The sun was a ghost, having slipped entirely beneath the plain—its coffin of horizon sealed with molten wax. A cold, heavy twilight descended, thick and unsettling. The moon, pale and unblinking, became their only witness. The grass, once shimmering like liquid glass, now stood sharp and black, each blade an obsidian quill scratching unseen parchment.
Lady Alvie Nerys smiled from her unseen perch. "How poetic," she whispered, voice silk spun from static. "The light dies, and already, you reach for meaning."
---
Pragmatism was the first to move, his tone steady and deliberate, cutting through the rising chill like the edge of a practiced sword.
"I vote that the purpose shall be to locate an exit from this plain," he declared, his gaze scanning the formless horizon. "Action precedes stability. Movement is clarity."
Every word rang like steel on stone. Kotori—Tradition—recognized that tone. It was how soldiers spoke before a hopeless charge: calm, resigned, lethal.
---
From the shadows, Observation stirred. Their form—neither male nor female, fluid as vapor—tilted its head.
"I vote," they said, "that the purpose shall be to establish individual shelter and avoid all contact until morning."
The voice was gentle, almost melodic, yet empty of humanity. "Exposure is risk. Risk is noise. Information gathers best in silence."
They stepped backward, vanishing halfway into shadow until only their eyes gleamed faintly—twin orbs of cold logic, watching the others with the patience of an ancient predator.
---
Apathy, once Evans, knelt motionless in the gloom. His new name clung to him like rusted armor. Lady Alvie turned her gaze upon him.
"Apathy, your suffrage is required," she said, tone laced with mock fondness. "Since you have no will, I will grant you one. You shall vote for the option that ensures the greatest collective stasis."
The sound that followed was not a word, but an echo. A hollow resonance that seemed to ripple through the very grass.
"Isolation."
The plain seemed to breathe, the word sinking into the soil. The tally stood:
Isolation – 2 (Observation, Apathy)
Escape – 1 (Pragmatism)
---
The Scholar, poised and immaculate in her slender purple attire, regarded the others with detached amusement. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"I find the binary limiting," she said, voice lilting like a lecturer dismantling her students' logic. "Neither action nor stasis serves the true experiment. The real pursuit here is not survival, but understanding."
She lifted her hand, and with a subtle flick of her wrist, a third line of glowing ink formed in the air beside her:
Inquiry.
"I vote that the purpose shall be to establish clear boundaries for the next vote," she declared. "If knowledge is power, then control of its rules is divinity."
The ink pulsed once, imprinting her words upon the unseen fabric of the plain.
Inquiry – 1 (Scholar)
Now, all eyes turned toward Tradition.
---
The silence weighed on her like lead. Three paths sprawled before her:
Discipline — Pragmatism's drive to move forward.
Order — Observation's cautious retreat.
Control — Scholar's clever manipulation.
Each one was a reflection of a part of her soul.
She closed her eyes, breathing through the weight of inherited instinct. Her father's voice lingered in memory, sharp as a blade:
"To hesitate is to be extinguished. Tradition exists not to preserve the past, but to wield it."
Isolation was neat, safe—sterile. It promised order, but it reeked of fear.
Inquiry was tempting, but she recognized the Scholar's trick: to turn knowledge into a cage.
Escape, however… that was motion. Uncertainty. Flame.
Her eyes met Pragmatism's across the gloom. His expression was unreadable, but she saw it—the faintest nod. The unspoken promise of alliance, or perhaps of shared doom.
"I vote that the purpose shall be to locate an exit from this plain," she said, voice low but resolute. "We will not hide. The Katora Enmatsu clan does not wait for the enemy to approach. We engage the frontier."
The words felt heavy, like scripture written in her own blood.
---
Escape – 2. Isolation – 2. Inquiry – 1.
The plain froze.
Lady Alvie's laughter came soft and silvery, carrying on the wind like a chime made of bones.
"Oh, splendid! A tie! A perfect contradiction—the mind divided between flight and concealment. How very human."
The air thickened. Not with wind or dust, but with density, as if knowledge itself was being compressed into atmosphere. The grass shimmered faintly, lines of ink running through its blades like veins.
"When the vote is tied," Lady Alvie intoned, "it means the subjects are paralyzed by equal fears. Thus, the Library shall define for you what you cannot define for yourselves."
---
The ground began to glow faintly beneath their feet. Not in heat, but in illumination—each blade of grass transforming into script, each shadow curling into footnotes. The plain itself had become a living manuscript, one that shifted as it was read.
"The night's purpose," Lady Alvie declared, her tone equal parts mockery and mercy, "shall be defined by both options simultaneously."
Locate an Exit.
Avoid all Contact.
The decree burned into the air like scripture. A faint, spectral map appeared—a labyrinth of symbols and philosophical riddles tracing across the ground. Twisting paths named "The Way of Self," "The Corridor of Causation," "The Gate of False Equilibrium."
Each route seemed to whisper. Some promised salvation. Others promised understanding. None promised truth.
"You have your purpose," Lady Alvie said sweetly. "Find the Exit that best defines your identity. But know this—by the rule of the tie, you are forbidden from seeing, hearing, or acknowledging another player until dawn. Should your paths cross…"
The map flickered violently, then vanished into the void.
"…the Library will claim one of you as annotation."
---
Tradition exhaled, realizing too late what her vote had wrought.
She had chained motion to silence.
They were now trapped in a paradox: to escape by walking alone.
Pragmatism was already gone, moving swiftly into the darkness without a backward glance. He didn't waste words. Action was his creed.
Observation melted into the opposite direction, becoming indistinguishable from the shadows.
Apathy remained still, perhaps waiting for nothing, perhaps already gone in mind.
Scholar lingered only long enough to murmur:
"Purpose is the cruelest teacher—it always demands proof."
And then she, too, vanished.
---
Alone now, Tradition stood in the suffocating quiet. The plain whispered like a library breathing in sleep. Every rustle felt like a page turning somewhere in the dark.
She adjusted her violet dress, the fabric rustling faintly. Her heart hammered—not from fear, but from the weight of consequence.
Had she chosen wrong? Or was this the only path left for those who inherited the burden of order?
Her gaze lifted to the moon. It stared back, white and expressionless, like an eye carved from polished glass.
Lady Alvie's voice came, softer this time—almost kind.
"Do you understand now, Tradition? Purpose is the first form of prison. You asked for definition… now you must live within it."
The wind stirred, carrying her final whisper:
"The game has begun. May your purpose be true."