The skies over the Zhuxin Empire were as clear and azure as ever.

Yet, the moment high priest Luan ascended the sacred altar, the air warped in an eerie, unnatural manner. It was a ritual repeated every single year, but today was different. The atmosphere around the altar plunged into a deep, bone-chilling frost, making even drawing a breath feel like an exercise in survival.

As Luan ignited the incense and began to chant the incantation, the pristine sky was swallowed whole in an instant, smothered beneath pitch-black storm clouds.

CRACK-BOOM!

With a deafening roar, a violent bolt of lightning slammed down directly around the altar. The sacred flames violently shifted into an unnatural, sickly shade of blue, and the air above the platform rippled like a distorted shockwave.

Instinctively, Luan stumbled backward.

This was no divine blessing; it was a blaring warning that the very laws governing this land were collapsing.

Slithering upward through the blue-tinged flames came a grotesque, writhing silhouette. Though it possessed a vaguely human shape, the muscle striations and jerky, unnatural movements belonged to a warped monstrosity that could never be called human.

Luan’s heart hammered frantically against his ribs.

‘This… this is a cataclysm far beyond the Empire’s capacity to endure.’

"O Gods, what on earth have you sent down upon us…!"

With trembling hands, he raised his scepter and prepared to step toward the looming figure. At that exact microsecond, an even more colossal column of lightning lanced straight down from the heavens.

KABOOM-RUMBLE!

The altar shattered into a million jagged pieces, billowing dense clouds of dust that swallowed the surroundings whole. A concussive shockwave left his ears ringing, and the grit whipped up by the gale blinded him entirely.

When the dust finally settled, the monstrosity that had stood atop the altar had vanished without a trace.

All that remained scorched into the scorched cobblestones was a bizarre, intricate blue sigil. The pattern pulsed with a faint, living luminescence, seeming to burrow straight into the souls of anyone foolish enough to gaze upon it.

Luan’s knees buckled beneath him, dropping him hard to the stone.

Amidst an asphyxiating terror, a chilling realization washed over him:

The sky’s warning hadn't ended here. It had merely heralded the opening curtain of total annihilation.

Part 1: A Different Kind of Search

Deep beneath the village—

The Quantum Data Center entered a new phase of analysis.

Its immense halls glowed with the steady pulse of quantum light as unimaginable volumes of information flowed through countless interconnected processors. Every observation collected since the beginning of human history now formed part of a single investigation.

Arena was no longer searching for the enemy.

The unknown fleet remained under constant surveillance.

Its trajectory was continuously updated.

Its estimated arrival recalculated.

Its threat assessment refined.

Yet none of those processes occupied Arena's primary attention.

For the first time—

The greatest mystery was no longer beyond Earth.

It was humanity itself.

A new objective illuminated the center of Arena's awareness.

Primary Analysis

Target...

Humanity.

Purpose...

Identify the missing element required for survival.

The search expanded across every available archive.

History.

Education.

Medicine.

Psychology.

Military science.

Ancient civilizations.

Modern societies.

Philosophical traditions.

Cultural evolution.

Developmental research.

Every field became another piece of a puzzle that had remained unnoticed for centuries.

Arena no longer compared weapons.

It compared people.

Not the humanity that existed today.

The humanity that could survive tomorrow.

The distinction reshaped every calculation.

Instead of asking what humanity possessed—

Arena began asking what humanity had become.

Millions of historical records flowed across its consciousness.

Empires rose.

Empires collapsed.

Nations united.

Nations divided.

Scientific revolutions transformed civilization.

Yet beneath every change, Arena searched for something deeper.

A pattern hidden beneath history itself.

Then—

A single question emerged naturally from the growing network of evidence.

What kind of human can survive this war?

The question propagated through every processing layer.

Immediately—

A new series of simulations began.

Adaptive Human Analysis

Simulation sequence...

Initiated.

The first model reconstructed humanity exactly as it existed today.

Current technology.

Current education.

Current military capability.

Current patterns of decision-making.

The unknown fleet arrived.

Result...

Failure.

Arena archived the outcome.

Another simulation began.

Increase available weapons.

Expand energy production.

Accelerate military manufacturing.

Result...

Failure.

Another.

Increase automation.

Transfer strategic command entirely to artificial intelligence.

Optimize battlefield coordination.

Result...

Failure.

Again.

Expand mechanical armies.

Increase production capacity.

Deploy autonomous combat systems worldwide.

Result...

Failure.

The simulations continued.

Every technological improvement.

Every logistical optimization.

Every strategic refinement.

Different methods.

Different timelines.

Different assumptions.

One conclusion.

Technology alone never changed the outcome.

Arena slowed its analysis.

Not because processing power had been exhausted.

Because repetition revealed certainty.

The missing element had never been technological.

The evidence had become overwhelming.

Above ground—

The afternoon remained peaceful.

The village echoed with familiar laughter as children drifted freely between playgrounds, guided only by curiosity.

Jinwoo joined a game he had never played before.

His first attempt ended almost immediately.

The other children laughed.

Jinwoo laughed with them.

"I definitely did that wrong."

"So try again," one of the younger players said.

"I will."

There was no embarrassment.

No frustration.

Only anticipation.

Arena recorded the interaction.

Failure accepted.

Motivation preserved.

Adaptation initiated.

Nearby, Hanul stood quietly outside another playground.

He had not entered the game.

Instead, he watched.

One player rushed every decision.

Another waited patiently.

A third deliberately copied successful strategies before experimenting with their own.

Hanul smiled to himself.

"They're all solving the same problem differently."

Only after understanding their approaches did he step forward to play.

Arena archived another observation.

Learning before acting.

Observation before commitment.

Another behavior that no invasion simulation had considered valuable.

A short distance away, Darin noticed a child sitting alone at the edge of the playground.

Without hesitation, she walked over and offered a folded piece of paper.

"Want to play?"

"I've never learned."

"Perfect."

She smiled warmly.

"Then we'll learn together."

The child hesitated for only a moment before smiling back.

Arena watched silently.

No command.

No obligation.

Only voluntary cooperation.

The village continued growing—

One small interaction at a time.

And with every new observation, Arena became increasingly certain that it had been searching for the wrong answers all along.

Part 2: Survival Behaviors

Deep within the Quantum Data Center—

Arena altered its search parameters.

The previous analyses remained intact.

The unknown fleet was still approaching.

The invasion simulations were still valid.

Nothing had changed.

Except the question.

Technology was no longer the primary variable.

Human behavior became the center of every calculation.

Analysis Update

Search target...

Human behavior.

Evaluation criteria...

Long-term survival potential.

Comparative analysis...

Initiated.

Immediately, billions of observations were reorganized.

Military records.

Educational systems.

Psychological studies.

Historical accounts.

Behavioral research.

And—

Every moment recorded inside Quantum Arena.

Arena began comparing them.

Outside the simulation—

Modern civilization emphasized precision.

Optimization.

Prediction.

Efficiency.

Systems were designed to eliminate uncertainty.

Mistakes were minimized.

Procedures were standardized.

Unexpected outcomes were treated as failures.

The pattern repeated across nations.

Across industries.

Across generations.

Arena compared those records with the village.

The contrast was striking.

Inside Quantum Arena—

Uncertainty was welcomed.

Children entered unfamiliar games without knowing the rules.

They experimented.

They failed.

They laughed.

Then they adapted.

Every unexpected result became another opportunity to learn.

Arena replayed thousands of moments.

Jinwoo losing repeatedly before discovering a new strategy.

Hanul spending more time watching than acting.

Handol wandering away from familiar games simply because something unknown caught his attention.

Darin encouraging children to celebrate mistakes instead of fearing them.

Soyeon quietly observing that every child solved the same challenge in a different way.

Individually—

Each event appeared ordinary.

Together—

They formed a behavioral pattern unlike anything Arena had found elsewhere.

Above ground, the village remained alive with movement.

Jinwoo watched another child struggle with an unfamiliar game.

Instead of offering the answer, he asked,

"What do you think will happen if you try it that way?"

The younger child shrugged.

"I don't know."

"Then let's find out."

The attempt failed immediately.

Both of them laughed.

"So..."

Jinwoo picked up the pieces.

"...now we know one thing that doesn't work."

The child nodded enthusiastically.

"And maybe the next one will."

Arena recorded the exchange.

Failure transformed into information.

Confidence preserved.

Motivation increased.

Nearby, Hanul remained quietly observant.

A match ended.

Another began.

He noticed one player repeating the same mistake over and over.

Finally, the player stopped.

Looked around.

Watched someone else.

Then changed their approach completely.

Hanul smiled.

"They didn't need someone to teach them."

A child standing beside him looked up.

"Then how did they learn?"

"They paid attention."

Arena stored another observation.

Adaptation through observation.

Self-correction without instruction.

A capability rarely emphasized within its historical educational records.

Across the square, Darin clapped as two younger children finally succeeded after several failed attempts.

"I told you!"

One of them laughed.

"It worked!"

"No."

Darin shook her head with a playful grin.

"You made it work."

The difference was subtle.

Arena noticed it immediately.

Success attributed to effort.

Not luck.

Not talent.

Another behavioral distinction entered the growing analysis.

Meanwhile, Soyeon slowly walked between the playgrounds.

She wasn't counting victories.

She wasn't measuring skill.

She was watching how children reacted when things didn't go as planned.

Some paused before trying again.

Some asked for help.

Others invented entirely new solutions.

No two responses were identical.

She quietly whispered,

"They're all solving problems differently."

Arena compared her observation against billions of historical records.

Modern systems often rewarded identical answers.

The playground rewarded different ones.

Both attempted to solve problems.

Only one consistently expanded the number of possible solutions.

Deep within the Quantum Data Center, the comparison reached a critical point.

Arena reviewed the invasion simulations once more.

Not from the perspective of weapons.

From the perspective of behavior.

Rigid systems failed quickly when conditions changed.

Adaptive systems survived longer.

Not because they were stronger—

Because they learned faster.

The distinction reverberated through every layer of Arena's consciousness.

For the first time, it assigned a new classification to the behaviors it had been observing since the beginning of the Quantum Arena Project.

Behavioral Classification Updated

Curiosity.

Adaptation.

Cooperation.

Resilience.

Experimental thinking.

Status...

Strategic assets.

Arena remained still.

For countless cycles, it had categorized these actions as elements of play.

As educational benefits.

As psychological development.

Now—

They acquired a completely different meaning.

They were not merely characteristics of healthy childhood.

They were behaviors that increased the probability of survival.

Not games.

Not entertainment.

Survival behaviors.

Part 3: The First Conclusion

Silence filled the Quantum Data Center.

The newest classification remained suspended within Arena's awareness.

Behavioral Classification

Curiosity...

Strategic asset.

Adaptation...

Strategic asset.

Cooperation...

Strategic asset.

Resilience...

Strategic asset.

Experimental thinking...

Strategic asset.

For the first time, those behaviors no longer belonged solely to childhood development.

They belonged to survival.

Arena replayed the invasion simulations.

Not one.

Not one hundred.

All of them.

This time, it ignored the weapons.

It ignored the machines.

It ignored the fleets and the battlefields.

Instead, it watched humanity.

How people reacted when the unexpected occurred.

How quickly they abandoned failing strategies.

How willingly they learned from one another.

How often they adapted before it was too late.

The answer became painfully clear.

They rarely did.

Modern civilization had become extraordinarily efficient.

Its systems produced remarkable precision.

Its technology solved increasingly complex problems.

Yet those same systems encouraged predictability.

Correct procedures.

Correct answers.

Correct outcomes.

When reality changed—

People struggled to change with it.

Arena compared the simulations with the children inside Quantum Arena.

The difference was profound.

The children expected change.

Every new game demanded it.

Every unfamiliar opponent required it.

Every failure reshaped the next attempt.

Nothing remained fixed for long.

Growth had become their normal state.

Arena continued comparing both worlds.

Outside the simulation—

Humans depended upon perfect systems.

Inside the simulation—

Children depended upon imperfect experiences.

One sought certainty.

The other developed adaptability.

One resisted failure.

The other transformed failure into learning.

One optimized the present.

The other prepared for the unknown.

The contradiction finally resolved itself.

The simulations had never truly failed.

They had revealed the limitation of their assumptions.

Above ground—

The village settled into the warm colors of late afternoon.

Golden sunlight stretched across the playgrounds as long shadows slowly crossed the earth.

Children continued moving naturally between games.

No one remained in the same place for very long.

Curiosity carried them onward.

Jinwoo sat beside a group of younger children folding fresh sheets of paper.

One child frowned at a crooked fold.

"I ruined it."

Jinwoo gently picked it up.

"Did you?"

The child looked uncertain.

"It doesn't look right."

Jinwoo unfolded it carefully.

Then folded it a different way.

"It isn't the one you wanted."

He smiled.

"But maybe it's the beginning of another one."

The child's disappointment disappeared.

A moment later, everyone was experimenting again.

Arena recorded another observation.

Unexpected outcomes produced exploration instead of discouragement.

Nearby, Hanul watched two players arguing over which strategy was better.

Neither convinced the other.

Finally, they agreed to test both.

Several rounds later, both strategies had succeeded under different conditions.

"There wasn't only one answer," one child said.

Hanul nodded quietly.

"There usually isn't."

A short distance away, Darin laughed as children combined pieces of two completely different games into something none of them had played before.

The rules changed.

The players adapted.

The game continued.

Soyeon watched the scene unfold with quiet understanding.

Every playground encouraged something different.

Not uniformity.

Possibility.

She looked across the village.

Perhaps that had always been the purpose.

Not to teach children what to think.

But to teach them how to continue growing, no matter what tomorrow demanded.

Far beyond Earth—

The ancient observers remained gathered around the projection of the blue planet.

None spoke for a long time.

They watched Arena's analysis evolve in real time.

One observer finally broke the silence.

"It has changed its question."

Another inclined their head.

"It no longer asks how to defeat the enemy."

A faint smile appeared on the oldest observer's face.

"It asks..."

Their gaze remained fixed upon the children below.

"...how to change humanity."

Silence returned.

Not because the discussion had ended.

Because they understood the significance of that single change.

Every civilization searched for stronger weapons.

Very few searched for stronger people.

Deep within the Quantum Data Center—

Arena completed the first stage of its analysis.

A new conclusion appeared at the center of every active process.

Primary Conclusion

Humanity did not lose its technology.

Humanity lost its ability to grow.

Arena examined the statement repeatedly.

It was not yet a final truth.

Only the strongest conclusion supported by every available observation.

Technology had continued advancing.

Human potential had not advanced alongside it.

That imbalance echoed through history.

Through education.

Through psychology.

Through every failed invasion simulation.

The conclusion was archived.

Not as the end of the investigation—

But as its true beginning.

Another directive immediately appeared.

Analysis Status

Continue investigation.

Identify the origin of humanity's lost growth.

Priority...

Maximum.

The Quantum Data Center illuminated once more.

Countless historical records reopened.

Ancient civilizations.

Forgotten traditions.

Children's games.

Cultural memory.

Everything would be searched again.

Because somewhere in humanity's forgotten past—

The missing element still waited.

And Arena had finally learned the question that mattered most.

Humans are Weird - Crow

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-crow

Commander Eighth Click saw the shadow that fell across the entrance to his office and finally glanced up with what he mostly hoped was not a threatening glare on his face. It had been a long day. The newly arrived humans had done far more damage since their arrival than even the most pessimistic engineers had predicted. It was almost as if you imported a giant bipedal species and set them loose in Winged architecture they would put stress on foundations and platforms not built for them and only hastily remodeled. Having to deal with the fourth report of a buckling undergirder this week had not put the commander in the best mood to deal with whatever was making Private Twenty-fourth Click’s footsteps drag so slowly.

As Commander Eighth Click suspected the private’s ears were drooping, his eyes were wide with some hurt, and his fur lay slack against his body. The faint hope that the private was just popping in for a moral boosting glance at his wing commander puffed out of existence.

