Alexandria Eterna did not feel like a place.
It felt like a memory pretending to be architecture.
The moment I stepped inside SCP-4001, I understood why it terrified even gods. Endless shelves stretched beyond perception, layered with knowledge that did not merely record reality—it defined it. Every book was a life. Every line was fate, written with terrifying intimacy.
I had insisted on coming personally.
Several other O5 members accompanied me—Julius, Darius, Herodotus, and Cleopatra—each protected by layered security protocols that blended mundane discipline, early technology, magic, and anomalous safeguards. Mobile Task Forces surrounded the perimeter. D‑Class personnel were brought in under strict control.
We didn't have judges in this era.
But we had criminals.
And in this time period, cruelty was common, normalized, even celebrated in some cultures. Acquiring D‑Class personnel had been disturbingly easy. Slavers, murderers, war criminals, cultists—people whose continued existence outside containment posed more danger than their use within it.
Alexandria Eterna demanded caution.
Immediately, we secured our books.
That was non‑negotiable.
Each O5 member's book was located, extracted with extreme care, and placed into a sealed, isolated section of the library—protected by physical barriers, arcane wards, and oversight that required multiple authorizations to access. No one would be allowed to casually flip through a Council member's life and end it with a sentence.
Especially not mine.
When I finally stood before my book, I felt… strange.
It was thick. Heavier than it should have been. Bound in material I couldn't immediately identify, warm to the touch as though alive. My name was etched into the spine.
Shammuramat.
I picked it up.
The moment I opened it, the sensation was overwhelming—not pain, not fear, but recognition. The book knew me. Every page responded to my attention, text subtly shifting as if aligning itself to my awareness.
I flipped through it carefully.
My reincarnation. My early years. The founding of the Foundation. My inventions. My disappearance. Events I remembered—and some I didn't.
It was… unsettling.
Fascinating.
I flipped back to my birth.
Before making any changes, we conducted experiments.
D‑Class personnel were brought forward. Their books were altered under controlled conditions. Minor edits first—changes to personal details, memories, small physical traits. Then larger ones. Some alterations caused immediate physiological reactions. Others rewrote their histories cleanly.
A few edits resulted in catastrophic outcomes.
We learned quickly where the lines were.
When I was satisfied—reasonably satisfied—that changes could be made safely with precision, I acted.
First, I erased several family members.
Not violently. Not cruelly.
I removed their relevance.
Names rewritten. Lines adjusted so they never existed in ways that could be traced to me. No ancestors to track. No bloodlines to investigate. No mortal leverage against an immortal Administrator.
It felt… cold.
Necessary.
Then I reached for another book.
The Book of Agamotto.
Even holding it felt different. Heavier than it should be, radiating restrained power. The book of one of the greatest sorcerers to ever exist across realities.
I did not hesitate.
I wrote.
I wrote that I was his descendant.
I wrote it carefully, deliberately, anchoring the change across both texts—his book and mine—ensuring consistency. Lineage. Connection. A thread woven backward through time and magic.
The moment the words settled, pain exploded behind my eyes.
A sharp, sudden nosebleed followed, crimson droplets staining the page before evaporating into nothing. My head swam. My vision blurred.
But beneath the pain—
Something shifted.
I felt it immediately.
Magic responded to me differently. Not as an external force to be commanded, but as something familiar. Internal. Resonant. Like a muscle I had always possessed but never fully used.
I didn't stop.
I wrote again.
I wrote that I was born with magical energy.
Not borrowed. Not granted. Innate.
I wrote that my internal reserves were vast. Abnormally so. Structured in a way that allowed safe, controlled output rather than chaotic overflow.
The nosebleed worsened. My hands trembled. Cleopatra shouted for medical personnel, but I raised a hand, refusing to stop.
This mattered.
Then I wrote the refinements.
I wrote away all possible disabilities—physical, mental, metaphysical. I reinforced my intelligence, not artificially inflating it, but removing every limiter. Perfect health. Perfect cognition. Perfect compatibility between science and magic.
Each sentence felt like carving reality with a blade.
My vision darkened for a moment.
Then—
Clarity.
Pure, terrifying clarity.
The world snapped into sharper focus. I could feel magical currents in the air, subtle and layered. My thoughts flowed faster, cleaner, without friction. The pain faded, replaced by a deep, humming stability inside my core.
I closed the book.
Carefully.
Reverently.
And then I returned it to its secure section.
Locked. Sealed. Guarded.
No one—not even me—would casually touch it again.
Alexandria Eterna was not a toy.
It was a god-tier weapon.
And I had just used it on myself.
As we left the library, Julius looked at me with quiet intensity.
"Was it worth it?" he asked.
I wiped the last trace of blood from my nose and smiled faintly.
"Yes," I said. "Because now, when the real horrors arrive… I won't just understand them."
I paused, feeling the magic coil calmly within me.
"I'll be able to answer them."
Behind us, the endless library remained silent.
Watching.
Remembering.