Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Nine: John Rearden, Part Five

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Jack looked into his eyes with a piercing intensity that seemed to strip away every layer, as if searching for something hidden deep within John’s soul.

Suddenly, they were standing on an ancient mountainside. John’s eyes widened as a dragon uncoiled itself from a jagged cliff, its long, sinuous body curving around crags and plunging into valleys, its scales rippling with glints of fire and shadow. Its breath sent waves of hot air shimmering up from the ground, and the nearby pines quivered under its weight, needles trembling in excitement or terror.

Jack moved them again, a subtle flex of power. The tundra opened below them, a frozen expanse where a family of giants lumbered across the snowfields, their massive forms half-lost in an endless expanse of white, their footprints leaving craters behind, small storms of snow scattering with each movement. From somewhere out in the vastness came the faint echo of laughter, high and musical—faerie laughter—spilling from glens hidden beneath ancient trees, far below.

They drifted there, unseen among the giants and dragons, among the mysterious peoples that called these wild worlds home, invisible observers to moments of life that were somehow as beautiful as they were impossible. And all John could do was look, wonder, and try to understand how this all fit, this new existence where time, space, and the bounds of reality meant nothing under Jack’s hand.

John’s gaze caught on a small Elven child. She was playing in a meadow, her mother beside her. The scene shimmered—almost too perfect to be real.

“Don’t worry, they can’t see you. This is just a cosmic memory, a remnant.”

John’s breath caught as the girl looked up, her eyes locking onto his. She looked right through the veil that separated them. Her mother remained oblivious, her gaze focused elsewhere, but the child’s eyes met his, and she smiled, a small, knowing smile.

Jack’s sharp inhale broke the stillness, and his eyes widened for the briefest moment.

“Not possible,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Perhaps… still so much to learn about your kind…” He trailed off, his voice laced with something akin to awe, an edge of reverence softening the disbelief. He shook his head, and time rushed ahead in a blur, the world streaking past like smeared paint on a spinning canvas.

“The Convergence spanned eons, our two worlds living as one,” Jack said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. The universe shifted around them, rolling forward, time spilling in uneven surges—like a vast Venn diagram of intersecting time and space, layers overlapping, blurring the lines between all things. “But it couldn’t last. Our realms eventually pulled away from each other. In truth, from the universe’s perspective, it was but a fleeting collision—a momentary intersection. Yet for those who lived through it, it felt endless, each heartbeat etched in the fabric of reality itself.”

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John watched as the two worlds drifted apart, each shard tearing, groaning under the strain. He saw the mother scream as her child slipped from her arms—saw the worlds splitting, people lost, the pain painted across their faces.

“The Schism was worse than the Convergence. It was agony. In the beginning, the universe was flexible, able to adapt. But once these lives had roots… ripping them apart was a cruelty beyond imagination.”

John could only watch. He tried to reach for the child, but she couldn’t see him anymore. She stood alone, her mother gone, and John felt the hopelessness in his gut, raw and real. Then, they were amongst the stars again. He wanted to scream, but his voice was swallowed by the vastness.

Jack’s voice was a whisper. “Magic faded. Eventually, the two were no longer one. Life went on. New stories began.”

John watched as the stars drifted apart, Ours and Terra Mythica untethering. The stars separated, Terra Mythica drifting away like a lost ship, and Ours fractured, like a bone that hadn’t healed right, a sadness that settled deep. He could feel it—the breaking of innumerable lives, the silence that followed as so many voices were snuffed out. An unbearable emptiness, a void settling in his chest.

Jack spoke again, soft, solemn. “The Schism came with more pain than the Convergence ever could. The Convergence was chaos, but the Schism—the Schism was pure, unyielding loss.”

John spoke then, guided by an inexplicable certainty. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just did. Something deep within—something profoundly his—just knew, as though he had always been a part of it, as though he had always been there. His lips moved before he even realized, a current of truth thrumming through him.

“And then our universe was alone—unsure, wounded. Healing, but never whole. In time, the memory of the Convergence faded, until it was nothing more than myth.”

Jack nodded, his expression sad. “Yes. Forgotten in all ways but the vague imprints—in myths, in dreams.”

The stars were silent for a long while, until Jack’s eyes grew sharp again. There was something new there—a glimmer of defiance.

“And John, this is important,” Jack said. “With that Schism came something else—a darkness that every universe names differently. Some call it the Devil or Doom; others know it as Evil or Hate. In my realm, we call it The Eternal End. A darkness. A residue of pain—a shadow that only grew, a stain on the very fabric of existence. It is the fear of finality, the dread of nothing new, of endings without continuance. It was born out of the agony of the Convergence, from the sorrow of the Schism. It thrives in darkness, feeding on despair, growing in the emptiness left behind. A darkness that either grows weaker or more powerful with each passing moment. Hope against despair, potential against the end.”

John felt a chill creep down his spine. He could see it now—a shadow threading through the emptiness, lingering at the edges of the universe.

“John, I was born of Infinite Potential, the possibility of tomorrow—a reminder that a soul can always create anew. Even when an end comes, there’s always another chapter, another story. That spark lies at the center of all things.”

He paused, his eyes shadowed. “But The Eternal End... it’s a lie. A consuming void, refusing futures, denying new beginnings. And like me, it took form, manifesting from all that was lost: the suffering, the pain, the endless grief. It has grown ever since. And now, as Convergence stirs again, I fear it will seize this chance to fulfill its purpose—the end of everything. Your universe has barely healed from the last Schism, while mine has had more time. But both are still fragile. If this new Convergence is tainted by that darkness… if it gains control, the devastation would be immeasurable. Countless lives, fractured souls—all fuel for the Eternal End.”