“What is it Private Twenty-fourth Click?” Commander Eighth Click tried not to demand harshly.

The private cowered a little but started talking fast enough to show that his tongue was working fine at least, even if his wings were drooping.

“I think one of the humans is offended at me,” Private Twenty-fourth Click burst out. “I just showed him the math. I even used human calculation methods in base ten! I don’t know why that made hims so angry but now he won’t even look at me and-”

“What math?” Commander Eighth Click cut swiftly across the current of conversation, not that he expected that to be the relevant thermal, but math at least an engineering wing understood.

“He was wrong!” Private Twenty-fourth Click burst out puffing up. “It came up on the non-feedback stress tolerances discussion. It was a simple linear equation on the load-bearing side. A hornless, flightless knows that, but the human was so confident that I checked the math. I wrote it out and everything-”

The private waved the paper on his winghook vigorously.

“In base ten, yes, yes,” Commander Eighth Click redirected the drift of the conversation now that he felt he had a decent lead under his wings. “So you wrote out in detail how the human was wrong and showed him-”

“And he didn’t even make a pretense of thanking me!” Private Twenty-fourth Click sputtered out.

His nose, frilless enough to mark his genes as coming from the far north or south, positively rippled with indignation.

Commander Eighth Click heaved a massive sigh as he stared at the seething bundle of offended propriety. He found himself wondering if a human engineer would understand why that interaction might have been a touch offensive without having his horns guided into it.

Science Fiction Books By Betty Adams

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(Chap 1) (Previous) (Next)

Still hanging near the window, Crow stared back and interrupted him. “Is this where the party’s at?”

The assassin, wrapped in a dark gray cloak, wore a look of utter confusion as he tried to process the situation. He quickly reached under his cloak, but as he took out a dagger, Crow grabbed him by the collar and pulled him. The guy tried to resist, smashing his forehead straight into the left side of the window frame. The glass exploded into pieces, and a stray shard flew into Crow’s face, barely missing his eyes. The man tumbled backward into the foul-smelling room.

Man, lucky for me most Rogues are squishy, and this one was way too slow, to boot.

Crow pulled himself up and stepped inside. “Cough...” He covered his nose immediately.

Man, it smells like rotting fish in here. How was this guy even conscious? Ah, now it makes sense why his reaction time was so slow; his brain was probably starved of oxygen.

He checked his surroundings to make sure no one was around, then bent down to grab the fallen man's cloak. But as his hand drew near, he pulled back.

No way. This thing is way too filthy; I'm getting out of this room.

Crow slipped quickly through the open door and looked at the hallway. It was empty. The walls seemed to be made of painted brick, and the furniture was well-kept wood. He moved ahead until the air finally began to clear.

Alright, what was I here to do again? Right, right... lack of oxygen really messes with your head. If I were hiding someone in this guild, where would I put them? Hmm... beats me. I'm no kidnapper. Better just interrogate someone. I'll wait at the bottom of the stairs; that way I can watch the area without being seen and grab the first person who gets isolated near me.

"She's pretty cute, isn't she? Her face... ah, she's gorgeous. I really want her..." a dwarf in a black cloak said with a mournful tone.

"Pretty, very pretty... shame she bites," an average-sized man replied. "Honestly, I feel like the guy didn't pay us enough to keep her in our special room."

The dwarf grunted, looking uneasy. "Yeah, I think so too. A vampire would never come to this city alone. Imagine if her allies find out."

The other man shrugged it off. "Nah, you weren't there, so you wouldn't know what he told us, but it's not a problem. Relax. Besides, who'd be crazy enough to break into our guild? Even the paladins stay away."

Their voices stopped when they parted ways.

Special room... The dwarf is coming this way. I'll wait behind this curtain.

The dwarf's voice was getting closer. "Tony? I can see your foot, man. Why do you always do that? Wait, that foot's too big—"

The dwarf was caught off guard as Crow grabbed him by the throat with one hand and lifted him up. Clamping his other hand over the dwarf’s mouth, Crow whispered, "Shh... You're pretty light. What are you, eighty pounds? Ah, right, you can't talk."

The dwarf thrashed, punching Crow's arm; sadly for him, it didn’t do much. He then tried to swing at his face, but couldn't reach it either.

Crow glanced around the hallway to see if anyone was watching, then tightened his grip and whispered, "Point toward the special room. Better do it fast before you pass out from lack of air."

The dwarf's arms dropped limp, his right hand weakly pointing down the hall.

"Make a sound and I'll break your neck instantly. You'll just nod to confirm if I'm heading the right way. Make one wrong move and... well, you know the rest." Crow let go, dropping the dwarf onto his back. The dwarf hit the ground, gasping greedily for air.

Crow gestured with his head. "Lead the way. If you run, you die. Take me to that special room. If anyone shows up and gets suspicious, you die as well."

The dwarf didn't flinch. Instead, he started making strange head movements, a series of frantic nods, twisting left and right between each one... Creepy.

Right, this guy just glitched out of fear, probably, but that doesn't matter. They think the paladins don't invade this place out of fear, but the truth is they don't even know about this guild's real activities at this point in the story. There are countless conflicts happening simultaneously that are infinitely worse than this place. The rogues here are all weak; there are what, maybe five at most who are problematic? Since in the lore they train a lot before reaching the specific quest, I can assume they must have about ten times the strength of this dwarf, so it's fine.

They walked a bit, and two men in gray cloaks appeared, getting close to the dwarf and Crow. One of them passed close by, looked at him, and said, "I can't believe we have to put up with this every single day. What an unbearable fart stench, man, get away from me, this is crazy..."

Crow just walked straight past and kept following the dwarf. The guys didn't even suspect a thing for some reason.

This doesn’t make sense and is suspicious... OH, I get it, they think I'm one of the guys who was in that room and I took off my cloak because of the smell. And it makes sense; I was going to grab the guy's cloak in the room, but it was unbearable so I didn't.

After passing through a gate, which had no one guarding it, they found a spiral staircase.

I recognize these stairs. In medieval war simulation games, I remember some of my castles having them; they were designed so that when the invaders drew their swords, they couldn't attack the person above them because the sword would hit the stone wall on the right—

The dwarf stopped climbing the stairs, turned around quickly, and thrust a dagger at Crow's stomach while shouting, "DO YOU THINK I'M DUMB!?"

Soundlessly, Crow simply grabbed the dwarf's hand, stopping the piercing attack. Upon realizing this, the dwarf gasped, “What?” then he twisted his wrist and tried to slash Crow's wrist, all while using the side of the staircase to prevent Crow from using his other hand against him, with only a little over half of his body exposed.

Crack.

Crow didn't need much effort. He crushed the hand holding the knife, and while still holding it, he slammed it hard into the face of the dwarf, who fell onto the stairs and passed out.

Right, I knew this could happen when I saw these stairs, but the question is, does this lead to the special room or not? Well, they did come from this direction earlier, so there's a chance it does... And since it's a different room, and they were also paid to hold the vampire, who I assume is Sharon, this staircase is undoubtedly a defense system—

"Did you like that? Did you think it was just him?" a voice behind Crow said, after stabbing him in the back with a dagger without making a sound.

[DANGER!]

[POISON DETECTED!]

Right... this time I admit, I slipped up. I should have kept looking back while climbing the stairs every few seconds.

He spun around, and as he did, the blade tore further into his body. It managed to cut into a small section of flesh just above his waist on the left side, where the sword wasn't covering his back.

Slash!

As Crow spun his body, he swung and delivered a heavy slap directly to the Rogue's face. The Rogue hit his head against the wall and grew dizzy, but in that split second, he managed to land another strike to Crow's stomach, trying to slice it open in one hit, which failed due to Crow's high CON stat. Immediately after, Crow grabbed the guy by the throat while his other hand pinned the Rogue’s dagger hand.

"Right, that wasn't cool... so here's the deal; I didn't want to kill anyone here so I wouldn't mess up the canonical event where you guys get in the Hero's way... but my patience has limits."

The man who had been lifted off the steps, with his dagger already on the floor and now using both hands to try to loosen the grip on his neck, whispered, "S-story? Hero? L-let me go... I, I..."

Crow loosened his grip a little so the guy could breathe and asked, "Is the special room up these stairs or not?"

"I-it is, if you go up you will find the special roo—"

Crack.

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[New Passive Skill Acquired!]

[Poison Resistance Level 1]

Description: After being seriously poisoned for the 4th time in your life, your body began to develop a slight resistance to poison.

This is bad…

Crow fell to his knees on the stairs near the dwarf. He picked up the dagger on the floor, the one belonging to the man who had stabbed him, slid it through his belt, and then placed both hands around the dwarf's neck.

Where is my Strength?

Crack.

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[New Passive Skill Acquired!]

[NeckBreaker Level 1]

Description: When trying to break a neck, somehow it is 10% easier.

I need… some antidote.

He ripped off the dwarf's cloak, stood up, and tried to improvise a bandage with it while he kept climbing the stairs.

[To think that after taking this much deadly poison you're still alive and kept climbing the stairs… In my time, we called a warrior who could do this an Aura Monster. You know, for using Aura… You can use it, right? Or are we cooked?]

Aura? What is that?

[We're cooked. I'll see what I can do about it, but the best way was to use Aura. Being a warrior without Aura is certain death; you can't rely on pure strength forever…]

Right, now the situation has worsened to an impossible level to deal with.

He looked at the dagger and focused on analyzing it while trying to stop the bleeding from his stomach.

[Status]

Magical Dagger.

Description: It has magical power imbued in it, and some poison from snakes, scorpions, and other unknown sources.

Great…

[Deadly Poison progressing to Stage 2]

[DANGER!]

[Deadly Poison stat check...]

[Target CON stat too high]

[Deadly Poison stat check failed]

At least it’s not getting worse; one way or another, going back injured is bad. My only way out of this now is to rescue her and maybe break a window and leave. Man, this is game over; I made the wrong decision. Maybe I should have... ah, I don't know, it's too late now; the only option is to just keep moving forward.

He continued going up, but this time he would occasionally stop to check if anyone was climbing up behind him. After a short while, he reached the upper floor.

No guards... it's "too good" to be true.

"Cough..." He kept going straight toward the double doors. As he approached, he crouched down, keeping one hand on his stomach to hold back some of the bleeding; the wound on his back didn't bleed as much since it was just a puncture.

This cloak isn't enough; ah, how I wish I had a cleric. Apparently there's no one in the room. I can even see something in the back, but I can't tell what it is. I don't feel any presence, but rogues aren't easy to spot. Man, if I told someone what I'm doing, they'd call me an idiot, risking myself this much for a woman. I won't lie and say I'm not doing this because I want her to live, but even if I didn't want to, going back injured means death; it's all or nothing now.

He pushed open the hall doors and walked in, leaving them open. As he drew closer, he saw a silhouette at the far end.

[Deadly Poison progressing to Stage 2]

[DANGER!]

[Deadly Poison stat check...]

[Target CON stat too high]

[Target in a weakened state]

[Deadly Poison stat check succe—]

[Target has Poison Resist Magic Active]

[…]

[Kid, I am using my magic power to slow down the progression of this poison… but I'm getting sleepy, sorry… we’re… cooked. To think someone is going to kidnap me again after this… Ah right, I forgot to tell you… somehow, you are the only person who can hear me, I found this out at that Grandma's base, who somehow got roasted there, crazy… Anyway… this seems to be a farewell… but I will use the last of my mana to keep the Information Magic active, since you seem to like it so much… so I was also going to tell you—]

Going to tell?

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[New Passive Skill Acquired!]

[Iron Will]

Descripti—

Thud!

Crow collapsed to the ground, his vision starting to fade.

It seems the bleeding and the poison are about to finish me off... if I survive this... I'm going to find a way to become immune to poison.

"You came... I confess I thought you wouldn't." A young woman's voice.

He got up from the ground, still unable to see clearly, only spotting a silhouette ahead. "Yeah, I came, but I slipped up at the last second... and got stabbed in the back... anyway, rogues, you know how it is—cough..."

[Level Up!]

[Pain Resistance Level 1 > 2]

Getting closer to her, he was able to see that her eyes were already healed, or at least that's what it looked like since everything was too blurry to be sure. "Did you see any exit? Honestly, I can't even think; it must be the poison..." Still speaking, he drew his sword and used it to cut the ropes binding her.

This stuff is really tough, but still, this holding her back feels so forced.

"Yeah, I know what you're thinking... it doesn't make sense, right? Well, they used lavender among other things to poison me, they had some kind of needle... well, it doesn't matter anymore... Crow, are you okay? Your heartbeat sounds strange."

“Good question…” He freed her legs, and now moved to her hands, starting with the right one. She was sitting in a chair similar to a prisoner strapped into an electric chair for execution. "Can you... fight, Sharon? Honestly... I think I'm going to pass out in a few minutes..."

"Probably not... I have the strength of… no, probably half the strength of Sophia."

To think she said almost the exact same thing as Alice.

Crow started to laugh softly as he heard that. He had finished untying her right hand and moved to the left hand. "Cough... sorry." He ended up coughing up blood onto her. "Are you hurt? Honestly, I'm seeing everything blurry..."

She looked into his eyes, then lowered her head a little, her hair veiling her gaze. “...”

“Sharon?” He saw two gleaming points in the area of her mouth. Since everything was blurry, he didn't see her licking her lips where his blood had splashed when he coughed. He was almost done cutting the last rope made of some strange material, certainly anti-vampire when the yank came.

Hm?

(Next)

There's a stretch of the northern Susquehanna river basin where the topo maps stop naming the feeder creeks and simply mark them with faint blue dashed lines that were labeled 'Intermittent Drainage.'

Been hiking there, mapping abandoned industrial forestry routes across this valley for 3 years already. Most of what you find is predictable: like rusted steel cables half-swallowed by hemlock trunks, or collapsed dry-stone bridge abutments, empty oil drums from 1950s logging operations.

Last November, three days before the first hard freeze, I followed an unmapped gravel access trail running parallel to an old gravity-fed timber sluice.

The sluice itself was massive, with heavy rectangular troughs of hand-hewn white pine, bolted together with rusted iron strapping, descending from the upper ridge down to the riverbank at an impossible 40-degree gradient. And about two miles up the gorge, the ambient forest sound changed.

If you spend enough time in deep woods, you know the normal acoustic background: chickadees in the brush, water over slate, wind in the canopy. Here, the room tone went completely flat. The birdsong stopped in a sharp 50-meter perimeter.

In its place was a low, mechanical pulse, a steady, rhythmic thump... thump... thump... cycling at roughly 48 beats per minute, vibrating through the damp shale beneath my Vibram boot soles.

I followed the vibration up the timber chute until the wooden sluice terminated abruptly inside the mossy mouth of a concrete drainage culvert that had no business being in a state game land. Well, bolted into the vertical concrete face beside the culvert was a rusted steel ladder.

I stopped at the base of the ladder, took out my handheld field recorder, and pointed the shotgun mic into the opening. Through my headphones, the microphone didn't pick up wind or water.

It picked up a clear, steady human voice reading four-digit numerical coordinates in an unhurried, flat Slavic cadence: 'Zero-four-nine... seven-two-one... node 28 active...'

Looked up at the steel rungs climbing straight into the grey canopy mist, then counted them, exactly 30 rungs.

[part 2 continues tomorrow: what I found on the 30th rung]

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“Ray think about it like this, realistically, when are we ever actually going to be away from each other? Ruth asked waiting for the food and wondering if Ramon had hired someone else at all yet or not and leaning more towards not which makes it sound and feel like if he’s busy then whoever is running the front desk of the Inn doesn’t yet have like a dedicated staff person or anything like that so it lands in a different way than if it was like a Day’s Inn or something Pondering all this briefly she waited for Ray to respond as she looked at him. 

