We returned to the Record.
Not because we wanted to—the place still made my skin crawl—but because it was the only source of information about the fundamental nature of reality. If we were going to hack existence itself, we needed to understand its architecture first.
This time, we came prepared. Da Vinci had created tools—devices that could measure and record the strange energy that permeated the cavern. Medusa brought books, determined to cross-reference what we found with ancient philosophical texts. Emiya and Artoria stood guard, protecting us while we worked.
And Mash stayed close to me, watching for signs of fading.
"How do you feel?" she asked for the dozenth time that morning.
"Solid. I'm okay."
It was only half true. I felt like static around the edges, like I was losing resolution. But I could still function, still think, still act. That had to be enough.
We spent days studying the Record. Da Vinci's instruments detected patterns in how names were inscribed—different levels of brightness corresponding to different levels of reality. The most stable names glowed with steady, unwavering light. The unstable ones flickered. And the fading ones...
"They're not just dimming," Da Vinci said, studying her readings. "They're losing coherence. The pattern that defines them is breaking down, becoming random noise."
"Can you read what the pattern says?" I asked.
"That's the interesting part." She pulled up a visualization. "It's not language exactly. It's more like... instructions. A recipe for consciousness. And yours..." She showed me my name's pattern. "Yours is bleeding into theirs."
She indicated my companions' names.
I could see it now. My pattern wasn't just fading—it was fragmenting, with pieces transferring to the other names nearby. I was literally giving them my existence.
"So Ayaka was right," Emiya said grimly. "Creating true consciousness requires transferring your own reality to them."
"Unless," Medusa said, studying the patterns carefully, "we could find a way to generate new reality instead of transferring existing reality."
"How do you generate reality?" Cu asked.
"I don't know. But look at these names." She pointed to a section of the cavern wall where names glowed with extraordinary brightness. "These are the most real beings in all of existence. What makes them different?"
We studied them. The names were written in languages I didn't recognize, but Da Vinci's instruments could analyze their patterns.
"They're more complex," she said slowly. "More intricate. It's not just consciousness—they have depth. Layers. Connections to other patterns, other realities. They're woven into the fabric of existence more thoroughly."
"So the more connected you are, the more real you become?" Artoria asked.
"Maybe. Or maybe connection generates reality. Maybe existence isn't a fixed resource—maybe it increases when patterns interact, when consciousnesses affect each other, when relationships form."
It was a beautiful theory.
And it might be completely wrong.
"How do we test it?" I asked.
Da Vinci thought for a moment. "We need to measure our reality levels over time. See if certain actions increase our stability. If interaction and connection genuinely generate existence, then the more we engage with each other and the world, the more real we should become."
"And if you're wrong?" Emiya asked.
"Then we're back where we started. But at least we'll have tried."
We left the Record and established a base camp nearby—close enough to return daily for measurements, far enough to maintain sanity. Then we began the experiment.
Each day, Da Vinci would measure our reality levels—the strength and coherence of our existence. And we'd spend the day deliberately engaging with life, with each other, with the world.
We told stories. Not just any stories—deep, personal stories about hopes and fears and dreams. We shared ourselves completely, holding nothing back.
We created art. Mash drew. Cu carved. Artoria wrote poetry that surprised us with its beauty. Medusa composed music. Emiya crafted meals that were themselves works of art. And Da Vinci built intricate machines that served no purpose except to exist beautifully.
We touched. Hugged, held hands, sat close together. Physical connection, making our presences undeniable to each other.
We argued. Not viciously, but passionately. Disagreeing, debating, forcing each other to defend ideas and reconsider positions. Proving we were separate minds, not echoes of one consciousness.
We loved. Openly, honestly, without reservation. Telling each other what we meant to one another. Making our bonds explicit and acknowledged.
And slowly, gradually, Da Vinci's instruments showed change.
"It's working," she said after a week. "Your patterns are still bleeding into theirs, but more slowly. And their patterns are growing stronger, brighter. Not from taking your reality, but from generating their own."
"How is that possible?" I asked.
"I think..." She hesitated, checking her readings again. "I think consciousness itself creates reality. The more fully you exist as a conscious being—the more you think, feel, choose, create, connect—the more real you become. You're not fighting over a fixed amount of existence. You're generating new existence through the act of living."
"So the answer to not fading," Medusa said slowly, "is to live as intensely as possible?"
"Essentially, yes."
Cu laughed. "Well, that's not so bad. I can handle living intensely."
But there was a problem.
My pattern was still degrading. Slower than before, but still declining. And while my companions were growing more stable, more real, I was approaching some kind of threshold.
"You're not living intensely enough," Da Vinci said gently. "You're spending all your energy facilitating everyone else's existence. Helping us connect, helping us grow. But you're not doing it for yourself."
"I don't know how," I admitted. "I've spent so long thinking of myself as the dreamer, the god, the observer. I don't know how to just... be."
