The meteor landed thirty-two years ago. It crashed into the mountains above Steinschild; somewhere deep inside it was the wolf. It fell from space—out past space from the darkness and as it coursed through the cosmos dust, rock, and ice all gathered to it like a magnet. It picked up speed as the shell formed and reformed and eventually over a period of a thousand years became the meteor that would hit Earth.

Somewhere inside a facility that exists off the west coast there was a book that prophesized its landing on earth, The Eye of Timaeus. The book was translated into modern English by Wayne Banner, an employee of a company known as Arctic Systems, a subsidiary of the Genros Foundation headed by the wealthy Nagatomi family. The information inside the book however was provided by dozens of dozens of philosophers throughout the course of history—all of whom got their information from Father while he spent his time here on Earth recovering from his wounds.

Some early text as follows:

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE | SIDE DEATH |

The information inside this book is freely encouraged to be shared from the original context to as many different sources as humanly imaginable. If this is the original and remaining source of this information please protect it at all costs. It is meant to be shared. Do not let this information die with the original source.

These works inside have been translated from texts older than any of us currently alive so any clerical errors must be taken specifically as such—the translation team is naught but a team, but a single individual. Humanity is meant to err. I have translated this work with my strongest convictions, but time may tell that obvious errors may have been overlooked, so keep in mind this is an of-the-time translation and meanings of words may shift as generations pass. Thankfully, we believe that the writings that follow are—to our knowledge—as accurate as we may possibly get. These writings have not to this point been published, translated, or much even so read outside of the ones who had written inside them. They have been long since lost to history from the annals of Timaeus, a philosopher largely forgotten by history who lived in the fourth century.

I have worked tirelessly for these past five years translating this book in full. While there are several faces behind the work in this book, the brunt of the writing is the work of one, so you shall have no worry about the tone of the work—Timaeus’s ideas shall be kept as pure as can possibly be. I have studied Timaeus’s work and compared it to other philosophers of the time；their language, pacing, and even some of their slang that they attribute from their root language. What has resulted is an ultimate translation for the magnum opus of ‘Heaven’s Lost Angel’ as some refer to the eponymous Timaeus. Before I introduce the text in full I wish to give some context in which The Eye came to be.

Timaeus had been born to a time long before his work could be fully appreciated and analyzed. He was born of great wealth and fame—the line of his blood was highly praised for its service to royalty. He was born an only child, and by the time he was a young adult he had taken over his father’s share of the work in their smithy—personally servicing weapons for the king. Often Timaeus would find himself staring at the sky wondering what kind of worlds could exist among the stars. One day while the sun had been out for longer than it normally would have Timaeus had found an old beggar crawling the streets outside the smithy. The poor man looked like an animal asking to be put out of his misery. Instead of yelling the beggar away, he walked toward him with an odd curiosity. He had never seen the beggar before and while there certainly was their fair share of hooligans on the island that would try to steal. This old beggar didn’t seem to be much for stealing.

He offered the man food and a place to rest, of which the beggar had graciously accepted his offer. The beggar happily accepted the invitation and revealed himself to be an old monk from up top of the mountains who had lived alone for the most of his life—he had stepped down to share his infinite wisdom with the people below and Timaeus had been the first person to accept him into their home.

On that same day he would follow the beggar back to his mountaintop home. Timaeus showed very little qualms about leaving the smithy behind. He left the smithy to his apprentice at the time that grew into his own as the new blacksmith for the king.

What awaited him inside was a library filled completely with books of all sizes. The collective knowledge contained in these books is eventually what came to be known as Το μάτι του Τιμίου, or “The Eye of Timaeus”. He had begun by staring incredulously at the large amount of books that lined the interior of the library. It seemed to extend for half a mile outward into what must have been the interior of the mountain. He walked and passed book after book...the each of them was thicker than any he had seen before. They looked alien with their bindings so perfectly laced. Each of them had bold words on the spine to denote their name. Timaeus made his way back toward the entrance to search up the name of the first book, ΖΩΗ, or more simply, “Life”. His curiosity would not allow him to begin without first confirming the title of the final book in the line and as he ran down he had seen that it had been given the name of the Greek God of Death, Θάνατος, “Thanatos”.

The only rule that he was given was that he had to read each book in order, there could be no skipping around. The end of each book would lead him to the next so he should not ever get lost. The reason for the rule had been that the books were laid out in a very specific order. The information would be too much out of context and it could very well kill him. Timaeus had agreed to the stipulation and he had begun reading at “Life”. The beggar then left the library forever; Timaeus would not see him ever again and his mysterious connection to the great library would hang in Timaeus’s mind before long.

He then dedicated the next few years working his way through the books as quickly as he could. He cultivated a fascination with the information that he learned and realized before long there would be no conceivable way that he would be able to finish the books before he himself had passed. As he too had grown older Timaeus had realized that it would simply be impossible to fully understand all of the books that had been provided to him and manage to keep a surviving record of them.