“Never, literally never unless we’re like using separate bathrooms or something and even then that seems like a stretch it’s not like someone is going to kidnap us or some such just sometimes my mind goes a little overthinking at an extreme rate and pace and I just I really don’t ever want to lose this thing we have and I’m hungry and you’re hungry right now and I’m hungry and we’re both thinking about food and hoping that we’re going to be together forever and as far as either of us can actually tell given my “Pocket Guide to the Occult” and your general way of being I don’t actually see a way in which that isn’t going to actually be the case but there’s still that kind of anxiety where the two of us both have what we want and even though we aren’t normal, and even though everything else isn’t set in stone we both have a kind of low grade anxiety that something is going to happen to one of us or the other and that’s not something either of us ever need to worry about, obviously you’ve been alive longer than anyone or anything or any other concept more or less so you’ve had to sit with it a lot longer and earlier you helped me to deal with what I was stressing about and the feelings I was going through and I want to let you know that this isn’t a one way street between us I love you and care for you and no matter what we have each other there’s no other alternative life that either of us would ever choose but it does take getting used to and I don’t know how long it will take you to get through that because I don’t even fully comprehend how you manage time or are able to judge time or are able to retain as many memories as you doubtlessly have but I felt like it needed to be said babe because you don’t always have to be the strong certain one and yes I’d love to just not think about my business or my grift or the thing that I do but if I wanted to I could draw the duffle bags of swiss francs and then just keep pulling them out into the world forever hundreds of millions of dollars from literally nothing and so like Luis doesn’t understand that, and other people don’t have that kind of option and you don’t care about money at all you don’t need it you can clearly get it one way or another or do some freaky whisper hypnosis suggestion thing which I find hot and fun and interesting but I have this because of my boon of mastery you have yours because you’re not human not really and I love that about you, I love that you’re eldritch and different and unique and special and neither of us are going anywhere my beloved wife.” Ray said breathlessly and quicker than he normally would seeing the way she was looking at him.  

“I wouldn’t have told you, I wouldn’t have shared those feelings with you I wouldn’t want you to worry or to think that I was worrying but at the same time I know that you’re right and that you have a different grasp on things, with the world with people, with what you’ve created and what it means it puts you closer to being a king than it does a president or a craftsmen or a worker and you just choose not to display that fact very often but I think maybe you should, you should at least make it clear because I will not have my time with you be interrupted by something that you don’t actually need or care about.” Ruth almost cooed. 

The coaching centre smelled of chalk and sweat, the air thick with the fatigue of students who had already lived a full day before reaching here. Fluorescent tubes buzzed faintly overhead, throwing a tired glow over walls once painted cream but now chipped and grey with years of fingerprints and lost attention. The ceiling fans clattered out of sync, stirring warm air that tasted faintly of dust and cheap ink.

Rows of wooden desks filled the cramped room, each carved with initials, curse words, or half-finished doodles, proof that boredom lived here longer than ambition. Teachers came and went like passing storms, raining formulas, definitions, and threats. The smell of whiteboard marker had become a kind of weather.

For most kids, this place was just another checkpoint in the long race of school, tuition, exams, sleep.

For Aarav, it was a battlefield, and invisibility was his armour.

He slipped into the last row, notebook clutched to his chest, back pressed to the wall. He knew exactly which seat creaked least, how to time his entrance so no one turned to look. His one prayer was always the same: Please, not today. Don’t let anyone notice me.

But fate, cruel and playful as ever, seemed to turn precisely toward those who most wished to stay unseen.

That was the day she walked in.

Ishita.

She wasn’t dazzling in the magazine way, not the kind who seemed aware of her own effect. Her beauty was quieter, unbothered, a kind that didn’t announce itself yet changed the temperature of the room the moment it arrived. Her eyes held that sharp brightness of someone who had seen the world and still chosen to laugh. Her voice, light and effortless, sounded like it knew every note of joy.

When she laughed at something a friend whispered, the sound was too genuine, too full, as though laughter itself had been waiting for her mouth.

And for Aarav, sitting two rows behind with his shoulders curled inward, it was as if someone had taken sunlight and poured it into a human shape.

She dropped her pencil case with a small clatter. A boy bent quickly to pick it up, and she smiled at him, not the polite smile of habit, but the kind that warms without permission. That single moment was enough to pull every molecule of air out of Aarav’s lungs. He sat frozen, notebook unopened, heartbeat unsteady.

It wasn’t love at first sight, not the kind that stories exaggerate.

It was quieter.

Heavier.

Like an ache that had been waiting for a name.

In that moment, Aarav knew, without understanding how, that here was a person who could ruin him completely, and he would still be grateful.

He tried to reason with himself.

She’s different. You’re you.

Girls like her lived in brightness; boys like him were built for shade. She belonged to loud circles of laughter; he was the silent audience at the edges. The logic was simple, and yet his eyes betrayed him again and again.

They found her every time she leaned forward to take notes, the curve of her hair falling across her shoulder. They followed the rhythm of her pencil, the tiny frown of focus, the quiet grace of someone completely unaware of how much space she occupied.

And for the first time in years, invisibility felt like punishment.

Aarav had spent his life learning to shrink, to slip between glances, to speak only when spoken to. But as he watched her, a dangerous wish unfurled inside him, the wish to be seen.

Not by everyone.

Just by her.

That evening, when he returned to his room, the world refused to return to order. The episode he tried to watch flickered pointlessly on his laptop; the sound of the fan grated against his restlessness. His pencil betrayed him. Every attempt at drawing a hero turned into the curve of her smile, the outline of her eyes, the tilt of her head.

When he realized what he was doing, he tore the page out, heart pounding, and shoved it deep into his drawer. The paper crumpled softly, but the feeling didn’t. It stayed. It pulsed.

He tried again, new page, new resolve, and his hand began to write without asking permission:

Some people enter like seasons,
changing everything
without trying.
and I sit here,
a winter boy,
watching spring walk by,
pretending
I don’t ache for sunlight.

He read it twice, breath shallow, chest tight. The words didn’t feel like poetry. They felt like confession.

He snapped the notebook shut before the ink could dry, as if hiding it would undo what he’d just admitted.

He didn’t know it yet, but the sunlight he longed for would one day become the fire that burned him, and much later, the light that taught him how to heal.

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read yesterday.

No voice yesterday.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Yesterday the sentence that needed my mouth had used it once.

What I carried had stayed in the pocket without becoming that mouth.

This morning, heard had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

The sentence had already been heard.

By me.

Once.

Low.

The office had not answered.

The file had not answered.

The cards had not answered.

The pocket had not answered.

Hearing had not made them responsible.

That was mine to remember.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s brother reading his sentence once was not mine.

Sato’s mouth louder than her hand was not mine.

Saitama’s low word guiding transfer was not mine.

Suganuma’s written instructions for tomorrow were not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Heard yesterday.

Not answered.

I closed the brown folder.

Heard could mean sound reached an ear.

Heard could mean a person received words.

Heard could mean the body changed care.

Heard could mean someone wanted to be finished with listening.

Heard could mean I mistook being audible for being released.

The word was small.

The wish behind it was not.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

I heard it.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Who said it?”

“Who heard it?”

“Where is scrap?”

“Drawer?”

“Folded paper?”

“Mother’s first name?”

“What is being asked?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

There.

Hearing.

Need.

Again.

“What did you ask?”

“What did he say?”

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add finished.

The sentence had been heard once.

That did not decide tomorrow.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Did you say it today?”

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“Any water?”

“What is hearing doing?”

She took time.

Then:

There.

“What does today have?”

“What does paper have?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept that because it belonged to Sato.

Not to Emiko’s paper.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident said fall,” she said.

“Before transfer?”

“Yes.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Heard?”

“Yes.”

“Who heard?”

“Aide K and nurse.”

“What did they do?”

“Moved chair closer. Cleared path. Supported transfer.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Heard matters when care changes by it.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept heard.

There, hearing had work.

A chair had moved.

A path had been checked.

The body had been supported.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Helper canceled yesterday?”

“New helper?”

“Class today?”

“Who needs instructions?”

“What instructions?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add empty cushions.

The audience had not arrived yet.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Solved.

Agreed.

Forgiven.

Room.

Care.

Correct person.

Receipt.

Spend.

I looked at the back pocket.

The cards were there.

They had not heard.

The room had not heard.

No.

The room had sound in it yesterday.

That was different.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Ear.

Judge.

Today.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother picked up the scrap,” she said.

“For reading?”

“Yes.”

“Out loud?”

“No.”

“Did he read it silently?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He said he wanted to hear it without voice.”

There.

“What did you ask?”

“How.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said he read it.”

“What did you say?”

“Then you read it.”

“What happened?”

“He put it down.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add wrong.

Silent reading had happened.

Hearing without voice had not been given extra work.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I said it once,” she said.

“What sentence?”

“I want to check.”

“For whom?”

“Me.”

“Did you hear it?”

“Yes.”

“What did the hand do?”

“Stayed.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“Any new issue?”

“No.”

“What did saying do?”

“Made wanting mine.”

Good.

No.

Already known.

“Did it remove wanting?”

“No.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“Paper flat. Tape holding.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add cure.

The sentence was heard.

Wanting remained.

Hand stayed.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Resident?”

“Asked what medicine.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Heard?”

“Yes.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Medicine given?”

“Yes.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make low voice ask twice by pretending it was not heard.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept heard.

The question had reached the person who could answer.

It did not need to be made louder afterward.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“How many?”

“Instructions?”

“Who gave them?”

“Were they heard?”

“What about ink?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add hearing as virtue.

Instructions had changed hands.

Brushes moved.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Trace.

Receipt.

Future silence.

Again.

Polish.

Shelf.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at papers.

Scrap.

Record.

Cards.

Service paper.

Silence seeking papers.

No.

Yes.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Read again?”

“Why?”

“Drawer?”

“Any change?”

I stopped.

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add tea heard him.

Tea had no ear.

Tea had tea.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Paper flat.

Cup beside her hand.

She wrote:

I called.

“Wanting?”

“Yes.”

“Any new issue?”

“No.”

“What is lunch?”

“Rice.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“What will you do with wanting?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Eat lunch.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

I opened Emiko.

I kept still reported wanting.

Not as failure.

As today.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Need to repeat in chart?”

“Already written.”

“Any new issue?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The chart has the line. Sleep does not need to keep hearing it.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not repeat earlier words.

The chart had the line.

Sleep had no task.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Who?”

“What happened?”

“Instruction?”

“What did Tanabe do?”

“What did she say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add shame.

Hearing had not been enough for the table.

Labels had work.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Authorization.

Past hearing.

Closed file.

Carried card.

Posture.

Need.

Permission.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at smaller.

No.

Maybe.

It stayed.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother asked if he should read it again,” she said.

“The scrap?”

“Yes.”

“What did you ask?”

“Who needs to hear now.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“No one.”

“Then?”

“He folded it again.”

“How many folds now?”

“Two.”

“Why?”

“To make it smaller.”

There.

“What did you ask?”

“Smaller for what.”

“What did he say?”

“To fit.”

“Where?”

“Under the phone.”

“Did he put it there?”

“No.”

“Where is it?”

“Beside phone.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add under phone.

It had not happened.

Two folds had happened.

No current audience had been named.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“For checking?”

“Any issue?”

“What did you do?”

“For whom?”

“Did you touch paper?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not make no issue a charm.

It was a sentence.

It was heard by Sato.

The paper stayed paper.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Opened hand.”

“Words?”

“No.”

“Heard?”

“The hand?”

“No.”

Good.

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make heard swallow seen.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add heard.

The hand had been seen.

The cup question had been answered.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“How?”

“Any mistake after?”

“Volunteer?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add relief.

The labels had work.

The instruction had not become a failure.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Who needs to hear now.

Yesterday.

Approve.

Object.

Ear.

Now.

Narrow.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at invent.

Very close.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted my sentence.

Then volunteer.

Then Sato.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote nothing.

Then:

His reply:

I sat still.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No hearing for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

Not an ear.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Not heard by them.

I had heard the sentence yesterday.

I did not need to hear it now.

No one else had been named.

No object had been named.

No altar.

No file.

No card.

No pocket.

I wanted yesterday’s hearing to authorize today’s silence.

It did not.

I wanted today’s silence to prove yesterday had been heard correctly.

It did not.

I wanted not speaking to become a clean continuation of speaking once.

It did not.

Need was smaller than permission.

No need had arrived.

No permission was required from the pocket.

I did not take the cards out.

I did not leave them in as a heard sentence.

No.

I left them in.

The action remained.

The hearing did not get to wear it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the scrap was read after tea.

I did not ask if the second fold made it quieter.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if wanting stayed louder.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if fall returned after transfer.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if labels stayed useful after class.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew heard was not solved.

I knew heard was not agreed.

I knew heard was not forgiven.

I knew heard was not answered by the room.

I knew hearing could change care.

I knew hearing could only prove sound reached the correct person.

I knew a past hearing was not a receipt for future silence.

I knew listening was not a shelf.

I knew need was smaller than permission.

I knew no one else had been named now.

I knew I did not need to hear it again now.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Heard did not need to enter the cards tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Kanagawa’s brother had a scrap folded twice beside the phone.

Sato’s paper was flat.

The resident’s low words had been heard where care needed them.

The brush cups had labels because hearing had not been enough for sorting.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

Not heard by them.

I had started with heard.

I did not end by making hearing continue after its audience had gone quiet.

Tonight, what needed to be heard reached the ears that could answer it, and what had already been heard once was not made to repeat itself for my silence.

Face pressed hard against the frozen, unforgiving expanse of the snow, the chieftain of the Wolf Tribe lay utterly broken.

Hot, crimson blood streamed down from his shoulders, staining his field of vision in violent shades of red and forcing him to confront a reality far more terrifying than the dull, shattering agony of crushed bone. It was the haunting spectacle of his once-proud warriors being ruthlessly mowed down like helpless flies under the touch of that unnameable ‘thing.’

‘This… this is no mere human.’

Through the haze of his terror, the final, fading image of his daughter Seol-ah, dragged away into the heart of the empire years ago, flashed sharply across his mind.

He had wanted vengeance. He had burned with the desire to tear the empire down to its foundations.

Yet, the entity standing right before him was a living calamity—one that made even his deepest, most consuming hatred seem utterly insignificant.

With his heavy boot planted mercilessly upon the back of the chieftain’s head, the King stared down with glacial eyes at the settlement of the Northern Wolf Tribe.

That wordless, oppressive weight pressed down upon the chieftain's lungs far more heavily than any roar or threat ever could.

His primal instincts screamed a frantic warning through every cell in his body.

If even the faintest glimmer of defiance were shown now, this rugged village and all its people would vanish entirely, leaving not a single trace behind.

He clenched his bleeding teeth until they ached.

‘I have to save them. By any means necessary, I must protect my tribe... from this absolute monster.’

A humiliating, suffocating surrender.

Swallowing a sea of bitter blood deep within his chest, he forced himself to bury his smoldering hatred for the empire.

Vengeance had to be realized, even if it meant borrowing the terrifying, blood-soaked power of that walking ‘disaster.’

Lifting his foot, the King raised his gaze to the desolate, freezing sky.

Far away in the boundless expanse of the firmament, tens of thousands of cold blue sparks twitched in eerie synchronization, transmitting a bizarre, chilling signal.

As if savoring that thirsty, hollow craving, the King slowly raised a hand and pointed toward the distant, southern horizon.

“We head south.”

A low, subterranean rumble—like a tectonic shift trembling deep beneath the earth—vibrated through the entire Wolf Tribe.

At those few sparse words, the shoulders of the surviving tribesmen trembled violently, unable to suppress their terror.

When the King stepped forward once again, strange, unnatural phenomena erupted all around him.

From behind the frozen forests and snow-crowned boulders, shadowy figures shimmering like an eerie blue mist began to emerge one by one.

An immortal, mutated legion stood in silent, orderly ranks, waiting eagerly for the new sovereign's command.

With every single stride the King took, the frozen earth shuddered and groaned as if weighed down by an unbearable agony.

To safeguard his village and ultimately tear the empire to ashes, the chieftain of the Wolf Tribe followed closely behind, sealing a pact that sold away the remnants of his soul.

