1 Mandate
In a dim workshop hidden beneath an abandoned military outpost in the mountains of northern Luzon, a solitary figure labored by the light of a carbide lantern. The walls were lined with shelves filled with strange artifacts collected through bloodied conquests—fragments of forgotten idols, ancient scrolls, and jars filled with powders and potions whose purposes had been lost to time. At the center of the room sat Sodo hunched over a workbench covered with delicate mechanical parts and small, humanoid figurines, each barely the size of a thumb.
Sodo had survived countless ages, moving through humanity’s history like a shadow. Once, he had been one of the mighty Watchers, a celestial being whose purpose was to observe, not to interfere. But he had strayed, lured into forbidden paths, enthralled by carbonites’ endless pursuit for sex and knowledge. He had walked away from his mandate, even if not as thoroughly as his rebellious brethren. Semyaza and the others had been cast into the abyss, imprisoned for eternity for teaching humans the forbidden arts. Sodo had survived Jehovah’s wrath, spared only because he did not share their brazenness.
Or so he told himself.
Sodo had avoided the fate of his fellow Watchers by accepting Jehovah’s offer: he would continue to walk among mortals, spared from divine retribution, so long as he served Jehovah’s purpose. Once a mighty Watcher whose sole role was to observe, Sodo had conceived a bold idea—to identify spiritually sensitive carbonites and empower a select few to help humanity regulate itself against those who defied Jehovah. These chosen few, known later as Master Controllers, would become his eyes and ears. Each bore power through the Chauvin Coins he crafted; the results varied based on the spiritual maturity and courage of the possessor.
But this mission, though eternal, had grown tedious. Sodo found himself increasingly drawn to creation, to the things he could offer the inhabitants of U169 with the knowledge he had gained. So he built, experimented, and tinkered in the shadows, indulging in the forbidden creativity that had once cursed his kin.
Tonight, he focused on his latest invention—a network of figurines, each embedded with microscopic circuits and golden wires woven from golden threads of the mystical Chauvin coins he had crafted centuries ago. Over a millennia ago, he had created basic figurines that shamans could use to evoke spiritual powers they did not have through various enchantments or spells. This was not for the controller.
Sodo picked up one of the figurines—a little stone figure shaped like a medieval knight. This would be the solution Controllers needed to protect against meddling angels or other spirits. He closed his eyes, focusing, and felt his consciousness flow into the figurine. The knight’s tiny limbs moved, jerking awkwardly at first, then more smoothly as Sodo adjusted to the tiny body. The knight raised its sword, made of a sliver of metal no bigger than a nail clipping, and took a few unsteady steps across the workbench.
“Good,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. His centuries of work had finally culminated in this moment. These figurines could be controlled remotely—up to a hundred at once—each one a silent extension of his will. They could infiltrate, observe, and perhaps even attack if need be. And when their task was done, they would return to their inanimate forms, nothing more than small curios to the human eye.
It was more than just amusement; Sodo was setting the stage for something bigger, though he couldn’t yet see the full picture himself. He only knew that he was driven by a desire that had grown sharper over the years—a longing to be involved, to make a mark, yet remain unseen.
A faint knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Why knock? He frowned, his body tensing instinctively. The door was hidden; he hadn’t had a visitor in years, not in this secluded mountain hideaway. With a flick of his wrist, he willed one of the figurines—a little stone fox—to scurry over to the door and peek through the narrow gap.
Through the fox’s eyes, he saw the figure waiting outside. It was a man—no, not a man, something else entirely. He wore a long, dark robe, and his eyes glowed faintly, a shimmer of the Otherworld lingering within. Sodo recognized the aura immediately. It was an angel. But not just any angel—this was Uriel, one of the archangels tasked with binding the Watchers eons ago.
“Uriel,” Sodo murmured, his voice edged with caution and curiosity. He released his control over the fox and rose from his workbench, his form shifting subtly, morphing into a human appearance—an older man with weathered skin and a lean, wiry frame. He opened the door slowly, keeping his face blank.
