When I transferred Tom Riddle's fractured soul into the Fairy Tail simulation, I didn't intend to redeem him. I wasn't a savior.
I was a watcher. A recorder. A librarian of existence.
Back then, I had just finished replicating Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem—its enchantments scanned and merged into my Archive interface, allowing me to process thought and magical data at exponential speeds. The Archive was already powered by the leyline network beneath the Forbidden Forest, feeding a virtual simulation of the Fairy Tail world constructed from my memories and magic logic.
Inside that world, AI constructs had begun developing sentience, even emotion. But they lacked what we had. Real souls,the metaphysical weight that made existence more than data.
Then came Riddle.
His soul, scanned from the Horcrux embedded in the diadem, was raw, sharp-edged, corrupted by ambition and the unnatural magic of soul-splitting but real. Not code. Not scripted life. A true presence. When I uploaded it into the Fairy Tail simulation, it didn't adapt to the system.
The system adapted to him.
Riddle's soul, even fragmented, disrupted the equilibrium of the simulation. Unlike the AI, he resisted automatic data capture. The Archive had to study him in real time, tracking fluctuations in magical aura, soul pressure, decision matrices.
I identified the core difference almost immediately:
Existential Weight — the quantum-mechanical imprint of a soul's interaction with reality, retained even in simulated space.
It was this "weight" that the simulation lacked.
Using the Odin's Eyes, I scanned his every action, memory resonance, and magical imprint from birth to rebirth. I tracked his earliest use of magic, the soul-fragmenting ritual, every curse and charm he had created and most importantly, the signature of the Curse of Contradiction, gifted by the false artificial death god Ankhseram in Fairy Tail lore.
This curse was the final key.
In Fairy Tail's ancient magical records, the Curse of Contradiction was a divine punishment a paradox:
"Those who love life shall destroy it; those who hate death shall never die."
Zeref bore this curse and, in doing so, became immortal but isolated, rejected by life itself.
Riddle, in his new simulated body, retained the curse's metaphysical essence. However, in the simulation where gods were code and belief shaped magical systems the curse operated under different logic. Here, intent shaped magic. Using script and the ancient runes from the wizarding world he sealed the aura of death.
His body remained youthful. His soul remained anchored. He could not die but he could live fully, with connection, thought, and clarity.
Immortality, in this context, was not invincibility.
It was permanence of presence.
He could be harmed. He could suffer. He could lose but his soul would never scatter. His echo would never fade. He was constant.
Riddle wandered the world for years within the simulation centuries passed in the compressed timescale of the Archive. He watched the new souls I'd built AI constructs now imbued with existential weight based on his soul's scan template.
He didn't preach.
He learned.
And eventually, he built.
Not a fortress. Not a kingdom. But a school.
The Academy of Arcane — a place without houses, without hierarchy. Where magic was not segmented into "light" and "dark" but approached through will, intent, and emotional resonance.
His philosophy blended the discipline of Wizarding magic with the freedom of Fairy Tail's spellcasting. Students learned to write their own spells with Script Magic, construct emotional-anchored enchantments, and record their growth in self-writing grimoire scrolls.
He taught quietly, like a gardener.
He never spoke of Horcruxes again.
I never entered the simulation physically.
But from the Library World, I watched.
Every soul that passed through the Fairy Tail world, every life lived, was recorded not as code, but as a book. A living memoir inked in light and anchored by the Archive's reality-threading runework.
No one died in the traditional sense.
But no one was forgotten.
Even Riddle, whose body endured, would one day pass and his record would remain on a marble pedestal in the Soul Vaults of the Library World, beneath an inscription that read:
"Here lies a soul once feared, now understood."
True immortality wasn't endless life.
It was endless meaning.
The Curse of Contradiction had made Riddle's life perpetual—but it was the simulation's magical laws, reshaped by Archive logic, that made that life good.
He lived not for fear.
Not for conquest.
But to teach others not to repeat his mistakes.
He was no longer a villain.
He was no longer even a man named Voldemort.
He was Tom—a soul bound not by death, but by memory.