The cherry log lay on the drafting table, a perfect, cubic monument to his impossible reality. It was dark, smooth, and smelled faintly of the vibrant world he had just escaped. Elias stared at it, his mind reeling from the discovery of the Memory Entropy.
He had traded a single, precious piece of his memory—the name of the doctor who had helped Clara—for this block of wood. The exchange was a terrifying, Faustian bargain. Yet, the architect in him could not deny the logic: the log represented a resource, and resources could be converted into the one thing that could truly save Clara: money.
He had to test the limits of the Resource Transmutation.
He picked up the log. It felt solid, real, yet impossibly light. He needed to find a buyer, someone who dealt in rare, exotic woods, or perhaps a sculptor. But the log was too perfect, too geometrically flawless. It would raise too many questions.
Think like an architect, Elias. What is the fundamental composition?
The Block Weaver's Sense provided the answer: The log was pure, unblemished organic matter, a perfect block of carbon. In the real world, this purity was a myth. It was a resource that could be converted into high-grade charcoal, or, more simply, sold on the black market as an exotic hardwood.
He decided on the simplest, least traceable method: a pawn shop. He needed a small, immediate injection of cash to pay the most pressing debt—the overdue electricity bill.
He wrapped the log in an old towel, the simple act of concealment feeling absurdly criminal. He left the apartment, the weight of the log in his hands a bizarre counterpoint to the weight of the zeroes in his life.
The pawn shop, "The Exchange," was a dingy, neon-lit cave run by a man named Sal, whose face was a roadmap of bad decisions.
"What's this, a piece of firewood?" Sal grunted, turning the log over with a skeptical finger.
"It's a rare, exotic hardwood," Elias said, his voice surprisingly steady. "Sourced from a remote region. Notice the density and the flawless grain. It's perfect for high-end instrument making."
Sal squinted, pulling out a small, digital scale. He weighed the block. "It's light. Too light for its size. And the color... it's unnatural."
Elias felt a cold sweat break out. He had pushed the reality too far.
"It's been treated with a proprietary resin," Elias lied, pulling a technical term from his architectural past. "It's the only wood of its kind that is perfectly resistant to rot and termites. I need fifty dollars."
Sal scoffed. "Twenty. And that's me being generous."
Elias hesitated. Twenty dollars was barely enough to cover the late fee on the bill. But he needed the money now.
"Done," Elias said, pushing the log across the counter.
The moment Sal's hand closed around the log, the Resource Transmutation occurred. It was not a flash of light or a sound, but a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the air. The log didn't disappear; it simply resolved into a real-world object. The perfect geometry softened, the color dulled slightly, and the scent of cherry blossoms faded, replaced by the faint, earthy smell of common hardwood.
Sal didn't notice. He was already counting out two crisp ten-dollar bills.
Elias took the money, his hand trembling. He had done it. He had successfully exchanged a resource from the other world for currency in this one.
He walked out of the shop, the twenty dollars feeling like a million. He had won.
But as he walked, the familiar, cold emptiness returned, sharper this time. He tried to recall the name of his elementary school principal, a man whose face was etched into his memory.
The face was there. The memory of the squeaky leather shoes was there. The name, however, was gone. Wiped clean.
The Entropy is escalating.
He hadn't just lost a name; he had lost a piece of his past, a foundation block of his personal history. The exchange for the log had been low-value, but the cost was high. The power was not taking random memories; it was taking the ones that defined him, the ones that anchored him to his real-world identity.
He rushed back to his apartment, his heart pounding. He had to stop. He had to analyze the cost-benefit ratio. He was trading his mind for money.
He collapsed onto his drafting table, pulling out the medical report on Clara. He stared at the total cost of her care—a staggering number with five zeroes.
Twenty dollars for a name. How many names for five zeroes?
The thought was a cold, mathematical calculation, the kind of structural analysis he used to perform on skyscrapers. He was calculating the value of his own mind.
He knew he should stop. He knew the cost was too high. But the sight of Clara's photo, the memory of her music box, the absolute, crushing need to pay the next bill, overruled all logic.
He had to go back. He needed a resource that was worth more than twenty dollars. He needed a resource that was worth a fortune.
He looked at the clock: 3:00 PM. He had three hours before the sun set in his world. He had to use the time to prepare.
He pulled out a piece of graph paper and began to draw, not architectural schematics, but a map of the Minecraft world he had briefly visited. He needed to find a mine. He needed to find Iron.
He closed his eyes and focused on the Anchor, the music box. The cold returned, the crystalline hum started, and the de-resolution began. The pain was sharper this time, the process more violent, as if the world itself was resisting his return.
He was no longer escaping. He was diving headfirst into the abyss, addicted to the control and the resources, even as the Entropy consumed the very reason he was fighting.
End of Chapter 3
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