The month before his own passing Timaeus made his way down toward the people below him for the first time in years. His health had been deteriorating quicker than he had hoped. He still had so much to learn from the books—of which he had only been able ever to make a small dent out of. He carried under his arm his manuscript—The Eye—I shall refer to it from this point as. He needed to ensure that the information kept within The Eye would be safe and passed down to a future generation. If he had died inside the great library then he was sure that the knowledge would die with him. This could not happen. And just before his death he had managed to find someone who had the same visions of grandeur as he had. Someone who had wanted to learn the truth of the universe.

Timaeus hadn’t expected that the boy would finish the work that he started. He made that very clear to the boy when he took him inside. There were simply too many books to fit in a lifetime, maybe even two. If it was something he wished to do, it would be likely that he would have to take his place someday and add the knowledge that he receives from the books to The Eye and in turn pass it down to the next generation. These were words he shared often with the boy—expecting to be able to finish the job would only lead to stress and doubt. They became his untimely killers and he wonders if he could have made further progress without them.

So it had been set. Beginning from that day began a cycle which would culminate into the book you carry now. The title of this book may be “The Eye of Timaeus”, but really it ends up only being a half truth. Without the proper context it wouldn’t have made much sense, so for that facsimile I apologize.

The Eye is a culmination of generations of hermits and their collection of knowledge from the original beggar’s library of vast and seemingly infinite universal knowledge and stories. Nobody knows the true origin of the books, their authors, or even who was able to construct the library without a single soul letting loose the information.

To date, countless souls have written their fair share of excerpts from the Great Library in hopes that the baton would someday be passed for the final leg of the race, but unfortunately along the path at some point one soul had abandoned their post from the mountain top to sell The Eye for profit and thus began a long history of it changing hands for profit before eventually succumbing to legend. Fewer and fewer people believed in the original source of The Eye and fewer believed that the tales about the man were even true. As such, Timaeus was a name that would not go down in history as the world’s recognized philosophers as Plato and Socrates. The text would remain hidden to history until 1886 where it had been uncovered by our excavation team in a small stone home off in a small village in Eastern Europe. The village had maybe less than ten people living in it, all a close knit community—closer than most that we know to this day.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

And now finally, to everyone in my life that I’ve done wrong, that I’ve gone against I am sorry. I had thought that knowledge about the world was the ultimate goal—that nothing else had mattered. I’m afraid to say that I’m at the end here—after this book I shall be no longer. There is a beauty to the curse that is infinite knowledge and it is for that reason that I have looked upon its pages and smiled at its face. The Eye of Timaeus shall never be a widespread book—that is not the purpose of this translation. Consider it a warning. I have done my part and with this the text may be started proper, but be warned that there is powerful knowledge in those that follow. Do not read for spite. Do not read for pity. Read to learn to pass on. Nobody knows what sorts of demons reside in knowledge of the infinite worlds.

W.B. - 1981

LIFE | SIDE DEATH |

Life is the balance between Fact and Fiction. It lies between what is both true and untrue—inside the empty space that the both of them do not and cannot occupy. Existence is made entirely upon the fiction that leeches off the back of the fact. They are joined by touch, sight, smell, taste, and a million other senses that utilize a very specific and unique fiction-maker to seem fact. That of course would be the MIND. Consciousness is exactly how the MIND perceives those millions of senses—the body reacts exactly how the signals in the brain tell it to react. It’s hard to say that something really looks a certain way, as that way is visual information transcribed and sent to the brain to figure out what it thinks that thing looks like. It is a fiction that the MIND can’t ever truly know what things truly look like, or smell like, or even feel like. Humans only have their own unique senses which color and shade the true experience. Life, too, is colored by the individual MIND.

Life can end for any reason at all, and any who argue against it speak only to the sky for no one is listening. When life ends, that color of life is lost forever. The rainbow of expression and shades dim forever, and slowly it all fades to black and white—Fact and Fiction.

This is not by accident, but instead by intelligent design of a creator who we may be able to point our blame and frustrations at. This fact alone is one that many will find difficulty with. It is paired alongside the fiction that our creator is one of humankind—that he is from the God in the image of Jesus Christ. That he is in the shape of a spirit of nature, that he is spoken from by the prophet Muhammad, or any other of the common-springing ideologies. The existence of a creator implies that our imperfections are intended that of imperfection itself, intended through negligence, or that we as imperfect creatures are meant to suffer unquestionably. This is okay. Their existence shall persist no matter what I write down here, and I have come to terms with that. Their existence shall persist whether it is difficult or not. Whether it is fair, just, or even welcomed. To such a creator we extend such complicated feelings because we ourselves are complicated. We experience joy, sorrow, love, heartbreak, life and death. We forever see these two juxtaposed throughout our life.

You might exclaim to Olympus or heaven or hell or your choice denizen of deity that your prayers have been unheard or for your son to be well, but it shall be known as a first truth that these two activities would be just as well as tossing sand in the air and expecting it to rain fortunes from your roof.

