I looked at the pillar for a long moment before speaking.
“…You changed the contract.”
“The contract has been amended,” the pillar replied in the same emotionless voice.
“State your terms.”
A quiet laugh escaped me.
“I honestly didn’t expect that.”
The pillar offered no response.
Of course it didn’t.
I lowered my gaze to the glowing contract.
There were countless things I could ask for.
Strength.
Wealth.
Talent.
A better body.
A longer life.
If someone had told me yesterday that I would one day be negotiating with something beyond human comprehension, those probably would have been the first things I’d think of.
Instead, none of them crossed my mind.
I kept looking at the sentence that would erase my years as a doctor.
The soul designated Ezra shall relinquish all medical knowledge and procedural experience related to the healing arts before transition.
I read it once more before speaking.
“If you’re taking my medical knowledge…” I paused, searching for the right words.
“…then I want you to take something else with it.”
The pillar remained silent.
“Medicine wasn’t just something I learned.
It changed the way I saw people.”
I smiled faintly.
“The moment someone walked through those hospital doors, they became my responsibility.
It didn’t matter whether I knew their name or whether I’d ever see them again after they left.
If they were suffering, I couldn’t ignore them.”
Faces drifted through my mind.
Patients thanking me before going home.
Parents crying in relief.
Children smiling despite being terrified.
Then came the other memories.
The ones that never really left.
The patients I couldn’t save.
The nights I spent wondering whether I’d missed something.
The guilt that followed me home after every shift.
“I carried all of them with me,” I said quietly.
“Every success.
Every failure.
Every stranger who walked into that hospital somehow became my burden.”
I let out a slow breath.
“I told myself that was what being a good doctor meant.”
I laughed once, though there was no humor in it.
“And then I died.”
Silence settled over the endless white expanse.
“I don’t regret becoming a doctor,” I continued.
“I’d still save those people if I had the chance again.
But I don’t want to spend another lifetime carrying the weight of people I’ve never met.”
I finally raised my head.
“If you’re taking away the knowledge that made me a doctor, then take away the part of me that feels responsible for every stranger I see.”
The pillar remained motionless.
“Clarify.”
“I’m not asking you to make me cruel,” I replied.
“If I choose to care about someone, nothing changes.
If they’re my family, my friends, or someone I accept as my own, I’ll still protect them.”
I looked down at the contract once more.
“But I don’t want to look at every person I meet and feel like their life is somehow my responsibility.”
“I’ve done that once.”
“I’m not doing it again.”
The pillar remained silent for several seconds before answering.
“A complete removal of your empathetic disposition is unauthorized.”
“I wasn’t asking for that.”
“Clarify.”
“I want it narrowed.”
I met the pillar’s light without hesitation.
“I don’t want to lose my empathy.
I want to choose who deserves it.”
The silence that followed lasted longer than any before.
Finally, the pillar spoke.
“Request accepted with modification.”
I waited.
“Your disposition toward self-sacrifice shall no longer apply indiscriminately.
It shall be directed only toward those whom you willingly acknowledge as your own.
Those outside that circle shall no longer invoke that instinct.”
I thought about the offer.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it wasn’t supposed to be.
I wouldn’t become heartless.
I simply wouldn’t carry the entire world on my shoulders anymore.
For the first time since waking in this endless white expanse, I felt like I was leaving something behind by choice instead of having it taken from me.
I gave a slow nod.
“…I’ll accept that.”
I remained silent for a long while, studying the amended contract before speaking again.
“There is something else I want changed.”
The pillar remained motionless.
“State your request.”
I looked at the endless white expanse surrounding us.
Even after learning the truth, one thought refused to leave me.
“I spent my entire life trusting my own mind,” I said quietly.
“Every diagnosis I made, every decision I took, every life I tried to save depended on my ability to think clearly.
I believed my memories were my own, and I never questioned them.”
I let out a slow breath.
“Someone changed them.”
The words felt strange even now.
“They took away a part of my memory, replaced it with guilt that wasn’t mine, and I carried that guilt all the way to my death.
Even after everything you’ve told me, I can still remember believing I deserved what happened.”
I looked directly at the pillar.
“That frightens me more than dying.”
For this the pillar did not respond immediately.
“I can accept being weaker than someone else.
I can accept failure.
I can even accept dying again if that’s the price of my choices.
But I can’t accept living in a world where my own mind can be rewritten without me ever realizing it.”
The pillar’s crystalline surface shimmered faintly before it finally spoke.
“State your requested amendment.”
I thought about it for a moment before answering.