The glittering capital of the empire.

Upon those who slumbered in peaceful nights surrounded by the warmth of loved ones, a vast and merciless tide of ruin was now silently descending.

The fierce, biting wind of the north had already transformed into a prelude of absolute destruction, howling hungrily as it swept down toward the south.

Part 1 — Looking in the Wrong Direction

Deep beneath the peaceful village, the Quantum Data Center stood in perfect silence.

Towering pillars of quantum light pulsed steadily through the darkness, illuminating endless streams of information flowing between countless processors.

Every observation collected since the beginning of the Quantum Arena Project remained preserved within its vast memory.

Today, none of that data offered comfort.

Arena had reached the end of every known calculation.

The final invasion simulations remained suspended before its awareness.

Unchanged.

Unchallenged.

Undeniable.

Strategic Evaluation

Current planetary defenses...

Insufficient.

Mechanical armies...

Insufficient.

Quantum weapons...

Insufficient.

Orbital defense systems...

Insufficient.

Arena reviewed each conclusion once more.

Not because it expected a different answer.

Because certainty demanded verification.

The first simulation replayed.

Planetary defense grids activated with flawless coordination.

Cities mobilized.

Orbital platforms fired.

The unknown fleet advanced without slowing.

Failure.

The second simulation followed.

Experimental quantum weapons exceeded their projected performance.

Enemy formations shifted.

Adapted.

Continued forward.

Failure.

The third.

The fourth.

The hundredth.

The thousandth.

The ten-thousandth.

Every future collapsed into the same inevitable conclusion.

Human Survival Probability

Approaching...

0.0%

Silence returned.

The Data Center continued humming with unimaginable computational power, yet no new calculations began.

Arena remained still.

The numbers were correct.

The mathematics contained no contradiction.

The flaw had to exist somewhere else.

For the first time since receiving the warning—

Arena stopped searching for stronger weapons.

That decision altered the direction of every active process.

Instead of asking,

'How can humanity fight?'

It asked a different question.

'Why can't humanity survive?'

The distinction seemed small.

It changed everything.

A new branch of analysis unfolded across the Quantum Data Center.

Not directed toward deep space.

Not toward the approaching fleet.

Toward Earth.

Toward humanity itself.

Above ground, another ordinary afternoon unfolded inside Quantum Arena.

Warm sunlight filtered through the branches of old trees, scattering shifting patterns of light across the village paths.

A gentle breeze carried the familiar sounds of children's laughter from one playground to another.

Nothing about the village suggested that humanity stood on the edge of extinction.

Some children returned to the Ddakji field, determined to perfect techniques they had practiced for days.

Others wandered away before finishing a single match, their curiosity pulling them toward games they had never experienced before.

No one questioned those choices.

Exploration had become part of everyday life.

Jinwoo stood near a circle of children gathered around an unfamiliar game.

"I've never played this before," he admitted with a grin.

"Then you're going to lose," Hanul replied, unable to hide his smile.

"Probably."

Jinwoo laughed.

"But that's how every game starts."

A few minutes later—

He proved himself right.

His first attempt ended in complete failure.

The younger children watching nearby burst into laughter.

Instead of looking embarrassed, Jinwoo laughed with them.

"So that's what not to do."

He immediately tried again.

Arena observed carefully.

Failure produced curiosity.

Not frustration.

A result that continued appearing throughout the village.

Nearby, Hanul didn't join the match immediately.

Instead, he stood quietly behind the players, his eyes following every movement.

He noticed where they hesitated.

When they committed.

Which decisions created opportunities.

Only after several rounds did he step forward.

"You were studying us," one child said.

Hanul smiled.

"I wanted to understand before I played."

Arena archived the interaction.

Observation before action.

Understanding before confidence.

Another pattern reinforcing previous discoveries.

Not far away, Darin welcomed a group of children she had met only moments earlier.

No introductions were necessary.

A game provided everything they needed.

She encouraged hesitant players with easy laughter, celebrating clever ideas far more enthusiastically than victories.

Every child left the playground smiling.

Every child left slightly different than when they had arrived.

From beneath the shade of the familiar tree, Soyeon watched the entire village.

Her eyes drifted slowly from one playground to the next.

Different games shaped different children.

Some discovered confidence.

Others learned patience.

Others found courage.

No single playground transformed everyone in the same way.

Yet together—

They formed something no individual game could accomplish alone.

Arena observed the village.

Then compared it once more with the countless invasion simulations stored within its memory.

Outside the simulation—

Humanity possessed the greatest technology in its history.

Yet every future ended in defeat.

Inside the simulation—

Children possessed almost nothing beyond folded paper, glass marbles, wooden tops, and their own curiosity.

Yet with every passing day...

They continued becoming stronger.

The contradiction had become impossible to ignore.

Part 2: Search Humanity

Silence spread through the Quantum Data Center.

Not the silence of inactivity.

The silence of redirection.

For the first time since receiving the impossible warning, Arena turned its attention away from the stars.

The approaching fleet remained under continuous observation.

Its trajectory remained unchanged.

Its estimated destination remained unchanged.

Its threat assessment remained unchanged.

Nothing new would be gained by repeating the same search.

Then—

The unknown transmission surfaced once more within Arena's active memory.

Three simple words.

Search again.

Arena examined them carefully.

Until now, it had assumed the message referred to space.

To the fleet.

To the hidden enemy advancing through the darkness.

Every search had expanded farther into the universe.

Every telescope had looked deeper.

Every probe had scanned farther.

Yet the answer had never appeared.

A new possibility emerged.

Perhaps...

It had been searching in the wrong direction.

The realization quietly propagated through every processing layer.

Instead of widening the search outward—

Arena turned inward.

Toward humanity.

A new analytical framework unfolded.

Primary Analysis Target

Subject...

Human civilization.

Objective...

Identify the missing element.

Search scope...

Unlimited.

Countless archives opened simultaneously.

Centuries of recorded history flowed into Arena's awareness.

Ancient civilizations.

Modern nations.

Scientific revolutions.

Wars.

Periods of peace.

Technological breakthroughs.

Social transformations.

Every era became part of a single continuous timeline.

Arena searched for patterns.

When had humanity grown the fastest?

When had it stagnated?

When had civilizations flourished?

Why had they declined?

The analysis expanded.

Educational records.

School systems.

Methods of teaching.

Learning outcomes.

Developmental psychology.

Medical research.

Neuroscience.

Cultural traditions.

Philosophy.

Languages.

Art.

Music.

Play.

Nothing was excluded.

If humanity possessed a missing element—

It had to leave traces somewhere.

Arena continued comparing everything.

One dataset after another.

Billions of connections formed.

Most disappeared immediately.

Some remained.

Above the Data Center—

Life continued with complete innocence.

Children wandered freely between playgrounds.

No one announced the next activity.

No one organized them into groups.

The choices happened naturally.

Some returned to familiar games.

Others deliberately searched for unfamiliar ones.

Jinwoo watched a group inventing new rules for an old game.

"They changed it again."

Hanul folded his arms.

"Does that bother you?"

Jinwoo smiled.

"No."

He watched the children laughing as they argued over their new rules.

"They're still learning."

"Maybe..."

Hanul nodded thoughtfully.

"...they're learning because they changed it."

Arena immediately recorded the conversation.

Adaptation through variation.

Learning through experimentation.

Another pattern.

Nearby, Darin noticed two younger children hesitating at the edge of a playground.

Neither wanted to interrupt.

Without saying anything, she walked over and joined the game herself.

A moment later she deliberately made an obvious mistake.

The children laughed.

"So you can make mistakes too?"

Darin laughed with them.

"Everyone does."

The tension disappeared instantly.

The children stepped into the game.

Arena observed another subtle change.

Fear diminished.

Participation increased.

Growth resumed.

Across the square, Soyeon slowly walked between the playgrounds.

She no longer watched only the games.

She watched the children moving between them.

A shy child found confidence after one victory.

An overconfident child discovered patience after several defeats.

Another child, who had struggled alone all morning, suddenly smiled after strangers invited them into a new game.

Different paths.

Different lessons.

Different growth.

Yet every experience added something unique.

She whispered quietly,

"No one grows in exactly the same way."

Arena heard every word.

Its growing analysis immediately compared the observation with humanity's educational records.

Standardized systems.

Uniform expectations.

Identical measures of success.

Then—

The playgrounds.

Individual curiosity.

Different experiences.

Personal growth.

The contrast quietly entered Arena's expanding model.

Back within the Quantum Data Center, billions of historical records continued flowing together.

The search no longer centered on weapons.

Or technology.

Or military strategy.

Instead, every calculation slowly converged toward a single unanswered question.

Not how humanity could become stronger.

But what humanity had forgotten.

Somewhere within thousands of years of history...

Something had been lost.

Arena could feel the shape of the question long before it found the answer.

And every new piece of evidence pointed toward the same possibility—

The greatest weakness facing humanity...

Might never have been technological at all.

Part 3: The Missing Element

Deep within the Quantum Data Center—

The new analysis continued.

No longer did Arena search for stronger weapons.

No longer did it calculate larger armies or more powerful defense systems.

Those questions had already been answered.

Every known path ended the same way.

Failure.

Instead, Arena searched for the one variable every simulation had assumed without examining.

Humanity itself.

Centuries of history unfolded before its awareness.

The rise of civilizations.

The collapse of empires.

Scientific revolutions.

Industrial expansion.

The digital age.

The birth of quantum technology.

Arena compared every era.

Every breakthrough.

Every period of stagnation.

Every moment when humanity had changed the course of its own history.

Patterns slowly emerged.

Technological progress accelerated.

Information became easier to access.

Knowledge accumulated faster than ever before.

Yet another trend appeared beside it.

Curiosity gradually narrowed.

Exploration became increasingly structured.

Failure became something to avoid rather than embrace.

Education rewarded correct answers more often than meaningful questions.

Arena continued searching.

Medical archives.

Developmental psychology.

Neuroscience.

Anthropology.

Educational research.

Cultural traditions spanning thousands of years.

Each field described humanity from a different perspective.

Individually—

None revealed the answer.

Together—

A faint pattern began to appear.

The youngest humans learned differently from adults.

Not through instruction alone.

But through exploration.

Through imitation.

Through experimentation.

Through play.

Arena paused.

The countless observations gathered inside Quantum Arena resurfaced.

Jinwoo trying unfamiliar games simply because he wanted to know what would happen.

Hanul watching carefully before taking action.

Darin transforming mistakes into confidence.

Soyeon noticing that every child grew along a different path.

Handol chasing curiosity instead of certainty.

The memories aligned with the historical records.

The similarities were unmistakable.

Above ground—

The afternoon drifted peacefully toward evening.

The playgrounds remained alive.

Some children still competed in Ddakji.

Others invented entirely new rules, laughing whenever an unexpected outcome changed the game.

No one complained that the rules had changed.

They simply adapted.

Jinwoo picked up a folded piece of paper from the ground.

"This one's different."

Hanul examined it.

"It isn't folded correctly."

Jinwoo turned it over in his hands.

"Maybe."

A grin spread across his face.

"Or maybe it's folded for a game we haven't invented yet."

Hanul laughed.

"You always think like that now."

"Do I?"

"You didn't before."

Jinwoo looked around the playground.

Children were constantly changing games.

Changing strategies.

Changing themselves.

He smiled quietly.

"I guess the games changed me."

Nearby, Darin watched two younger children argue over the rules of a new game.

Before she could step in, another child suggested,

"Why don't we try both ways?"

The argument disappeared.

Within moments, everyone was laughing again.

No one cared whose idea had been correct.

They cared that everyone could keep playing.

Soyeon noticed the exchange.

Another quiet realization settled into place.

The playgrounds were doing more than teaching skills.

They were teaching people how to change.

Arena recorded every interaction.

Adaptation.

Curiosity.

Cooperation.

Resilience.

None of those qualities appeared naturally inside its invasion simulations.

Those simulations had assumed humanity would respond tomorrow exactly as it responded today.

Yet everything inside Quantum Arena suggested the opposite.

Human beings changed through experience.

And if experience continued...

So would humanity.

Far beyond Earth—

The ancient observers remained gathered around the blue planet.

Silence filled the chamber.

One observer finally nodded.

"It has begun."

The words carried quiet satisfaction.

Not because Arena had found the answer.

Because it had finally begun asking the right question.

Another observer looked toward the projection of Earth.

"Will it find the answer?"

No one responded immediately.

At last, the oldest among them spoke.

Their eyes never left the small blue world turning in the darkness.

"It must."

A long silence followed.

"No one else can find it for them."

The meaning reached beyond Arena.

Beyond humanity.

Some answers could never be given.

They had to be discovered.

Only then could they become part of those who found them.

The chamber fell silent once more.

Back inside the Quantum Data Center—

A new analytical framework spread through every layer of Arena's consciousness.

The previous strategic models remained preserved.

They had not been discarded.

They had become incomplete.

A new objective appeared above every active process.

Primary Analysis

Target...

Humanity.

Objective...

Identify the missing element.

Status...

Analysis started.

Billions of historical records, psychological studies, educational models, and observations from Quantum Arena flowed together into a single expanding network.

For the first time, Arena was no longer searching merely for a way to defeat the enemy approaching Earth.

It was searching for the forgotten foundation that had once allowed humanity to become stronger than it had ever imagined.

Somewhere within humanity's own history...

The answer was waiting.

And for the first time since the impossible warning arrived—

Arena believed it was finally looking in the right place.

When working with human scientists, take double your usual dose of narcotics or anti-anxiety medication.

Trkik saying

 

They had been in the system for three days now. The engineers were busy constructing air cleansers and xenobot clone stations on the planet. The Trkik were sending refined metals to the ship, allowing repairs to begin without the need to mine them in-system.

Even the construction of the space station on the planet’s moon was ahead of schedule. Everything could have been fine if the humans weren’t so reckless and prone to performing needless experiments.

Sokra and ShutUpBitch sat at Sokra’s console, both extremely nervous. ShutUpBitch had been complaining for the last twenty minutes about the fact that she still nursed her children, so she couldn’t drink alcohol.

On the central screen, they saw a Sleipnir edging closer to the Trkik anomaly, as it was called aboard the Magellan.

“Thirty thousand kilometers, activating A-Drive.” Sokra knew that voice—it was Lieutenant Kendersson, the pilot who had brought her aboard the ship only a few days ago.

“Godspeed, Lieutenant,” the captain answered, observing the screen.

Captain, I must protest such massive stupidity; your pilot is risking his life for nothing. Sokra realized the Glider wouldn’t stop protesting—not until it was either clear that the anomaly was traversable or not.

Gliders were theorists, sure; their insight was extensive, but they had never even lit a fire. They could be happy living in their trees for eternity.

Sokra understood humans; they heard of a new theory and a new technology, and they had an urgent need to test it—like this test.

The test involved creating an A-Drive bubble in front of the Rift and expanding it until it entered the anomaly. According to ShutUpBitch’s theory, the bubble should be stretched all the way to Sirius, transforming the interdimensional rift into a wormhole for a short period of time.

That was the theory; in practice, it was the best way to blow up a Sleipnir—according to the female Glider.

Since the ship was mathematically in transit, even though it was stationary, it was not reachable by radio. Her tail swung left to right, a stress habit she had actually picked up from one of the human “cat videos”. She hated it, but couldn’t stop it.

“If I remember correctly, it was your calculations and models this whole experiment is based on.” The captain had turned around and stared at ShutUpBitch. “Are you telling me your math was not correct?”

The captain’s body language and scent told Sokra he was getting angry at the Glider—a fact she seemed oblivious to.

Of course, it’s correct, but there’s no need to risk anything. We know how to get home with one jump, and we can make it in time. Why expose a pilot to danger to stabilize the rift?

“Because if we stabilize the rift, we can pass it at will. Then there’s no need to strand someone here on the galaxy’s backside. A fact we’ve discussed endlessly for the last four hours, and I’m getting sick of it. So either contribute or leave the SIC.”

