Recoleta: "Historical records of the Die of Babylon can still be found in the library of Santa Teresa University."
Recoleta: No, no, no. An opening like this would make the story too ambiguous.
Recoleta: "In 1975, in the town of Amalfitano, Sonora, Mexico, something terrible and eerie took place in the cottage with the blue roof. It all began with the peculiar customs of the loc—"
Recoleta: Wait, how did I learn about all this? I need to add a role for the narrator—the storyteller!
Recoleta: "A surrealist poet from Mexico told me this story. An old woman walked into the bar she frequented in town. At the same moment ..."
Aleph: "... the Bank Clerk entered the bar, too, bringing news that a multinational corporation was going to build a cookie soap factory in Amalfitano."
Recoleta: Wait, "Bank Clerk"? I didn't know there were banks in Amalfitano.
Recoleta: But it does make sense! Commercial banks are no doubt a hallmark of capitalism. Thanks, pen pal!
Recoleta: "Before he became a Bank Clerk, he was an advocate of the town's ancient customs."
Recoleta: "He was a Dune Piscator."
Aleph: "After accepting the fate bestowed by the Die of Babylon, he chose to leave everything behind: the sad horrifying village, and the cycles hidden within infinite randomness."
Recoleta: Oh, how ironic. But it's still realistic, too. Now we just need a contrasting character—a believer in fate.
Recoleta: "An elderly weaver sat in her ancient workshop, tirelessly spinning her wheel, a precious gift bestowed to her by the Die of Babylon."
Aleph: "The Blind Weaver softly recounted all she had experienced."
Recoleta: What a brilliant idea, Aleph! A blind weaver couldn't possibly witness the murder!
Recoleta: Fantastic! In that case, I'll add a donkey driver who gets murdered in this chapter.
Recoleta: With each of your suggestions, the story takes a step forward. Thanks, Aleph.
Recoleta: But I still can't see any sign of the ending.
Recoleta: It's like no matter how many new characters we add, there's still something missing in the desert town. It lacks a key figure.
Recoleta: Aleph, what should I do? How do I give this story an ending?
Aleph: You asked me yourself, "How do I give this story an ending?"
Aleph: You described to me how your words had transformed into an immoderate, infinite puzzle—an unrecognizable language, a collection of ambiguous information, and a parable that had lost all meaning.
Aleph: The absence of an ending still gnaws at you, forever trapping you in that scorching desert town.
Aleph: All I'm doing is trying to find it for you.
Recoleta: A-Are you saying you've been manipulating the happenings in the Panopticon like this ever since we first exchanged letters last September?
She struggles, vainly hoping for him to deny it.
Aleph: Yes. Every time you revised the novel, corresponding adjustments were made in the Panopticon. Faithfully reflecting the intricacies of every detail was key to ensuring the story proceeds smoothly.
Aleph: Such adjustments were handled by Merlin mostly; sometimes, the Idealist; and before them, Zahir and Paracelsus.
Recoleta: "Every time"?
Aleph: Six versions of the Amalfitano story have played out in the Panopticon already.
Recoleta: Does that mean ... the frog crushed in the mud, the cow dying of old age, the dormouse falling into the sea,
Recoleta: the ghost killed in the duel, and the sudden changes to the Die of Babylon ...
Recoleta: All the revisions you suggested—all the deaths, chaos, and madness—they all actually happened right here?
The ever-knowing prisoner falls into a long, dark silence. He will not answer a question when the one asking already knows the answer.
Aleph: Even eternity has its limits, Recoleta.
Aleph: In the sixth revision, we added the Blind Weaver, an extraordinary figure.
Aleph: Just like the Paracausality Researcher who carries a suitcase that you introduced in your seventh letter.
Sonetto: The Paracausality Researcher carrying a suitcase?
Sonetto: Ms. Recoleta, is this character really based on the Timekeeper?
Recoleta: What? Of course not! The Paracausality Researcher is an entirely different character!
Aleph: Don't you understand? We are only one die roll away from the ending.
Aleph lifts the core of the Infinite Labyrinth. The Tear of Comala swirls slowly in his hand.
Recoleta: I-I don't ... What on earth are you trying to do?
The filament lamps of the operating room dim in time with his motions. The walls ripple like water, then transform into countless mirrors.
Within the mirrors, an endless stream of information appears.
A seemingly possessed telephone babbles, an old radio sings, a flickering slide projector whirs and cracks, a muted film projector spins, a timetable opens, and dictionaries of countless languages flow past.
A room without an exit, an eternal predicament, a prisoner's dwelling.
