The book opened effortlessly.
Its cover read:
"Cogito, ergo dubito: yet never The Mystery."
The author:
"ETERNAL MONOMYTH PRIMORDIAL."
No—not strange.
Why does it mention my dream so boldly?
Why does it mention it at all?
Why does it name The Mystery as a proper noun?
This isn't merely strange—it's absurd.
I decided to try and read it.
But what gives—this is... impossible.
Was my intelligence finally infantile?
No.
I was five. But even so, this shouldn't be possible.
The words were not merely unknown—they rejected language itself.
It was as if it needed to be bestowed, like a liturgy given only by divinity.
When I thought of that word—divinity—I nearly choked.
What a sick joke.
Still, I pressed on.
Finally, I found something I could understand.
Legacy 1: Section 1
I muttered aloud:
"Legacy... who does this guy think he is?"
The first page:
I am the recursion of thought, the thought that begets thought, the infinite questioning of the mind's own mirror.
The second page:
There is no certainty but the Mystery. To think is to doubt. To doubt is to create. To create is to remember the void.
The third page:
If thou seeketh power, thou art a fool; if thou seeketh surrender, thou art a fool; only the seeker of the Mystery is no fool, though even he shall be swallowed in time.
The fourth page:
The Trial is not survival. The Trial is not conquest. The Trial is not purity. The Trial is the encounter of oneself against the infinite regression.
Each line felt like a key inserted into some invisible lock inside me.
I kept reading.
First, with humility face the chaos; second, with courage deny the form; third, with wisdom accept that which has no name; fourth, with desire contemplate the outer beauty—for that is the only other that stands with the Mystery.
These stem from one substrate. They are both a Mystery.
The Mystery of Mysteries, within itself—eternal recurrence.
Gateway to all sublimates.
And then, at the end:
The mother of the duplicity of complexity—that being the cycle of existence—has a name.
Free from craving, contemplate the inner wonder, like she did so naturally since conception.
Now, with desire, contemplate the outer beauty—for that is the only other that stands with the Mystery.
Both mysteries stem from one substrate. That is the secret: The Mystery.
I felt chills run through my spine, and my soul quivered in enlightened awareness for a brief moment.
What was this book?
I had no idea.
But it felt as if I had been nourished somehow.
I have no doubt now.
I am ready for my Trial.