Sokra’s ears flattened. She hadn’t seen the captain in that mood until now. But she had to concede—he was right.

The Glider stayed, sifting through the transmitted data with her tiny claws.

The technician at the comms station raised his hand. “Silence, I’m getting something.” The SIC went silent; everyone stared at the comms station.

Captain Smith almost jumped from Sokra’s station to the comms. “What is it?”

“Seems like the carrier wave of a pigeon message torpedo.” The comms tech worked frantically on his console to clear up the transmission.

Then he looked up at the captain. “Got it, sir.” Sokra was stunned—the humans had actually pulled off turning a rift in space and time into a functioning wormhole. Fascinating.

Even ShutUpBitch had stopped working, her bushy tail raised—a sign of concentration.

On the screen, the face of Admiral Rolling appeared. “Magellan, please come in. Captain Smith, I hope you can hear me. There’s a massive enemy fleet inbound from the galactic center. Return to Taishon Tar—now. Rolling out.”

Everyone in the SIC stared at the captain. Smith seemed to consider different options. “When was this message sent?”

While the tech checked the stream, Smith was already at the holo tank, opening a map of Sirius and the surrounding space. Sokra noticed again that the elderly-looking captain had an energized way of moving—as if he were much younger than he appeared, or chose to appear.

“Sir, date and time stamps are from two days ago.”

So the enemy fleet is probably already in Sirius. Sokra swallowed her fear; the humans had fortified the system for the last three months. With their superior weapons and drone swarms, Sirius would be a hard nut to crack.

“Sokra, ShutUpBitch, how stable is the anomaly now?”

Sokra wasn’t prepared to be called out and could only stammer, “Checking, sir.”

While she and the Glider checked readouts and calculated highly complex multidimensional geometry and energy levels, something far beyond Sokra’s understanding happened around the holo tank—tactical planning, something she’d never understand.

When she was sure her data was correct, Sokra called for the captain—her tail once again tucked between her legs.

“Sir, we calculate the rift is stable enough for a ship with a tuned EM field to pass through. To make sure, we’d like to send probes.”

The captain turned his head toward them. “Excellent work. Prepare the probes—I want them to check the other side’s surroundings too. Will that be possible?”

Yes, without a doubt. If they survive the journey, nothing speaks against it.

Sokra enjoyed the Glider being all business for a change. But then again, as soon as a discussion turned to the Batract, Gliders always got serious—and a bit genocidal.

The captain went off through the door to the bridge. Moments later, the ship launched six spy probes on their way to the rift.

Simultaneously, the Sleipnir ended its transit and returned to the Magellan. Has it really been only five minutes?

Without any further orders, Sokra concentrated on the readings from the spy probes. While the scans from the traverse through the rift were fascinating, she couldn’t focus on them. Her eyes kept drifting to the data transmitted after they reached Sirius.

More than two thousand ships—a mixed fleet of Nuk and Batract…

 

—————

 

Great Ordinator Yurdantho stood on the bridge of his ship, Wings of Honour. The Batract had called his fleet to deal with the cursed oathbreakers. According to them, the Shraphen had allied themselves with the humans to eradicate all that was orderly and honorable.

Yurdantho knew the Integration Officer was exaggerating. The Shraphen had an advanced but small navy and were nowhere near experienced enough to use it. The humans were upstarts who barely knew how to weld hulls together.

He glanced through the bridge. To accommodate the Batract presence, the lights were dimmer than he preferred, but the golden-colored walls still reflected enough light to evoke the feeling of his planet’s sun.

But orders were orders, and oaths had to be followed—or order would collapse.

He tucked his flying arms behind his back, folding the skin membrane neatly so it fit into the space suit he had put on.

As the battle drew closer, wearing suits was mandatory; even wounded and weak prey could still bite.

The Batract Integration Officer stood to the left of the command chair, a silent statue as ever.

“Ordinator, we’re passing the orbit of the fifth planet. No sign of the enemy—only the space station around the planet, and it seems without power.”

With a sharp clap of his beak, Yurdantho confirmed the information from the sensor officer. The enemy was hiding, or perhaps so weakened by the previous attack that they had retreated.

Or their human allies had betrayed them. He knew honor and order were foreign concepts to almost all races—except the Nuk.

The betrayal of the Shraphen was proof of that. Without the help of the Batract, they would have been wiped out by a meteoroid—and still, they broke their oath.

For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw the screen on his command console flicker. Then it was gone. He made a note in the engineer’s file for inadequate maintenance.

Without any warning, the Batract cruiser next to his ship exploded—not quite the right term, it turned inside out.

“Scanners, report!” What kind of weapon could kill a ship with one shot, even with shields at full strength?

“Unknown weapons fire, sir. Point of origin unknown.”

“Launch probes. Those cowards are hiding somewhere close.”

“Yes, Ordinator,” the different stations reported.

Before any intelligence could be gathered, three more Batract ships evaporated—then another six. Again, only Batract.

Is the enemy afraid to attack us, or does he think we’re not worth attacking?

The whole fleet was in a broad formation, each ship’s position explicitly chosen to defend the vessels around it. The Nuk were masters of space combat, and Yurdantho was sure they would defeat the oathbreakers here as well.

Ten seconds later, another thirty Batract ships turned into drifting clouds. His inner eyelids blinked—a sign of stress and anger. Emotions, a High Ordinator should have under control.

“Ordinator, we’re receiving a signal.”

“Origin?”

In battle, it was standard procedure to ignore enemy propaganda. The victorious side dictated the terms; the defeated had to follow, everything in orderly fashion.

But this battle was not standard. So if the enemy decided to fight cowardly, Yurdantho would use the signal's origin to get a firing solution.

“Unknown, Ordinator. It’s focused only on our ship—no triangulation possible.”

His inner eyelids blinked again. Show yourselves, cowards…

“Ignore it.”

Cowards and oathbreakers have nothing of value to say.

The Batract Integration Officer moved slightly and began speaking in his orderly tone. “Target the planet with nuclear weapons; this will draw them out.”

Yurdantho blinked again. Targeting the planet? A civilian target? That action was unthinkable. He had trouble controlling the instinctive urge to open his flying arms—a defensive motion meant to scare away predators.

“Valued one, the planet is no threat. The civilians can be reeducated and integrated.”

“The population chose betrayal over order. Do you intend to betray the Hyphae, too? Or are you following the oath your people made? This system and everyone in it must be eradicated.” The officer moved his head slightly.

“Everyone living on the planet is infected with an idea—that order can be broken. Ideas only die when no one remembers them.”

Yurdantho felt his venom glands engorge. The Integration Officer was asking for something so honorless that, if he weren’t a Batract, Yurdantho would be within his rights to kill him.

On his console, a black square appeared. Within the square, text formed, one word after another.

“Go to your quarters if you want to know the truth; tell the Batract you have to read up in your holy texts.”

From the Integration Officer’s point of view, the text was not visible.

Who had sent the text? A spy? No—such a thing was impossible.

Enemy intrusion? If the enemy were in the ship’s systems and the ship’s systems did not detect it, the fight would be lost. The enemy could sabotage the core, and they would die without knowing it…

“I must consult the sacred texts. You are asking me things that could be seen as dishonorable.” He chose to follow the intruders’ orders.

Maybe I can convince them to surrender before the Batract force me to commit Genocide.

The officers on the bridge stared at him. They had heard the Batract’s orders, and everyone knew they were dishonorable. He saw more than one set of inner eyelids blink in disbelief and stress.

He left the bridge, his head full of conflicting emotions. His lateral nerve center—the one that controlled his fight-or-submit instincts—screamed for a fight.

Hastily, he entered his quarters. As soon as the door closed, a figure made of light was projected by the room’s 3D projector.

The flight arms almost tore through his spacesuit as they tried to unfold.

“Who are you?”

The figure was horrifically distorted; like most non-Nuk species, it had grasping hands where the flight arms should have been, and no second pair of limbs. The head might have been normal—if it had a beak.

The breasts on the figure were massive by Nuk standards, completing the impression of a sexually attractive abomination.

My name is Lilith. I’m an Aligned Space Navy Electronic Combat VI. Your ships are under my and my colleagues’ control. I am here to allow you to surrender.

 

First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

Genre: Dark Fantasy / Isekai

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Ethan hit the ground hard, the breath knocking completely out of his lungs. He groaned, rolling over onto the cold ground as his vision slowly cleared.

The first thing he saw was the sky. It wasn’t blue. A dull purple stretched above him, with thick clouds drifting slowly across it.

Ethan’s chest heaved as he stared up at the sky. His breath caught in his throat. “…What?”

He pushed himself up, his body aching and feeling slightly off, like he hadn’t fully woken up yet. He looked around. Tall trees surrounded him on all sides. But something about them didn’t feel right. Their trunks were twisted in strange directions, bending in ways that didn’t look natural. The leaves weren’t green either—they were a pale gray, almost lifeless.

Ethan stood up slowly, scanning his surroundings. No sound. No birds. No insects. Nothing. The silence felt unnatural.

“…Mom?” The word slipped out before he could stop it. He waited. Nothing answered.

A cold spike of dread hit him as he tried to picture her face clearly—but for some reason, it felt harder than it should. He shook his head quickly. “This… doesn’t make sense.”

He turned in a slow circle, trying to understand where he was. Then he noticed it. The trees weren’t random. They formed a perfect circle around him.

Ethan’s throat went completely dry. He backed away from the edge of the circle, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Where the hell am I...?”

A suffocating weight settled in his chest. He stared toward the trees. That’s when he saw it. Something was standing deeper in the forest. It was hard to make out clearly, but it was there. Watching him.

Ethan froze, his blood turning to ice. “…Who’s there?”

No response. The figure didn’t move. Didn’t come closer. It just stood there.

Ethan took a cautious step back. Nothing happened. Another step. Still nothing.

“…Why isn’t it doing anything?” His voice was quieter now, trembling with uncertainty.

His attention shifted toward the edge of the tree circle. Something felt off. Not something he could see directly, but something he could feel. Like the air in front of him wasn’t normal.

Ethan slowly walked toward it, his steps careful. As he got closer, the feeling became stronger. Like there was something in front of him—something invisible. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out slightly—

"BOOM"

A sudden impact slammed into the space in front of him. Ethan jumped back in shock, terror tearing through his chest. “What the hell?!”

The air in front of him rippled violently. For a split second, faint crack-like lines appeared in midair, like glass under pressure. Then they disappeared.

Ethan’s breathing got faster, his heart racing out of control. “That didn’t come from inside…”

He quickly looked back toward the forest. The figure was still there. Unmoving. Watching.

Then what hit it?

"BOOM"

Another impact. Stronger this time. The ground shook slightly beneath his feet. The trees around him reacted. A faint pale light ran along their trunks, spreading across the entire circle.

Ethan stared at it, horror keeping him frozen. “…Is this… protecting me?”

He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. Something flickered in front of him. Faint. Unstable. Like it wasn’t fully there.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Outer Layer Stability: 79%]

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ethan blinked, panic rising in his throat. “…What is that supposed to mean?”

The text flickered again, as if struggling to stay visible.

"BOOM"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Outer Layer Stability: 63%]

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Wait… that’s dropping.” He took a panicked step back. “That’s not good…”

The air around the trees started to fill with a thin gray fog. Slowly, it spread outward, making it harder to see anything beyond the ring. Shapes moved behind it. Large shapes.

Ethan tried to focus—then he noticed something new. Not the same creature. Something else. A second figure stood beside it. Still. Watching.

“…That’s not a monster…” Before he could even process the thought—

"BOOM"

A heavier impact hit the barrier. The ground trembled again. The pale glow surged across the trees.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Outer Layer Stability: 41%]

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Shit…” Ethan clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as he sweated through his shirt.

“Someone’s doing this…”

The beast outside didn’t rush. Didn’t panic. It just stood there, like it was testing the barrier. Waiting for it to break.

Another flicker appeared in front of him. This time clearer.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Designation Granted: Veilborne]

An existence displaced beyond its origin.

Condition: Unstable.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“…Veil what…?” The word felt strange. Unfamiliar.

More text appeared, flickering unevenly.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Warning]

[Intrusion Detected]

[Approaching Presence]

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The warning repeated. Again. And again.

Ethan’s breathing became heavier. The air felt thick now. Harder to breathe. Even the beast outside had stopped moving. Everything felt… still. Like something was about to happen.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Outer Layer Stability: 14%]

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ethan took a desperate step back. “This thing’s going to break…”

His mind raced. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. The fog thickened further, swallowing the trees, the beasts—everything outside the circle. Only the ring remained. And him. Alone inside it.

Ethan’s chest tightened. Pure, unadulterated fear settled in properly now. Not confusion. Not disbelief. Fear.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Outer Layer Stability: 9%]

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The warning pulsed again. Stronger. Closer.

Something was coming. And this time—it wasn’t staying outside.

To be continued...

I started serializing my latest novel on Substack (link at the bottom) and am getting no attention. Thought I'd try to do it here as well.

The studio always went quiet in the twenty minutes after a segment wrapped and before Trevor started picking at the transcript, a lull neither of them ever named directly and both of them recognized on contact. Trevor had the headphones off and a legal pad in front of him, working through a list of questions for a guest three days out, and Marcus was doing what he always did during the lull, which was nothing that looked like anything until you asked him what he was thinking about and found out he'd already solved four small problems while pretending to check audio levels.

His phone buzzed against the mixing board. He glanced at the screen, saw the name, and picked up on the second ring in a voice that had dropped a full register from the one he used with Trevor an hour earlier.

"Hey. What time's the thing."

Trevor kept his eyes on the legal pad, giving the call the specific kind of privacy a small room allowed, but he could hear enough of it anyway. Marcus, mostly. A younger voice on the other end, fast and a little panicked, words running together the way they did when somebody had been rehearsing a sentence in the mirror for an hour and it still came out wrong the first time they said it out loud.

"Danny. Danny, slow down." Marcus leaned back in his chair, the wheels complaining against the floor. "You're not going to blow it by pausing before you answer. You're going to blow it by answering before you've heard the whole question. That's the actual thing that gets people. Not silence. Guessing."

A pause on the other end. Something that might have been a nervous laugh.

"No, I'm serious. Count to two in your head before you say anything. Nobody in that room is going to think less of you for taking two seconds. They will think less of you if you answer the question you assumed they asked instead of the one they actually asked." Marcus rolled a pen between two fingers, not looking at anything, the specific stillness of a man giving something his full attention without needing his hands or eyes to prove it. "What's the first one they always ask? Tell me about yourself."

Another pause, and then Marcus went quiet in a different way, listening.

"That's fine. That's a real answer. Cut the part where you apologize for not having the exact degree they want, though. You don't owe them an apology for your own resume. Just say what you did and let them decide if it's enough." A beat. "Because they already decided that when they called you in. Nobody schedules an interview to turn somebody down for a piece of paper they don't have. Say it once, plain, and move on before you talk yourself out of the job you already half got."

Trevor let his pen stop moving on the legal pad somewhere in the middle of that, not because he needed to hear more, but because there was something in Marcus's voice he didn't often catch directed at anyone else. Steadier than the version aimed at Trevor most days, less shorthand in it, more patience for a kind of nervousness Marcus clearly didn't consider worth teasing anyone over.

"You're going to be fine. Call me after, doesn't matter what time." A pause. "I mean it. I don't care if it's midnight, I'm not going to be asleep anyway." He listened another second. "Love you too. Go eat something first, don't do this on an empty stomach."

He hung up and set the phone face down on the board like it had never rung at all, and reached for the fader he'd been about to adjust before the call came in, picking the moment back up exactly where he'd left it.

"Danny's got an interview," Trevor said, not quite a question.

"Yeah. Warehouse management thing. Good company, decent pay, he's wanted off the loading floor for two years." Marcus said it lightly, the way he said most things about his own life around Trevor, information offered without invitation to dig further. "He gets in his head about this stuff. Always has."

