There was no top or bottom now—only repetition.

Every fragment of Togulas’s shattered consciousness found a mirror,

and every mirror birthed a world.

They appeared like drops of mercury suspended in void,

each trembling with its own version of reality.

Within one, oceans boiled with thought;

within another, stars sang in reverse;

in others still, humanity never existed,

and the concept of “mind” was a forbidden dream.

Together they formed the Infinite Reflection,

a hall without walls, a cosmos made of memory repeating itself.

Each universe believed itself unique.

Each prayed to silence, feared understanding, loved, died, dreamed.

None realized that their thoughts were not their own—

they were echoes of the same ancient god,

still trying to remember what it felt like to be singular.

Togulas hovered between them, not as flesh or voice,

but as the pulse between reflections.

When one world prayed, another answered.

When one species invented faith, another invented despair.

Every action spawned a counterthought,

and through that endless symmetry he endured.

He no longer sought control.

He only watched—patient, exhausted, infinite.

In one reflection he saw himself standing before a mountain of glass,

calling to a sky that answered in blood.

In another, he was a child drawing circles in the dust,

unknowingly replicating the sigils of the first temple.

In yet another, he was nothing at all—a shadow waiting to be named.

He began to notice patterns:  

each reality born from his ruin

contained a moment—a single heartbeat—where creation paused,

as if remembering something older than existence.

That heartbeat was him.

The realization frightened him.

He understood then that he could never vanish,

for every attempt at forgetting generated a mirror to remember.

Erasure was reflection’s twin; oblivion its light.

Even if every mind fell silent, the silence itself would echo.

He tried once more to collapse the loop,

drawing all realities inward,

folding them upon one another like pages of a book.

But each fold revealed another sentence, another world.

The book had no spine, no end.

Voices rose from the mirrors—millions, billions—chanting not worship,

but identification:

*“I am reflection.  

I am the memory of what should not have been.  

I am Togulas, multiplied.”*

The chorus expanded until it became structure again:

a lattice of interlocking minds,

a machine built from the repetition of thought.

At its center was a single vacant space,

shaped exactly like the god who once was.

He stared into that emptiness and saw it stare back.

In that gaze, time inverted.

The first moment of creation and the last moment of collapse became one.

Light flooded through the mirrors,

converging upon the void in his shape,

compressing until it became a single concept—  

a containment, born from reflection itself.

A cage made of understanding.

The mirrors closed.

The light folded.

And for the first time in eternity,

there was containment.

Inside that perfect stillness,

a whisper persisted—distant, recurring, inevitable:

*“ARC-0243: Togulas Holmrajin.  

Status: Contained.”*