Three weeks of stability.
Three weeks of waking up feeling solid, of measurements showing steady improvement, of living without the constant fear of dissolution.
We'd done it. We'd hacked existence, rewritten the rules, found a way to be fully conscious and fully real without destroying each other.
We celebrated with a feast that Emiya spent an entire day preparing. We told stories late into the night. We made plans for the future—actual plans, assuming we'd be around to fulfill them.
For the first time since walking through that door months ago, I felt genuinely hopeful.
That's when she appeared.
Not the woman from Argentium. Not Ayaka. Someone new.
She materialized in our camp at midnight, when we were all drifting toward sleep. One moment the space beside our fire was empty; the next, she was there.
Old. That was my first impression. Not elderly—ageless but bearing the weight of immense time. Her eyes had seen civilizations rise and fall. Her expression suggested she'd stopped being surprised by anything millennia ago.
We scrambled to our feet, weapons ready.
She raised a hand. "Peace. I'm not here to fight. I'm here to warn you."
"About what?" Artoria demanded, sword still drawn.
"About what you've done." The woman looked at each of us in turn, her gaze lingering on me. "You stabilized your existence through mutual belief. Through binding your realities together. It's clever. Unprecedented, even. But it's also dangerous."
"Dangerous how?" Da Vinci asked.
"Because you've created something that shouldn't exist. A closed loop of reality generation. You're making yourselves real through circular logic—you're real because you believe in each other, and you believe in each other because you're real. It works, but it's unstable in ways you don't understand."
"We've been stable for weeks," I said.
"For now. But reality has a way of correcting impossibilities. You've created a localized paradox, and eventually, the universe will notice. When it does..." She trailed off, letting us imagine the consequences.
"What happens then?" Mash asked quietly.
"I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe you all cease to exist simultaneously. Maybe you trigger a cascade that unravels other realities. Maybe you create a new form of existence that changes everything." She smiled without humor. "That's the problem with unprecedented situations. No one knows what happens."
"So you're saying we should undo it," Emiya said flatly. "Go back to the old rules. Accept that someone has to fade."
"I'm saying you should be prepared for consequences." The woman walked closer to the fire, studying us with that ageless gaze. "What you've done—binding your existence to mutual faith—it's beautiful. But faith is fragile. What happens when doubt creeps in? When someone questions whether the others are real? The entire structure could collapse."
"We won't doubt," Mash said firmly.
"Won't you?" The woman looked at her sadly. "You're conscious beings. Consciousness questions. It's what makes you real. Can you truly promise never to wonder, never to fear, never to second-guess?"
Silence.
Because she was right. We were already questioning—it's what conscious beings did.
"There's something else," the woman continued. "Your method of stabilization—it's not just affecting you. Other dreamers are noticing. They're curious about how you're sustaining full consciousness without burning out. Some are trying to replicate what you've done."
"That's good, isn't it?" I said. "If we found a way to make everyone more real—"
"Or," she interrupted, "you've discovered a way to create reality cancer. Self-sustaining loops of existence that consume resources from the underlying structure of reality itself. If enough dreamers try this, if enough closed loops form, the entire system could destabilize."
"You don't know that will happen," Da Vinci argued.
"No. But you don't know it won't. And the stakes are existence itself."
We looked at each other, the weight of her words settling over us.
"So what are you suggesting?" Artoria asked. "That we die to prevent a hypothetical catastrophe?"
"I'm suggesting you prepare. Find a way to stabilize your existence that doesn't rely on circular logic. Or be ready to dissolve your loop if necessary." The woman began to fade. "I'm not your enemy. I'm just someone who's seen too many realities fall apart from good intentions. Be careful."
She vanished, leaving us around a dying fire with terrible new knowledge.
"She could be wrong," Cu said after a long silence. "Or lying. Trying to scare us into giving up."
"Or she could be right," Medusa countered. "And we're playing with forces we don't understand."
