The next day, I made my way to the National Library.

Although it was closed to the general

public, our family's noble status granted me unrestricted access.

Outside the library, the city pulsed with life. Neon-lit streets buzzed with hover vehicles, their
engines a soft hum above the chatter of pedestrians. Towering skyscrapers reached for the
cosmic sky, their facades gleaming with embedded panels, converting the Divine Essence into a
source that powered the metropolis.

The library's air was tinged with the faint scent of aged parchment and the cool, metallic tang of
the holographic projectors. The soft hum of the climate control systems was a constant backdrop,
like the whisper of ancient scholars who once walked these halls

Inside, the vastness of the library unfurled before me, a labyrinth of wisdom encoded within
boundless rows of digital books and data slates. I strode past aisles dedicated to the ordinary, my
footsteps echoing softly on the marble floor as I made my way to my favorite sections.

The sections dedicated to my great-grandfather's achievements seemed to stretch endlessly, a

proud expanse within the National Library. Shelves upon shelves bore the weight of voluminous
tomes and holographic records, each chronicling the monumental feats of Hart Rocklion. The air
was almost reverent as if the atmosphere were charged with the echoes of his heroic exploits—
the First Hero of Earth, the pioneer Soul Mecha Master.

I passed by varied exhibits that showcased replicas of ancient machines—primitive in design, yet
groundbreaking for their time. The contrast between these relics and the current pinnacle of
technology was stark, a vivid testament to humanity's progress since those rudimentary
beginnings.

My footsteps were light, barely audible over the soft hum of climate control systems as I
navigated through this historical sanctuary. It wasn't long before I reached a quieter corridor, one
far less frequented than the grand halls that housed popular histories and mainstream science.
Here, in this more secluded part of the library.

As I walked past rows of books and historical records, the librarian AI, Diss, observed me with
its unblinking optical sensors. Diss was designed to monitor and maintain order, but it seldom
engaged with visitors.

"Good day, Leo Rocklion," Diss greeted me in its synthetic, emotionless tone—a voice I had
recognized well.

"Morning, Diss," I replied, sparing the artificial intelligence a brief nod of acknowledgment
before moving on. I appreciated the efficiency of Diss's management. Yet, there was no warmth
in interacting with a machine, even as sophisticated as this guardian of knowledge.

I headed towards the section dedicated to historical records. I retrieved my favorite book, The
Age Before Soul Mecha Civilization, by Elisha Rocklion. I had read this book numerous times,
not just for its technical content but for its insights into life two centuries ago.
This book, a personal favorite of mine, delved into the intricacies of how our society evolved
from the archaic use of fossil fuels to the ethereal energy of the Soul Mecha. Each page was
imbued with Elisha's wisdom and foresight, her words painting the journey of a civilization
reborn through the power of the human spirit.

Cradling the tome in my arms, I settled into a nearby alcove designed for contemplative reading.
There, under the watchful gaze of countless ancestors peering from portraits along the walls, I
prepared to dive again into the rich history penned by my great-grandmother, seeking to glean
new insights from her unparalleled perspective.

I flipped through the pages, marveling at the primitive technologies described. The book fell
open to an illustration of early factories, smokestacks belching out thick clouds against a soot-
darkened sky.

I shook my head, a wry smile touching my lips. To think that once, entire industries were
powered by what they termed 'fossil fuels'—a finite resource wrested from the very bones of the
earth.

"Is it Real," I murmured to myself. "They needed external energy sources just to power their
machines. And they were bound by that old principle, 'Energy cannot be created nor destroyed.'"

I paused, reflecting on the contrast. "We now know that our brains generate Divine Essence,
which powers our machines more efficiently. Astonishingly, they relied on inefficient steam
engines, producing so much waste."

How alien the concept seemed now. Our cities pulsed with the clean energy of Soul Mecha, each
citizen a living conduit for the Divine Essence that powered our world.

"Primitive," I murmured, "and yet, they laid the foundations."