Our creator is a Creature of the Night. It is the fiction to our fact, the dark to our light, the death to our life. Our universe is only a half of itself. The creator is a craftsman in his own right, and as such he shall be called through the rest of these books. He has other names he goes by, and some of these include Holy Father, Z-One, The Zero, The One, and even just Creator.

The Craftsman constructed our world inside his own—a world of darkness where everything among everything originated. This was in a time before light—before sound, before truth. He existed as a force of his own will and with very simple substances he began to create. Air, water, fire, earth, energy, ether, and space: these substances are all born from a weightless nothing floating in the darkness before there was light. They did not exist with physical bodies as with everything within the darkness, but with instead waves—that which rippled across the cosmos and yearned to make contact with one another.

The Craftsman brought these four waves into the world with but a microsecond of imagining them. He had felt an immense and overbearing coldness in the darkness that existed outside of all time—all space.

This world of darkness in which The Craftsman worked in was known as Noctem. He wasn’t the only one who lived there—there were in fact twelve others that lived among The Craftsman, but they were as formless as the fire he imagined. At this point they were only a fraction of consciousness…a remainder.

The Craftsman saw these twelve as disciples, that once given form would be loyal to his cause. He was their creator, and as such he would take care of them as he expected they of him. They couldn’t do that quite yet, though. They needed to be saved. They were remainders, after all—not whole.

Using the elements he created he quickly began to craft the world we inhabit—the universe of light that was given name—Luxmund. Finally the universe—a manyverse in reality—was given truth. Fact lived alongside fiction.

Life began to bloom inside Luxmund—with truth came sentience, and as life began to form, it also began to grow. It grew and grew and grew—much larger than The Craftsman had initially planned. Light began to shine in the dark and he could feel the pain of the twelve that surrounded him. Something had to be done or else they would drown in the light—drown in the truth. He forced Luxmund away and sealed it off behind a magical barrier named the Darkbright—it was the only substance the light could not pierce.

Darkbright had saved the twelve from dying—the other Creatures of the Night. Luxmund kept growing on the other side of the barrier, and immediately The Craftsman began to worry. If the light kept growing and multiplying then even Darkbright wouldn’t be able to hold it back. If that happened then the barrier would shatter and Noctem would drown for sure. If fiction drowned then the fact would have no balance—everything would collapse. Everything.

To the creatures of the night once Luxmund came into creation they immediately perceived the threat of light. For as long as they knew existence there was peace in the fiction.

The Craftsman moved to cross Darkbright. He had to figure out the source of the light’s growth and put a halt to it. As he created Darkbright to be a barrier that not even light could cross he had to use most of his strength to be able to. It was truly a boulder so heavy that he could barely lift it. The light filled his skin the instant he crossed over, and he began to scream as it burned and seared. For the first time he experienced pain—truth, light, it all meant the same to him. It burned him with fires greater than the Earth’s core. His screams echoed in the form of cosmic waves that shook the galaxies into motion, sending planets and asteroids that were previously sluggish into full motion in their orbits.

One of these asteroids hurtled toward the Earth—still in its infancy. The collision was massive and had decimated a large portion of the life that had made its home on the planet, but it would not be enough to ensure the end of life. Far from it...life would truly start here for those that would consider this planet home. The Craftsman evaporated into the light as the last of his strength fell toward a planet that the Humans would eventually overtake and call home.

The creatures of the night—those that The Craftsman had left behind in Noctem to combat Luxmund—they despised everything that our world had come to stand for. Their darkness was singular, stagnant. It had not expanded a micrometer since the creation of Luxmund—it had never previously needed to, but in comparison to the light, which had been expanding effortlessly and continuously growing...it had become too much. Each universe created launched its own attack on the Darkbright—through no fault of the inhabitants that existed within, but that didn’t matter to the creatures of Noctem. Their home was being attacked. Again and again and again and again.

Something had to be done. They had to save their Father.

The creatures of the night banded together and broke through a weak point in Darkbright, allowing a spillage of both worlds into each other. Now that they were free to, the creatures of the night began to roam Luxmund. This is the last of the linear tale that the books seems to tell. I have done as my mentor has bid me and not spoiled myself the contents of the future books, but I cannot promise their contents. After Manyverse, the books seem to go into detail on the various creatures that exist within Noctem. The oddity is that it doesn’t seem to tell of just our world’s history—it even gives light to our planet’s future. To change subjects so quickly and without notice is jarring, but I must follow the order the books are given as, although I have specific instruction here in this library to skip this first book titled “Sakonna”. It makes mention that this information is available elsewhere, so I move on next to the book of the curious Issachar.

ISSACHAR

Issachar was the second Creature of the Night that would make contact with the Earth. It would land by meteor just on the cusp of the 21st century. It takes the form of a wolf while in the land of the light—Luxmund. As soon as it had woken up from its slumber it began to take a more passive approach than its sister—Sakonna. Where Sakonna viewed humanity as subjects for tests Issachar viewed more to learn. It viewed them as creatures with interesting habits and relationships that could be studied. It isn’t until the year 2022 that…

At this moment that is how the book ends, almost as if it were eager to continue on.