The first thing he noticed was silence.
Not the comfortable silence of a quiet classroom after the bell rang, nor the melancholy silence of walking home late after grading papers. This was the silence of vastness—like sound had been swallowed whole. Cipher drew in a slow breath, and it echoed faintly, as if the air itself were hollow.
He opened his eyes.
Beneath him stretched a floor of polished stone tiles, each carved with runes that pulsed faintly like stars in the night sky. Some were cracked, glowing with an energy that shimmered in colors he had no names for. Beyond the platform, the world fell away into endless space—starlight, nebulae, and fragments of strange structures floating like islands adrift in the void.
It was beautiful. Terrifying. Familiar, in a way that felt like a dream half-remembered.
Cipher rose slowly to his feet, brushing dust from his shirt out of habit. His grey button-up and black tie were immaculate, even here. The tie's runic patterns gave off a faint glow, as though acknowledging this strange world. At his side, he felt weight—more real than anything else in this surreal place.
He looked over his shoulder.
A weapon taller than he was rested there, fastened by some unseen will: a scythe of black metal, runes glittering faintly like stars along its length. Its blade curved wide and elegant, gleaming silver-white, catching light that wasn't there. It radiated presence—commanding, dangerous. A tool of endings. Yet, somehow, it didn't feel foreign in his hands. When his fingers brushed the smooth handle, the scythe hummed with recognition, as though greeting its wielder.
On his other side, a small weight tugged faintly at his belt. He glanced down.
A book, bound in dark leather, rested snugly in a holster strapped to his thigh. Its cover bore the same constellations that ran along his tie, and as he touched it, faint runes flickered across the surface. For a fleeting moment, Cipher imagined he could hear whispering voices within—knowledge, perhaps, waiting to be opened.
"This isn't… Earth," he murmured, though the words seemed inadequate.
"Correct."
Cipher spun.
The voice was small, delicate, and almost… musical. Perched on a crumbled pillar not far from him sat a figure no larger than a child's doll. Its body was slender, shaped like a puppet of porcelain and brass. Tiny gears whirred at its joints, and cracks ran across its face, glowing faintly with pale-blue light from within. Its glassy eyes shifted, their pupils reshaping into star-like pinpricks as it studied him.
It dangled its legs over the edge, kicking them idly.
"Teacher," it said with a tilt of its head.
Cipher blinked. "…That's not my name."
The puppet leaned forward, eyes glinting with faint amusement. "It is what the gods called you. Is it not your title?"
"An occupation," Cipher corrected softly, crossing his arms. "Not a name."
"Then what is your name?"
"Cipher."
The puppet cocked its head again, testing the syllables. "Cipher Starlight. Teacher Cipher Starlight." Its voice was sing-song, but then, as though a current passed through it, its tone deepened into a resonance that echoed faintly across the platform: "Chosen of Wisdom. Harvester of Stories. Weaver of Endings."
Cipher stiffened. The presence in its voice was not its own. For a heartbeat, he felt eyes—vast, ancient—watching through the puppet's fragile shell. Then, as suddenly as it came, the presence vanished. The automaton blinked and its voice returned to normal.
"…But I will call you Teacher," it said matter-of-factly, as if nothing had happened.
Cipher let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Persistent, aren't you?"
The little construct hopped lightly from the pillar. Its weight was nearly nothing as it scrambled up his arm and perched neatly on his shoulder, dangling its legs again. Its cloak, stitched from mismatched scraps of parchment, rustled faintly. The runes on his tie pulsed once, as if accepting this odd companion.
"This place," Cipher said, glancing around at the endless starlit void. "What is it?"
"The Hub," the automaton answered. "A meeting point between stories. A place where myths that have been forgotten, fairy tales that have been corrupted, and legends that have gone astray all converge. It is the center of endings and beginnings."
Cipher frowned. "And what am I meant to do here?"
The automaton's eyes brightened like lanterns. "Teach. Guide. Reap. You are the hand chosen to mend what is broken—or sever what cannot be mended."
Cipher reached back, fingers brushing the runes of the great scythe. "…Reap."
"Not only death," the puppet said gently. "The harvest. The gathering. You reap the lessons of the old so they may be planted anew. Just as a teacher does."
Cipher's jaw tightened. He thought of his students. Their laughter, their trust, the way they believed in him so easily. His chest ached. "I never asked for this," he said quietly.
"No one does," the automaton replied. Its tone was simple, innocent. Yet for a moment, Cipher thought he heard wisdom in it—echoes not its own. "But no one else could do what you will do. You are not god. You are Teacher. That is heavier."
Before Cipher could respond, the Hub shuddered.
Across the platform, a door of light flickered. Its frame, shaped like an arch of stone, cracked and splintered. Darkness leaked from the seams, writhing like smoke. The automaton stiffened, its glassy eyes narrowing.
"A corruption," it whispered. "A story breaking apart."
Cipher stared at the door. The shadows within shifted, and for a moment he swore he heard faint cries—children weeping, a voice shrieking in laughter.
His hand tightened on the scythe.
"You expect me to step into that," he said flatly.
"You must," the automaton replied. "Stories unravel. Heroes are lost. If no one enters, the corruption spreads. Entire myths are consumed. You are chosen to face it."
Cipher closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw the car crash. His student's terrified face. The weight of the parent he could not save. The impact. The light.
And then the voice that had greeted him: You have chosen to save others. Now, you shall guide many more.
When he opened his eyes again, resolve had settled in their depths.
His hand gripped Astralis, the runes flaring like a constellation igniting. The blade glowed silver-white, its presence radiating across the platform. The automaton clung to his shoulder, unfazed by the sudden blaze of power.
Cipher exhaled slowly. "…Alright then."
He stepped forward, the scythe humming faintly in his grasp.
"Class," he murmured, "is in session."
And with that, he passed through the door of corrupted light.