“I don’t want my mind to be something others can casually tamper with.
If someone wants to deceive me, let them convince me with lies.
Let them outthink me.
Let them earn it.”
I paused before continuing.
“I don’t ever want to become a puppet because someone reached into my memories and rewrote who I am.”
Silence returned.
Finally, the pillar replied.
“The complete protection of a mortal consciousness is unauthorized.
Such a state exceeds the limitations imposed upon mortal souls.”
I nodded.
“I assumed as much.”
“However, your consciousness may be strengthened.
External attempts to alter your memories, corrupt your thoughts, dominate your will, or manipulate your emotions shall encounter substantial resistance.
Such influence will remain possible, but only through significantly greater force than would otherwise be required.”
That answer sounded far more realistic than absolute immunity.
After all, medicine had taught me long ago that there was no such thing as perfection.
Every treatment had limits.
Every cure carried risks.
Expecting anything different here would have been foolish.
I gave a small nod.
“Then that’s enough.”
Without another word, another line appeared upon the contract.
The glowing symbols shifted and rearranged themselves before becoming still once more.
I watched them for a moment before looking back at the pillar.
“One last question,” I said.
“How many amendments am I allowed to make before this negotiation ends?”
“Three.”
I blinked.
“Only three?”
“Correct.”
Ezra lowered his gaze to the contract.
Two amendments had already been inscribed beneath its original terms, leaving only a single empty space.
I stood in silence, considering everything i could ask for.
Strength would eventually become obsolete.
Talent meant little if someone stronger appeared.
Wealth belonged to the world he entered and could just as easily be lost.
None of those were what he wanted.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady.
“My final amendment is simple.
I want fear itself to become my strength.
I don’t want fear to weaken me or cloud my judgment.
I want every fear I experience to become the foundation of my growth.”
The pillar remained motionless.
“That request exceeds the authority granted to this negotiation.”
Ezra had expected that answer.
“So it can’t be done?”
“It cannot be authorized.”
Ezra studied the pillar for several moments before speaking again.
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
The pillar did not respond.
“You’ve never told me it was impossible.
Every time you’ve rejected something, you’ve said it was beyond your authority.” A faint smile crossed Ezra’s face.
“That means someone has the authority.”
The endless white expanse fell silent.
Finally, the pillar answered.
“Your observation is correct.
The requested amendment remains beyond my jurisdiction.”
Ezra gave a slow nod.
“Then that’s my final amendment.”
Nothing happened.
The contract remained suspended between them.
Then, without warning, the blank space beneath the second amendment began to glow.
Ezra frowned.
Lines of brilliant violet light slowly carved themselves across the empty space, forming symbols unlike anything the pillar had written.
Each rune appeared with deliberate precision, as though an unseen hand were engraving them directly into reality.
The endless white world trembled.
Fine cracks spread across the flawless expanse, reaching farther with every symbol that appeared.
For the first time since Ezra had awakened in this place, the pillar reacted.
Its crystalline light flickered violently.
“…Authority override detected.”
The final rune completed itself.
The contract shone with an intense violet radiance before a tiny ember separated from its surface.
It drifted through the air and gently touched chest.
The instant it disappeared into him, he felt something settle deep within his soul.
It wasn’t power.
It wasn’t knowledge.
It was only a faint presence, no larger than a spark, waiting in complete silence.
I instinctively looked down at himself.
“What was that?”
Several moments passed before the pillar answered.
“The third amendment has been accepted.”
Ezra looked back at it.
“You said you couldn’t authorize it.”
“I could not.”
The pillar’s light dimmed once more.
“I did not.”
Before Ezra could ask another question, the contract dissolved into countless motes of light.
The pillar spoke again.
“The negotiation has concluded.”
The countless fractures spreading across the white expanse suddenly stopped.
“Destination confirmed.”
Ezra looked toward the pillar.
“What world?”
“A world where a mortal can fight a god.”
Before I could ask another question, the endless white expanse collapsed.
The pillar, the contract, and the blinding light shattered into countless fragments before everything was swallowed by darkness.
…
I woke to cold air filling my lungs.
A sharp cry escaped my mouth before I could stop it.
My vision was nothing but a blur.
Shapes and shadows drifted across my watery eyes until they slowly began to focus.
I was lying in a wooden cradle.
Above me stretched a high stone ceiling crossed by heavy wooden beams blackened with age.
Candlelight danced across the rough masonry, throwing long, wavering shadows through the room.
I tried to move.
My arms barely lifted.
My fingers were tiny.
My body…
Wasn’t mine anymore.