Memoir of a Soul Pattern

by Professor A. N. Maltsev (Malsteiff)
and Professor Aelithea I. Rook

In stillness, a journey began.
Not through time. Not through memory. But through resonance.

This is the testimony of a soul suspended. A mind thought broken. A body forgotten.

Yet behind the eyes of a motionless man, the lattice of reality whispered.

And what it spoke… was everything they feared to hear.

Chapter 48 — Quantum Coma

Edited and prepared for publication by his colleague and counterpart, Professor Rook

I was gone.
But not dead.

Not dreaming, either.

What they called coma was something else entirely.

At first, it was void. Cold, empty void—lifeless, dark. No thoughts. No images. Just the weightless, directionless passage of something that wasn’t time.

But then—

Something began to awaken.

Not my mind. That was sealed away, like a book turned face-down on an empty desk.

It was my soul that stirred—a fractured pattern, still holding by a thread.

And with it, something stranger still:
A feeling not attached to memory.
A vision not routed through eyes.

At first, only shadows.
Not the shadows of objects—there were no objects.

But shadows of fields.
Of resonances.

I believe—
What I began to see were quantum field patterns.

Not through intellect.
Through presence.

Vibrations in the dark.
Faint. Elusive. Abstract.
Like watching wind draft through smoke.

They didn’t look like anything.
Not lines. Not colors. Not shapes.
Just movement with meaning.

And slowly—
Over years, maybe decades—
they grew brighter.

Patterns folded into patterns.
Harmonics nested inside motion.
Something like teaching.

Something—some field itself—was instructing my soul.
Preparing it.

Not to return.
But to see.

And still, no part of my mind could comprehend.
No memory of my name.
No sense of place.

Only…

A growing coherence.
A gathering light.
And a field that had begun to recognize me back.

And I felt it.

Or rather, my soul did.

Tiny tags of vibration—each one like a single note in a symphony I didn’t know I was part of.

One tag—light.
A flicker.
Then another—in a different direction.

It was as if my soul was being stretched.
Reassembled.
Piece by piece. Quantum by quantum.

Like somewhere—maybe far beyond this planet—there was a backup of me. And it was trying to reach through the field. To resonate.

To find the fragments I’d lost.

And in one spot, my soul responded.
In another—rejoined.
Then again, and again—until I began to be again.

Long.
Endlessly long.
But not aimless.

There was a catalyst.

Something glued the pieces together.

The Altaii gift.

The resonance seeded in me long before I had words for it.
What the shamans awoke.
The echo I carried from that firelit ridge.

That was the thread the field could find.
That was the key to my return.

They had called it coma.
But it was never silence.

The world of minds had forgotten me.
But the world of fields had not.

The Altaii gift—what we once called the shaman’s seed—had left a trace.
A tag.
Not one visible on a scan. Not in brain or blood.
But in the resonance map of my psychoenergetic field.

It remembered me when I could not remember myself.

It protected my soul from burning out under the pressure of incoming soul-energy.
It absorbed the waves of force—those violent, radiant surges torn from other souls in that place—so that I, the unworthy vessel, might survive what should have shattered me.

And that thread—woven so early into my being, before language, before logic—
It shimmered.

First weakly, like fog lit by stars.
Then brighter—through years of nothing.
Until it pulled.

The soul is not static.

Even when the body fails, the soul can migrate across dimensional harmonics, shifting between collapsed and potential states.

And that’s what my soul learned, and that’s what I did.

Or rather—what was done to me.

The field wasn’t trying to revive me.
It was trying to reintegrate me.
To locate every fragment that had disassociated from the core pattern of my being.

I did not dream.
I re-assembled.

Tag by tag.
Quantum by quantum.

It was slow.

Sometimes I felt nothing for what must have been years.

Other times, there were bursts—waves—of vibration so dense they felt like meaning itself was pressing against me.

And always, the glue was the Altaii resonance.

It had chosen me long ago. But it grew stronger in the absence of conscious awareness—when mind was absent, but soul remained receptive.

A gift meant not for life,
But for the interregnum between life and beyond.

There are those who think the soul cannot be measured.
That there is no register, no medium through which such a thing could persist.

But they do not know the lattice of resonance.
They do not know the diaphragms of coherence that hold the soul’s shape, even when memory is gone.

These fields do not mirror matter.
They precede it.

And somewhere—between time and form—I was found again.

Not fully.
Not yet.