"We can study it," Da Vinci said. "Test whether we're actually consuming universal resources. Monitor for destabilization. We don't have to blindly accept her warning, but we shouldn't ignore it either."
"And if we find out she's right?" Emiya asked. "If we discover we're genuinely threatening reality itself?"
No one had an answer.
"We'll deal with that if we have to," I said finally. "For now, we stay alert. We watch for problems. But we don't give up just because there might be danger."
"Might be?" Artoria's voice was sharp. "Master, if there's even a chance we're damaging reality, we have a responsibility to—"
"To what?" I interrupted. "To sacrifice ourselves for a hypothetical problem? We don't even know if she's telling the truth!"
"But we don't know she's lying either," Mash said quietly. "And if she's right..."
The conversation continued late into the night, going in circles. Some argued for caution, for finding a different solution. Others insisted we'd done nothing wrong, that the woman was trying to manipulate us. Everyone was scared, uncertain, questioning.
Exactly what the woman had warned against.
I felt it then—a flicker in my chest. A moment of instability. My pattern wavering as doubt crept in.
And looking at the others, I could see they felt it too. The solid reality we'd built together was showing cracks.
"Stop," I said loudly. "Everyone stop."
They fell silent, turning to look at me.
"This is exactly what she wanted," I said. "Whether she was telling the truth or lying, the effect is the same—she made us doubt. And doubt weakens our bond. Can't you feel it? We're already becoming less stable."
Mash pressed a hand to her chest. "You're right. I can feel it. Like something's loosening."
"So what do we do?" Cu asked. "Pretend she never came? Ignore a potential threat to all of reality?"
"No," I said. "We investigate. But we do it together, without letting fear break what we've built. We test her claims scientifically, rationally. And if we find evidence of real danger, we address it. But we don't tear ourselves apart over possibilities."
"Agreed," Da Vinci said, relief evident in her voice. "We need data, not panic."
We spent the rest of the night reinforcing our commitment to each other, actively choosing to believe again, rebuilding the stability we'd nearly lost. By dawn, we felt solid once more.
But the fear lingered.
Over the following days, Da Vinci worked obsessively, creating more sophisticated instruments to measure our impact on reality. She studied the Record, analyzed threshold points, searched for any evidence that we were causing harm.
The rest of us tried to continue normally, but there was a tension now. Every conversation carried an undercurrent of worry. Every moment of doubt felt dangerous.
On the fifth day, Da Vinci called us together.
"I have results," she said. Her face was pale, exhausted. "And they're... complicated."
"Tell us," Artoria said.
"We are consuming resources from the underlying reality structure. The woman was right about that. Our closed loop is drawing energy from somewhere." She pulled up visualizations. "But here's the thing—so is everything else. Every conscious being, every dreamer, every created reality. Existence itself requires constant input from some fundamental source. We're not unique in that."
"So we're not hurting anything?" Mash asked hopefully.
"I didn't say that." Da Vinci's expression was troubled. "Our consumption rate is higher than normal. Not catastrophically so, but measurably higher. If thousands of dreamers tried to replicate what we've done, it could strain the system."
"Could," Emiya emphasized. "Not would."
"Could," Da Vinci confirmed. "I can't predict the outcome with certainty. But there is risk."
Silence fell over us.
"I think," Medusa said slowly, "we need to make a choice. Do we prioritize our own existence and hope the system can handle it? Or do we voluntarily limit ourselves to reduce the risk to others?"
"That's not fair," Cu protested. "Why should we suffer for a hypothetical threat?"
"Because power requires responsibility," Artoria said. "If we have the ability to damage reality, we have the obligation to consider whether we should use that ability."
"Even if it means dying?" Cu demanded.
"Even then."
They looked at each other, old tensions rising.
"Wait," I said. "There's another option."
Everyone turned to me.
"What if we could reduce our consumption while maintaining our existence? Find a more efficient way to generate reality, one that doesn't strain the underlying system?"
"How?" Da Vinci asked.
