Ren screamed.
Not from pain—though there was plenty of that—but from the sensation of being too much and not enough simultaneously. The Protocol Eight system was trying to map his consciousness, to use it as a template for the dimensional anchors. But his modified nature made the process like trying to download the internet through a dial-up modem.
He was in the machine but also above it, perceiving the bunker from angles that shouldn't exist. He saw his body convulsing in the interface chair, purple energy crackling across his skin like electric snakes. He saw his friends' faces—terror, determination, hope warring for dominance.
But more than that, he saw the system itself. His grandmother's masterwork laid bare in all its elegant complexity.
The dimensional anchors weren't barriers—they were stitches. Reality was wounded, had been wounded since humanity first punched through dimensions. The Neither Mist wasn't an invasion but an immune response, trying to heal the damage by simplifying everything back to base states.
Protocol Eight wasn't about fighting this process but redirecting it. Instead of letting reality heal by simplification, it would heal by adaptation. The anchors would become living things, constantly adjusting, requiring maintenance, growing stronger through challenge rather than stasis.
"Brilliant," Ren whispered through bloody lips. "You didn't cure the disease, Grandma. You turned it into evolution."
The system responded, recognizing something in his understanding. Data flowed faster now, not forcing itself into his consciousness but inviting him to merge. He felt the anchors across the world—twelve primary nodes, each one a fusion of human technology and alien principles.
But they were dying. Ten thousand years without maintenance had left them brittle, corrupted. The system showed him what was needed—not just activation but revitalization. Each anchor would need a consciousness to guide it, a living will to keep it adaptive.
"I can't maintain all twelve," he realized. "No one could."
The system agreed, showing him the solution his grandmother had hidden in the code. Not one guardian but many. The anchors would fragment, spreading their influence through smaller nodes. Instead of twelve massive installations, there would be thousands of smaller ones. Each would need tending, but the load would be distributed.
It was brilliant. It was insane. It was perfectly human—solving an impossible problem by making it everyone's problem.
"Okay," Ren said, blood running from every orifice now. "Let's do this."
He opened himself fully to the system. Not trying to contain or control it, but becoming part of it. The purple energy in his genes served as a buffer, allowing integration without dissolution. He felt his consciousness stretch across impossible distances, touching each anchor point, leaving a piece of himself to jumpstart the revival process.
Through it all, one thought anchored him—Elanil's face, fierce and vulnerable, telling him to come back.
"I promised," he whispered, and pulled the shattered pieces of himself back together.
The integration was complete. Protocol Eight hummed with new life, dimensional anchors beginning their slow healing process. It would take time—years, maybe decades—but reality would adapt rather than break.
Ren opened eyes he didn't remember closing. The bunker's lights were different—softer, more organic. The machine had changed too, looking less like technology and more like something grown. Veins of purple energy pulsed through its structure, his grandmother's modification now part of the system itself.
"You absolute idiot."
He looked up to find Elanil's face, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You kept your promise."
"Told you I would." His voice came out rough, like he'd been screaming. Which, he realized, he probably had. "How long?"
"Three hours," Mayfell said, helping him sit up. Her ancient eyes were bright with wonder. "The longest three hours in centuries. But you did it. The barriers are holding."
"For now," he corrected, then coughed. Blood came up, but it was tinged purple. "The system needs constant maintenance. It's not a cure—it's treatment. We'll need to keep working, keep watching."
He explained what he'd learned, what the system now was. Not a wall against the Neither but a living thing that would grow and adapt. The modification in his genes would spread—not through biology but through the anchor points. Those who maintained them would develop resistance, not immunity but the ability to face the Neither without dissolving.
"Then we work together," Varos said firmly. "Human knowledge and elven dedication."
"And whatever else stands with us," Seylas continued.
Even Tyrael, looking haggard but sane, nodded. "I... I owe you an apology. And a debt. I'll spend whatever years remain to me maintaining these anchors."
"Pay it forward," Ren said, trying to stand. His legs had other ideas. "Help maintain the barriers. Teach others. Make sure this knowledge doesn't die with us."
They helped him stand, every muscle protesting. Through the bunker's screens, they could see the purple cracks in the sky slowly healing. Not disappearing—the scars would always remain—but closing, leaving reality wounded but whole.
"The Neither Lord is still out there," he warned. "Waiting. Watching. This isn't over."
"Then we'll be ready," Elanil said, taking his hand. Her grip was warm, real, grounding him in the moment. "Together."
"Together," he agreed, then swayed. "But first, can we possibly find somewhere to rest? Saving reality is exhausting."
They laughed—all of them, even stern Varos. The sound echoed through the bunker, human noise mixing with elven mirth in a place that had waited ten thousand years to hear life again.
As they helped him toward the exit, Ren caught a glimpse of his reflection in a darkened screen. His white hair now had streaks of purple running through it, like cosmic highlights. His eyes held depths that hadn't been there before—the weight of seeing beyond the veil, of touching something vast and alien and surviving.
Different, but still himself. Still human, just... expanded.
"Rating," he murmured, exhaustion making him honest. "10/10 for not dying, 11/10 for having something to come back to, infinity over 10 for whatever comes next."
Because whatever came next—Herald or horror, cult or chaos—they'd face it together.
The world had been saved.
Now came the harder part: keeping it that way.
And somewhere in the spaces between dimensions, the Neither Lord watched and waited, patient as entropy, curious about these small, bright things that refused to stop trying.
The game was far from over.
It had just become more interesting.