To face head-on the power of an Aeon, with nothing but a mortal's body.
From the birth of the cosmos until now, such a scene had never appeared.
Perhaps once, long ago—but after the swarms ravaged the universe, such a sight had never again come to pass.
Because all of it had been preserved before his eyes.
And his name was Leere.
An obscure, unremarkable Memokeeper.
He followed the Aeon of Remembrance, Fuli, whom he worshipped—just like his god, he cared nothing for fame or profit.
He abandoned his flesh, becoming pure memory substance, to follow and record all that the Aeon Fuli observed.
And thus, he had been able to glimpse every memory of the universe since the Aeon's birth.
He also helped manage those universal memories.
For the Aeon of Remembrance had but one duty: to observe, and to record.
The records of countless years piled together in a tangle, and THEY had no concern for order.
So Leere noticed this, and chose to shoulder the duty of sorting and categorizing.
Then the Aeon cast down THEIR gaze, and Leere became THEIR Emanator.
In this cosmos, no historian could compare with him.
Yet he felt no need to step out and correct errors, though many histories had already been twisted by the Fabricated Historians.
For instance: a galactic financial system, Skandana, which had once risen slowly from poverty to immense prosperity, based on planetary resources.
In the hands of Fabricated Historians, it became: "Should the Skandana System preserve its history of poverty?"
That record bore only the name "Skandana."
Everything else—he could not even recognize how it related to the true development he had seen.
Yet despite such flawed history, countless beings across the galaxy still believed in it, even treating it as canon.
Leere saw it all, but never tried to correct it.
He had no need. His task was only to follow the Aeon quietly, recording and arranging the memories of the universe.
But if you were to ask him that question: "Has any mortal ever withstood the might of an Aeon?"
Then, once his work was done, Leere would tell you with precision: "Impossible."
In all the universe's memories kept by the Aeon of Remembrance, not a single mortal had ever resisted the power of an Aeon.
Even the one who left that unhealing scar upon the chest of the Aeon of Destruction—Nanook—had always been accompanied by bursts of wild laughter.
Most only knew the surface: that someone had scarred Nanook.
But as the one who sorted records, he knew the truth of what had happened.
Some might argue: the universe is vast, nothing is impossible.
But Leere would answer:
"In the cosmos, mortals have sometimes grown arrogant, trying to assassinate Aeons. The result—before the Aeon even noticed their existence, they were annihilated utterly."
Those assassins had not even come within a hundred light-years. They had already been erased, reduced to cosmic dust by the power spilling from the Aeon.
Only gods could face gods.
In front of an Aeon, mortals were but ants, waiting helplessly to be crushed.
That was how it should be.
That was how it always had been in the universe's history.
So why?
Why had his god suddenly sent him such a memory?
Leere stared at the newly transmitted cosmic memory, struck silent.
He could hardly believe what the vision showed.
A mortal clad in red and black armor.
This armor was, by galactic standards, a proper interstellar battle-suit, with a peculiar beauty.
It flickered with some strange power—but within the man's body, there was no power of destiny. This much was clear.
He was just an ordinary man in armor.
And the being he faced in the record was twisted beyond clarity, only scraps of radiance visible.
That radiance warped into a form half-human, half-insect.
Leere had seen such a sight before—on the eve of Nanook's ascension to Aeonhood.
Before the Aeon of Destruction rose, He too had shown such a monstrous form.
But back then, His form had only been the fire of annihilation, seeking to burn all.
This insectile hybrid, however, only reminded Leere of the universe's oldest scourge.
The shadow of the Aeon of Propagation.
Though in this memory, that shadow bore features closer to humankind, Leere could never forget it.
Thus the truth of this vision was clear.
A mortal, with only his armor, resisting an Aeon of Propagation not yet fully ascended.
This pierced through all Leere's knowledge across hundreds of amber ages.
Humans could not resist Aeons.
His first instinct was to deny it—but the source of this memory was beyond doubt.
As he had said:
As Memokeeper, his duty was to help the Aeon arrange THEIR collected memories.
To make them linear, comprehensible.
So the memory before him came directly from that most silent, unknowable Aeon of Remembrance THEMSELF.
Which meant—he could not question its truth.
And yet, his mind recoiled at what he saw.
"Impossible. Absolutely impossible."
Could a mortal resist an Aeon with only their strength?
If anyone else had told him, he would think them duped by Fabricated Historians.
But what Fabricated Historian could deceive his own ultimate superior?
Aha, perhaps?
At the thought, Leere straightened, sifting through the endless flow of memory.
Sure enough, he saw a familiar figure.
A jester's mask, hidden behind countless stars, shining too brightly to miss.
This one never cared to conceal himself—mortals could look upon his face freely.
He might even be mingling among them, walking by your side.
And within the memory, the laughter under that mask rang louder than ever.
Perhaps he had seen something amusing. Who could know?
After all, this god laughed even at His own misfortune.
"No wonder. No wonder."
Then it made sense. Then it was fine.
So it was this Aeon of Elation watching. Then of course such absurd, comical things could happen.
At that realization, Leere set aside his doubt.
There was no need to doubt. With this god present, anything could be reasonable.
Best to watch and see what He would do.
And so Leere observed further.
He saw this was no stray scene, but a continuous flow of memory.
Only one part was torn chaotic—where a cerulean sword's edge had slashed through.
Otherwise, it was unbroken, fixed upon a single figure.
Leere watched that man drawn into swarms, then into planetary strife.
He watched—and suddenly realized something dire.
Wait.
A continuous memory, able to pull every event beneath one starry sky…
There was only one being in the cosmos who could do that.
Fuli. Had THEY been watching all along?
The thought froze him.
For an Aeon to cast such sustained attention on one being—did it mean…
A new Emanator was about to be born?
Leere's mind raced. Yes, the signs matched.
But just then, the memory shifted again!
That mortal was forcing back the Aeon's larval body with his own flesh.
Leere gaped, stunned beyond words.
No—you're still human??
Do you understand what you're doing??
Fake, this had to be fake!
He longed to deny the memory, but dared not.
One question pounded in his chest:
"My god hasn't been tricked by that man… has THEY?"
With Aha around, even that was possible.
And soon, he heard that Aeon's laughter:
"So amusing, so amusing. But Aha must work. Aha must deliver packages. Poor Aha."
With that, the mask hidden in the cosmos vanished.
Leere looked back to the mortal clashing with an Aeon.
Now the man was unleashing a flurry of punches against the god.
This was even more absurd than before!
Hey!
To shatter a Memokeeper's composure—sometimes, it only takes an instant.