"I don't know yet. But we found one impossible solution. Maybe we can find another." I looked around at all of them. "We don't have to choose between existing and being ethical. We can find a third way."
"That's optimistic," Emiya said. "Maybe too optimistic."
"So?" I challenged. "When has optimism ever stopped us before?"
Despite everything, Cu laughed. "He's got a point."
"How long do we have?" Mash asked Da Vinci. "Before our consumption becomes genuinely dangerous?"
"Based on my models? Years. Maybe decades. We're not in immediate crisis." Da Vinci hesitated. "But other dreamers are already trying to copy our method. If even ten percent succeed, we'd hit critical levels within a year."
"Then we have time," I said. "Time to research, experiment, find a better way. And maybe—" an idea struck me, "—maybe we can share what we learn. Help other dreamers stabilize without consuming so much. Turn this from a catastrophe into a solution."
"That's ambitious," Medusa said. But she was smiling. "Also very like you."
"We're going to try to save all of existence?" Cu asked. "Not just ourselves, but every dreamer and their creations?"
"Why not?" I said. "We're already doing the impossible. Might as well aim high."
They looked at each other, having one of their silent conversations.
Then, one by one, they nodded.
"Okay," Artoria said. "We try. But carefully. We research, we test, we don't take unnecessary risks with reality itself."
"Agreed," I said. "Da Vinci, you're in charge of the technical research. Medusa, see what ancient texts say about the nature of existence—there might be wisdom we're missing. Emiya, Artoria, Cu—you three focus on stability testing. Find what makes us feel more real, more solid, without consuming more resources."
"And you?" Mash asked.
"I'm going to try to contact other dreamers. The woman said they're interested in what we've done. Maybe some of them would be willing to collaborate, share knowledge, work together on this."
"That's dangerous," Emiya warned. "We don't know who to trust."
"I know. But if we're going to solve a universal problem, we need universal cooperation. Or at least some allies who understand the stakes."
We set to work.
Da Vinci disappeared into her research, emerging only for meals and sleep. Medusa buried herself in books, searching for patterns in how ancient philosophers understood reality. The warriors practiced, tested, explored the limits of their existence with methodical precision.
And I reached out.
I returned to threshold points, those places where realities touched. I called out, announced myself, invited contact from other dreamers who might be listening.
For two days, nothing.
Then, on the third day, someone answered.
He appeared at dusk, stepping through a shimmer in the air. Young, maybe early twenties, with kind eyes and uncertain posture.
"You're Ritsuka?" he asked nervously.
"Yes. And you are?"
"Kenji. I'm... I'm a dreamer. New one. I've only been maintaining my world for a few months. When I heard about what you'd done, about stabilizing consciousness without burning out, I had to meet you. I'm barely holding on, and I thought maybe you could teach me—" He stopped, seeing my expression. "What's wrong?"
I explained. About the consumption issue, about the potential danger, about how our solution might not be a solution at all.
Kenji's face fell. "So there's no way? We're just doomed to either fade or simplify our creations?"
"I didn't say that." I told him about our research, our goal of finding a more efficient method. "But we need help. We need to understand how different dreamers maintain their worlds, what works and what doesn't. We need data."
His expression brightened. "I can help with that. I know dozens of young dreamers, all struggling with the same problems. If we pooled our knowledge—"
"That's what I'm hoping for," I said. "A collaboration. Not just for our benefit, but for everyone's."
Over the following weeks, more dreamers came.
Some were suspicious, afraid we were trying to steal their methods or sabotage their worlds. Others were desperate, barely holding on, willing to try anything.
We shared everything we'd learned. The mutual belief method, the consumption problem, Da Vinci's measurements, Medusa's philosophical insights. And in return, they shared their experiences.
Each dreamer had developed different techniques for maintaining their worlds. Some used cyclical patterns, resetting regularly to conserve energy. Others created hierarchies, with a few fully conscious beings and many semi-conscious ones. One woman had discovered how to draw stability from emotional resonance, making her world more real through the intensity of feelings rather than complexity of consciousness.