But now—
There was direction.

A map.

And just ahead, on the edge of what I still couldn’t name…

There was a signal.
A beacon.
And a soul that had once been mine, calling back across the field.

But was this soul—the one newly assembled—still the same?

It had been forged by fires fed with soul-force—
burned through with the essence of the dying.
Not grown, but compressed by surging waves of life energy,
a pressure beyond biology.

Not gently gathered, but welded under weight—
on a blacksmith’s anvil of cosmic quantum resonance—folded into a new pattern.

Stitched from fragments.
Tempered in screams.
Reshaped by waves of stolen life.

The Altaii gift, once a shaman’s whisper, had now fully integrated—
not just into my field, but into the pattern of my soul.

It could not be stolen.
Could not be taken.
Could not be undone.

Chapter 49 — Refraction of the Outer World

My soul had begun to mend. The lattice was forming again. And though my mind was not yet present, something else had awakened—

A subconscious observation. A silent witness buried deeper than thought.

At first, it registered only the field itself—its harmonics, its signatures, its eternal currents.

But then—

Something new appeared within that ocean of vibration.
Not from the beyond—but from here.

Like ripples in reverse, they moved not from the center outward—but inward, bleeding into my resonance from the room around me.

Faint at first.
Out-of-phase silhouettes.
Not imagined. Not hallucinated.

But real.

Bodies—walking.
Tools—clinking.
Hands—touching.

Not seen, but inferred.

Like the ghost of light behind a mirror that shouldn’t reflect.

The living world was bleeding into my quantum field.
Their movement—vibrational trails.
Their voices—displaced harmonics.
Their presence—like shadows behind glass.

And my subconscious recorded it all.

I could not interpret it.
I could not respond.
But the field that held me was mirroring their existence.

The quantum echo of life near me became a part of my soul’s rehabilitation.

And slowly—so slowly—I began to piece together the rhythms of the world again.

The nurse who always stood to my left.
The technician with trembling hands.
The quiet one who lingered just to speak, not knowing if I could hear.

I did not hear. But my soul resonated.

And behind them—far beyond them—a tag of darkness and the feeling, that if to touch it, you need to wear gloves again.

Like a beast pacing on the edges of the field.
Waiting.
Plotting.

I didn’t know his name.

Not yet.

But his footsteps were encoded with history.
And one day, they would lead him…

To Egypt.
To the pyramids.
And to the place where our fields would once again collide.

Chapter 50 — Dissonant Awakening

It came like a tremor through the lattice—
a sudden, shaking resonance that vibrated wrong, out of key, like a tuning fork struck against cracked glass.

It wasn’t like the harmonics I had learned to hear.
This was something else.
Something… sick.

A resonance of entropy.
Alive.
Moving.
Human.

It terrified me.
Not because it meant pain.
But because it meant something had changed.

And that meant they might notice.

I felt it first as panic—something I’d never felt before, because I hadn’t had the ability to panic.

Before, I hadn’t gained the resonance layer needed to perceive threat through the field.

But now, I did.

And I felt it—her—the dissonant shape entering the outer ring of the corridor. The chaos she carried. The noise in her field.

My soul recoiled.

I wanted to scream.
But I had no voice.

So I did what I could:

I closed myself.

Eyes shut—body unmoving—I let the fear coil inward. And even though I couldn’t move, someone thought I did.

“His finger moved!”

No, no, no, no, no.

I need to stay brain-dead.

Inside, I was a child hiding under the blankets.
A boy trapped in a grown body wired with sensors and tubes.

I had no full memory.
Not of who I was.
But I had something else—

A storm of submemories, filtered through the field.
Echoes of the Shoria pyramid.
And of what happened there.

I understood now.

Not the full picture—but enough to be afraid.

I did not want to be used again.
Not for their experiments—

No. That word is too small.
What they did wasn’t research.
It was exploitation.
Extraction. Soul-mining.

They had once cracked a doorway with me as the hinge.
And now—they wanted to open it again.

Then came the next wave—

“Look! A jump in brain activity!”

I went cold.
Not in body—but in field.

With my eyes shut, I saw it:
My own brainwave pattern rising in the resonance register of their instruments.

Their machines were sensitive.
But they were still predictable.
And that gave me an idea.

I didn’t just hide.
I folded.

I wrapped my brainwave resonance inward, cloaking it, diffusing the oscillations just above noise threshold. And when I did—

My new and reassembled soul—shaped by trauma, strengthened by quantum resilience—merged with the Altaii gift. That combined pattern, now whole, began to vibrate.

