The approach to the Matrix of Prescience was quieter than Sunny had expected.
For sothing tasked with predicting the future of an entire ship-world, the surrounding platform was almost reverent in its stillness. The skybridge carried them onto a wide, circular terrace suspended in open air, bordered by low jade railings etched with faint sigils that glimred like distant stars. The hum here was deeper, slower, less chanical than elsewhere on the Luofu, as though the space itself was breathing.
At the center lood the Matrix.
Up close, its scale beca oppressive. The interlocking rings were large enough that entire streets could have fit between them, rotating with impossible precision around a core of translucent jade slabs that slid and reconfigured in patterns Sunny’s eyes struggled to follow. Runes cascaded across every surface, rearranging themselves in endless permutations, glowing softly before fading and being replaced by new ones. It was not loud. It did not pulse or flare. It simply worked, patiently and endlessly, indifferent to who watched.
Soone stood beneath it.
Fu Xuan was positioned near the center dais, hands clasped behind her back, head tilted upward. Her eyes were unfocused, lips moving faintly as if she were counting or reciting sothing under her breath. She did not turn when the group approached. She did not acknowledge their presence at all.
Qingque slowed imdiately.
"Ah. Yeah, that tracks."
They stopped a respectful distance away. March glanced between Qingque and Fu Xuan, lowering her voice.
"Is she... okay?"
Sunny squinted.
"Is she geeked?!"
The words ca out before he had ti to consider them.
Fu Xuan did not react.
Qingque winced.
"She was running maintenance on the Matrix before Kafka gets brought out. When she does that, she kind of... zones out. Like, really zones out. Don’t take it personally."
Welt observed Fu Xuan with quiet interest.
"The level of focus required must be imnse. To interface with a construct of this magnitude..."
Qingque nodded.
"Yeah. She’ll snap out of it eventually. Probably."
Eventually turned out to an not now.
After a brief exchange of glances and a few unproductive attempts to politely clear their throats, the Astral Express crew was waved off to wait. Kafka would be brought out later. Preparations were still underway. There was, apparently, nothing to do but sit tight.
Which was how Sunny found himself sitting in the Shadow Chair.
It was, objectively, a very normal wooden chair. Four legs, flat seat, straight back. No carvings, no embellishnts, no visible enchantnts.
But it was a throne worthy for a lord.
Sunny sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped loosely between his knees. His posture was relaxed in the way only people with no intention of moving anyti soon ever were.
The aura was... not.
It seeped outward from him without effort, heavy and unpleasant, like the pressure before a storm. Not aggressive, not violent, but distinctly malevolent in the way a predator could be malevolent while sleeping. It was the byproduct of stillness, of restraint layered atop restraint.
March shivered.
She stopped walking mid-step, rubbing her arms as if she had just passed through a cold draft. She glanced around, then fixed her eyes on Sunny’s back.
"...Nope, nope, nope, nope."
She squared her shoulders.
Soone had to do sothing before he did sothing stupid. And by soone, she very explicitly ant not her, but circumstances were cruel and unfair and seed determined to test her.
March inhaled deeply.
Then she walked over.
Each step felt heavier than the last. By the ti she reached him, her palms were damp and her jaw ached from how tightly she was clenching it. She stopped a few feet away, stared at the top of his head, then plastered on a bright, forced smile.
She gulped dramatically.
"So! What’s up? You’ve been pretty boring since we got on this ship."
Was her voice too squeaky?
Sunny did not respond imdiately.
He remained motionless, head bowed, gaze fixed sowhere between his hands and the floor. For a mont, March wondered if he had even heard her.
Then he lifted his head.
Shadows slid across his face, obscuring everything except his eyes.
"The ceiling of this spaceship."
March yelped.
She jumped backward into a terrible defensive stance, feet planted too wide, arms raised in a way that would not have stopped anything more threatening than a stiff breeze.
Sunny, for his part, calmly summoned a mory.
The Covetous Coffer appeared in his hands, a compact container with ornate talwork and a faintly greedy gleam. He flipped it open and reached inside.
March froze.
Her eyes followed his movents warily until he pulled out... a cookie.
It was unwrapped. Slightly crumbly. Looked like it had been there for a while.
March’s expression shifted.
"...That’s gross."
Sunny shrugged and stuffed the cookie into his mouth anyway, chewing thoughtfully. Once he swallowed, the shadows receded just enough for his expression to be readable.
"I was just aura farming to pass the ti. Want a real answer?"
March lowered her arms slowly.
"Yes, please. Preferably one that doesn’t involve ominous vibes."
Sunny leaned back in the chair slightly, gaze drifting upward again.
"First, everything’s been boring."
March blinked.
"My fight against Kafka was a farce. She wasn’t trying. The Mara-Struck we fought when we arrived weren’t even a challenge. There’s been no tension, no stakes. Just walking from place to place while people talk."
He clicked his tongue.
"Second, there are no pancakes."
March stared at him.
"No waffles. No crepes. No syrup vessels of any kind. The complete absence of one of the greatest culinary achievents in existence is a cri. Frankly, it’s worse than anything the Stellaron Hunters have done."
"...You’re really insane."
Sunny continued, unfazed.
"And third, I’m too busy. I’m always surrounded by people. How am I supposed to go screw around if I’m constantly being dragged along?"
March stared at him for several seconds.
Then she jabbed a finger at him.
"You are a battle-freaked, pancake-addicted, antisocial nutjob."
Sunny straightened.
"Objection! Violence is rely a ans to an end, so is it wrong if I try to enjoy the act of inflicting pain? It’s fine as long as I have a legitimate excuse— I an, reason. Pancakes are equivalent to breathable air and therefore cannot constitute an addiction. And I cannot be antisocial if I am a functional mber of society."
He paused, then added:
"And compared to Mordret, I am extrely neurotypical. That guy had no idea what he was doing!"
He laughed.
"If I was him, I’d be thinking: ’I’m a big dumb Mordy, and I’m gonna make a Reflection of Hope! What could go wrong?’ and even ’That boy Sunny has an extra pair of arms! I better keep my ass in mirrors with my Reflection gang, or I’m finished!’ Pfft!"
March gaped at him.
"...What happened to Mordret?"
Sunny shrugged.
"I technically beat the Prince of Nothing. He survived the aftermath, though."
March’s eyes widened.
"You beat him?"
"Yeah, I guess. He didn’t take the bait when I tried to draw him into my Soul Sea. Guess he didn’t want to kill that badly... that, or he knew I’d have slid him out."
He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Another reason we can’t go to the Chained Isles. He might steal your body."
March made a strangled noise.
"...I hate when you say things like that."
Sunny glanced up at her, eyes thoughtful.
"What about you? You’re getting a bit too serious, don’t you think?"
March recoiled.
"What?! No! I am always serious— I an— cheerful! Cute! I’m always in character!"
Sunny raised an eyebrow.
"Sure. I just know an edgelord in the making when I see one."
He paused for a few monts, before giggling as if he knew sothing she didn’t.
March stared at him like he had just grown a second head.
"...You’re creepy."
"Thanks! ...That was a complint, right?"
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