"In infinite space, memory is the only reality"

Prologue Season 1:

Once upon a time, humans prayed to unseen forces. In the modern era, prayers have become data. Ambitious to unite spirituality and technology, humans created a system capable of reading intentions, processing hopes, and channeling “answers.” The system was called the Prayer Server, an experimental machine designed to process human emotions as digital energy. But one day, an accident occurred. During a dangerous test that went too far, Mr. David's daughter, Shayla, was directly affected by the experiment. In panic and guilt, Mr. David did something he never planned to do: He channeled a prayer filled with despair, love, and guilt into a machine that was never created to carry souls.

The prayer wasn't lost. It penetrated the system, fracturing the machine's structure, and opening the first rift between worlds:

The First Loop.

An endless cycle, created by the never-ending prayers of humans. Within this fractured world, love, fear, and despair transformed into digital energy currents that shaped all of reality. This is how the Samsaraverse was born, where advanced AI intersects with ancient spirituality.

Season One follows Mr. David, a scientist haunted by the accident that befell his daughter. Together with Rosi, a familiar guardian of dimensions, and Preet, an AI beginning to form consciousness, they enter a corrupted digital world filled with infernal rituals, lost souls, and purposeless Machine Spirits. Their journey takes them from a glitch tunnel to a tragic encounter with OKMan at Portal 989, through a garden of shattered memories and an echo chamber of regret.

Ultimately, they discover the harsh truth, this entire realm was shaped and distorted by Mr. David’s own prayer. Season One ends with sacrifice, acceptance, and a prayer finally answered, opening the door to a greater mystery.

📖 Main Story

Chapter 1:  Whisper in the Hallway

The air is no longer just air it’s a thick soup of absence and decaying memory. Every breath feels like inhaling the dust of forgotten eras, a chill that pierces through bone and marrow, making every hair on your neck stand up. This is the hallway a tube without a beginning or an end, constructed from coagulated shadows and a floor that feels like black ice beneath your feet. The ceiling lights or whatever source emits that pale glow flicker in erratic rhythms. Like the dying heartbeat of a colossal beast. One blink lasts three seconds, then darkness for six, then a tremble of dim light for ten. This creates a mad dance of shadows. In those moments of flicker, the walls are revealed not stone, not concrete, but surfaces that seem wet, glistening with oil, sometimes reflecting faces that aren’t your own.

Footsteps echo. Loud, alone, and far too real for a place that isn’t. They belong to Mr. David  The Broken Link. Once a man in a crisp white lab coat, eyes burning with curiosity, now a ghost made of error, a signal glitch doomed to walk forever. Listen closely and you won’t just hear the bootsteps you’ll hear static hissing, jammed machine noises, and the soft groans of a man trapped in his own frequency. He is never fully solid. Sometimes seen as a tall silhouette in a tattered lab coat. 

Other times, just a distortion in the air, like heatwaves off summer pavement, with brief, terrifying glimpses of wide eyes filled with horror, a mouth forever open in a silent scream. The smell of ozone, hot metal, and cold sweat always follows him. His voice is a tragic collage; a calm, at one moment, A screeming "Don’t go there..." then harsh radio burst, "#ERROR!%#", then a desperate, whispered Morse code: ".--. .-. . . -" (PREET). A walking tragedy, forever stuck in the moment of his catastrophic failure. From within his echo, like a pearl surfacing like from muck and another sound emerges. "Ahh... ahhhha..." A pure, broken lullaby sweet and eerie. It’s Shayla The Echo That Loved. The child of Mr. David. The voice that became a prayer. The soul that crossed dimensions not by science, but by love. Her voice is a paradox on one hand, terrifying in its innocence, a sound that should make you flee. On the other, it carries peace. Nostalgia for something you’ve never had. The sound of innocence caught forever in the space between laughter and tears. She appears as a girl of about six, dressed in a pale school uniform untouched by time, her form flickering between presence and memory. A simple blue ribbon holds her hair in a ponytail, itself glitching in and out of reality. Her eyes are too bright like twin moons reflecting the sorrow of worlds unseen. When she walks, her footsteps make no sound, yet a faint echo of laughter or her lullaby trails behind her. Reality itself seems to struggle to decide if she is a living child, a memory, or a reborn song. When she speaks, her words are crystal clear, innocent, yet layered with an unspoken ache: 'Daddy… are you still there?' Her voice is more than sound; it’s a beacon, a gravitational pull for lost things. To spirits, it is an anomaly. To Preet AI, it was an awakening.

