Glyph Status: [System Glitch: 12.3%]
Memory Sync: Lagging…
Processing Multiple Realities…
Recommendation: "Don't get kidnapped today."
The trouble with being declared a divine prophet is that it attracts the kind of people who pray with one hand and stab you with the other.
Case in point: I woke up tied to a marble altar with incense in my eyes, twelve chanting cultists in bone-white robes, and someone painting a spiral on my forehead with what I sincerely hoped was red ink.
"Glyph?"
[Hi. You've been prophet-napped. Would you like to file a divine harassment report?]
"Where the hell am I?"
[Still in the city. Underground cult hideout. Church of the Spiral Eye. Very illegal. Very stabby.]
"And what's the spiral mean—"
[Sacred symbol of recursive prophecy. Or eternal indigestion. One of the two.]
...….
"He's awake," one cultist whispered reverently.
"Then begin the awakening ritual," said another—taller, janglier, and clearly in charge. His beard looked like it had been groomed with candle wax and trauma.
A cup was raised to my lips—smelled like basil and battery acid. I did the only logical thing: spit it directly into the High Priest's face.
He blinked. Then smiled.
"His resistance is foretold. The Spiral tests us."
[Jeremy, congrats. You've been cast as The Reluctant Redeemer.]
They began chanting louder. The spiral on my forehead pulsed faintly. My wrists were still bound, and the marble altar beneath me had hairline cracks—like it had been used before. Violently.
I looked up. An inscription above the altar read: "ONLY THE RETURNED MAY SPEAK WITH THE EYE."
Returned.
they knew I died. They believed the prophecy I'd faked.
"Glyph how did they find out?"
[You kinda exploded a relic in front of eleven cardinals and a magical audit committee.]
"So now what? They worship me?"
[worse. they expect wisdom.]
"Glyph. Options?"
[Scream. Cry. Start prophesying. Probably in that order.]
...…
The ropes came off. I was gently lifted. Offered a spiral-marked staff carved from bleached driftwood, humming faintly.
The High Priest knelt. "Speak, O Spiral-Touched. Tell us what the Eye revealed beyond death."
I took the staff, forced my face into what I imagined a haunted prophet might look like—eyelids half-closed, twitchy neck—and said:
"The Eye… wants you to get a better decorator."
Silence. Tension.
Then applause.
[Oh god. You've entered the improv cult.]
"They thought that was a metaphor."
[Everything you say is a metaphor when you're the Spiral's mouthpiece.]
I continued, voice hoarse and dramatic:
"Beyond the veil, I saw a spiral staircase that led… into a mirror. Every step backward, a memory forgotten. Every step forward, a lie made true."
[Did you just invent a theology on the spot?]
"I was trained in Chekhov and con artistry. This is my turf."
The cultists began murmuring the phrase "lie made true" like a mantra. One of them started speaking in tongues—except, halfway through, they dropped a line that froze me.
"The one who fell… the one who was pushed… He returns. But his stage was broken."
I went cold. I hadn't told anyone I was pushed. Or that I fell.
"Glyph. Did they just quote my death?"
[Yeah. Uh. Not creepy at all.]
....
Then it happened.
The spiral on the staff lit up.
Reality twisted.
The chamber dissolved into mirrors. Endless reflections of me—except… not me.
One turned, cracked down the middle like a broken puppet. Audric's face. The real one. The nobleman whose body I now wore.
The staff burned in my hands. My reflection blinked-out of sync.
Then the glass shattered, and Audric stepped through.
He stepped forward through the mirror. His eyes were glassy and wide, lips moving in stuttered jerks.
Audric's mouth moved, but the words came a second late—like bad dubbing.
"They're watching, Jeremy. Through me. Through you."
"Who's they?"
"The ones who wrote your fall."
"I don't—"
"Your death was a dress rehearsal. This world is the show."
He reached toward me. A fingertip brushed my forehead—
—and I was back in the cult chamber, vomiting altar wine, shaking.
"Glyph. What the hell was that?"
[Echo imprint. The staff has a soul-bound recording. And someone wanted you to see that.]
"Audric knew."
[Correction: Audric remembers.]
...…..
[System Notice: Glyph experiencing memory echo interference. Rebooting sarcasm subroutine…]
"Glyph?"
[R̸e̸b̶o̵o̵t͠i͘n̷g̡… I ̕a̵m̸ n͞ot͜ ̷a͏c̢ti̵n͠g.]
I reached for my face-my real face—but my hands passed through it like smoke. Who was I? Who had I ever been?
Sudden vertigo.
I forgot who I was—but my lips kept moving, reciting lines i didn't remember learning."
Not as a joke—not as a performance.
I forgot my Earth name.
My knees hit the ground. My lips moved, saying—
"My lord, the king is dead."
"Gods above, is this a dagger I see before me?"
Lines. From Hamlet. Macbeth. My old roles.
A blur of masks over masks over masks.
"Glyph—help me."
[Recalibrating… J. Pierce, please remain calm—]
"That's not my name."
[Yes it is. Full registry: Jeremy Pierce Blake. Alias: J. Pierce.]
That name hit me like a truck. I hadn't used that name since—
"Since when, Glyph?"
[Since the restraining order. Since the accident.]
"What accident?"
[Memory partition locked.]
...…
The cult eventually gave me a guest room.
No guards.
No locks.
Which meant something worse was coming.
It arrived as the masked inquisitor, sitting in the shadows, reading my prophecy scroll like a wine list.
"Do you know what this is?"
"Garbage?"
"A map. With a sigil encoded in recursive glyphs. And you unlocked it."
He unrolled the scroll. The spirals realigned into a coordinate grid.
Glyph pinged it instantly.
[Confirmed. River Wyrm's Mouth. Remote canyon. Forbidden lands.]
"Why show me?"
"Because you're walking bait."
"For who?"
"The ones who made you. The ones who ended you."
The inquisitor stood, turned to leave, but stopped.
"Still don't believe me? Fine. Remember this phrase:"
"Call sheet. Take 12. She never forgave you."
My blood ran cold. I didn't know what it meant—but my body did.
"Why does that hurt?"
[Query blocked. Emotional trauma flag triggered.]
....
One last thing.
The inquisitor pulled off a glove.
Revealed a barcode tattoo— faint, scanned, partially erased, like a product marked for return.
Earth tech. Not fantasy.
I recognized the exact style.
"Glyph. That barcode—"
[Corporate imprint. Earth origin. Last seen… on your agent's wrist.]
"She had that too."
[They all did. The ones who came first.]
And then he vanished.
No flash. No portal. Just… nothing.
END OF CHAPTER 6