The fall ended not with a crash, but with a sickening deceleration. The air at the bottom of the core wasn't cold; it was unnaturally warm, smelling of old paper and expensive tobacco.
Seol-wol hit a floor that felt like polished marble. He rolled, gasping, his vision swimming with violet sparks. When he looked up, he wasn't in a high-tech vault. He was standing in a massive, circular library that seemed to stretch upward into infinity.
The walls were lined with millions of leather-bound books, and the "stars" in the ceiling were actually flickering neural filaments.
[45:30:12]
"This isn't real," Seol-wol whispered, his hand searching the floor for a weapon. "This is a projection."
"It's a Mind-Scape," Miran said, his voice tight. He was standing a few feet away, his hand pressed to his temple. The "poison" he had absorbed from Seol-wol was clearly taking a toll; his skin was pale, and the veins in his neck were pulsing with a faint, rhythmic light. "We are inside the buffer zone. This is how the Architect perceives his own data."
Miran stumbled. For the first time, the "Ice Prince" looked vulnerable.
Seol-wol moved instinctively, catching Miran before he hit the floor. He pulled the elite's arm over his shoulder, the roles suddenly reversed. The heat radiating from Miran was intense, like a fever.
"You shouldn't have taken the noise," Seol-wol muttered, dragging him toward a heavy mahogany desk in the center of the room.
"You're a fool, Miran."
Miran let out a ragged, dry laugh, leaning his weight into Seol-wol. "And you're a thief who... doesn't know when to run. We make a pathetic pair."
Seol-wol lowered Miran into a high-backed velvet chair. The silence in the library was heavy, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic thump of the facility's heart. Seol-wol turned to look for an exit, but he felt a hand wrap firmly around his wrist.
"Don't leave the circle," Miran rasped, his eyes half-closed. "The books... they aren't stories. They're memories. If you touch them, you'll get lost in someone else's life."
Seol-wol looked at the shelves. He saw a book titled Junseo: The Third Year. Another titled Miran: The Coronation of Ash.
"He has everything," Seol-wol realized with a shiver. "He's been recording us since we entered the facility."
"He's been recording everything since the world ended," Miran corrected. He pulled Seol-wol closer, his grip desperate. "Seol-wol... look at the desk."
On the mahogany desk sat a single, ornate silver tray. And on that tray was the metallic bolt.
It wasn't glowing. It wasn't a ghost. It sat there, rusted and mundane, looking utterly out of place in the grand library. Beside it sat a glass of dark red wine and a handwritten note:
Welcome home, Grandson. And welcome to the Key who refused to turn.
"He's playing with us," Seol-wol hissed.
"He's inviting us," Miran said. He reached out with a trembling hand, not for the note, but for Seol-wol's hand. He interlaced their fingers, his palm damp with sweat. "He wants to see if I'll sacrifice you to sit on that throne. He wants to see if you'll kill me to save your brother."
Seol-wol looked down at their joined hands.
The "Dark Romance" wasn't a choice anymore; it was a survival mechanism. He felt a surge of protectiveness for the man who had tried to own him. Miran had taken his pain—now, Seol-wol had to be his anchor.
"I'm not a sacrifice," Seol-wol said, leaning down until his nose brushed against Miran's.
"And you're not a king yet."
In the shadows of the library, the "Double" appeared. It wasn't the child version anymore. It was an older version of Junseo—how he would look in ten years. Strong, tall, and terrifyingly cold.
"The Master Key is sentimental," the Future-Junseo said, its voice echoing from the bookshelves. "A flaw in the design. Miran, the cure is simple. Take the bolt. Drive it through his heart. The Vault will open for the survivor."
Miran's grip on Seol-wol's hand tightened until it hurt. He looked at the bolt, then up at Seol-wol. A single drop of blood ran down Miran's lip.
"Is that what you want, Grandfather?" Miran called out to the empty air, his voice cracking with defiance. "You want me to be like you? A ghost in a box with no heart?"
Miran pulled Seol-wol down into a sudden, bruising kiss.
It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was desperate, violent, and tasted of salt and iron. It was a middle finger to the Architect. It was a claim of humanity in a world of code. Seol-wol gasped into the kiss, his hands clutching Miran's shoulders, feeling the raw, chaotic energy of the Sync flowing between them like a river of fire.
The library began to shake. The books flew off the shelves, the pages turning into a whirlwind of white paper.
"NO!" the Future-Junseo shrieked, its form flickering. "YOU ARE CORRUPTING THE STREAM!"
Miran broke the kiss, breathless, a dark, triumphant smirk on his face despite his exhaustion. "There's your glitch, you old bastard. I'm not opening the Vault for you. I'm opening it for us."
The floor beneath the desk vanished, and they fell again—not into darkness, but into a blinding, golden light.