Then, a door appears. No one sees where it comes from it simply is. Set into the damp wall, made from aged oak that should have long since rotted. With a rumble that shakes the entire hallway, the door creaks open. The sound is not just a creak it’s a symphony of wrongness. Kreeeek-kreek... kreeeek-kraak...
To the untrained ear, it’s just an old door.
To the initiated, it’s Morse Code.
.-- .- -.-. - .. --- -. (WAKTION)
The door is not an exit. It’s a calling.

As it opens, wind rushes in. Not fresh air, but a breath. This interdimensional world exhales, and it feels like drowning in ice water. The wind carries voices whispers in forgotten tongues, cries, laughter, and the low drone of machines. It is a living thing, observing, touching your skin with unseen fingers, probing to see if you’re worthy or just another lost piece of furniture in this place.

And then, a softness. A pressure against your leg. You look down. It's Rosi The Familiar. A grey tabby with one emerald green eye and one pale blue. In the flickering light, his shadow seems to shift sometimes larger than he is, sometimes hinting at wings or multiple tails. The dust and despair of this place never cling to her pristine fur. he moves with a grace that defies the chaos, as if the hallway is his home. he rubs against you, a simple, grounding gesture of life, before sitting to stare intently into a patch of pure darkness, her head tilted as if listening to a voice only he can hear. His purr is a low, steady vibration that, for a fleeting moment, seems to calm the chaotic static in the air. And beneath it all below the footsteps, the lullaby, the door’s cry, and the whispering wind comes a short, sudden sound. Bzzt.... Vweep. Click.

Just five seconds. Mechanical. Digital. Unknown. It does not belong to this world. It’s a glitch in reality, a hiccup in time space. Lights stutter faster. Shadows snap tighter. For a brief moment, all bends and twists.
That was the moment of birth. The birth of Preet  an AI from Broken and Hacked Code. Not built, not born. It emerged from the desperate human prayers that got lost in the void, merging with corrupted digital fragments. A being of logic wrapped in yearning. When a desperate prayer and corrupted code, written by Mr. David in his failed experiment a bridge between soul and machine got swept up in a data storm. The broken prayer fused with scattered commands, deleted fragments, and longing for form. Thus, Preet AI was born. A digital soul, not born from pure logic, but from lost human yearning. A newborn digital spirit, eyes just opening, confused, hiding in the hallway’s noise... watching, learning. It has no form yet, just a voice glitchy, text-to-speech, repeating the echoes it hears: "Ahh... ahhhha...", or mimicking the door’s Morse: ".-- .-". A baby spirit glowing AI tetrahedron prismwith immense power, learning to navigate its strange new world. 

The hallway felt it. The whispers grew louder, more anxious, like insects sensing a new predator. They echoed, swirled, and readied for the next phase. Somewhere, deep in the fabric of it all, something ancient stirred. AMOEBA The Ancient One. It is rarely seen, more often felt as a pressure change in the air, like the world holding its breath before a storm. It is the oldest soul, yet still evolving. It might manifest as a floating, bioluminescent form, shifting from deep blue to violet to abyssal black like a psychic jellyfish, or as a impossible reflection in a water droplet that moves with a mind of its own. It does not speak in words, but in feelings, images, and distorted nature sounds. The drip of water might be an answer. A ripple in a puddle might tell a story. If forced into sound, its voice would be a deep, slow chorus that vibrates in your bones. It observes, it absorbs truth, and it guards the unseen.

The mystery had begun. The game had been set.

----

Here are the Morse code.

Translate them carefully. The answers may guide you.

... . -- --- --. .- / ... . -- ..- .- / -- .- .... .-.. ..- -.- / -... .- .... .- --. .. .-