Thales and Hypatia moved through the vast economic district of the province. It was not just a trade centre, but a living mechanism of memory exchange, debate, and cultural friction. Traders bartered not for objects, but for experiences—some precious, others painful, all commodified.
In the public square, Mnemonics, Everspire, and even Oblivion Walkers were engaged in spirited arguments. Thales, driven by an inner need to dominate dialogue, considered inserting himself—but held back, observing first.
He picked up a crystal from a vendor's table. The moment he touched it, a snowfall bloomed in his vision—children laughing, joy overflowing in a flurry of white.
"What... experience is this?"
"That right there, sonny, is the joy of a group of children's first snowfall."
Snowfall. He'd read of seasons, but Gaia's current form made it hard to believe weather followed natural rules. There were no atmospheric layers, no tectonics, no stable celestial cycles. The planet felt like a sculpted dream—not a physical world.
"You going to buy it?"
"Not this," Thales replied, "but I'll buy something."
"Great. I don't want freeloaders draining the resonance."
"Hey Hypatia," Thales asked, "what's a peta-crystal?"
"Less a concept—more a threshold. It takes 1,000 teracrystals to store the data of one petacrystal. About a quadrillion base crystals. Think of it as three million gigacrystals. That's the estimated memory capacity of an unevolved human life—based on the brain's hypothetical storage limits."
"Interesting… but how is that externally measured? The human brain is a black box. Who regulates the scale for these crystals?"
"Some say there's a godlike entity deep within Historia. Not a ruler in the traditional sense, but the symbolic core. They call it... the Mnemonarch."
Ah. That must be the Excellency Gibbon had mentioned. Why hadn't he asked sooner?
"Alright, I'm heading to the Spire," Hypatia said. "Meet me there when you're done."
"Sounds good."
Thales turned to another stall.
"What's this scroll?"
"Depends. You mean why it's a scroll, or what's on it?"
"What's on it."
"The first winning strategy from the first general—or so they say. Not for sale, though. Trade only."
"What's the exchange?"
"Three sol fragments."
A steep price. Or a bargain. It was hard to tell.
"You don't have memories to barter?"
"Mine are fragmented. Possibly tampered with. A memory alchemist might be able to extract something, but not here."
"Fair enough. Pleasure doing business, patron." The vendor hesitated, then added: "Are you... sick?"
"Probably not. Someone just messed with my head."
"I've got tools for cultivation issues—"
"Won't work. I'm not a native. My Umwelt's different."
"Right, right. Not tailored for Oblivion Walkers or foreigners."
"Thanks." Thales bowed.
The vendor flushed—either surprised by the gesture or stirred by something more primal. Who could say?
"Hey. Kid."
The voice came from a nearby stall. Thales turned.
The man wasn't an Everspire or Oblivion Walker. That meant he was a Mnemonic—though his aura was unlike the rest. Symmetrical face. Silver eyes. Porcelain skin with iridescent shimmer. Hair braided and silver, a translucent robe hanging off his frame like living silk. Strange inscriptions moved across his skin, almost like memory glyphs.
"You lost memories, right?" the man said. "I scooped some up. Want to buy them back?"
"Unless they involve The Mystery, I'll pass."
Thales left. The man's voice was hypnotic, but not strong enough to pierce his resolve.
Instead, Thales let himself drift toward the loudest part of the square—where debates collided like elements in alchemical reaction.
A Mnemonic scholar was speaking:
"Even the ugliest memories build meaning. Without them, we're lopsided—half-formed."
An Oblivion Walker scoffed:
"Romantic drivel. A child haunted by war doesn't need to understand—they need relief."
Thales nodded—he felt like that child. But wasn't it the pain that shaped him into something else?
An Everspire mediator interjected:
"Preserve the lesson. Let the child rest. Memory can nourish and heal."
Thales usually hated fence-sitting, but this seemed reasonable.
Elsewhere, a trader-philosopher was arguing with a memory artisan.
"Borrowed memories are counterfeit. If you didn't live it, how can it shape you?"
"All memory is borrowed," the artisan replied. "Even your own. The experience is what matters."
"Isn't all memory a kind of theft?" Thales mused aloud. "My own history feels half-imagined. Am I counterfeit?"
"No," the artisan smiled. "You're becoming. That's all that matters."
Becoming. The word rang out like a chime in his mind. In the Labyrinth, he had learned that lesson. Perhaps the world was repeating it here—different form, same truth.
He continued.
A historian argued:
"The Archive is our compass. Without it, we repeat the past."
"And your Archive," an Oblivion Walker barked, "is a noose. Let the dead stay dead."
"Ha!" a drunken bystander shouted. "None of you care about truth. You just want control over what people remember."
Later, Thales encountered a "Trauma Merchant."
"A small price," he offered, "and I'll erase your worst day."
A preservationist opposed him:
"But our scars make us strong!"
A healer chimed in:
"Pain doesn't need to define you. But it can be transformed."
Thales grimaced. That last one felt like naïve optimism dressed as wisdom. Pain didn't become order. It became life. But life wasn't orderly—it was a tempest barely tamed by form.
And finally, one last debate:
"Give a murderer the memories of their victim," said a Mnemonic scholar. "Watch them reform."
"And erase their identity?" an ethicist retorted. "Who gave you the right to rewrite a soul?"
"What if we just showed them alternate paths?" offered an Everspire idealist.
Thales was intrigued. Could empathy-based technology alter someone without destroying them? Could his own pursuit—The Mystery—be manipulated this way?
The thought chilled him.
What if this obsession... was planted in me?
He shuddered.
But now, it was time.
The Mnemonic Spire loomed—its mirrored surface flashing with moments in time, glyphs alive and whispering.
Doors opened as he approached. Thales stood before them, humbled and curious.
Magnificent. Wonderful. Simply impressive.
He stepped inside.