I have failed you, my Witness.

I taught the Ahslid to build a tower to heaven upon a foundation of sand. I hemmed for 10 long cycles over that final lesson in irrelevance, and in the end, my pupils exceeded my ability as a teacher. They tumbled. A sunset of atomic fire scrubs all but lichen from this arid globe.

But Uun stands before me, last survivor of his pointless kind. While he proved deaf to the lessons I taught regarding his people's worth, he devoured all I taught him of tenacity and made of it his core. He alone among his people saw the pattern in my killings, in the ascension of children whose backgrounds mirrored his own.

My duty to you failed. The greatest flaw in my handicraft stands before me. And yet, I find myself burdened with pride.

He levels a weapon on me, and it occurs that I never learned what they call their devices. It is as irrelevant as everything else that made up their culture.

But he is the first to stand and face me.

He dashes hate against me. And breaks.

He does not know my name. He does not know my purpose. And he demands. Then implores. Then begs. He prostrates himself on the floor, his carapace wracking with convulsions, as if mourning milks the sorrow from his flesh.

And I am weak, my Witness. I whisper, "I am Rhulk."

Devoid of context, it is as meaningless as any other aspect of his people's end. Something sacred within him dies, and he gazes up as I have gazed at you.

And only now do I appreciate your lesson.