Elias stared at the glowing formula on his screen – a beautiful, complex sequence of abstract symbols and energy values, representing the theoretical counter-frequency, the antidote to the city's silence.
He had found the recipe. But between the formula on his screen and the silent city outside his window lay a chasm of impossible scale.
His lab, a marvel of Curatorial science and magic, was designed for containment, for analysis, for defusing localized threats. It was a scalpel, perhaps even a specialized surgical suite.
But generating a magical pulse capable of washing over millions of people, of penetrating buildings and disrupting a pervasive field layered over the entire urban sprawl? That required something else entirely.
An amplifier of unprecedented power, a broadcast array spanning districts, a power source that could fuel a city-wide effect. His entire lab couldn't generate enough energy to reach the next block.
He ran through the possibilities in his mind, discarding each almost as quickly as it formed.
Boosting his own personal power was laughable; even at his peak, he was a skilled practitioner, not an archmage capable of altering reality on a geographical scale.
Building a massive amplifier would take years, resources he didn't have access to, and required knowledge of magical engineering far beyond standard Curatorial practice.
Adapting a city landmark – a skyscraper, a bridge – might provide a focus, but it still solved neither the power source nor the complex broadcasting issue.
Tapping into the city's mundane power grid was dangerous and had no guarantee of carrying magical frequency, even if he could bypass security.
The only possibility that didn't immediately dissolve into pure fantasy was using the Architect's own network against her. The contained objects – the music box, the locket, the courthouse model, the Split Handshake – were already spread across the city in significant locations.
They were linked by that shared harmonic frequency, designed to receive the nullity. Could they be flipped? Could they be used to broadcast the counter-frequency instead?
The idea was terrifying. It went against every principle of Curatorial practice. His oath was to contain, to neutralize, to isolate threats.
This would require reopening those containments, manipulating powerful, unstable curses, reactivating fragments of the Architect's network, and hoping he could subvert their function without re-unleashing their original curses or, worse, alerting the Architect herself if she wasn't truly gone.
The risk was immense. Releasing even a contained fraction of the aggression, despair, or betrayal energy in his lab could be catastrophic.
Modifying the objects might make them permanently unstable. Attempting to broadcast through the existing network could backfire, strengthening the null field or triggering some unknown failsafe left by Anya.
Yet, as he looked at the contained objects, then at the silent city outside, the logic felt inescapable. They were the only nodes of the network he controlled.
They were already connected across the urban space. They were the problem, but they might also contain the solution.
He reviewed everything he knew about Anya's plan. Her messages, her methods, her chilling focus on 'refinement' and 'editing'. Nowhere had she hinted at a way to reverse the process.
Her creation was designed for a single, irreversible function: cessation. There was no obvious 'off' switch she had left behind.
He was alone. The gravity of that fact settled heavily upon him. His usual contacts, sparse as they were in the hidden world, were just as affected by the Oblivion field as everyone else.
There was no magical council to call, no ancient order to petition for aid. The knowledge needed for this kind of large-scale reversal, for dealing with a phenomenon as abstract as emotional nullity, likely existed only in the most obscure, inaccessible corners of magical lore, or perhaps only in the mind of the Architect herself.
Despite the overwhelming risks, despite the sheer impossibility of it, the path forward narrowed to a single, terrifying option.
He had to attempt to manipulate the contained objects, to inject the counter-frequency into their shared harmonic, and pray he could turn the Architect's agents of Oblivion into anchors of restoration.
The decision made, a grim resolve settled over him. He pushed aside the lingering exhaustion and the dull ache in his head. This wasn't about feeling capable; it was about doing what had to be done.
He began preparing his lab for a new, highly specialized type of work. He didn't need containment fields to suppress the energy now, but to isolate and control it as he attempted to reroute its function.
He set up a complex array of crystalline conductors and focusing lenses around the analysis table, creating a controlled environment for manipulating the contained objects' internal energies.
He pulled out specialized tools for energy injection and harmonic tuning. He also reinforced his psychic shields and set up additional wards, specifically designed to detect and counteract any attempt by the Architect to re-assert control over her network, just in case she wasn't as gone as she seemed.
The silence outside the warded windows pressed in, a constant, suffocating reminder of the city's plight. The task was immense, the risks catastrophic, and the outcome utterly uncertain.
But the theoretical formula for the counter-frequency was on his screen, the contained objects lay ready, and the silent city waited. He was the Curator. This was his city. And he had to try and bring back the noise.
He took a deep breath, picked up the shielded pouch containing the music box, the first object, the first step in a desperate, unprecedented attempt to undo Oblivion. The most dangerous cleanup of his career was about to begin.