CHAPTER 75: CHAPTER 75

Finally.

The clearing was perfectly circular, exactly one hundred meters in diameter. And within it: stability. The contradictions stopped at the clearing’s edge, as if held back by invisible barrier.

Inside the clearing, things made sense.

The sky was just sky—purple, three moons, but consistently so. The ground was solid. Gravity pointed down. Time flowed forward at normal pace.

"This is the center," Yoo said, relief flooding through him. The pressure behind his eyes immediately decreased—blessed relief—now that he wasn’t processing constant impossibility.

"Thank god," Han muttered, wiping blood from her face. "I thought my brain was going to liquefy."

At the clearing’s exact center stood a pedestal. Simple, crystalline, about waist-height. And resting on it:

An egg.

Not metaphorical. An actual egg. Roughly the size of Yoo’s head, surface covered in patterns that shifted between geometric and organic.

[LEVEL-THREE-OBJECTIVE: MAKE-A-CHOICE]

The words appeared above the pedestal—shimmer-flicker.

[THE-EGG: CONTAINS-POTENTIAL. HATCHING-PRODUCES: UNKNOWN-RESULT]

[OPTION-ONE: HATCH-THE-EGG. ACCEPT-CONSEQUENCE]

[OPTION-TWO: DESTROY-THE-EGG. ACCEPT-CONSEQUENCE]

[OPTION-THREE: LEAVE-THE-EGG. ACCEPT-CONSEQUENCE]

[WARNING: ALL-OPTIONS-HAVE-EQUAL-CONSEQUENCES. CHOICE-ITSELF-MATTERS-NOT-WHAT-IS-CHOSEN]

"A test of decisiveness," Yoo said quietly. "Not right or wrong choice. Just... making a choice and living with it."

Han circled the pedestal, studying the egg from multiple angles. "What’s inside?"

"Unknown. Could be anything. Could be nothing. Could be both."

"You’re not helping."

"I’m being accurate." Yoo activated his Omniscient Observer, pushing perception toward the egg—

—ERROR—

His doubled pupils spun wildly, unable to focus. The egg’s interior was sealed somehow. Conceptually locked. His ability to perceive truth and falsehood crashed against absolute uncertainty and returned:

INDETERMINATE. CONTENTS: SUPERPOSITION-STATE. OBSERVATION-WILL-COLLAPSE-WAVEFORM.

"Literally Schrödinger’s egg," he muttered. "The contents exist in every possible state until we choose what to do with it. Then reality collapses into single outcome."

"So the choice doesn’t matter?"

"The choice defines reality." Yoo stared at the egg, mind racing. "Whatever we choose becomes retroactively true. If we hatch it, the egg contains something hatchable. If we destroy it, the egg contained something destroyable. If we leave it, the egg’s contents remain indeterminate."

"That’s—"

"Paradox. Yes. Welcome to Level Three." He approached the pedestal slowly—step-step-step—boots clicking against stable ground.

What’s the right choice?

There is no right choice. That’s the point.

Then what matters?

He thought back to Level Two. The Hall of Reflected Costs. The choice he’d made there: maintain duality, keep both power and humanity, refuse the easy path of pure optimization.

I chose difficulty over ease.

Uncertainty over certainty.

Both instead of one.

"We hatch it," he said.

"Are you sure?" Han’s hand rested on her blade. "We have no idea what’s inside."

"Exactly. Which means maximum uncertainty. Maximum potential for growth." Yoo reached toward the egg. "This entire trial has been about accepting impossible things. Schrödinger’s egg is the most impossible thing here. So we embrace it."

"That’s insane reasoning."

"This is an insane place." His hand touched the egg’s surface—

CRACK.

The shell fractured beneath his fingers. Not breaking. Unfolding. The pieces peeled back like flower petals—crack-crack-crack-crack—revealing the interior.

Light poured out. Not visible light. Conceptual light. The illumination of possibility becoming actuality.

And from within the egg, something emerged.

Not a creature.

Not an object.

A question.

It manifested in the air as pure concept—no words, no sound, just meaning pressing directly into consciousness:

[WHAT-DO-YOU-VALUE: MOST?]

Yoo felt the question sink into his mind like hooks. This wasn’t rhetorical. The Garden wanted an answer. Needed an answer. Would judge him based on what he said.

What do I value most?

Power? No. That’s means, not end.

Survival? No. That’s also means.

Jae-sung? Close, but still not quite—

What drives everything? What underlies every choice?

The answer crystallized with perfect clarity:

"Choice itself," he said aloud. "I value the ability to choose. Not any specific outcome. Just... having options. Being able to decide my own path, even when all paths lead somewhere terrible. The freedom to choose is what I value most."

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.

The light from the egg intensified, then condensed into single point above the pedestal. The point expanded—whooom—becoming a sphere of crystallized potential about the size of Yoo’s fist.

