--Recovered from the Echo Vault, beneath the Dusted Moon of Orialis
There are twelve.
No more.
And perhaps.....no fewer.
I do not know my name anymore.
Name vanish first, when the last stars dim and memory begins to curl inward like a dying leaf. But what I do remember are the weapons--the ones no archive dares record, the ones that do not merely kill, but unmake.
Some were crafted.
Some were born.
Some were found, humming in the dark where no light ever touched.
Each was designed--by intention or accident--to end.
Not just life.
But meaning.
But continuity.
But existence itself.
The documents you now hold were not written. They were remembered, transcribed by thought-etchers in a language that bleeds from page to page. We buried them deep, in the folds of dimension, behind gates that required forgetting just to pass through.
But gates never lasts.
Now, they are in your hands.
If you read on, do so not as a student, or a scholar, or a seeker.
Read as witness.
Because knowledge is a weapon. And this book may be the thirteenth.
--Archivist of the Last Codex, Memory-Shorn, Echo-Wrapped