I started having dreams again.
Not pleasant dreams of tomorrow, but nightmares of dissolution. I'd see the Record, see names going dark, see my companions' lights flickering and fading while I watched helplessly.
I'd wake up gasping, covered in sweat, trying to convince myself it was just anxiety.
But deep down, I knew better.
Something was wrong with me.
It started small. Moments of disorientation where I'd forget where I was. Times when the world would blur around the edges before snapping back into focus. Instances where I'd reach for my power—that god-like ability to shape reality—and find it sluggish, unresponsive.
I was fading.
Just like the abandoned creations in the Record, I was becoming less real.
But how? I was the dreamer, the creator. I was supposed to be the most real thing in this world.
Unless...
Unless creating this world, giving my companions genuine consciousness and free will, had cost me something. Had transferred my reality to them, making them more solid while I became more ephemeral.
"You're doing it again," Mash said one evening. We were camped near a river, resting after a long day of travel.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at us like you're memorizing us. Like you're afraid we'll disappear." She sat beside me. "What aren't you telling us?"
I wanted to lie. To protect them from worry.
But we'd promised honesty.
"I think I'm fading," I said quietly.
She went very still. "What?"
"At the Record. My name was there too. And it was flickering worse than yours. I didn't understand it then, but now..." I gestured at myself. "I'm having moments where I feel less solid. Where reality seems to slip away from me. I think creating you, making you truly real, might have made me less real in exchange."
"That's not possible," Mash said, but her voice shook.
"Isn't it? Energy can't be created or destroyed, only transferred. Maybe reality works the same way. I gave you consciousness, autonomy, the ability to exist independently—maybe I gave you my existence."
"Then take it back," she said urgently. "Whatever you gave us, take it back. We'd rather not exist than exist without you."
"I can't. And I wouldn't even if I could." I took her hand. "You're real now, Mash. Truly real. I'm not going to undo that just to save myself."
"That's not your choice to make alone," Artoria said, emerging from the darkness. The others followed—they'd all been listening.
"We should have a say in whether we exist at your expense," Emiya added.
"No," I said firmly. "You don't get to sacrifice yourselves for me. I created you. I take responsibility for what that means."
"Except we're not just creations anymore," Cu argued. "We're people. And people get to choose what they're willing to sacrifice for those they love."
"This isn't a debate—"
"You're right," Da Vinci interrupted. "It's not. Because we're going to find a solution that doesn't require anyone to fade. There has to be a way to stabilize you without destabilizing us."
"And if there isn't?"
"Then we find more reality," Medusa said. "If this is about transferring existence, about limited resources, then we need to expand the pool. Create more stability, more solidity, enough for all of us."
"How do you create more reality?"
"That's what we're going to figure out," Artoria said. "Starting now."
They refused to let it drop. Over the next few days, as we continued exploring, they debated and theorized and planned. Da Vinci examined threshold points, looking for ways to draw stability from other dimensions. Medusa researched every book we could find about the nature of existence. Emiya and Artoria discussed it from a more practical angle—what actions made them feel more real, more solid.
And Mash... Mash stayed close to me, watching for signs of fading, ready to catch me if I slipped too far toward nothing.
"This is my fault," I said one night when it was just the two of us. "I should never have created you. Should never have—"
"Stop," she said fiercely. "Don't you dare regret us. Don't you dare suggest we shouldn't exist just because existence is complicated."
"But if I die, if I fade completely, you might fade too. I might have doomed you—"
"Then we'll fade together," she said. "But I'd rather have existed and faded than never existed at all. Every moment I've lived, every choice I've made, every conversation we've had—those matter. Even if they end."
"Mash—"
"You taught me that," she continued. "Back in Argentium, at the festival, when you talked about becoming real. You said what matters isn't whether we last forever, but whether we choose to be meaningful in the moment. So even if we only have limited time, let's make it count."
I pulled her into a hug, feeling tears on my face.