[ANSWER-ACCEPTED: ALIGNMENT-WITH-TRIAL-PURPOSE-DETECTED]

[REWARD-GRANTED: SEED-OF-INFINITE-CHOICE]

[FUNCTION: WHEN-FACED-WITH-BINARY-DECISION: THIRD-OPTION-BECOMES-AVAILABLE]

[LIMITATION: ONE-USE-PER-PLANETARY-ROTATION]

[WARNING: THIRD-OPTIONS-CARRY-EXTREME-CONSEQUENCES]

The sphere drifted toward Yoo, passing through the air slowly—hummm—before touching his chest and sinking in.

Whoomph.

He felt it integrate. Not into his body. Into his concept of self. The idea of "Yoo Seung-yoon" now included "person who can create third options when only two exist."

"What just happened?" Han asked, staring.

"I think..." Yoo looked at his hands, feeling the change. "I think the Garden rewarded my answer. Gave me something that aligns with my stated value."

"Which is?"

"The ability to reject binary choices. To create alternatives when only two options exist." He met her eyes. "Once per day, I can force reality to offer a third path."

"That’s—" Han stopped. Reconsidered. "Actually, that’s incredible. And terrifying. What kind of consequences?"

"Extreme, apparently." Yoo smiled grimly. "But consequences are just future choices. I can handle them."

[LEVEL-THREE: COMPLETE]

[TIME-ELAPSED: 3.7-HOURS]

[TIME-REMAINING: 39.0-HOURS]

[TRIALS-PASSED: 3/97]

[CURRENT-PERFORMANCE: EXCEPTIONAL]

[PROCEED-TO: LEVEL-FOUR]

The clearing’s barrier dropped. The Garden’s contradictions came rushing back—WHOOOM—but somehow less hostile now. Like the Garden recognized them. Accepted their presence.

A new path appeared, leading deeper into the Spire. This one was solid, stable, real. The reward for passing the trial.

"Level Four," Han said, testing her weight on the new path. It held. "Any idea what that is?"

"None. But we have 39 hours for 94 levels." Yoo calculated quickly—his own cognition, not external system. "That’s roughly 25 minutes per level if they’re evenly distributed. They won’t be. Some will be faster, some slower. But the pace is... survivable."

"Your definition of ’survivable’ is deeply concerning."

"I know." He started walking toward Level Four. "But we’re still alive. Still advancing. That counts for something."

Behind them, the Garden of Paradox continued its impossible existence. Trees growing downward. Rivers flowing uphill. Time running in all directions.

And in the center of the clearing, where the egg had been, a single flower grew.

It bloomed and wilted in the same moment.

Forever.

---

Earth - Seoul - Crucible Initiative - 9:47 AM (Six Hours After Rift Closure)

Director Kwan stared at the blank monitoring screens with expression that suggested he’d just witnessed something impossible.

"Still nothing?" Dr. Min asked from the doorway.

"Complete spatial severance. The rift doesn’t just read as closed. It reads as never having existed." Kwan gestured at the data. "Reality edited itself. Removed evidence of the connection."

"That’s not how spatial rifts work."

"No. It’s not." He pulled up archived readings from the moment of entry. "But look at this. In the 0.3 seconds between Subject Yoo entering and the rift closing, the energy signature spiked by 4,700%. Then collapsed to zero instantly."

"What could cause that?"

"A trial world recognizing something it wanted." Kwan’s expression was thoughtful. "Or something it feared. Either way, it took them and sealed the entrance permanently."

"So they’re dead."

"Almost certainly." Kwan closed the files. "Trial worlds have 89% mortality rate. Even if Subject Yoo survives the trials, exit probability is near-zero. He’s been classified as KIA."

Dr. Min was quiet for three breaths. Then: "I don’t think he’s dead."

"Based on?"

"Intuition. That child survived two deaths already. Catastrophic Reformation at 23% odds. Primordial seed integration that should have killed him. He’s..." She struggled for words. "He’s the kind of person who rewrites probability through sheer stubborn refusal to accept limitations."

"That’s not how statistics work."

"And yet." Dr. Min pulled out her tablet, showing Yoo’s medical records. "Every model said he’d die. Every projection said he’d fail. And every time, he survived. That’s not luck. That’s something else."

Kwan studied the data. Then, reluctantly: "If—if—Subject Yoo somehow survives and returns, what do we do?"

"Welcome him back. Study what he’s become. Document everything."

"And if he’s hostile? Changed by the trial world into something dangerous?"

Dr. Min met his eyes. "Then we deal with it. But I’m not writing him off as dead until I see a corpse. That child has earned that much respect."

Kwan nodded slowly. "Agreed. File remains open. Status: MIA-Presumed-KIA. If he returns within 180 days, we resume cooperation agreement."

"And after 180 days?"

"After that, he’s officially dead. And we move on."

They stood in silence, watching blank monitors that showed nothing.

Neither of them noticed the small fluctuation in background spatial readings. Just a blip. Easily dismissed as sensor noise.

But in that 0.03-second fluctuation, if anyone had been analyzing with Primordial-level precision, they would have detected:

A connection. Forming. Growing. Between Earth and somewhere else. Building slowly. Invisibly.

Like a bridge being constructed one molecule at a time.

From the other side.