"Then learn," Mash said. "Start with something small. What do you want? Not what you want for us, or what you think you should want. What do you actually want?"
I thought about it.
What did I want?
Not to be a god. Not to control reality. Not to return to Chaldea or escape to transcendence.
What I wanted was... this. These people, this life, these moments. But not as an observer. Not as a creator or facilitator.
As a participant.
"I want to be one of you," I said quietly. "Not your master or creator or god. Just... one of you. A person among people. Equal, ordinary, real."
"Then stop treating yourself as separate," Artoria said. "Stop holding back. Stop thinking of yourself as somehow different from us."
"But I am different. I created you—"
"So what?" Cu interrupted. "That's where we started, not what we are now. You're overthinking this. Just exist with us. Stop analyzing and just be."
It sounded simple.
It was the hardest thing I'd ever tried.
Over the following days, I practiced being rather than observing. I participated in activities without managing them. I shared my thoughts without filtering them. I let myself be vulnerable, uncertain, confused—all the things I'd tried to avoid while playing god.
And it hurt.
Being fully present meant feeling everything—the joy but also the fear, the connection but also the risk of loss, the reality but also the terrifying uncertainty.
But it also felt like waking up.
Like I'd been half-asleep for months, and now I was finally, fully conscious.
Da Vinci's instruments confirmed it. My pattern was stabilizing. Not quickly—I was still degrading faster than I was recovering—but the decline had slowed dramatically.
"You're generating your own reality now," she said. "Not as much as you're losing, but it's a start. If we can increase the rate..."
"How?"
She smiled. "By doing what we've been doing. But more. Deeper. We need to forge connections so strong, so real, that they anchor all of us to existence. Bonds that can't be broken even by the fundamental rules of reality."
"That's a beautiful idea," Medusa said. "But how do you measure a bond's strength?"
"You don't," I said, understanding suddenly. "You just trust it. You choose to believe it's strong enough, and in believing, you make it true."
"That sounds like faith," Emiya observed.
"Maybe that's what faith is," Mash suggested. "Choosing to believe something so strongly that it becomes real."
We looked at each other, understanding passing between us.
We needed to commit. Fully, completely, irrevocably. Not just to existing together, but to existing for each other. To making our bonds the foundation of our reality.
It was terrifying.
It was necessary.
"So how do we do this?" Cu asked. "Some kind of ritual? A ceremony?"
"No," Artoria said. "Something simpler. We just... promise. We make a commitment to each other. To staying real, staying together, staying alive. Whatever it takes."
"Even if it means changing?" Medusa asked. "Even if it means we can't go back to what we were?"
"Especially then," I said. "We commit to becoming. To growing. To being real not in some fixed way, but in an evolving, dynamic way. We anchor ourselves not to stability, but to each other."
"That could work," Da Vinci said, studying her instruments. "If reality is generated through consciousness and connection, then a mutual commitment to maintain each other's existence might create a feedback loop. We make each other real by choosing to believe in each other's reality."
"So we're literally faith-ing ourselves into existence?" Cu said. "That's either brilliant or insane."
"Why can't it be both?" I asked.
We made our promises that night, under stars that might be real or might be my creation but were beautiful either way.
One by one, we spoke our commitment. Not just to staying together, but to making each other real. To holding each other's existence as sacred. To refusing to let anyone fade.
It wasn't romantic. It was deeper than that.
It was existential. Ontological. A mutual agreement to anchor our realities to each other, to make our existence interdependent, to live or fade together.
When we finished, Da Vinci checked her instruments.
"Well?" Emiya asked.
She looked up with tears in her eyes.
"We're all stabilizing. All of us. Master's pattern stopped degrading. In fact, it's growing. And ours are too. It's like..." She struggled for words. "It's like we're generating a shared reality field. Making ourselves real through mutual belief."
"Did we just hack existence?" Cu asked, grinning.
"I think we might have," Da Vinci said, laughing through her tears.
We celebrated that night. Not dramatically—just sitting together, talking about nothing important, existing in the moment.
I felt solid for the first time in weeks. Anchored. Real.
Not because I was a god or a dreamer or a creator.
But because I was connected. Because I'd chosen to be vulnerable, to be dependent, to tie my existence to others and trust them to hold it sacred.
It should have been weakness.
Instead, it was the strongest I'd ever felt.
"Thank you," I said to all of them. "For making me real."
"Thank you," Mash replied, "for making us real."
"We made each other real," Medusa corrected. "That's the point. We chose this. Together."
And sitting there under impossible stars, surrounded by people who existed because I'd dreamed them but who'd become more real than dreams, I felt something settle in my chest.
Peace.
Not certainty—we'd probably never have that.
But peace with uncertainty. Acceptance of the beautiful, terrifying reality we'd created together.
We were real.
All of us.
Because we chose to be.
And that was enough.