"When did you get so wise?"
"I learned from the best," she said, hugging back tightly.
On the twentieth day after finding the Record, we encountered something impossible.
Another person.
Not a villager or shepherd or city dweller. Someone like me. I could tell immediately from the way reality bent around her, the way she existed with that same god-like solidity I'd once had.
She was young—or looked young, it was hard to tell with dreamers. Dark hair, darker eyes, expression of someone who'd seen too much.
"You're dying," she said without preamble. "I can see it. You're fading fast."
"Who are you?"
"Ayaka. I'm a dreamer, like you. Been maintaining my world for about thirty years now." She looked at my companions with something like pity. "How long have they existed?"
"Six months, maybe. I'm not sure exactly."
"That's the problem," she said. "You gave them too much, too fast. Full consciousness, complete autonomy, genuine free will—that takes massive amounts of reality to sustain. Normally, dreamers create their worlds gradually, building up stability over decades or centuries. You tried to do it all at once."
"Can I fix it?"
She hesitated. "Maybe. There are ways to stabilize reality, to anchor existence more firmly. But they require..." She glanced at my companions. "They require sacrifice."
"What kind of sacrifice?" Emiya demanded.
"Not death," Ayaka said quickly. "But change. To stabilize Master's existence while maintaining yours, you'd need to... simplify. Give up some of that autonomy and consciousness. Become more like NPCs again, following patterns, existing more as concepts than complete people."
"No," I said immediately. "Absolutely not."
"Then Master will fade," Ayaka said bluntly. "Within a month, maybe two. And when Master fades completely, you'll fade soon after. There's no other way."
"There has to be," Mash said desperately. "There has to be another option."
Ayaka looked at her with genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry. I've watched a dozen dreamers go through this. The ones who try to create true consciousness always burn out. The only ones who survive are those who accept that their creations can't be fully real. That some level of control, some level of... limitation is necessary for stability."
"Then the system is broken," Artoria said coldly. "If the only way to exist is to be less than fully alive, then existence itself is flawed."
"Maybe," Ayaka agreed. "But it's the existence we have. You can rage against it, or you can adapt to it. Those are your options."
She left us with that, vanishing back into whatever world she maintained, leaving us to face the impossible choice.
Full consciousness and death within months.
Or limited existence and survival.
We sat in heavy silence.
"We should vote," Cu said finally.
"No," I said. "This isn't a democracy. I won't let you choose to diminish yourselves for me."
"And we won't let you choose to die for us," Mash countered. "So we're at an impasse."
"Unless," Da Vinci said slowly, "we reject both options."
"How?" Emiya asked. "Ayaka said those are the only choices."
"Ayaka said those are the only choices in this system. But systems can be changed. Rules can be broken." Da Vinci's eyes gleamed with that dangerous inventor's light. "We saw the Record. We know reality has structure, underlying mechanics. What if we could alter those mechanics? Rewrite the rules that say consciousness requires instability?"
"That's impossible," I said.
"You created conscious beings from nothing," she countered. "You built an entire world. You exist as a god-like consciousness capable of shaping reality. And you're telling me you can't change the rules?"
"I don't even understand the rules."
"Then we learn," Artoria said. "We study. We experiment. We find the underlying code of existence and we hack it."
"That could take years," Medusa pointed out. "Master might not have years."
"Then we work fast," Mash said. "We dedicate everything to this. We find a way."
I looked around at their determined faces. These people—my creations, my family—refusing to accept an impossible situation. Choosing to fight even when the odds were hopeless.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. We try. But if we can't find a solution, if I start fading too fast—"
"We'll deal with that if it happens," Cu interrupted. "For now, we fight."
"For now," they all echoed.
And despite everything—despite the fading, the uncertainty, the terrible choice looming—I felt something like hope.
Because if there was one thing I'd learned, it was that reality wasn't as fixed as it pretended to be.
We'd already broken so many rules.
What was one more?