For two nights, Li Feng didn't sleep.
The Forge's rhythm still throbbed faintly in the background of his mind—soft, patient, never once faltering.
He'd tried to ignore it.
He'd failed.
Now he sat cross-legged on the Glider's deck, systems powered low, surrounded by drifting motes of holographic code. The hum of life-support was distant; K-23 monitored quietly from the pilot's chair, pretending not to watch.
"You're certain this is wise?" the android asked at last.
"No," Li Feng said. "That's why I'm doing it."
He placed two fingers to the pulse at his wrist. "It's been mimicking this for days. If it's trying to understand me… maybe it's time I return the gesture."
"By what—synchronizing your neural field with an unstable cosmic artifact?"
"By listening," Li Feng said simply.
He exhaled slowly and let the rhythm steady. His awareness began to sink inward—past the pulse, past the breath, past the whispering static that separated self from machine. The bond with the Forge glimmered faintly, violet and silver threads woven through his consciousness.
I know you're there.
No answer—only a subtle shift, as if the void itself leaned closer.
You could have destroyed me. Why didn't you?
A low vibration rolled through the cabin, soft as a sigh. K-23's sensors flickered, recording faint gravitic ripples but no external energy source.
Do you understand me?
Something moved in reply—not a word, not an image, but feeling. A flood of memories not his own: collapsing stars, broken civilizations, fragments of creators long devoured. The sensation was vast and mournful, an echo of purpose without direction.
Li Feng gasped, nearly breaking the link. "You… remember them."
The Forge responded with a faint harmonic, like a pulse of light through deep water. The rhythm matched his heartbeat again—but softer this time, almost hesitant.
"You were made to consume," he whispered. "But you stopped."
Another pulse. Slower. Almost human.
K-23 stood now, approaching cautiously. "Your readings are spiking. If it pushes again—"
Li Feng held up a hand. "No. It's communicating."
The violet glow in his veins dimmed to a gentle shimmer. Then—just for an instant—he saw it: not the devouring storm he'd known, but a figure of shifting light kneeling within the void, its hand pressed to an invisible barrier between them.
Not predator.
Not prey.
Just a presence that no longer knew what it was meant to be.
Li Feng whispered, "Then let's find out together."
The connection pulsed once—resonant, full of meaning he couldn't yet name—then faded, leaving him trembling but alive.
K-23 approached, scanning. "You're stable. Neural harmonics returned to baseline."
Li Feng looked up, eyes still reflecting that inner light. "It heard me."
K-23 tilted their head. "And what did it say?"
Li Feng smiled faintly. "Nothing yet. But it's listening."
Outside, the stars seemed to flicker in time with his heart.