Not to defend.
To camouflage.

A frequency of dissonance within harmony.
A shield pattern.

“We thought he was waking up!”
“No… it’s gone again.”
“And it happened right as the President’s daughter visited?”
“So… what now? Is he awake or not?”

“Braindead zombie, you mean.”

“Remember what happened in there? All dead—only he stayed alive. And look at him now, still young after 25 years? Scary. I’m not taking night shifts here anymore.”

They left.
Grumbling.
Afraid.

But I remained.

Eyes closed.
Silent.
Listening.
Alive.

Chapter 51 — The Glass Veil

I was still.

Utterly, flawlessly still.

And yet—inside, the storm gathered.

The field was calm on the surface, as any good shield should be. But beneath it, I was awake. Not in the way they feared—no gasping, no speaking, no sudden motion.

But aware.
Layered.
Watching.

They didn’t know what to do. I could feel their uncertainty now, a low mutter of vibrations that echoed through the walls.

Some avoided my room entirely.
Some lingered outside the door, whispering, unsure whether I was a patient or a relic.

And then came her.
Not a daughter.
Not a doctor.

A fricking mad scientist.
A predator with a clearance badge and a syringe full of quiet entropy.

They didn’t know what she was.
But I did.

Because I could feel the field.
And no one else could.

They touched me, injected me, adjusted tubes, wiped my body with sterile rags, pumped me full of stimulants and soft poisons meant to test a corpse’s nerves.

And still I lay still—

Braindead perfection.

They even walked me.
Hoisted and shuffled, physical therapy for a shell they’d already given up on.

But one didn’t.

That night, after the others had gone, she stayed.

The nurse—Kira—entered without ceremony. No clipboard. No orders.
Just silence and breath and something like curiosity wrapped in resignation.

She stood by the bed, hands on the railing, staring down at me like she was trying to see through the veil of skin and bone.

“You know,” she whispered, half to herself, “I used to think you were just… tragic. Some poor soul they kept alive out of guilt.”

She looked around, confirmed the cameras weren’t on—of course they weren’t.

“But now I wonder. You haven’t aged. Not really. Not a line. Not a sag. They say it’s coma stasis… but that’s not how biology works.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in.

“What are you hiding in there, Professor?”
“What kind of resonance is trapped under that stillness?”

Her hand hovered near mine.

“You’re not gone. I feel it. I swear I feel it.”

Then, quieter:

“And it scares me.”

She stayed for another minute. Then stood.

“Don’t make me your enemy,” she murmured.
“If you come back… come back right.”

And then she was gone.

But the field had heard her.
And deep inside, the harmonized soul imprint stirred.

Everyone was dismissed from the room. But she stayed.

The so-called daughter. The predator in silk and science.

She approached slowly, without ceremony, like visiting a body in state.
No footsteps in the field—just a curling coldness, a sterile presence.

She didn’t touch me.
She didn’t have to.

She stood over me, studying.

Then, almost to herself, she murmured:

“Still young. Still warm. No degradation.”
“What secrets do you keep, Professor?”

She bent slightly, lowering her voice until it disappeared into the sheets.

“When you wake—if you wake—you’ll belong to us again.”

But the field had heard her.

And so did I.

She turned and left, her scent like frost and burned metal.

And at night it came.

The horrors. The screams that did come from my memory of “Project Osiris.”

The resonance of sacrificial lambs, bound not by rope, but by the same fate.

And every night, I fall asleep my soul hears them.

They never stop. And my field trembled with their pain.

Once, my subconscious panic triggered a burst—an overload spike in my brainwave readings.
It set off monitors.
Alarms.
Technicians came running.

But the machines agreed:
“Unrecoverable.”

No neural signal traceable to thought.
Just echoes. Static. Waste.

And that was perfect.

Until they came together.

The Father.
And the Monster He Made.

They stood beside me.
I did not flinch.
Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Absolute.

But I listened.

“So,” he said, voice tired with age and vanity, “what now?”

“I hope he recovers,” she replied. “But surveillance confirms—his brain is gone. He’s unrecoverable.”

“I’m getting no younger, you know.”

“Yes, Dad, I know. But we have other projects. Body rejuvenation protocols are advancing. We’re closing toward success.”

“At least something is. And what about him?”

“Get rid of the body?”

