"I've reached my limit… I was greedy." — I murmured, staring at the mountains of particles before me. Compared to the beginning, the quantity was impressive, almost overwhelming.
If I had stopped at the microscopic scale, I wouldn't be in this situation. The challenge now was to keep the insulating layer stable, preventing the particles from transforming into unpredictable forms.
However, with the increase of the primordial unit, my control over matter under the foreign domain's influence became more precise. I thought that by expanding it, I could create a counterbalance to the mental load needed to maintain my insulating layer.
At the atomic level, the mental load was minimal, almost negligible. But when growing to a macroscopic scale, the pressure increased exponentially. Ignoring the warning signs, I continued. I only realized my mistake when my body had already reached the size of a small object — and at that moment, it was too late.
I was trapped, in a precarious balance. I couldn't absorb more matter — the risk of losing control over the particles of my "skin" was high. Reducing the primordial unit was also not a viable option.
I faced a dilemma: continue expanding until I collapsed and was expelled from this domain, or find a way to stabilize my insulating layer.
— "Let's try to stabilize the layer."
I reviewed in detail how the insulating layer had been created: a barrier of dense particles, compressed to the point of isolating concepts. Its strength lay precisely in its simplicity — and that was why replacing it seemed impossible.
The layer was a physics abomination. Each particle required my direct attention; every instant, I had to micromanage positions, correct deviations, suppress reactions to keep everything stable.
I took a deep breath, hesitant. I slightly released control over the structure and immediately felt the natural tendency of the particles: to seek more stable forms, moving away from each other. The problem was, if I allowed this, the layer would lose its insulating capacity.
The barrier existed only because my will forced it to defy the rules of this domain. If I let it free, it would not sustain itself: it could dissolve into energy, implode into a singularity, or even collapse into a miniature sun.
Replacing the layer would require stable matter, with the same density and properties, that wouldn't cause damage or collapse.
"A lost cause" — I murmured. I didn't know of any material in this domain that met those conditions. In my domain, my will would suffice, but here it was different.
The most viable solution was clear: reduce the primordial unit to its original size.
—"It's the only way."
I began trying. First, I resorted to the old reduction methods, but I soon realized I was already at the limit — there was no way forward that way.
Then, amidst the frustrated attempts, I stumbled upon something unexpected: I managed to fold the primordial unit. The sensation was strange, almost trivial, as if folding a shirt — but without any resistance. Unlike a shirt, though, there was no collision between the folded parts.
— "Curious… where is the extra volume going?"
As I continued to curve the form, two hypotheses arose. First: perhaps it was being folded into a spatial dimension I still didn't know.
Second: it could be related to the very nature of the primordial unit's material — an element I had never studied in depth, but which seemed closest to my own essence.
"Come to think of it… my particles already possess this property. I can unite them into a singular form without increasing volume. So… why can't I compress the primordial unit?…"
I paused for a moment. "Wait. I don't have time for this now. Focus!"
Without further delay, I resumed the process: I folded, folded again, and kept folding — until the primordial unit bent over itself infinitely, reducing to the size of a single atom.
Upon sensing the folded unit, I noticed something strange. Each fold remained, coexisting at the same point, without canceling out — exactly like the mother particle.
At the same time, I realized that my control over my matter, under the influence of the foreign domain, had stagnated. To regain stability, I absorbed the excess particles from the insulating layer, returning to atomic size. The pressure on my mind eased, as if a crushing weight had been lifted all at once.
"Much better." — I murmured in relief, like drinking water after days in the desert.
"Sigh… now what do I do?"
I could simply resume my experiments, but this experience had left a clear warning: I still didn't possess a stable form. Before continuing to impose my will, I needed to understand this domain and its rules better.
— "If I improve my stability, I'll be able to explore more freely…" — I murmured, deciding.
I then resumed collecting matter, now with a new goal: understand the rules of this domain and identify stable forms of matter. I observed the captured samples dissolve quickly, evaporating into particles before I could study them.
I persisted, analyzing each fragment for brief moments. After an indiscernible time, I managed to catalog a stable element. "And thousands of others… incomplete," I murmured.