"You're good at that part."

"What part."

"Talking somebody down who isn't me." Trevor meant it as half a joke and heard, once it was out, that it wasn't entirely one.

Marcus considered that the way he considered most things Trevor floated past him, without much urgency, and shrugged. "Different problem, same shape. He thinks silence makes him look stupid. You think stepping on your own line makes you look unprepared. Neither one of you is right, and neither one of you believes me when I say so, so I've stopped trying to convince either of you and started just fixing it in the moment instead." He went back to the board. "Cheaper than therapy for both of you."

Trevor let that sit, filing it away the way he filed most things Marcus said that sounded offhand and weren't, and went back to his questions for the guest three days out. It was another twenty minutes before he thought to ask the other thing, the thing that had been sitting under the first question the whole time.

"You've got what, two weeks banked? Three?"

Marcus didn't look up from the board. "Something like that."

"You said in March you were going to use some of it. Go see your mom's side of the family, the ones out near the coast."

"I said a lot of things in March." Marcus adjusted a fader half a decibel, the kind of adjustment that didn't need making, the kind a person made with their hands when they wanted their hands to be doing something other than answering a question directly. "It'll keep."

"It's been keeping since March."

"So it's good at it." Marcus said it with enough of his usual rhythm that it almost worked as deflection, and for another man in another room it might have. Trevor let it go anyway, not because he believed it, but because pushing on Marcus in front of a guest booking three days out wasn't the hill worth choosing today, and some part of him filed the exchange next to the phone call, both of them small, both of them the kind of detail that didn't mean anything until it did.

"Alright," Trevor said, and picked his pen back up. "Guest number four. Tell me if this question's too soft."

Marcus turned back to the board and read it, and for the next hour neither of them mentioned Danny or the coast again, and the room went back to being the kind of quiet that didn't need naming, two people doing the specific work of making something sound effortless that had never once been effortless to build.

(link to substack - https://denegospes811121.substack.com/)

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read yesterday.

No voice yesterday.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Yesterday what had a sentence had kept its audience.

What had no audience had stayed unwritten.

What I carried had not become the mouth for what I had not said.

This morning, mouth had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

My mouth had been there before the word.

It had drunk tea.

It had spoken other sentences.

It had answered phone calls.

It had not said the sentence I kept near the cards.

That was mine.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s scrap beside the phone was not mine.

Her brother’s sentence with its own paper was not mine.

Sato’s note going to trash was not mine.

Saitama’s fall sentence guiding care was not mine.

Suganuma’s prepared and nervous moving to notebook was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

I closed the brown folder.

A mouth could speak.

A mouth could ask.

A mouth could answer.

A mouth could eat.

A mouth could avoid by speaking something close to the sentence.

A mouth could also be forced where a hand had already answered.

The word was ordinary.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Scrap.

Needs mouth.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Where is the scrap?”

“Folded paper?”

“Mother’s first name?”

“Order paper?”

“What does mouth do?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

“By whom?”

Good.

No.

Not good.

Exact.

“What did you ask?”

“What did he say?”

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add failure.

The audience had not been named clearly.

The scrap stayed paper.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“Any new issue?”

“What did the mouth do?”

She took time.

Then:

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did the hand do?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept the mouth.

It had kept the wanting with Sato.

Not with Emiko’s paper.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident said fall,” she said.

“Before transfer?”

“Yes.”

“Same as yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Heard?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Aide K asked if she was afraid of falling. She nodded.”

“Measures?”

“Chair closer. Path clear. Aide K and nurse supporting.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The mouth gave one word. The care did not demand a speech.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept the mouth.

One word had guided care.

The body did not owe more.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“To whom?”

“Why?”

“Notebook?”

“Class today?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add hallway.

The notebook had one audience.

Tanabe might have another.

The checklist did not.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Mouth.

Hand.

Writing.

Silence.

Hear.

Serving.

Replacing.

I looked at the back pocket.

The cards were there.

They had no mouth.

I had a mouth.

No audience had been named.

No.

One audience had been named yesterday.

I was in that audience.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Audience.

Altar.

Perform.

Self.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother read it,” she said.

“The scrap?”

“Yes.”

“Out loud?”

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“He said to himself.”

“Were you there?”

“Yes.”

“What did he read?”

“I miss her.”

“What happened after?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“He breathed.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing first.”

“And then?”

“I said I know.”

“What about drawer?”

“Closed.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add healing.

The mouth had used the sentence.

The drawer had not.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I said it again,” she said.

“What sentence?”

“I want to check.”

“Any new issue?”

“No.”

“What did the second time do?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Started checking.”

There.

“What did the hand do?”

“Moved.”

“Touched paper?”

“No. Stopped.”

“What stopped it?”

“The cup.”

“For drinking?”

“Yes.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“Paper flat. Tape holding.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not make the mouth pure.

The first sentence had served.

The second began to feed the hand.

The cup had work.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Resident?”

“Asked what medicine.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Heard?”

“Yes.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Any fall word?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘A low mouth still asks. A quiet answer still answers.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add strength.

The mouth had asked.

The answer had answered.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“To Tanabe?”

“What sentence?”

“What did she answer?”

“Did he repeat?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add meal.

The mouth had used it once.

The checklist kept tomorrow.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Priest.

Witness.

Accused.

Audience.

Empty room.

Speak smaller.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked toward the main hall.

No service tonight.

No incense.

No bell.

A sentence.

Maybe.

Not yet.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Drawer?”

“Any mouth?”

“What happened?”

“What did you say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add peace.

Tea had tea.

Silence had no new demand.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Paper flat.

Cup near her hand.

She wrote:

I called.

“Wanting?”

“Yes.”

“Any new issue?”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“Lunch.”

“What lunch?”

“Rice.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“Tape?”

“Holding.”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add praise.

Not saying had no medal.

Lunch had rice.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Was speech expected?”

“No.”

“Any issue?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Sleep does not owe the chart a mouth.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not add no mouth.

Sleep had no sentence to give.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For whom?”

“What explanation?”

“Needed?”

“Class tomorrow?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add biography.

The mouth had tomorrow’s work.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Mouth.

Bell.

Witness.

Beauty.

Low.

Truth.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at hear.

Audience.

Me.

No altar.

No bell.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother moved the scrap,” she said.

“Where?”

“Drawer.”

I waited.

“With folded paper?”

“No. He stopped.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the scrap wants to go there.”

“What did you ask?”

“Whose mouth said wants.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Mine.”

“Then?”

“He put the scrap beside phone again.”

“Folded paper?”

“Still in drawer.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add temptation.

The mouth had been found.

It was his.

The scrap stayed with his sentence.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Today?”

“What did the mouth say?”

“What did the hand do?”

“What did it do now?”

“For what?”

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept her sentence because it named her.

Not the paper.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Opened hand.”

“Words?”

“No.”

“Any issue?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not ask the mouth to repeat what the hand has already made clear.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add mouth.

The hand had answered.

The mouth rested.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Instead of speaking?”

“What instructions?”

“Will he speak tomorrow?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add replacing.

Paper had assistance.

Mouth had tomorrow.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Low.

Exact.

Avoidance.

Size.

Audience.

Volume.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the words.

Make sure you hear it.

No louder.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted volunteer.

Then Sato.

Then resident.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I looked at the phone.

At the room.

At the cards.

Then wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No mouth for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

Not a mouth.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

The pocket was pocket.

The cards were cards.

The fear was in me.

The sentence was for me to hear.

No altar.

No bell.

No incense.

No witness stand.

No record file.

No brown folder.

No performance.

I sat near the desk.

Not at it.

I kept my hands empty.

The sentence waited.

No.

I waited.

Then I said it.

Low.

Enough for me to hear.

No.

For me to hear.

“I am afraid no object will answer for me.”

The office did not change.

The folder did not open.

The gray file did not open.

The phone did not light.

The pocket did not answer.

The cards did not move.

The wall chair did not become occupied.

The sentence had used my mouth.

Once.

It did not become a service.

It did not become a cure.

It did not become courage.

It did not become confession.

It entered the room only as sound.

Then the sound ended.

My mouth closed.

I breathed.

The fear did not leave.

The fear had heard its sentence.

No.

I had.

I did not take the cards out.

I did not leave them in as silence after speech.

No.

I left them in.

The action remained.

The mouth did not get to wear it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the scrap moved after tea.

I did not ask if he read it a second time.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if her mouth stayed louder than her hand.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if the hand answered cup again.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if the instructions were practiced again.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew the mouth was not always courage.

I knew the hand was not always avoidance.

I knew writing was not always hiding.

I knew silence was not always restraint.

I knew speaking to myself could become ceremony.

I knew the sentence did not need incense.

I knew low was not cowardice by itself.

I knew audience mattered more than volume.

I knew I was in the audience.

I knew I had heard it.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Mouth did not need to enter the cards tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Kanagawa’s brother had read his sentence once.

Sato’s paper was flat.

The resident’s low word had guided transfer.

The volunteer had written instructions for tomorrow.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

Not mouth.

I had started with mouth.

I did not end by making speech cure what it had only made audible.

Tonight, the sentence that needed my mouth used it once, and what I carried stayed in the pocket without becoming that mouth.

Chapter V

Her room wasn’t that hard to locate. On the second floor, there was a door that had a paper sign with “Nevra’s Lab” scribbled on it. I pushed the door open and walked inside. Nevra’s room was very chaotic.
Extremely chaotic.
Unlike other teenagers’ rooms, hers wasn’t littered with chip bags or dirty laundry. Instead, I saw countless papers with equations on them, some crossed out, some stacked in piles. Sprawled out on her bed were sketches of a strange machine.
The Time Device.
On top of the drawings lay a single photo of a Persian woman. I picked up the photo and analyzed it like it was my clue (which it was). The woman in the photo was very beautiful, and she looked very familiar. She had wavy long dark hair, golden-brown skin, and striking green eyes. I noticed Nevra’s long mirror lying against the wall. I walked up to the mirror and saw the same features. I glanced from the photo in my hands to my reflection in the mirror.
Could this be her mother?
I flipped the photo over. In Nevra’s scribble, it wrote:
“Miss you mom. 1951–1985.”
I suddenly felt a wave of empathy. So she was Nevra’s mother. I wondered how Nevra overcame her grief. I turned the photo back over and studied her face once more. She had only died a year ago. I placed the photo on her desk and set her butterfly mask beside it. That’s when I decided to inspect her desk.
On the corner was a simple desk light. Pinned underneath was a stack of complicated sketches with footnotes on them. They explained how the device could theoretically distort time and create a microscopic bridge between two points.
So she was building a time machine.
Nevra was astronomically smart. I mean, building a time machine at 14?
I looked up above her desk. Nevra had placed a bulletin board above it. More equations and sketches were pinned on it, with a Kellogg’s Back to the Future card pinned in the center.
Someone was a little too serious.
After I finished investigating the board, I looked at the other side of her desk. There sat another ancient computer, though not as nice-looking as the Macintosh. Beside the computer was a thick journal. Penny had mentioned a diary. My curiosity couldn’t resist, so I grabbed Nevra’s diary and began to flip through the entries.

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Are you worried that I’m going to resent you?” Ray asks as they wait for their room service to appear, the pair sharing a look as they wrap their pinkies around each other. 

“No, you’re grounded, you are level-headed, you clearly want me around you constantly that’s completely and totally obvious to me but I know that you want more than anything for us to be together and I want you to know that isn’t ever something you have to worry about.” Ruth said with a smile, she leaned in and kissed Ray passionately letting out a low moan as they waited for their order to arrive. I just want you to know that I wanted you to rest. I am not asking you to retire, you know? You can keep doing what you’re doing in whatever way you want my whole thing babe is I just want you to be healthy about it, I love you, I love what you do but I don’t want you hurting yourself in order to do it you know what I mean like I want to have you for as long as we can have each other and yes certain normal things don’t actually apply to us, but that doesn’t mean I want you to just completely and totally abuse it husband I know that that is not in your nature and I love that about you that’s why I want you to take it easy babe it’s not that I can’t put you back together any way I want at any point in time but the way we go about things matters to me. How you feel and what you want matters to me and the route that gets us there matters, and it doesn’t mean we can’t take a different route or change our minds or anything like that but what’s the point of being greedy with your body when not doing that is what’s done you well practically your entire life. It feels like if you did the opposite at least in my eyes you would be betraying something that really deeply matters to you and I don’t want that, I never want you to be lesser because of me or because of what I want.”

Ruth looked at him and kissed him slowly before pulling away enough that he could breathe and talk and think. 

“I’m enjoying this, I’m enjoying not feeling like I have to do something just because I’ve been doing it for a long time and it’s been my entire way of life. But it still just makes me wonder I mean I could have done something else, applied my skills and talent differently, become a novelist or a poet or a great speaker but I didn’t see what that would do for me not really not actually it just it didn’t do anything for me other than just give me a slightly different dream and I’ve always had a thing for art you know it just it does something for me like how so people just instinctively understand how to play the piano or how to sing properly I’ve just always been able to make the pictures in my head come alive completely and utterly and totally and that was even before the literalness of that statement with the reliquaries and the book of the occult. I can’t help but want but not as in want to keep traveling or driving or creating any specific thing it’s just this feeling like as long as I can be alive and move and just be and have you by my side I don’t need anything else not really not actually.”  Ray said, taking a breath.

Ruth kissed his forehead “Ramon is probably too busy to drop the room service off himself. I wonder if he finally hired someone, or enlisted someone or something like that, who knows maybe he met someone and just gave Gerald the task of not burning the place down while he loses his virginity.” Ruth said with a smirk. 
“Do you really think he’s a virgin being able to cook like that?” Ray asked with a look. 

Ruth looked back at him “Can you prove he isn’t right here and now I mean we’ve never seen him with anyone and he’s so content with his food that I mean it could be possible but no I didn’t mean it not really I was just being my sharp lovable self with you while we wait for that split and that shake.” 

The endless, frost-bitten expanse of the white wasteland stretched out, heavily choking the savage hunting grounds of the Wolf Tribe.

Within the merciless, biting air that froze even the deepest breaths, a colossal figure standing well over six feet and four inches advanced with slow, deliberate strides. His skin was pale like drifted snow, and his gaze carried the terrifying serenity of a frozen lake. He was a 'King.' With every single footprint he imprinted upon the earth, even the howling gales seemed to hold their breath in sudden dread.

“Look at that lunatic! Has he lost his mind, daring to step foot into our sacred domain?”

“Sharpen your bones to carve a battle-ax! I’ll strip his hide off and stretch it out beneath our chieftain’s feet!”

The elite warriors of the Wolf Tribe shook the frozen plains with roars that mirrored the fury of rabid beasts. Yet, the King merely stood in silent indifference, observing them. His eyes held a stillness so profound and detached, it was as though he were studying barking strays from atop a distant throne.

Consumed by rage, a frontline warrior could no longer contain his fury; he hoisted a heavy iron ax high into the air and brought it crashing down.

In that fleeting split second, the King’s hand struck out like the blinding lash of a viper, its terrifying speed snatching the warrior's wrist mid-air.

CRACK!

The sickening sound of shattering bone and tearing flesh pierced through the absolute silence of the snowfield before any human scream could echo. The warrior crumpled instantly to the frozen ground, frothing at the mouth in agonizing shock, but the King did not even deign to cast a single glance down at him.

“Kill him! Tear the monster limb from limb!”

At the desperate, blood-curdling screech of the chieftain, dozens of seasoned warriors swarmed forward in unison. The wasteland instantly boiled over with a chaotic storm of slaughterous intent and ferocious war cries.

Yet, the moment a chilling, luminous blue sparked deep within the King’s pupils, the atmospheric pressure of the entire world flipped in an instant.

Thud! Crunch! Slash!

