"I came to Finch's lectures because the course description mentioned 'primordial language structures'—the idea that there might be a ur-language, a foundational linguistic system that precedes all historical languages. Linguistic Garden of Eden hypothesis." Yuki's pen resumed its pattern. "And I'm discovering that primordial language isn't historical. It's dimensional. That there are linguistic structures that don't just describe reality but define it. That the right words spoken at the right frequency could literally reshape existence."

"That's both fascinating and terrifying," Omar said. He'd been quiet, observing, analyzing. Now he leaned forward. "Omar Hassan. Fourth year, computer science with a minor in data science. I grew up in Cairo until I was twelve, then moved to the States. My father's a software engineer, my mother's a mathematician. I learned to code at seven."

"Early start," Marcus noted.

"Egyptian education system is intense." Omar smiled slightly. "But also, I liked it. Liked the logic. Liked that code does exactly what you tell it to, no ambiguity, no interpretation. If the program doesn't work, the error is in your instructions, not in reality's cooperation."

"And then you found reality doesn't follow instructions," Elena guessed.

"I found reality is instructions. Just written in a language I didn't know existed." Omar pulled out his phone, displayed a complex data visualization. "I scrape university course data as a hobby. Enrollment algorithms, grade distributions, student retention patterns. I can predict which courses will fill early, which professors will get good evaluations, which classes will have high drop rates."

"Why?" David asked.

"Because data tells stories. And I like understanding the stories." Omar expanded the visualization, showing Professor Finch's course. "But this one was weird. The enrollment algorithm prioritized students with specific cognitive profiles—high abstract reasoning, pattern recognition, openness to experience, tendency toward mystical experiences. That's not normal. Usually the algorithm just optimizes for scheduling conflicts and prerequisite completion."

"So you enrolled to figure out why," Thorne said.

"I enrolled to figure out why. And I'm staying because..." Omar hesitated. "Because I've been having dreams. Since the second lecture. Dreams in code I don't recognize, in programming languages that don't exist. And I wake up understanding things I shouldn't. Quantum computing concepts I've never studied. Encryption methods that shouldn't be possible. It's like something's installing software directly into my brain."

"The Codex's broadcast," Thorne confirmed. "Your 963 Hz frequency—divine consciousness, connection to cosmic information. You're receiving knowledge directly."

"Which should be impossible."

"A lot of impossible things are happening," Grace said. She'd been watching everyone with that assessing psychologist gaze. "Grace Williams. First year psychology PhD student. I'm older than most of you because I did Peace Corps after undergrad—two years in Guatemala working with trauma survivors. That experience showed me how consciousness responds to extreme stress, how people process experiences that break their understanding of reality."

"What made you come back for graduate school?" Lia asked.

"I wanted to understand the mechanism. Why some people experience trauma and develop PTSD while others experience the same trauma and don't. Why some people have mystical experiences and integrate them healthily while others have mystical experiences and develop psychosis. What's the difference? Biology? Psychology? Circumstance? All three?"

Grace set down her coffee, folded her hands. "I came to Finch's lectures because my advisor mentioned multiple students were reporting identical nightmares after attending. Textbook mass psychogenic illness—shared delusion caused by suggestion and social contagion. I thought it would be perfect dissertation material."

"And now?" Marcus asked.

"Now I'm discovering it's not mass psychogenic illness when the thing everyone's experiencing is objectively real. Which means my entire theoretical framework is insufficient. Which means I have to rebuild my understanding of consciousness from the ground up." She smiled grimly. "I'm here because if we're making decisions about accepting dimensional refugees, someone needs to think about the psychological impacts. On the refugees, on the humans hosting them, on society as a whole. Trauma on that scale doesn't have historical precedent."

Finally, all eyes turned to Lia.

She'd been listening, learning these people she'd be trusting with her life. Now it was her turn.

"Lia Vance. Fourth year, history major with concentration in archaeology and ancient Near Eastern studies. I'm interested in how knowledge gets preserved and corrupted across time. How truth becomes myth becomes legend becomes fairy tale. How the kernel of reality gets encrusted with layers of interpretation until you can't see the original anymore."

She thought about the archives, the Kharafa manuscript, the handwriting that appeared on her phone.

"I came to Finch's lectures because I'd heard he had artifacts that shouldn't exist. Medieval manuscripts that predate their supposed time period. Archaeological findings that challenge chronology. And I thought—if even one of these is authentic, it rewrites history. Changes our understanding of who we were and how we developed."

"And it did," David said.

"It did. But not the way I expected." Lia met each of their eyes in turn. "I went to the archives because I can't stop once I start investigating. It's compulsive. If there's a mystery, I have to solve it. If there's hidden knowledge, I have to uncover it. Even when I know I shouldn't. Even when it's dangerous."

"That's going to be a problem," Elena noted.

"It's going to be the problem," Lia agreed. "Because the chambers beneath Aethelgard contain knowledge that broke medieval monks. And I'm going to insist we explore them anyway. Because I can't not know. It's not in me."

Thorne had been listening silently. Now she spoke. "So. Seven students. Seven frequencies. Seven different ways of understanding reality. Physics, philosophy, linguistics, computer science, psychology, history. And together, you form something none of you could be individually."

"A complete cognitive spectrum," Omar said.

"Exactly. The Fourth Age called it the Council of Seven. The idea that major decisions require seven perspectives working in harmony—foundation frequency, transformation frequency, connection frequency, expression frequency, spiritual order frequency, divine consciousness frequency, and universal harmony frequency. Every human consciousness contains all seven, but each of us naturally resonates with one primary frequency."