Uriel’s gaze was piercing, his eyes an unsettling blend of fire and ice. “Sodo,” he said, inclining his head in a greeting that felt both respectful and restrained.
“What brings you here, Uriel?” Sodo asked, his tone light, though he could feel tension thrumming beneath his skin. An archangel’s visit was rarely a good sign.
“Jehovah has noted your… inventions,” Uriel said, his voice carefully neutral. “There is concern among the Council. Your figurines, these—what did you call them? They have caught the eye of other forces.”
“Concern?” Sodo scoffed, though he kept his expression mild. “These are tools, nothing more. Instruments to help humanity regulate itself. They empower a select few, chosen for their spiritual resilience, to bear some of my power as per my mandate. Surely you don’t question Jehovah’s judgment in giving me this task?”
Uriel’s gaze did not waver. “Perhaps. But there is fear that you are treading close to the line, as the others did before you. Some think you are creating beings to worship you. Of course, Jehovah does not think that. Anyway, the Council grows weary of a Watcher who tests their mandate. You remember Semyaza, Azazel… must I remind you of their fate?”
The implication was clear. Sodo felt a flicker of annoyance. He had endured centuries of service, monitoring rogue spirits and reporting on stray carbonites, taking on the mantle of Jehovah’s quiet enforcer. He had proven his loyalty, time and time again, while his brethren languished in chains. And yet, here he was, still under suspicion.
“My inventions are only meant to observe,” Sodo replied, his voice clipped. “They do not harm. I have not forgotten the fate of my brothers.”
Uriel’s eyes softened just a fraction. “I know you have not, Sodo. But you should understand that power—especially forbidden power—calls to the darker elements of Creation. The line between observation and influence is thinner than you realize.”
Sodo held Uriel’s gaze, unwilling to break the silence. He could feel the temptation bubbling within him, the urge to defy, to prove his creations could be more than mere tools. He disagreed about the darker sides of creation. Even Jehovah was prone to destroying his creations. Most of the purpose behind the Council was to keep Jehovah in line. But Sodo swallowed his pride, nodding slowly.
“I hear your warning, Uriel,” he said. “And I will heed it.”
The archangel studied him for a long moment before giving a slight nod. “Very well. Jehovah’s eyes are upon you, Sodo. Remember that.” With that, Uriel turned, his form shimmering briefly before disappearing, leaving the workshop cold and silent.
Sodo shut the door and leaned against it, releasing a slow breath. Uriel’s words echoed in his mind, but he could not quench the hunger to continue with his projects.
He returned to the workbench, picking up one of the Chauvin coins. It glinted dully under the dim light, and he felt the faint hum of power within. He knew he should destroy it or, at the very least, lock it away, but the idea filled him with a deep, restless sorrow.
In his heart, Sodo knew that he was no longer content to observe. He wanted to participate, to shape, to control. It was a dangerous path, one he had long avoided. But the hunger had grown over the centuries, fed by his creations and by his lingering memories of what it had felt like to wield true power.
With a sigh, he slid the coin back into his pocket. For now, he would continue to serve as he always had. But perhaps… perhaps it was time to use his figurines for more than idle experimentation. He would test their limits and see how far he could push them without crossing the line Uriel had warned him about.
And if he happened to blur that line in the process, well… he was, after all, the last Watcher. And who would be left to observe him?
2 Return of a Friend
Sodo closed the door slowly, the weight of Uriel’s words still pressing on him like a physical force. He sighed, staring at the cold stone of the floor, but his mind was already turning. The glint of Chauvin coins on his workbench caught his eye. He picked one up, turning it over in his fingers, feeling the subtle pulse of power within.
“Perhaps I have earned this,” he murmured to himself. “A taste of creation… without crossing the line.”
He looked at his figurines—dozens lined up in perfect rows on the table. Some were knights with swords raised; others, foxes, dragons, and abstract shapes—each crafted with meticulous care, each an extension of his will.
