ten."
"What could those lessons be?"
"I don't know. But I trust Death's training program. She knows what she's doing. By the time you face twelve, you'll be ready."
"I hope you're right."
"I am. Now sleep. Tomorrow you have demonstration. And Mordecai is counting on you to show him that death can be gift instead of failure."
After Legion left, Marco finally slept.
And dreamed of libraries filled with knowledge, slowly turning to dust because no one was left alive to read them.
It was metaphor, he knew.
But also warning.
Immortality without purpose was just existence.
And existence without meaning was worse than death.
Tomorrow, he'd show Mordecai that.
He hoped it would be enough.
[END OF CHAPTER 26]