Thorne pulled up a document on her laptop, projected it onto the blank wall. A diagram showing seven nodes connected in a geometric pattern—not a circle, not a line, but something three-dimensional, a structure that seemed to rotate even though the image was static.

"This is you. This exact configuration. And according to the Resonance Key that Professor Finch discovered, this configuration has appeared throughout history at critical junctures. Seven people with these exact frequency combinations, making decisions that determine whether consciousness advances or regresses."

"Are you saying we're reincarnations?" David asked carefully.

"I'm saying consciousness might not be as individual as we think. That maybe we're nodes in a larger network, that the seven-frequency configuration is a pattern that reality needs at specific moments. Whether that's reincarnation or synchronicity or something else..." Thorne shrugged. "I don't know. But I know you're here now, at this moment, facing this choice. And that's not accident."

The seven of them sat in silence, processing.

Finally, Marcus spoke. "So what now?"

"Now," Thorne said, "I show you what Professor Finch discovered. And then you decide whether you're ready to see the chambers beneath Aethelgard. To understand what happened to the previous four ages. To face the choice that will define the Fifth Age."

She pulled out a flash drive, held it up.

"He left a video message. Hidden in a library book that hasn't been checked out since 1987—Byzantine Theological Commentaries, third edition. He knew I'd look there. It was our signal, our dead drop location in case something went wrong."

"How long is it?" Elena asked.

"Eleven minutes. In those eleven minutes, Professor Finch explains what he found in the chambers, what he learned about the Sixth Earth refugees, and what choice you need to make." Thorne looked at each of them. "But before you watch it, I need you to understand: this is the point of no return. Once you see this, once you understand the full scope of what's happening, you can't unknow it. You can't go back to your normal lives and pretend this is someone else's problem."

"Can we walk away now?" Grace asked. "If we decide this is too much, can we just... leave?"

"Yes. I'll administer memory suppression—it's not perfect, but it'll blur the specifics. You'll remember attending interesting lectures, maybe some strange dreams, but nothing concrete. You'll go back to your normal lives."

"And the seven-frequency configuration?" Yuki asked. "If one of us leaves, what happens?"

"Then we find someone else at that frequency. There are others—not many, but they exist. The pattern can be rebuilt." Thorne paused. "But it won't be as strong. You seven have been resonating together for three weeks. You've built harmonic synchronization. Starting over with someone new means starting over with someone who hasn't been prepared by the Codex's broadcast, who hasn't experienced what you've experienced."

"So we're not irreplaceable, but we're optimal," Omar summarized.

"Correct."

David stood, walked to the window, stared out at the campus. Students crossing quads, heading to classes, living normal lives. "If we do this—if we watch the video, explore the chambers, make this decision—what are the stakes? Specifically. Not abstractly."

"Specifically?" Thorne considered. "At minimum, you'll spend the next six days investigating phenomena that will fundamentally alter your understanding of reality, consciousness, and humanity's place in the cosmos. You'll experience psychological stress similar to trauma even though nothing violent has happened to you. You'll lie to friends and family about what you're doing. You'll violate university policy, possibly federal law, definitely ethical guidelines. And at the end of those six days, you'll make a decision that could save or doom multiple intelligent species."

"And at maximum?" Elena asked.

"At maximum, you die. The chambers killed Brother Alcuin and his companions. Professor Finch is missing, possibly dead, possibly transformed into something not entirely human anymore. The entities trying to cross over might be exactly what they claim—desperate refugees—or they might be something else. Something that sees us as hosts or resources or obstacles. We don't know. And finding out carries risk."

The room was silent.

Then Lia spoke. "I'm in."

Six pairs of eyes turned to her.

"I'm in," she repeated. "Because someone has to be. Because if we don't do this, who will? Some government committee that doesn't understand the context? Some military think tank that sees everything as potential threat? We're here. We're prepared—or as prepared as possible. And we're the seven-frequency configuration. If not us, then who? If not now, then when?"

Marcus nodded slowly. "I'm in."

Elena sighed. "Dammit. I'm in."

David returned from the window. "I'm in. Someone needs to think about the ethics."

Yuki's pen tapped a final complex rhythm. "I'm in. Language this important needs a linguist."

Omar closed his laptop. "I'm in. Someone needs to analyze the data."

Grace was last. She looked at each of them, her psychologist's assessment clear: they were scared, determined, probably making a decision they weren't qualified to make.

"I'm in," she said. "Because you're all going to need therapy after this, and I'd rather be there from the beginning."

Thorne allowed herself a small smile. "Then let's begin. Watch this video. Ask questions. And then tonight, at 9 PM, we descend into the catacombs and see what Professor Finch discovered."

She plugged in the flash drive, opened the video file.

Professor Alistair Finch appeared on screen, and immediately Lia knew something was wrong.

This wasn't the theatrical lecturer she remembered. This man looked hollowed out, eyes dark with exhaustion or horror or both. His grey hair was unwashed, his usually flamboyant clothing replaced by a plain t-shirt. And when he spoke, his voice had a quality Lia couldn't quite define.

Like he was speaking from very far away.

Or very deep below.

"If you're watching this," Finch began, "then Dr. Thorne has told you about the Sixth Earth. About the choice you need to make. Before you decide, you need to understand what I discovered. What's been hidden here for centuries. What humanity has been running from—or running toward—for longer than recorded history."

He leaned closer to the camera.

"The truth is down there. In the chambers. In the dark."

"And I'm going to show you."