Raizel stared at the holographic display, the encrypted file still glowing on the interface with an eerie, flickering pulse. The signature was unmistakably his own, yet it had no origin in his current systems. Timestamped seven years into the future, it was as if a shadow of himself had reached back — whispering across time.
Selene stood beside him, silent. Even she, hardened by sleepless weeks and unshakable loyalty, looked shaken.
"It's your encryption," she said quietly.
Raizel nodded. "Not just that. The logic layer… it's something I haven't invented yet."
He wasn't alarmed. He was intrigued. This was no longer science. It was evolution.
His fingers moved across the control pad, initiating a full-system lockout for all external devices. Only the lab's mainframe — powered by his own custom OS — remained active. All cloud connections severed. The message had to stay hidden until he understood its implications.
"Generate every possible interpretation of the signal," he ordered. "Run simulations on theoretical causality loops. I want to know what I sent to myself. And why."
Selene opened her notepad. "We're entering blind territory, Rai. If that's really from the future—"
"—Then someone or something has already stepped beyond the Threshold Device, and returned. I need to know what they found."
Raizel's thoughts surged ahead like a storm. He wasn't worried about the past anymore. He was worried about the consequences of getting too far ahead of time.
Three levels underground, the Threshold Device sat beneath reinforced alloys and AI-controlled containment drones. Raizel descended alone this time. Not even Selene followed.
He entered the chamber where the relic hummed softly, like a breathing machine awaiting command. The last time it activated, it had nearly shorted half their equipment. But this time, Raizel wasn't activating it. He was listening.
He connected a neural-interpreted node to his wrist — a bio-adaptive bridge that would convert dimensional patterns into cognitive streams.
And there it was.
A pulse — not electromagnetic, but spatial. It wasn't light or sound. It was a feeling — a ripple through existence itself.
He dropped to one knee.
Visions weren't images. They were states. Entire existences overlapping.
A world where he never built Helios. A version of him who died young. Another where he ruled over continents with a crown of tech and steel. Each one flashed and collapsed like a dying star.
Then, he saw the real image:
A great tower — not built of metal, but possibility — stretching between dimensions.
And behind it, a whisper:
"Build it before they do."
His eyes shot open.
He disconnected the node, breathing hard. Sweat dripped from his forehead. For the first time in weeks, he felt human again.
Back in the lab, Selene watched as Raizel returned, silent. Not shaken — but focused.
"What did you see?"
He stared at the wall, then turned.
"Blueprints. For the future. And a warning."
The next day, Raizel gathered his core team in the subterranean war room. Selene, Eira, Lorik, and a few silent operatives. The table illuminated as he activated a new sequence.
"We move now. We stop being local. We stop being cautious. From this point forward, we are builders of civilization. Not just companies. Not just tools."
"I'm initiating Project Obsidian. A floating server network in low orbit. Self-replicating code clusters. An AI management suite so advanced it won't just learn — it will teach."
He turned to Eira.
"You'll handle hardware miniaturization. Atmospheric shielding. I want this satellite running within four months."
To Selene: "You'll handle the media suppression team. No leaks. No chatter. Every test must appear as natural phenomena."
He paused.
"And me? I'm going to send a message through the Threshold. One that echoes back to the version of me who sent the first signal."
Late that night, the lights in Raizel's lab were dimmed. His fingers danced across the surface of the glass table. The AI assistant parsed thousands of theoretical languages, trying to encode a signal that could endure the paradox of self-transmission.
If he succeeded…
He would become the first human to truly converse with another version of himself.
No time travel. No machines. Just… resonance.
At 3:37 AM, the algorithm finalized. Raizel stared at it.
"To the version of me that survives — remember: the Tower isn't just for us. It's for all of them. Build faster. Think deeper. Don't hesitate."
He launched the signal through the lattice shell of the Threshold Device.
For one second, reality pulsed.
Then… stillness.
And somewhere, far away — in another strand of time — a boy named Raizel Numas looked up from a screen and saw the same message.