To accelerate, I created memory and copy concepts for the particles, hoping they would preserve information and continue analysis autonomously. But it didn't work — the exchange of information was limited to my own perception.
Still, with a stable element in hand, I began the first tests. I guided groups of particles, shaping them until I recreated the newly discovered structure. However, when the foreign domain applied its concepts to my matter, it became nearly impossible to control. When I finally managed to stabilize it, the result was disappointing: the form hardened, rigid and immobile, as if dead.
Even rigid, the matter was still mine. I felt every transformation caused by interactions with the environment and could perceive its relative position in space.
As I observed it change on its own, it soon revealed another, even more stable element. And then, an inevitable doubt arose:
— "Have I been studying this wrong all this time?"
I adopted an extra approach beyond absorbing matter: I let part of my matter stabilize in the foreign domain, observing its interactions through my connection with it.
While absorbing foreign matter, I immediately realized I had pulled something by mistake. There was no ignoring it: it was too large, far beyond what I was used to manipulating — like fishing in a pond and accidentally catching a sea monster.
— "High-dimensional matter…"
If the way I perceived matter was a mountain, the concepts were at the peak, particle gases underground, while ordinary matter was at sea level. And that matter? It sat right in the middle of the mountain.
I thought something like that would be impossible in this domain. But there it was: a state oscillating between concept and matter, carrying fragments of something greater — soul, will, memory, thought, wisdom.
— "So high-dimensional matter doesn't evaporate so easily… is it because it's closer to concepts than ordinary matter?"
I had already understood the evaporation mechanism: when matter entered my domain, it lost the concepts that kept it stable, returning to a basic particle state. This explained the impressive resilience of high-dimensional matter.
Observing the high-dimensional matter from another domain, I realized something extraordinary. These concepts were intricate, far beyond my own — like a masterpiece compared to childish sketches.
— "Incredible." — I murmured, feeling an unprecedented gain.
"Matter… I could acquire it with time. But ideas for complex concepts? They're complete treasures." — I realized they were already beginning to lose form.
Wasting no time, I began memorizing every detail. The concepts had no physical form but displayed signatures, patterns resembling runes. Through them, I could extrapolate their functioning. I hurried to record each rune in memory before everything dissolved before me.
— "Soul, will… and half the memory… what a waste." — of the five concepts embedded in that matter, I managed to copy only two and a half before they became illegible and turned into particles.
"No more regrets. I can get more later, but now, it's time for an upgrade."
Why manipulate physical matter when I could use high-dimensional matter? I decided to prepare to construct a soul. For this, I needed to generate my own soul and will concepts, based on what I had copied.
Of course, I made some modifications to connect it to my consciousness. Thus, besides the standard connection with my matter, it would also respond directly to my mind.
I soon began creating my own soul. Using the copied soul and will concepts, I applied them to my particles and launched the creation into the foreign domain.
I felt the foreign domain protest lightly. A shiver of tension ran through my mind: if it rejected my concepts, I would have to create others — and that wouldn't be cheap.
Fortunately, gradually the domain calmed and began its magic, processing and integrating my creation.
Since my particles already contained soul and will concepts, instead of stabilizing like ordinary matter, they began to metamorphose into high-dimensional matter, without traditional physical concepts interfering.
— "I expected this, but it's still very costly…" — I complained, feeling various foreign concepts being applied to the soul matter I had launched. It needed constant nourishment to sustain its elevation to high-dimensional matter; otherwise, it risked collapsing from lack of materials.
Soon, a soul formed with the primordial unit at its center, surrounded by insulating particles. It began to grow uncontrollably.
"I need to elevate the unit and the particles, or they'll remain trapped in low dimension."
Elevating the primordial unit was easy; the insulating particles, however, were a real nightmare. I had to intervene manually, ascending the matter myself — a much harder task when immersed in foreign concepts that kept protesting.
But finally, I succeeded. The result? A brief instability in reality around me, which soon stabilized.
As my soul became complete, I felt my consciousness tremble. For the first time, I experienced senses not limited to my domain or the limited perception of particles.
— "I can see!" — I looked around and was astonished.