One of the figurines, a stone owl with tiny, outstretched wings, seemed to catch his eye. Sodo picked it up, his thumb tracing the fine carvings on its head. He’d called these creations “tools” for so long, denying their true purpose. But in his heart, he knew they were his disciples. He’d given them life, even if only a borrowed, controllable form.
His reverie was interrupted by a whisper, a voice echoing from the shadows.
“You walk a fine line, Sodo.”
Sodo froze, his grip tightening around the owl figurine. The voice was familiar—a spirit he hadn’t heard from in centuries, one that shouldn’t even be able to reach him in this plane.
“Is that… Azazel?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
A swirl of shadow gathered in the room’s far corner, coalescing into a faint figure with dark, piercing eyes.
“Still remember me, old friend?” Azazel’s voice was soft, almost mocking. “I was wondering when you’d tire of Jehovah’s leash.”
Sodo set the owl figurine back on the table, his hand hovering over it protectively. “I have not ‘tired’ of anything. I am fulfilling my purpose while you and the others rot in chains.”
Azazel laughed, a hollow, haunting sound. “Purpose? Don’t fool yourself. You’re just as eager to wield power as we were. You think these figurines are tools, but they’re more than that. They’re your way out.”
Sodo took a step back, shaking his head. “No. I’m nothing like you. I never defied Jehovah outright. I’m still serving him in my way.”
Azazel’s smile widened, his form darkening. “You can’t serve two masters, Sodo. Sooner or later, you’ll have to choose—stay bound by his rules or embrace what you truly are.”
Sodo felt a pulse of anger but kept his composure. He could sense the damp, sticky darkness radiating from Azazel, a corrupted energy still lingering despite his confinement in the abyss.
“Why are you here, Azazel?” Sodo asked, crossing his arms. “You’re no more than a whisper now, bound in the deep. You should have no power in this world.”
Azazel’s form flickered as if struggling to hold itself together. “I may be bound, but ideas are hard to bind. And I can see your ideas… your ambitions. We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I. The Council knows it, even if you refuse to admit it. Why else would Uriel visit you tonight?”
Sodo glanced back at the Chauvin coin, the tiny hum of power vibrating through his fingertips. Uriel’s warning echoed in his mind, but so did Azazel’s words. The urge to create, shape, influence—to be more than a silent observer—burned within him.
“Enough, Azazel,” he said coldly. “I’ve made my choice, and it wasn’t yours.”
Azazel tilted his head, a shadowy grin spreading across his face. “If that were true, I wouldn’t be here. You think you’re strong enough to resist, but the hunger is already there. It’s only a matter of time.”
With that, Azazel’s form dissolved into shadows, leaving only the faintest trace of his laughter in the air.
Sodo stared at the empty corner, his heart pounding. Was he right? Had he allowed his desires to drift too far from his mandate? He forced himself to turn away, to focus back on his figurines, but his mind was restless.
3 Sodo’s Experiment
After contemplating, Sodo reached for the Chauvin coin on his desk, his fingers brushing the other figurines lined up before him. He picked up the stone knight again, letting its tiny sword glint in the flickering light. He closed his eyes, letting his consciousness pour into the figurine, feeling the familiar rush as his mind melded.
With his will channeled into the tiny knight, he watched through its eyes and felt the weight of its stone limbs. He raised the knight’s sword, let it walk a few paces along the workbench, and then turned it toward one of the other figurines—a fox-shaped one with gleaming eyes.
Sodo activated the fox with a thought, his consciousness now split between them. He felt his control stretching, his awareness broadening. If he wished, he could control dozens like this. He could make them move, speak, or even fight.
With a wry smile, he whispered, “Let’s see how far I can push you.”
The fox moved with a fluidity that surprised him, darting across the workbench as if alive. The knight followed, clumsy but relentless, its tiny sword raised high. The two figurines clashed, stone meeting stone, the sounds echoing softly in the room. Sodo’s heart raced as he manipulated the battle, efficiently controlling each movement.
The fox ducked beneath the knight’s sword and leaped forward, landing on the knight’s back. Sodo let out a small chuckle, delighted by the dexterity he’d achieved. These figurines were not just tools—they were his creations, his silent soldiers.
