Back with the others but still not whole,
Sora knew the Mask had taken more than it gave.
In the quiet space between games—where rules hadn't yet locked in—she sat on the edge of the arena ruins, the Mask of the Forgotten held between her palms.
It pulsed.
Three distinct keys flickered across its surface—stored memories encoded as abstract shapes:
—A burning door
—A cracked symbol of the King's Trail
—And a fractured hourglass bleeding upward
Each represented a moment rewritten or stolen from her.
Each was part of what the Mask had been hiding since the recursion had snapped.
She reached toward the first: the burning door.
Suddenly, the air rippled.
"Accessing sealed memory requires stabilizer," the system warned.
But it didn't stop her.
As her fingers grazed the symbol, the world blinked—and broke open.
She was no longer sitting.
She was standing in a black chamber made of layered recursion, staircases leading into themselves, walls echoing with deleted player cries.
A circular pedestal rose in the center—and atop it stood a tall, gold-veined figure, face hidden behind a mask identical to hers… except cracked straight through.
It turned to her with a warped voice:
"You are not authorized to retrieve this memory. Return to your platform."
Sora stepped forward. "I am this memory."
The entity raised its arms. The broken mask split and shifted—creating jagged spears of memory-thread that whistled through the air.
Sora dodged the first, barely missing her shoulder.
She wasn't strong enough to fight this with force.
The Mask wasn't a weapon—it was a lens.
She raised it in front of her eyes—and saw what the Echo really was:
A corrupted version of herself from a recursion where she gave up.
"You never reached the King's throne," it said.
"You waited. You hoped someone else would pull you forward. You broke."
Sora gritted her teeth. "I remember. And I didn't stay there."
She pulled one of the memory-keys forward—the cracked King's Trail sigil—and merged it into the Mask.
A brilliant pulse exploded outward, revealing a different version of the same chamber—one where she had climbed alone, hands bloodied, eyes burning.
The semi-boss froze—hesitating as its own corrupted loop trembled.
"You… rewrote me…"
Sora stepped closer.
"No. I outlived you."
She thrust the Mask forward—projecting the restored memory like a spotlight.
The First Echo screamed, its form shattering into a storm of whispering voices, and then
Silence.
The chamber melted.
And the burning door key reformed into something new: a real thread—not just a memory.
A tool.
Back in the arena, Sora gasped, collapsing to one knee.
Matthew and Rin rushed to her, but she held up the Mask with a grin.
"We have more than just memories now," she said.
"We have proof of the overwritten past."
Matthew raised an eyebrow. "And what does that give us?"
Sora's eyes glinted.
"Leverage. The system can't handle rewritten timelines. It has to stabilize them."
Rin nodded. "And that means we choose how the next game begins."
[SYSTEM WARNING]
Recovered Thread Confirmed: Paradox Event Detected
Next Game Protocol Strained
Temporary Rule Access Granted to Player: SORA