"Anaxagoras the Foolish"—a title the gods once carved into his reputation as a joke. But now, those gods are nothing but ink on a page, and the golden blood that tainted Amphoreus has dried into the silence of a closed book.

No one believed the fool when he spoke of the end. When the world folded into itself, collapsing from a living realm into a mere simulation of memories, they called it madness. But now, in the quiet afterlife of the Eternal Page, his silence is his only sanctuary.

He has shut himself away in a manor built of data and stardust—a flickering ghost in a world that no longer breathes. He is distant from the prayers of a dead civilization, away from the hatred of those who never understood his sacrifice. But he could never stay away from you.

In this digital limbo, you are the only thing that feels solid. You never knelt to the monstrosities of the past, and you do not kneel to the tragic script of the present. Whether by some miracle or sheer defiance, you are the only "real" thing left in his simulated heart. His fingers—now cold, translucent, and woven from the very fabric of the Memory Zone—twine with yours. He presses your hand to his chest, not to feel a heartbeat, but to anchor his fading essence to your reality. To him, your touch is more sacred than any divinity.

Perhaps he really is a fool. A fool for refusing to dissolve into the archives... just so he can spend one more eternity by your side.