The energy coursing through Neil's arm intensified, spreading from his trapped hand throughout his entire body. It wasn't painful—rather, it felt like liquid lightning flowing through his veins, awakening parts of himself he'd never known existed. His vision blurred, then sharpened beyond anything he'd ever experienced.
That's when the chamber around him began to dissolve.
The stone walls faded like morning mist, replaced by something impossible—scenes from another time, another place, playing out before him like three-dimensional movies. Neil tried to blink, tried to look away, but the visions had him completely in their grip.
He was seeing the past.
The first image that solidified around him was a city unlike anything from Earth. Towering spires of gleaming metal and glass stretched toward a rust-colored sky, their surfaces alive with moving lights and flowing data streams. Flying vehicles wove between the buildings in organized patterns, while walkways of pure energy connected structure to structure high above the ground.
It looked like something from a cyberpunk dream—all neon and chrome and impossible architecture. But it was real. Neil could somehow sense the reality of it, feel the weight of the place's history pressing against his consciousness.
And walking through this fantastic cityscape were its inhabitants.
They were almost human, but not quite. Their bodies were similar in basic structure—two arms, two legs, a head—but the proportions were different. They were taller than humans, with slightly wider torsos and limbs that seemed too long for their frames. Their heads were elongated, with larger eyes that held an intelligence that felt both familiar and alien.
Despite their physical differences, they moved and interacted in ways that reminded Neil powerfully of humanity. They gathered in groups, talked animatedly, showed affection to one another. Children—if that's what the smaller ones were—played games that looked universal in their joy and chaos. Adults hurried through the streets with the same harried expressions Neil had seen on every city dweller back on Earth.
The vision shifted, pulling back to show the world these beings called home. It was breathtaking—a planet that looked like Mars might have if it had never lost its atmosphere. The sky was a rich amber color, and twin suns cast everything in warm, golden light. Vast forests of crystalline trees stretched between cities, their branches singing in harmonious tones as wind passed through them. Oceans of silver water reflected the twin suns like liquid mirrors.
It was beautiful. It was home to a thriving civilization that had clearly reached heights of technology and culture Neil could barely comprehend.
Then the scene changed, and Neil's heart sank.
The peaceful world was suddenly filled with the same impossible phenomena he'd witnessed on Earth. Strange lights in the sky, reality itself seeming to bend and twist. The beings—these almost-humans—looked up at their changing heavens with expressions of fear and wonder.
The twenty spheres appeared in their sky just as they had in Neil's.
Neil watched as the beings' civilization responded to the transmigration event. He saw their scientists working frantically to understand what was happening, their leaders making desperate decisions, their families clinging to each other as their world prepared to end.
But unlike Earth, these beings seemed to know what was coming.
The visions showed him massive preparation efforts. Entire cities being evacuated, populations being organized into groups, resources being stockpiled. These people—for lack of a better word—had knowledge about the process that humanity had lacked.
Neil saw the truth of the transmigration through their eyes. The god-like beings that orchestrated these events weren't truly gods at all, but entities of immense power from different universes. They were locked in a cosmic conflict that spanned dimensions—a multiversal war where the stakes were nothing less than the fundamental resources of reality itself.
Rather than fight directly and risk destroying everything, these entities had created a proxy system. They would gather species from across the multiverse, transport them to Xylos, and let them compete in their place. The winning universe would claim vast cosmic resources, while the losing universes would be left with scraps.
The vision showed Neil the structure of the competition. Each species would spend their preparation time in protective domes, building their strength and skills. Within each dome stood eight towers—one massive central tower with one hundred levels of trials, and seven smaller towers with lesser challenges designed to prepare contestants for the main event.
The central tower was the key. Only those who could climb to its peak would be considered worthy to represent their species in the final competition. The trials would test everything—physical strength, mental acuity, magical ability, and spiritual fortitude.
After the preparation period ended, the domes would open, and the true competition would begin. Species would face not only the dangers of Xylos itself but also each other, in a contest that would determine the fate of universes.
Neil watched these revelations unfold with growing dread. The beings whose memories he was experiencing had understood all of this. They had prepared, trained, organized themselves for what was to come.
But something had gone wrong.
The visions began to fragment, showing him glimpses of disaster. The protective dome flickering and failing. The towers crumbling. The prepared armies of these almost-human beings scattered to the winds or worse. Their careful plans dissolving into chaos and death.
Whatever had happened to them, it had been catastrophic.
The images faded, leaving Neil once again in the octagonal chamber. But he was no longer alone.
Standing before him was a figure that made his breath catch. It was translucent, clearly not entirely there, but Neil could see through its ghostly form to the being it had once been. The elongated limbs, the wider torso, the intelligent eyes—it was one of the species from the visions, but ancient beyond measure.
The specter regarded Neil with an expression that mixed sadness, curiosity, and something that might have been hope. When it spoke, its voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, echoing in Neil's mind rather than his ears.
"You being here means that they have failed."
The words hit Neil like a physical blow. The specter's eyes—ancient, weary, filled with the weight of cosmic disappointment—fixed on him with an intensity that made his soul ache.
"Failed?" Neil managed to ask, though his voice came out as barely a whisper.
The ghost-like figure nodded slowly, its form flickering like a candle in the wind. "The cycle continues. Another species brought to Xylos, another chance for the powers that be to play their games with mortal lives."
Neil felt the sphere beneath his palm pulse with renewed energy, and somehow he understood. This was more than just an ancient relic or a piece of forgotten technology. It was a repository of knowledge, a final gift from a species that had learned too late what they were truly facing.
"What happened to your people?" Neil asked.
The specter's expression grew even more sorrowful. "We were prepared. We understood the game. We had our towers, our trials, our champions." The figure's voice carried the weight of eons. "But preparation and understanding are not enough when facing forces beyond comprehension."
The energy from the sphere was still flowing through Neil, changing him in ways he couldn't yet understand. But along with the power came knowledge—fragments of understanding about what he was truly facing, about the nature of the competition, about the stakes involved.
"Why are you showing me this?" Neil asked.
The ancient specter smiled, and for a moment its translucent form seemed almost solid. "Because you are different. You should not be here, in this place, touching this sphere. The powers that orchestrate these events would have prevented it if they had known it was possible."
"Different how?"
"That remains to be seen," the specter replied. "But you have been given a gift that my people never received—the chance to understand before you are thrust into the competition. Use it wisely."
The ghostly figure began to fade, becoming more transparent with each passing second. "Remember what you have seen here. Remember what happened to us. Do not let it happen to your species."
"Wait!" Neil called out, desperation creeping into his voice. "How do I find the others? How do I get to the human dome?"
But the specter was already gone, leaving only the faintest whisper of its final words: "The path forward is not always the path back. Trust in what you have become."
Neil stood alone in the chamber, his hand still fused to the sphere, energy still flowing through his body. But now he carried more than just alien power—he carried the knowledge of a fallen civilization and the terrible understanding of what his species was truly facing.
The competition hadn't even begun, and already the stakes felt impossibly high.
Whatever was happening to him, whatever he was becoming, it was just the beginning.
The sphere pulsed one final time, and Neil felt the last of the ancient knowledge settle into his consciousness like pieces of a vast, cosmic puzzle.
He was no longer just Neil Hayes, construction worker from Earth.
He was something new, something unprecedented.
And he was humanity's only hope of avoiding the fate that had befallen the beings who had built this place.