The old engines were cumbersome and inefficient. But they were tangible—machines you could
touch, repair, and understand. Now, our machines are extensions of our souls, and the line
between man and machine is almost invisible.

The surprise came not from the engine but from the realization that this clunky precursor had
somehow paved the way for us. A shiver ran down my spine as I considered the magnitude of
evolution from these primitive beginnings to the elegant technology we wield today.

Turning the page, I saw an illustration of an Airplane, its components meticulously labeled. The
cumbersome beast of metal seemed so out of place in the sleek lines of history that I knew, its
existence as an incongruity amidst the technological symphony that hummed outside these walls.

"Such a convoluted contraption," I muttered, unable to contain my disbelief. "How could the
ancients have been content with this monstrosity?"

There it was, the Thermal Power Plant—a giant, belching testament to their ignorance. Its
appetite for coal was insatiable, the smoke and soot it exhaled a black stain on the canvas of
progress. It was a thing that devoured landscapes and coughed up pollution, a far cry from the
silent grace of our Soul Mecha.

With a furrowed brow, I studied the schematic, noting the wastefulness inherent in its design. To
think that they had once relied on such a thing for their power; was like trying to understand a
language long forgotten. The sheer inefficiency of it all made me shake my head in wonder.

"An entire era built on the back of such inefficiency..." My voice trailed off as I contemplated the
implications.

The air seemed to pulse with the significance of those words. A century ago, our world had been
irrevocably changed.

"From steam to the soul," I mused, a newfound respect for the past germinating within the
chambers of my heart. The library, with its ancient wisdom and calm ambiance, seemed to nod in
agreement as if encouraging my epiphany.

Our current civilization was light-years ahead of where it once was, all because of that pivotal
age when Hart Rocklion changed the course of history.

The machines of the past were crude and cumbersome. Now, our technology is sleek and silent
—a symphony of progress. But in the quiet hum of Soul Mecha, I sometimes hear an echo of
those ancient engines, a reminder of where we came from.

Lost in thought, I wandered through the library, contemplating the vast advancements made in
the past 100 years. The progress was immense, and it all stemmed from the heroic actions of my
great-grandfather.

I paused before a glass-encased display, inside which lay a relic—a fragment of metal twisted
and charred, yet shimmering with a faint ethereal light. The glass was cool under my fingertips,
starkly contrasting the history it held within.

It was a piece of the very first Soul Mecha, the one my great-grandfather Hart had piloted to
victory, to legacy. As I gazed at the relic, a cold shiver ran down my spine. The library was
peaceful now, but I couldn't shake the feeling that a storm was brewing—one that would test the
strength of our legacy

"A century past," I continued, my reflection in the glass staring back at me with reverence for
history, "our world changed forever."

A hush fell, and in that silence, I could almost hear the echoes of that fateful day—the roar of
awakening Soul Machines, the collective gasp of humanity as they witnessed the impossible. It
was a revolution birthed from the heart of a Rocklion, a beacon that guided us into a new epoch.

"Because of you, Great-Grandfather," I murmured, touching the glass tenderly, feeling the thrum
of ancient power behind it. "Our minds became forges of divine essence, our wills the architects
of a future unfettered by crude oil and coal."
With a deep breath, I turned my gaze upward, where the artificial skylight painted a simulation
of the night sky—a sky once peppered with stars that watched over Hart Rocklion as he charted a
course not just through the heavens but through destiny itself.

The night sky had always fascinated me, just as it had Hart. But as I stared into the simulated
stars above the library, I realized they weren't just distant lights—they were destinations, each a
challenge waiting to be met, a mystery waiting to be unraveled.

"From your dreams of yesterday," I concluded, a solemn promise shaping on my lips, "we built
the reality of today."

Standing there, surrounded by the echoes of the past, I felt a profound connection to the legacy I
was destined to uphold. The weight was both inspiring and daunting, but it was clear that the
future was intertwined with the shadows of the action taken place 100 Years Ago.