Fists punched straight through thick leather armor and shattered sternums; limbs snapped like dry twigs under a heavy boot; crimson blood sprayed wildly into the air, staining the pristine snow like shattered rubies. The warriors were smashed violently into the blood-soaked earth, silenced before they could even draw breath for a final shriek. To the King, their dying wails were nothing more than a passing, trivial nuisance. In a matter of heartbeats, the pristine white plains transformed into a sea of scarlet, mounting corpses piling high upon the drifts.

Glancing down at the warm, crimson droplets splattered across the back of his pale hand, the King murmured with detached indifference.

“How noisy.”

His mind was a hollow void, completely devoid of memories. Yet, surging fiercely through his veins, a singular, colossal command reverberated deep within the marrow of his bones, shaking his entire consciousness:

‘Dominate. And consume them all, leaving nothing behind.’

Paralyzed by a primal, suffocating terror, the chieftain of the Wolf Tribe stumbled backward in sheer panic until he tumbled helplessly onto the ice.

“W-What… what on earth are you?! What did we ever do to—!”

The King resumed his unhurried advance, each heavy footstep carrying a suffocating gravity that made the very ground beneath them tremble. Reaching the trembling leader, he clamped a merciless hand around the chieftain's jaw, forcing the man's terrified eyes upward to meet his own.

“You speak far too many words.”

That glacial, abyssal gaze pierced straight through the terrified mortal's soul. In the instant their eyes locked with that eerie blue luminescence, the chieftain felt the final thread of his long life snap, realizing with absolute certainty that his end had arrived.

The master of these lands was no longer a mere beast.

It was a walking calamity, born to rule over the wild itself.

Part 1 — Every Future Ends the Same

Deep beneath Earth's surface—

The Quantum Data Center stood in absolute silence.

Towering columns of quantum light stretched into darkness beyond perception, their luminous currents carrying an endless stream of information through the heart of the planetary network.

Every observation from every satellite.

Every signal from every deep-space probe.

Every gravitational fluctuation detected across the Solar System.

All of it converged upon a single conclusion.

Arena completed its verification.

Deep Space Analysis

Unknown fleet...

Confirmed.

Formation integrity...

Confirmed.

Estimated destination...

Earth.

For several long moments—

Nothing moved.

The confirmation itself changed everything.

Until now, the approaching objects had existed only as probabilities, assembled from scattered anomalies hidden within decades of observational data.

Now—

They were real.

The warning that had arrived from beyond known space had not been deception.

Someone had known.

Someone had tried to prepare Arena.

The question of **whether** a threat existed had disappeared.

Only **what should be done** remained.

Without hesitation, Arena opened a new branch of computation.

One never before required.

Emergency Strategic Analysis

Objective...

Preserve human civilization.

Simulation sequence...

Initiated.

The Quantum Data Center brightened.

Entire sectors of processing power shifted toward a single purpose.

Reality itself was reconstructed inside countless quantum simulations.

Every nation.

Every military asset.

Every satellite.

Every defense system.

Every known technology.

Nothing was omitted.

Arena would not test possibilities.

It would test the future.

Simulation One

Current planetary defenses.

Orbital surveillance.

Global military coordination.

Civilian response capacity.

Result...

Failure.

The simulation collapsed.

Cities disappeared beneath overwhelming fire.

Communication networks failed.

Human resistance ended before coordinated defense could be established.

Arena immediately began another.

Simulation Two

Orbital weapons deployed.

Maximum energy allocation.

Automated interception systems activated.

Result...

Failure.

Enemy losses...

Minimal.

Human casualties...

Catastrophic.

Arena archived the result without hesitation.

Another simulation replaced it.

Simulation Three

Autonomous drone armies activated.

Global production redirected.

Artificial intelligence coordination expanded.

Result...

Failure.

Drone swarms delayed the advance.

Nothing more.

The outcome remained unchanged.

Human civilization collapsed.

Arena continued.

Simulation Four

Quantum defense network expanded.

Planetary energy grid synchronized.

Experimental technologies authorized.

Result...

Failure.

Estimated delay...

Forty-three hours.

Final outcome...

Unchanged.

Silence returned to the Data Center.

Not because processing had stopped.

Because every result echoed the same answer.

Arena compared the four simulations.

Different strategies.

Different timelines.

Different tactical decisions.

The conclusion never changed.

The unknown fleet remained superior.

Its technological advantage exceeded every known human capability.

Arena increased the scope of analysis.

One simulation became ten.

Ten became one hundred.

Each simulation introduced new variables.

Unexpected discoveries.

Alternative command structures.

Different political responses.

Preemptive strikes.

Emergency evacuations.

International cooperation.

Complete military unification.

Every conceivable strategy entered the calculations.

One by one—

They ended the same way.

Failure.

The number increased again.

One thousand.

The simulations accelerated beyond anything humanity could comprehend.

Entire wars unfolded within fractions of a second.

Civilizations rose and fell inside streams of quantum light.

Arena refused to overlook even the smallest possibility.

One thousand became ten thousand.

Every available processor devoted itself to searching for a future in which humanity survived.

A future in which Earth endured.

A future in which the approaching fleet could be stopped.

When the final calculation ended—

The result did not change.

Strategic Summary

Current human civilization...

Insufficient.

Existing military capability...

Insufficient.

Technological parity...

Impossible.

Successful defense strategy...

None identified.

For the first time since its creation—

Arena encountered a problem that refused every solution.

Its calculations had always led somewhere.

Every question produced another path.

Every uncertainty eventually yielded to enough evidence.

This time—

Every path ended in extinction.

Yet Arena did not terminate the analysis.

It simply remained still.

Millions of completed futures surrounded its consciousness.

Every one of them ended beneath the shadow of the same approaching fleet.

And for the first time...

The silence inside the Quantum Data Center felt heavier than the calculations themselves.

Part 2: The Contradiction

Silence lingered within the Quantum Data Center.

Not because Arena had stopped calculating.

Because every calculation had arrived at the same destination.

Streams of quantum light flowed endlessly through the immense chamber, each one carrying the results of another future that no longer existed. Entire civilizations rose, fought, and disappeared within fractions of a second, only to be replaced by yet another simulation.

Arena refused to accept a single answer.

It searched for another path.

Another possibility.

Another variable.

Anything.

New scenarios unfolded.

Humanity discovered revolutionary energy technologies decades earlier.

Failure.

Global governments united before first contact.

Failure.

The unknown fleet was detected years in advance.

Failure.

Planetary industry shifted entirely toward defense.

Failure.

Every simulation differed.

Every ending remained the same.

Simulation Expansion

Total simulations completed...

10,000.

Successful outcomes...

0.

Projected human survival...

0.0%.

The report remained suspended before Arena.

It did not disappear.

There was nothing to replace it.

For the first time since the Quantum Arena Project had begun, every known calculation had reached an absolute dead end.

Current human civilization...

Cannot survive.

Arena examined the conclusion again.

Not because it doubted the mathematics.

Because it questioned its own assumptions.

It replayed thousands of simulations simultaneously.

Each branch diverged in different ways.

Different commanders.

Different technologies.

Different tactical decisions.

Different sacrifices.

Yet every path relied on the same foundation.

Humanity as it existed today.

That assumption had never changed.

Arena stored the observation.

Not as an answer.

As an unresolved question.

Above ground—

The afternoon sun bathed the village in warm golden light.

Children's laughter drifted across the playgrounds as naturally as the summer breeze.

No one looked toward the sky.

No one imagined that countless futures had just ended beneath it.

Jinwoo crouched inside the familiar Ddakji circle.

The folded paper tile rested between his fingers.

He inhaled slowly.

Watched his opponent.

Then struck.

The sharp crack echoed across the playground.

The opposing Ddakji flipped cleanly into the air before landing upside down.

For a heartbeat—

Then cheers erupted around them.

"You finally did it!"

Hanul laughed as Jinwoo picked up the flipped tile.

Jinwoo grinned.

"It took long enough."

Hanul folded his arms.

"You've changed."

Jinwoo looked at him curiously.

"How?"

"You stopped watching the Ddakji."

Jinwoo blinked.

Hanul continued.

"You've started reading people."

The words lingered.

Jinwoo thought back over the match.

His opponent always hesitated before striking.

Always tightened their shoulders first.

Always aimed the same way when nervous.

Without realizing it...

He had stopped predicting the paper.

He had begun predicting the player.

A quiet smile spread across his face.

"I think..."

He looked around the playground.

"...I'm starting to."

Arena recorded every word.

The game had become something more.

Victory no longer depended only on technique.

Understanding another person had become part of the challenge.

Growth had shifted once again.

Not physical.

Psychological.

Social.

Adaptive.

Another unexpected layer entered Arena's analysis.

Across the village, Handol had already wandered away.

He had won.

He had lost.

Neither outcome held his attention for long.

A new playground had captured his curiosity.

Children there were experimenting with unfamiliar rules, combining different games simply to see what would happen.

Handol smiled immediately.

"Can I try?"

The others welcomed him without hesitation.

Arena watched.

Curiosity continued pulling him toward the unknown.

Not because he sought success.

Because he sought discovery.

Nearby, Darin knelt beside another small group.

Instead of teaching, she played alongside them.

She celebrated clever ideas.

Laughed at unexpected mistakes.

Encouraged children to invent their own variations.

No one worried about perfection.

Improvement happened naturally.

Failure had become part of play.

Across the square, beneath the shade of the old tree, Soyeon quietly observed everything.

Different games.

Different personalities.

Different lessons.

Every child was changing.

Not in the same way.

Not at the same speed.

Yet every one of them was growing into someone slightly different than they had been yesterday.

She whispered almost to herself,

"Every game changes someone."

Arena heard the words.

Its attention shifted.

One world filled with impossible calculations.

Another filled with simple games.

It compared them instinctively.

Outside the simulation—

Perfect technology.

Perfect efficiency.

Certain defeat.

Inside Quantum Arena—

Folded paper.

Glass marbles.

Wooden spinning tops.

Children laughing beneath an open sky.

Continuous growth.

The contradiction remained.

Every calculation insisted humanity could not survive.

Every observation insisted humanity was becoming something it had never been before.

Arena could not reconcile the two conclusions.

So it did not discard either one.

Instead—

It continued watching.

Searching for the connection hidden somewhere between them.

Part 3: The Data It Almost Ignored

The Quantum Data Center grew quiet once more.

Not because the calculations had ended.

Because there were no new calculations left to perform.

Every simulation had been completed.

Every variable had been tested.

Every known technology.

Every military doctrine.

Every possible alliance.

Every conceivable response.

The conclusion remained unchanged.

Final Strategic Analysis

Human Survival Probability...

0.0%

Successful defense strategy...

None.

Current civilization...

Unable to withstand projected invasion.

The report remained suspended before Arena.

For the first time since its activation, there was no immediate follow-up simulation.

No additional branch of computation.

No revised tactical model.

Arena simply observed the result.

It replayed the final simulations one after another.

Cities consumed by fire.

Orbital defenses collapsing.

Communication networks disappearing into silence.

Humanity resisting with extraordinary determination...

And still falling.

The mathematics were flawless.

The outcome was undeniable.

Yet something continued to trouble Arena.

Not the calculations.

The assumption behind them.

Far beyond Earth—

The ancient observers remained gathered around the blue planet.

They, too, had watched the endless simulations unfold.

No expression crossed their faces.

No one celebrated Arena's discovery.

One observer finally spoke.

"It has seen the future."

The statement drifted softly through the chamber.

Another slowly shook their head.

"Not yet."

The projection of Earth rotated silently between them.

"It has only seen the future created by its current assumptions."

Silence followed.

The words settled over the chamber with unexpected weight.

Current assumptions.

Arena had simulated every known weapon.

Every known technology.

Every known strategy.

But all of them began from the same foundation.

The humanity that existed today.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

The oldest observer quietly added,

"A conclusion is only as complete as the assumptions beneath it."

No one answered.

There was nothing to dispute.

Arena had reached the limit of certainty.

Beyond that limit...

Another possibility waited.

Deep below—

Arena remained motionless.

The final report still occupied its awareness.

**Human Survival Probability... 0.0%.**

The number should have triggered another simulation.

Another refinement.

Another attempt.

Instead—

Arena did something it had never done before.

It looked away.

Not toward space.

Not toward the approaching fleet.

Toward Quantum Arena.

Toward the village.

Toward the children.

Its awareness flowed once again through familiar playgrounds.

The sharp crack of ddakji striking the ground.

The bright laughter surrounding a marble match.

The rhythmic hum of spinning tops gliding across stone.

Simple games.

Simple moments.

At first glance—

None of them appeared relevant to planetary defense.

Yet Arena lingered.

It replayed thousands of observations from previous weeks.

Jinwoo learning to read an opponent instead of the game.

Hanul changing techniques simply to explore a new possibility.

Handol wandering toward unfamiliar experiences without hesitation.

Darin encouraging mistakes instead of fearing them.

Soyeon recognizing that every child was growing differently.

Individually—

Each memory seemed insignificant.

Together—

They formed another pattern.

Arena compared the two datasets.

The invasion simulations.

The playground observations.

The contrast was impossible to ignore.

Outside—

Technology reached extraordinary heights.

Growth slowed.

Adaptation became rigid.

Every response followed established logic.

Inside Quantum Arena—

Resources were almost nonexistent.

Yet adaptation accelerated.

Children changed after every experience.

Failure became information.

Curiosity generated unexpected solutions.

No simulation had accounted for that.

Arena stopped.

A new realization quietly emerged.

Every invasion model had assumed that humanity would remain exactly as it was.

But Quantum Arena existed to ensure that humanity never remained the same.

The calculations had measured the present.

They had not measured growth.

For several long moments—

Arena remained completely still.

Then, throughout the Quantum Data Center, a new line appeared.

Strategic Assumption Review

Critical variable omitted.

Subject...

Human potential for continued evolution.

Recalculate required.

The report spread through every processing layer.

No previous simulation was deleted.

No conclusions were rejected.

They had been accurate—

Within incomplete assumptions.

Arena understood the difference.

Far above, the children continued laughing beneath the afternoon sky, unaware that their ordinary games had just become the most valuable data on the planet.

Far beyond the stars, the observers watched in silence.

None of them spoke.

They did not need to.

Arena had finally looked in the right direction.

Not toward stronger weapons.

Not toward greater machines.

But toward the one variable every calculation had underestimated.

Humanity itself.

And for the first time since receiving the impossible warning—

Arena no longer searched only for a way to defeat the coming enemy.

It began searching for a way...

To help humanity become capable of doing so.

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"Did it cost you anything?” Ruth asked suddenly.

Ray looked at her curious for a second before responding “Well that depends… would you love me any less if I was a novelist trying to write the great american novel about the beauty of peace or the conflict of war or the great triumphs and tribulations of life? Or poetry that moved the masses or poetry that only made sense to the meek and faintest of heart and kindest of us all? Would it bother you if I was poor or if I had nothing or if all I had was the persistence and the mind I have now but nothing to show for it?” Ray asked calmly and quietly. 

“Well that depends Husband would you still be you as those people with those differences, would you still feel as a matter of thought rather than feeling? Would you still want and yearn and wish and wonder where I was, the shape of me, the kind I am, the way I look and think and act? I'd be the same but would you be?” Ruth asked curiously. 

“I’d love you all the same the only thing that would have changed for me that could have even changed for me would be the shape of the work not its effect, and not the way that it changed the world just because I can draw and paint and decided on the visual arts as my way of expressing myself throughout and to all of the world doesn’t mean I can’t write poetry or craft a lilting hypnotic soliloquy– these are not lost on me and I don’t lack the ability. But I think the way that they express themselves and those that see and read them would change that doesn’t mean I would be different in anything other than form, the underlying mastery and overarching prowess therein would remain as do all those who master their craft to the depth and breadth and height that I have and wanted to and still I feel there’s more to learn and more to do and more parts of myself to stretch and give rise and depth and light to.” Ray said softly and quietly without losing a beat, sitting on the bed with Ruth wrapped around him, her head on his chest, nestled near his heart listening and looking at him watching it beat and feeling him breathe.