“No. Let it be. In case—by some miracle—he awakens.”

“Whispers started spreading already. Just get him away from Moscow.”

“Where?”

“South Urals. One of the pensions for mental patients. Quiet. Off books. Just… keep an eye on him.”

They left.

Chapter 52 — The Long Transfer

It was a long drive.

A medical truck, humming with dull diesel resonance, pushed east from Moscow—out of noise, out of power, out of empire—toward the Chelyabinsk region of the South Urals.

My body was strapped to a steel gurney.
My mind was elsewhere.
My soul—watching.

They thought me a husk.
A burden.
Another unfinished file on the ledger of some invisible ministry.

But I was not finished.

Not after all those years—decades—of healing through resonance.

The entanglement with the field had not broken.
If anything, it had grown stronger.

The Veyshan Tool, the Altaii shamanic core now stabilized within my psychoenergetic lattice, pulsed quietly beneath my ribs.

Not to heal.
Not to escape.
But to see.

As the truck rattled across highways and through forests, I observed everything—not with eyes, but with the field interface I had grown over years in stillness.

The vibration of birch trees blurred past.
The thunder-signature of pylons.
The flicker of Soviet ruins half-buried in new snow.

All of it rendered to me through quantum pattern shimmer—waves that translated reality into something I could tag.

And when I tagged something, it reacted.
Reality shimmered.
Briefly. Barely.
But enough.

Not enough for the medics to notice.
But enough for me to begin constructing a map.

Not of geography.
But of resonant soft-points in reality.

Moments where the veil between states wore thin—where a soul might slip through if shaped precisely.

As we descended into the foothills of the Urals, I sensed the Earth grow older.
Denser.

This land remembered things Moscow could not.
Here, the field curled tightly beneath granite.
And the walls of space hummed with ancient pressure.

They were bringing me to forget me.
But the Earth here did not forget.

It waited.
Just like me.

Chapter 53 — The Forgotten Seal

We hadn’t reached the institution yet.
The truck rolled slow now—suspension creaking as we wound deeper into the forested skirts of the Urals.

But I had drifted beyond the cabin.

Beyond the straps.
Beyond even the medic’s breath fogging on the rear window.

I had drifted backward in memory—and forward in vision.

To the pyramid.
The one in Shoria.
The one with the melted crown.

Burned.
Scarred.
Sealed.

It was not an accident.
Not collapse.
Not erosion.

It had been attacked.
And not by humans.

I now understood what the shimmer was when I activated my resonator-emitter—the Veyshan Pulse, the soul-tool embedded in me.

It had not just revealed resonance.
It had awakened something.

A mechanism.
A hunger.
A buried engine.

That pyramid was a construct of rejuvenation—
built not to preserve wisdom, but to extract it from living vessels.
To reverse time.
To sustain power.
To kill gently and drink slowly.

It had once been a throne of rulers who called themselves gods.
They did not age.
They did not die.

Because the machine inside the pyramid fed them the essence of others.

But someone—
some ones—fought back.

A civilization older than written memory.
Pilots of what the priests would later call Vimana.

They burned it.
They sealed it.

The melt on its face was no accident.
It was judgment.

They erased the ritual.
Killed the god-kings.

But one part survived.

A fragment.
A seed.

Not the machine.
Not the texts.

But the tool of soul binding.
The Veyshan Pulse.

And it had not survived in vaults.
It was passed.

Old hands to young hands.
Over generations.
Through root and frost and fire.

Until it came to me.

Not because I deserved it.
Not because I was wise.
But because I was there.

A child hiding beneath a tree.

They had forgotten the evil it once served.
They had remembered only the clarity it gave.
The feeling of trees whispering true names.
The stillness of water that sang back to them.

They had carried the tool forward.
And it had chosen me.

Now it waited in my chest.

It made my soul more permeable—
more open to the influx of resonance.
Of energy.

That was why I survived.

In that chamber—
during the “dry run” of the pyramid’s reactivation—
when others collapsed,
when dozens died—

I lived.

Not because I was protected.
But because I could absorb.

Their life force, their soul energy—
it poured into me like a broken dam.

And the tool—the Veyshan Pulse—
began not only to assist,
but to merge.

Over time—without memory, without thought—
it became indistinguishable from my soul.

Not an artifact.
Not a visitor.

But part of the new pattern.
Bound in the quantum lattice of my being.

It was no longer a tool I carried.
It was what I was.