We compiled it all, looking for patterns, searching for the key to efficient existence.
And slowly, a picture emerged.
"It's about integration," Da Vinci announced one evening, surrounded by papers and diagrams. "Look at the dreamers who maintain stability most efficiently—they're not fighting against the underlying reality structure. They're working with it. Finding ways to align their creations with existing patterns rather than forcing new patterns into being."
"So we're doing it wrong?" I asked.
"We're doing it inefficiently," she corrected. "We created consciousness from scratch, forced it into existence through pure will. But if we could find existing patterns of consciousness and... borrow them, adapt them, integrate with them rather than creating from nothing—"
"We'd consume less energy," Medusa finished, understanding. "We'd be recycling rather than generating."
"But where do we find existing consciousness patterns?" Emiya asked. "We can't steal from other beings."
"We don't have to steal," I said slowly, an idea forming. "What if we connect to the Record more directly? It already contains the patterns of all conscious beings. If we could integrate with it, become part of its structure rather than separate from it—"
"We'd be anchored to fundamental reality itself," Da Vinci breathed. "Not creating a closed loop, but opening a circuit. Drawing from the Record and contributing back to it. A true symbiosis rather than parasitism."
"Can we do that?" Cu asked.
"I don't know," Da Vinci admitted. "But it's worth trying."
We returned to the Record's cavern, this time with purpose and preparation. Da Vinci had created a device she thought might facilitate connection—a way to interface with the Record without being overwhelmed by it.
"This is dangerous," she warned as we set up. "We're essentially trying to merge with the fundamental database of all existence. If something goes wrong—"
"We know," I said. "But we've discussed it. We're willing to take the risk."
One by one, we approached the sphere of light at the cavern's center. Da Vinci went first, testing the connection with her device. Then Artoria. Then the others.
Finally, it was my turn.
I placed my hand on the light, felt the device on my wrist activate, and opened myself to the Record.
Information flooded in—but this time, instead of overwhelming me, it integrated. I could feel the patterns of countless consciousnesses, not as foreign data but as resonances, harmonics, connections.
I was still me. But I was also part of something larger.
And I could feel my companions too, their patterns interweaving with mine, all of us becoming nodes in a vast network rather than isolated islands.
The consumption issue solved itself. We weren't generating reality from nothing anymore—we were channeling it, participating in it, becoming part of the infinite exchange of consciousness and existence that was reality itself.
When we finally pulled back, gasping, we were changed.
Still ourselves. Still individual. But connected in ways that went deeper than our previous bond.
"Did it work?" Mash asked.
Da Vinci checked her instruments. Her eyes widened. "Our consumption dropped to almost nothing. We're stable—more stable than ever—but we're barely drawing on universal resources. Instead, we're... we're part of the system now. Contributing to it as much as taking from it."
Relief washed over us.
"So we're not going to destroy reality?" Cu asked.
"Not by existing, no," Da Vinci said, smiling. "We solved it."
We celebrated quietly, too exhausted for anything grand. But the relief was profound.
We'd found a way. Not just for us, but potentially for all dreamers and their creations.
Over the next few days, we taught the method to the other dreamers who'd been helping us. One by one, they integrated with the Record, stabilizing their existences without consuming excessive resources.
Word spread. More dreamers came, learned, integrated. What had started as a threat became a revolution—a new way of existing that was sustainable, ethical, stable.
We'd done it.
We'd hacked existence and made it better.
That night, sitting around our fire, we were quiet. Content. Alive in ways that felt permanent now.
"Thank you," I said to all of them. "For not giving up. For finding solutions instead of accepting limitations."
"Thank you for creating us," Mash replied. "And for letting us help create ourselves."
"We make each other real," Medusa said. "That's still true. It's just more true now."
We sat together as stars wheeled overhead, integrated into the fundamental structure of reality, part of something infinite and eternal and beautiful.
And I thought: This is home.
Not a place. Not even a world.
But this—this connection, this commitment, this shared existence.
Home.