The server farm was a tomb of black monoliths. Dead for centuries. But one emergency terminal still blinked with a faint red LED.
The Pilgrim plugged a cable from his wrist into the port. The connection sparked.
He didn't download data. He uploaded it. He poured 247 years of maps, names, songs, and faces into the dying machine.
For one second, the entire room lit up. Every server hummed. The history of the new world was written into the old world's memory.
Then the power died. Forever.
He unplugged the cable. His own memory banks were lighter now. He felt... relieved.