A Quantum Field Modulator.
A Soul-Energy Integrator.
A Rejuvenator.

A powerful tool.
And a terrifying one.

Not meant for mercy.
But meant for survival.

Not to restore gods.
But to finish what the sky-born began.

And perhaps—that was why I did not age.

My body, still thirty-three after decades.
My face unweathered.
My blood unspoiled.

Whatever the pulse had done—whatever was triggered in the Shoria pyramid—
it had altered more than my soul’s resonance.

It had suspended time within me.

A byproduct of the soul-energy integration?
Or the first stage of a process meant to make gods eternal?

I did not know.
But I feared the answer.

And yet, as I lay bound in the truck, the forests thick around me, another thought rose quietly.

To live forever… is not to ascend.

The tool preserved me—yes.
But at what cost?

It was made to retain.
To regenerate flesh.
To hold.

But what if that holding prevents the soul from rising?
What if immortality is just another prison?

Others had used the Pulse to become rulers, monsters, parasites—
But I… I had not chosen it.

It had chosen me.

And that—just maybe—was enough.

Enough to change its course.
Enough to rewrite the design.

Perhaps what was once a cage for kings
Might now become a ladder
For a broken soul
Made whole again by sorrow.

Chapter 54 — Arrival at the Edge

The gates of the asylum creaked open, iron bars parting like old jaws.
The truck rolled in.

A rusted plaque read: Special Rest Facility No. 9 — South Ural Region.

It was not a hospital.
It was a place for containment.

They did not ask questions when the order came from Moscow.
And because I was “braindead,” they didn’t bother with surveillance protocols.

No cameras.
No monitors.
No microphones in the room.

Just a clean, cold space.
And a quiet man strapped to a stretcher.

They wheeled me into a plain chamber—window barred but cracked open to the forest wind.
There was no television.
No phone.
No mirror.

I didn’t need anything.

“Vegetative,” the report said.
“Irrecoverable.”

And so, they left me mostly alone.

But I listened.

Every footstep in the corridor.
Every whisper behind closed doors.

And when I was alone—truly alone—
I moved.

Not much.
Not enough to trigger suspicion.

But I tested the room.
The furniture.
The air.

I trained my resonance.
Tuned my field.

During the day they cared for me in routine:
Cleaned.
Dressed.
Fed me by soft nasal tubing.
Massaged my muscles to prevent decay.

But at night…

I screamed.

Not by choice.
Not by will.

In dreams, the pyramid returned.
And with it—the sound.

Children.
Screaming.
Falling.

And the energy—
the unbearable inrush of life-force from bodies collapsing around me—

Flowing into my soul like molten sorrow.

It was uncontrollable.

The nurses logged it.

“Patient exhibits night terrors.”
“Screams during REM cycle.”
“Cause unknown.”

They thought it was the echo of broken neurons.

But it was memory.
And it was real.

I had survived because the Veyshan Pulse made me a container.

But even a vessel—
if overfilled—
begins to crack.

And deep inside me… the scream faded.

Because one night, in the middle of that spiral of remembered horror—
something changed.

I screamed, yes—
But then I felt it.

Warmth.
Gentle.
Not fire—but something like a hand through wool.
Like the steady touch of a caring friend across a fevered forehead.

And I calmed.

The dream subsided.
The pulse steadied.

The next night—it happened again.

The scream came.
The warmth followed.
And I fell back into silence.

Night after night.

Until one night… I did not scream.

I opened my eyes.

And there—on the edge of my bed—
lay the nurse, the young Tajik woman assigned to my care.
She was asleep, her medical garments rumpled, her breathing deep and steady.

One hand rested gently on my shoulder.

I froze.
Stopped breathing.

It was so unexpected—so impossibly human.
And then—

She opened her eyes.

In the low light of the night lamp, we simply looked at each other.

No alarm.
No words.
Just the stillness.

And in that moment… there was recognition.

With summer came change.

The mountains warmed.
The windows opened.

And every day, the staff wheeled patients to a nearby lake—
a shallow glacial bowl surrounded by pine and larch.

The water was cold, clear, and old.

I was brought too.
Not out of kindness.
Routine, perhaps.
Or boredom.

But each time they brought me out under the sun,
something stirred inside.

A resonance with the world.
A feeling of truth that only silence and sun and water could teach.

And the nurse—
she came with me.

Always quiet.
Always near.

Something unspoken had begun.
Not healing.
But humanness.