Aleph: Recoleta, it is the cycle of fate that has brought you to the Panopticon of Comala in Ushuaia.
Aleph: Now, return to The Rise and Fall of Sanity. Return and become a character once more.
Aleph: You've been searching for its ending, but how could you possibly find it when you're no longer inside the story?
Aleph: I believe that this time, you will witness the grand finale with your own two eyes. No more sadness. No more loneliness.
Aleph: The answer you've long sought lies in the inevitable final roll of the Die.
Recoleta: So the jailer is the Bank Clerk and Urd is the Blind Weaver. But what about Roberta, García, and Octavia?
Recoleta: They weren't even assigned roles! They were just playthings, helpless in the face of "fate."
Recoleta: What right do you or I have to decide what happens to them, to dictate their gains and losses?
Aleph: But they couldn't possibly understand such a thing, could they?
Aleph: To you, it's just a story. But to them, it is the manifestation of bittersweet destiny.
Recoleta: Do you think hiding behind the guise of fiction absolves you from the reality that you've turned the Panopticon into a living hell?
Recoleta: Yes, you're the only one who truly understands The Rise and Fall of Sanity. Goodness knows how many manuscripts I sent out that never received a reply.
Recoleta: I was so grateful to you. For your replies, for understanding my novel. Those things were more precious to me than any sunrise over the Andes.
Recoleta: Had I known that your feedback was created in such a way, and at such a cost, I would've preferred not to receive it at all.
Recoleta: Don't you get it? Even if they don't understand my novel, the people I meet are still my friends, whether we took a long journey together or we simply chatted for a few hours.
Recoleta: We formed an inseparable, miraculous bond. They're a part of me.
Recoleta: How could you treat them like fictional characters?
Recoleta: It's disrespectful to my work and to life itself.
The writer's resistance is so sharp that it cuts through Aleph's carefully constructed labyrinth easily.
Aleph: But you raised the question yourself.
Aleph: Why do you resist receiving its answer?
He lowers his head, and for the first time, cracks appear on that indestructible mask.
The Physician: Hah, they're always like this, aren't they? They throw a question at you only to abandon it along with the fading of the era.
The Physician: This "Storm" will spare no one. You've known it all along, Aleph.
The Physician: Only the timeless Panopticon can maintain control. The all-seeing tower. The perfect governing system.
The Idealist: What a hopeless fool you are, Merlin. Haven't you heard what they say? "There is no need to build a labyrinth when the whole world already is one!"
The Idealist: Your meaningless questions will be swept away by the tides of time, only to resurface on the shores of our minds once more. We've seen it happen over and over again! Surely you've realized by now that the only true meaning can be found in literature.
The Idealist: For over a century, literature has remained the singular, ultimate answer. This lonely cowboy is simply feeling lost at the moment.
The Physician: Spare us your ramblings, Idealist! You're wasting our time.
Aleph: Enough.
The die that reflects the heart can no longer bear its weight, as it glows from within burning fissures.
On the surrounding mirrors, countless reflections of Aleph appear, each wearing a different face. They crowd into the room as a flood of ghosts.
Vertin: Aleph seems to be in a terrible state. We have to be careful. Something isn't right about that die!
FINAL BOSS
The chaotic battle comes to an abrupt halt.
Sonetto: Wait, Mr. Aleph, are you human?
Sonetto steps back, lowering her glasfeder.
She is shocked to realize that her opponent has no arcane skills at all. From beginning to end, all he had was the die.
Sonetto: Please hand over the die peacefully!
Vertin: Mr. Aleph, please stop resisting. It's futile.
Aleph: Futile. Yes, it's all futile.
Aleph: The cage of rules, the ideals of literature ... Both are futile, mere illusions conjured along the path to transcendentality.
Aleph: They all fear that they're nothing more than phantoms in someone else's dream—that reality will devour everything, including their very existence. That's why they drift further and further away from transcendentality.
Aleph: They couldn't break free from that false dream. None of them could.
Aleph stumbles as he looks up at the storyteller.
Aleph: Both the Physician and the Idealist walked toward their own destruction. Just as I expected.
Aleph: But your novel still has hope, Recoleta. Its ending hasn't been written yet.
Aleph: We cannot deny that it may be the answer to achieving transcendentality.
Vertin: You're not going to stop, are you?
Vertin: Not until you get your "answer."
Vertin: Sonetto, we have no choice but to seize the die from him by force.
Sonetto's arcane energy gathers at the tip of her glasfeder. At this moment, the silent storyteller takes a step forward.
Recoleta: Enough.
Recoleta: I said, enough!
She shakes as she reveals the notebook that has never left her side.