The pain was beyond anything Jax had ever experienced—a white-hot forge burning through every cell, rewriting him from the inside out. He convulsed on the garden's soft grass as the spiral mark on his palm *spread*, golden filaments racing up his arm like living veins. His screams echoed through the impossible grove, scattering birds made of liquid shadow and light.
The Architect held him down with hands that weighed more than worlds. *"Breathe through it,"* she commanded, her voice cutting through the agony. *"The mark needs to synchronize with your nervous system."*
Jax barely heard her. His vision had fractured into a kaleidoscope of overlapping realities—he saw:
- The garden as it once was, pristine and empty
- The Spiral's first victims falling into its maw
- A thousand battles fought across as many worlds
- And deeper still, the egg, its cracks widening
*"Focus!"* The Architect's voice snapped like a whip. She pressed her forehead to his, forcing his eyes to meet hers. *"The pain is just your mind expanding. Let it in."*
With a final, gut-wrenching scream, the transformation completed.
Jax gasped as the pain vanished, replaced by...
*Everything.*
He could feel the garden's roots stretching through dimensions, could taste the memories stored in each leaf and petal. The sky's shifting patterns resolved into perfect clarity—not random images, but data points in an endless war.
And the corruption...
He turned his head (had he moved? Had the world moved around him?) and *saw* the infection spreading through the memory-trees for what it truly was—not just the Harbinger's remnants, but tendrils of something far older, probing for weaknesses.
The Architect helped him sit up. His body felt both alien and more *himself* than ever before. The golden filaments had stabilized beneath his skin, forming intricate spiral patterns across his arms and chest that pulsed gently in time with the garden's rhythm.
*"Welcome,"* the Warden said, her voice softer now. She removed her helmet, revealing a face that shifted between a dozen races, all bearing the same spiral scars.
The Scientist floated closer, her form now stabilized into a familiar shape—Gamma-7, but whole. *"The synchronization is perfect,"* she observed, running a glowing hand over Jax's arm. *"Better than any fragment."*
Jax flexed his fingers, watching as golden light trailed his movements. *"What exactly am I now?"*
*"The first new Gardener in seven cycles,"* the Architect said. She gestured to the others. *"We've been recycling the same fragments too long. The Spiral adapts. We needed... fresh perspective."*
A sudden tremor shook the garden. The corrupted memory-tree they'd observed earlier *split* open with a sound like snapping bones, revealing its hollow core—and what grew inside.
Not crystalline.
Not the Harbinger.
Something *worse*.
A perfect sphere of black ichor floated at the tree's center, its surface reflecting distorted versions of their faces. As they watched, it pulsed, sending ripples through reality itself.
*"It's making scouts,"* the Paradox said, appearing simultaneously at every infected tree. *"Testing our defenses."*
The Architect's hands clenched into fists. *"We need to accelerate the plan. Jax—"*
She never finished.
The black sphere *hatched*.
What emerged wasn't a creature, but a *concept* given form—a living hole in reality shaped like a many-faceted jewel, each face showing a different terrible future. It made no sound as it floated toward them, but Jax *felt* its voice vibrating in his marrow:
*We see you.*
*We remember.*
*We are coming.*
The Warden moved first, her blade flashing in an arc of pure light. The strike should have cleaved the thing in two—instead, the weapon passed through harmlessly as the entity *phased* between realities.
The Scientist raised containment fields forged from dead worlds' physics. The entity simply... stepped through them, its geometry reconfiguring to match each barrier before discarding the solution.
*"It's learning,"* the Architect breathed. *"Already so much smarter than the Harbinger."*
Jax didn't think. He *acted*.
His marked hand lashed out on instinct, golden filaments extending like living wires to encircle the entity. Where they touched, the black facets clouded, their terrible futures flickering into static.
The entity *screamed*—a sound that came from everywhere and nowhere—before collapsing inward, dissolving into motes of darkness that rained onto the grass. Where they landed, the blades withered and died.
Silence fell.
The Architect stared at Jax with something like awe. *"How did you—"*
*"I didn't,"* Jax said, staring at his still-glowing hand. *"The garden did. Through me."*
Above them, the sky's memory-tapestry shifted to show the same scene repeating across countless worlds—the Spiral's approach, the desperate battles, the inevitable consumption. But now, faint golden threads appeared in the imagery, connecting the doomed worlds in a vast, shimmering network.
The Martyr smiled for the first time, her bleeding hands clasped together. *"The connection is made. The roots are spreading."*
Jax understood then. The garden wasn't just a refuge or an archive.
It was a *weapon*.
And he'd just become its living conduit.