Just then, a voice broke through the silence, one he hadn’t expected to hear again so soon.
“You’re already testing the limits, I see.”
Sodo spun around, releasing his hold on the figurines. Uriel stood in the doorway again, his face a mask of controlled disapproval.
“Uriel.” Sodo straightened, trying to hide his surprise. “I thought you’d gone.”
“Jehovah saw fit to send me back,” Uriel said, his gaze sliding to the figurines scattered on the workbench. “It seems we underestimated the pull this… power has over you.”
Sodo clenched his fists. “These are nothing more than instruments. You gave me the mandate to keep watch over this world. I’m merely adapting and evolving with the times. The carbonites—humans—must learn to regulate themselves.”
Uriel studied him in silence, his expression unreadable. “You believe you’re helping them, Sodo? That these so-called Master Controllers of yours, these ‘chosen humans,’ will bring balance?”
Sodo held his ground. “Yes. I believe they can. I give them tools and empower them to make choices. Is that so different from what we were commanded to do?”
Uriel took a step closer, his voice a low murmur. “The line between guiding and controlling is razor-thin, Sodo. Your Master Controllers… may begin with pure intent, but power like this rarely leaves men unchanged. Just as it’s left you unchanged.”
Sodo’s jaw tightened, his voice a defiant whisper. “And what if I am changed? What if I see a better way? You speak of lines, but perhaps you and the Council are too rigid, bound by rules that no longer fit this world. Times have changed, Uriel.”
Uriel sighed, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. “So they have. And so have you, my friend.”
A silence fell between them, thick and tense. At last, Uriel turned to leave, his form shimmering as he prepared to depart.
“Remember, Sodo,” he said, his voice fading. “Jehovah’s eyes are upon you. You may be the last Watcher but you are not beyond judgment.”
Uriel vanished, leaving the workshop dark and cold. Sodo stood motionless momentarily, a storm of emotions churning within him: anger, defiance, and, yes, a thrill he could no longer deny.
Sodo returned to his workbench, his eyes burning with a newfound determination. The fox figurine and the knight lay where he’d left them, motionless, innocent-looking. He reached out, his fingers brushing the Chauvin coin once more.
“Master Controllers,” he whispered, a slight smile curling at his lips. “Yes… carbonites will regulate themselves. But they’ll do so with my guidance.”
His eyes drifted to a small metal chest in the corner, inside of which lay dozens more Chauvin coins, each waiting for a chosen carbonite to wield its power.
As the last free Watcher, he could shape Universe 169. And if he chose to cross the line, Uriel had warned him about… well, perhaps the world was ready for a new kind of Watcher.
Sodo gathered his tools with steady hands, feeling the rush of purpose surge through him. Judgment or not, he was ready to carve his path through the ages, unseen but omnipresent, a quiet force guiding humanity toward his vision.
And if the Council chose to intervene, they’d find that Sodo was no longer a mere observer.
X03.3 (3,145)
Summary
Sodo, the last free Watcher, lives in hiding. Once tasked with observing carbonites in Universe 169, he avoided the fate of other rebellious Watchers cast into the abyss by accepting a mission from Jehovah to track rogue spirits. Over time, however, Sodo has grown restless and begun secretly experimenting to shape Universe 169 to his plan. His injective was to make carbon self-regulated. He created Chauvin Coins and figurines to awaken spiritually sensitive carbonites, especially humans. These warriors were called Master Controllers, led by the spirits Jehovah had embedded in his creation. Now, he had begun to create a new invention to assist these controllers in fighting even angels: a remote, controllable, replicable figurine.
One night, the archangel Uriel visits, warning that the Council is concerned Sodo may be repeating the mistakes of his fallen brethren. Though Sodo assures Uriel his creations are harmless, he privately resents the suspicion and feels an undeniable urge to wield absolute power. After Uriel departs, Sodo contemplates crossing the line between observation and influence, wondering who would be left to judge him if he chose to follow his ambitions. He decides to go into hiding where even Uriel could not find him.
<End of Summary>