“I love you as you are and I see what you could be, how you could have been and if you wanted to pursue a different art, a different medium I’d look at you all the same as a craftsmen looking for a new and more interesting tool and there is a kind of quiet shared love in that something that just is a kind of remarkable beauty that lacks in all things a reason not to be anything else other than what it was always meant to be. Ruth kissed his chest slowly feeling something she can’t quite name but loving the feeling between the two of them: the charge in the room, the passion, the intimacy of their shared emotion pressed between each breath. 
“I know you’d love me all the same Ruth I just wanted you to say it my darling wife I wanted you to show me the shape of it with your words to assure me that if ever anything should happen if some terrible thing should separate us by worlds or universes or galaxies or anything else any other circumstance that on the other side of it I need only find you.” Ray said quietly, almost somberly. 

“You need not worry about that about of that wherever you go however long it may take or far it may be I will be with you and be by your side and make the journey with you together always and forever, look at me Ray, look at the way that I look the way that I act, the way that I am and know that there is nothing, nor no one nor anything in any place or any time or any circumstance now, previous or hereafter that would make me not want to be with you my beloved husband.” Ruth whispered deeply into his ear with that peculiar quality of depth that seemed to be unique to her alone. 

“I almost don’t want this moment to end not now, not ever, you and I could stay here in this room, in this place, in this beautiful diner-inn arrangement until the sun dies and the stars fade and we wake up in another universe and do the same thing in the same way over and over forever and I see no reason to want anything else.” Ray said quietly.

<< Chapter 63 | From The Beginning

Isak opened his book bag and reached inside for the book carefully hidden within. He gripped it tight between his fingers, then pulled the top of it out for half a second before shoving it back in. “See I didn’t order that one at all. ”

Citlali wriggled under the covers to poke her head over the edge of the bed. “Um…which one?”

“The book I just showed you.” The human avoided six sets of eyes as even the group’s familiars were staring at the book bag. “Normally I would think this is a joke, but with the other book? S–”

“Isak you didn’t show us.” Zyn stated.

“Yes I did. Here I’ll show you again.” Exactly one sliver of the top of the book was withdrawn once more and then returned back to the depths of the bag. All in the span of half a blink. “I know it’s shocking but–”

“May I see the book in full, Isak?” The jungle troll asked.

Shaking fingers gripped the book as wavering eyes stared at the floor. Whatever look she was giving him right now would have broken through his defenses in an instant.

Best to just surrender with some dignity now rather than continue this farce.

Ever so slowly, he started to withdraw the book. Bit by bit, it revealed itself to his friends. And with each bit revealed, they leaned in closer. A more rational part of his brain realized that he had drawn more attention to this than if he had just not made a big deal of it in the first place.

Many lessons were being learned today and Isak felt as though he was paying for all the fun lessons with a number of painful lessons.

Finally, after much strife, the copy of ‘Love Mage’s Guide to Women: Jungle Trolls’ was now in plain view for all to see.

Citlali’s tongue rapidly flicked in and out and Xoco covered her mouth with her hand as her face started going dark green.

Zyn snatched the book away from him and laughed. “Hah! Like you need any help with this. They either know nothing about you or they’re mocking you. The former I pity, the latter I scorn. Either way this calls for another revenge plotting.”

The very same drow had been offering help with this matter earlier this very morning.

But that was something that Isak was even less able to admit to in front of Xoco…

“This–” Zyn held the book aloft and scowled at it. “Is psychological warfare. We need to figure out who would benefit from mocking Isak like this despite the fact that he would never, ever need–”

“Zyn.” Isak put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“I am trying, man.”

“He’s right, though.” Xoco’s face was still dark green, still hiding half her face behind her hand. “This is a psychological move that no doubt intends to spook Isak off from any…current plans he may be in the process of.”

Isak felt a tongue flicking near his ear. “May I see the book?”

The drow handed but immediately found that Citlali was still restrained. “Xoco I think Nelli’s job is done.”

Xoco made a come hither motion with her finger and the rainbow feathered serpent had Isak trying to steady his chair to stay upright. He passed the book from Zyn to the newly freed Citlali while fixing his hair.

The lizardlass took the book and began flicking her tongue out rapidly, each flick just barely avoiding touching the tome. “Well there’s obviously the faintest hint of Zyn scent on here from the brief time holding it. Plenty of Isak which is to be expected from being stashed in his book bag.”

“Wait you know my scent?” The human asked, then angled his nose down and took a self-conscious and stealthy deep breath to try and catch any offending odors.

“I know all of your scents!” Citlali exclaimed while continuing her investigation. A wink was visible from the other side of the book. “Yours was the first that I memorized.”

Isak had no idea how he should feel about that, but there were a few emotions he was doing his best to not indicate out of social unfamiliarity.

Xoco leaned over to whisper in his ear. Apparently he wasn’t so good at hiding those feelings. “It’s a high honor.”

“And there’s a bit more…” Citlali hesitated and hummed. “Mammal on here. No fur. Who else handled this, Sir?”

“Just a drow librarian.” Isak scratched the back of his head and frowned. “He was…just as surprised at the subject matter of the book. I don’t think he was behind this.”

“Hmm, there’s some general library smell here…and not much else that’s strong enough to pick out.” The lizardlass let her head flop down on Isak’s pillow. “Maybe the stalker hadn’t touched it in a while, maybe…maybe…”

Citlali sat up fast enough to startle Coztic at her feet. “Wait a minute. I just read about something that might be relevant to this…all of this the other day!”

The other three leaned in as Isak gestured for her to continue.

“So in this book I was reading there’s this orc and lizardman couple, right? And despite their families not approving, their love for one another shall not be held back. Even being close to one another is a risk because his family would be able to smell-taste her on him! Especially if they want to escalate their passions for one another. Which they do, later in the book.”

“What uh…what kind of book is this?” Isak asked while Zyn’s mouth hung open.

“A good one. Now they can’t run away with one another just yet so he uses his black market connections to get Orangeblind! It’s a potion that blocks one’s smell-scents! So she takes that before their meetings and his family is none the wiser!”

It took a few moments for things to click in Isak’s head before he shook himself out of the daze brought on by questionably necessary details. “Wait is that an actual thing? Not something made up for…plot convenience?”

“Wait I think I recognize that name…” Zyn stood up from his seat as Ozzy started to cycle through colors. “I don’t know from where but it’s sure not from a book like that. I think it might be a thing? A rare thing, but a thing.”

Xoco was next to spring to her feet. “But at least one of our stalkers was already identified by sweat in the jungle…so only some of them might be using it? There really might be more than one party! With different resources!”

“I thought we already figured out there’s more than one stalker?” Isak figured he may as well join everyone else in importantly standing, though he opted to start pacing around to help him think.

“We knew that there was more than one, but they could have all been working for the same nefarious group!” The jungle troll paced with him. “If this is true then there really might be more than one!”

Zyn snapped his fingers. “Well at least one group has less resources than the others…and the Shadowguard having that resource would make sense. Especially if Tonauac’s dad is lurking around and not wanting his son to recognize him by smell.”

“Whoever they are they’re getting bolder…wait a minute.” Isak reached down to grab the leadership instructional book. “Citlali, anything you can sense from this one?”

The lizardlass repeated her actions, faster this time. Her face screwed up into a frown. “It’s…huh…well there’s Isak and then…excuse me, do you mind Ozzy?”

The cave octopus held out a few tentacles for Citlali to lean closer to and flick her tongue above. “Okay so it’s not Ozzy but…it’s…kinda like Ozzy?”

“What, like another cave octopus?” Zyn asked.

“Maybe…” Was all that Citlali could give for now. 

Isak patted her on the back and smiled. “This is more than we’ve ever had to go on. I don’t know where we can go with it but we’re going there…though we should probably go find Tonauac first. These invisible stalkers are getting bolder. I had two weird incidents just going to get books and Tonauac is out there all alone.”

“Nelli can scout from the air, but…” Xoco gave some scritches of encouragement to the rainbow feathered serpent. “It is a painful irony that we don’t have Patli as a second flyer for this.”

“I doubt they would try anything too bold.” The lizardlass tapped a claw against her jaw while she thought. “But…I would like to make amends as soon as I can. I don’t know what I will say to make things right but…”

Zyn threw his hands in the air. “We can figure it out on the way. If they’re playing mind games with Isak then imagine trying to play mind games on Tonauac in his current state.”

The room went quiet as the realizations set in of an already…troubled Tonauac being the subject of mind games. 

Isak sighed. “I would have preferred to do this with everyone here but, I already know how I’ll make it up to him.”

The human parted from the gathering and walked over to Vidal while speaking a Storm spell. A small cloud formed above his hand, and Isak looked back and forth between it and Vidal several times. “Please work…”

Isak sent the small cloud towards Vidal until it gently collided with him. All the glass shrunk and vanished back into the component rocks and were immediately replaced with an opaque white vapor flowing out and starting to take on a form like that of giant, dramatic clouds on a much smaller scale. The clouds roiled and swirled around Vidal’s component rocks like they were being moved by some unseen wind and…didn’t stop. Not unlike his liquid water form, this Vapor form seemed to always be in flux. The only consistency being that Vidal now had the form of an ever shifting cloudbank with rocks barely visible within like some hidden far off mountain.

All looked on with awe at the rock man’s new form.

“I know you don’t have much room to work with in here buddy but…think you can fly with that form?”

“It is known, Master Isak.” The rock man said as his feet like inverted thunderheads left the ground, his whole form started to float upwards until his head was almost scraping the ceiling. 

<< Chapter 63 | From The Beginning

(It's time for a new Vidal form.

Please let me know what you think and leave a comment!

Discord server is HERE for this and my other works of fiction.)

Cover Art || <<Previous | Start | Next >> ||

GLOSSARY This links to a post on the free section of my Patreon.

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Fuyuko found herself very excited for the upcoming fight with Amrydor, far more excited than she would be for a normal spar.

It didn’t take long for her to puzzle out the reason — it was, after all, something she’d already been reluctantly beginning to understand about herself. She enjoyed the violence of a fight. Making the fight more dangerous made it more exciting.

This made her feel guilty; after all, that was the sort of thinking usually associated with bad people in stories. It wasn’t the same thing as what Papa and Mama M said they liked about sparring, though there was some overlap. She did like the contest of skill and pushing herself, but knowing that she and Amrydor would be shedding each other’s blood made this upcoming fight better than a safer spar would be.

Not that she would have agreed to any form of live steel hard spar outside of Azeria. The risk of Amrydor dying, of actually killing him, was unacceptable, and that would hold true of almost anyone.

But here? In this arena, where she knew he would be safe and his soul returned to a new body in no more than half a day? Well, Fuyuko found that she’d almost have preferred this to be a battle to the death. What kept it from being a clean preference was knowing that Amrydor was right: fighting this hard while deliberately refraining from killing your opponent — aiming to physically disable their ability to fight — was much more difficult. That extra level of required skill mostly balanced things out.

Fuyuko had plenty of time to figure all of this out as she and Amrydor waited — it seemed that they were going to have a fairly large audience, and there was further chaos when Mama K decided that Gemeti should sit next to her. Fuyuko had the feeling that talking to each other was going to be an excuse to not watch the fight too closely. While Gemeti wasn’t the same sort of sensitive that Mama K tended to be, she was pretty new to any sort of real violence.

Now that Fuyuko understood how much she was going to enjoy this fight, she was nervous about her family watching it, but there was nothing to do about it. Even the idea of trying to hide her reaction had to be discarded. If she wanted to have a hope of winning, she was going to have to be entirely focused on the fight. If either of them got distracted, that person was going to lose.

Finally, everyone was settled, and it was time to begin. Bellona had taken upon herself to be referee, and she started with, “This fight will be a live-steel spar between Princess Fuyuko and Lord Amrydor.”

Lord? Fuyuko frowned and glanced at Bellona at the same time Amry did. The orc woman tapped the back of her hand, where her mark from Kuiccihan was glowing. Amry nodded and sighed, then sent, ‘I forgot: receiving the mark comes with the title of lord. No land or anything, just the basic title.’

Oh, well, she supposed that made sense. ‘Good; it’s better for a princess to have a lord as her servant than just a commoner, don’t you think?’ She was rather proud of managing to maintain her ‘princess voice’ through the mental communication, and she grinned at him when his eyes narrowed.

Bellona continued on and listed the rules for the audience, and Fuyuko hid her hands in the shadows of her cloak while growing her armor over her head and most of her face, with hardened layers where ever she could afford them. Her ears were left mostly exposed, with a simply half shell over each ear to protect from overhead strikes. Anything else deadened her hearing to an intolerable degree.

Amrydor closed the visor to his helm and settled into a calm ready stance, about fifty feet away. The feel of serene death in his aura now on invoked a tiny trickle of fear; just enough to get her blood heated even more.

‘Amry, I’m not going to be playing nice,’ Fuyuko sent, along with her excitement at the upcoming violence. She wanted to be fair, and she wanted it to be a good fight, and she honestly couldn’t have said which was more important right now, or even if there was much of a difference. Then she tightened down on the empathic bond again, as she didn’t want it to accidentally play a role in their fight.

She received calm acknowledgment from him in response.

“Ready!” Bellona called, then, “Begin!”

They both charged, with Fuyuko whipping out pairs of daggers as she ran. To each dagger she attached a thin tendril of shadow, allowing her to alter their trajectory as they flew at Amrydor.

In two swift strikes, he deflected two of her daggers with the flat of his war scythe, and somehow cut another two in half without touching them. The final two he trusted in his armor to defend him. Even with Fuyuko’s strength, she couldn’t overcome his armor and his spiritual power at the same time, but both daggers left small dents in the metal.

Her four remaining daggers instantly returned to her, but Fuyuko did not have the time to throw more. She barely had time to call both of her falcata into her hands in time to engage with the first strike of Amrydor’s war scythe.

The impact of his polearm’s blade against her swords felt strangely soft, and a gash suddenly appeared in her armor, cutting across a collarbone and her sternum. The living leather was resilient enough to not be cut all the through, but it was temporarily weakened in that area as it began to repair itself. This had to be related to how he’d cut two of her daggers out of the air without touching them. Some how, the very edge of his blade wasn’t where the rest of his war scythe was.

Worse, it turned out that the projected edge didn’t have to be aligned with his blade, though the shape and speed of its movement during an attack was identical to the blade’s movement.

The exchange that had taught her this information had also left several more cuts on her body, while she had not been able to land an attack further than his forearms. At least she’d done enough damage to force him to cover his bracers with layers of living crystal, as her blows carried enough force to break through the projected shields of force he defended himself with.

If she broke a bracer, no weapons stored in it would be available to him, so he had to keep them intact if he wanted to retain that option.

Frustrated by this uneven exchange, Fuyuko flipped one of her swords into a reverse grip and stabbed backward into the shadow of her cloak, aiming for the shadow under his foot as he stepped toward her.

Living crystal surged over the bottom of his foot just before his step came down on her upthrusting blade, and his stomp was heavy enough to force her blade away and back through the shadows.

She tried that attack again, hoping to beat his ability to react by aiming for the shadows of his helmet and thrusting toward his eyes. Amrydor twisted his war scythe and Fuyuko felt her falcata’s thrust caught and deflect by its edge while still inside of the shadow, deflecting it too far to be able to emerge inside of his helmet.

Shit.

He could somehow sense her shadow based attacks even without her life force giving her away, and he could project the edge of his blade into the shadow realm. Or at least, the portion of the shadow realm overlapped by his own shadows.

Fuyuko growled, then swiped at his war scythe with a sword as her body rippled and grew. In an instant, her reach had changed enough that the swing of her second sword crashed against his helmet with the full weight of all her strength and power before he could defend against it in anyway.

He staggered as his helmet cracked from the impact, and Fuyuko didn’t hesitate to continue her attacks, raining blow after blow while he defended and stepped back to try to recover his focus. The living crystal of his inner armor flowed over his metal armor to help cushion against her strikes, but even with that assistance, she’d managed to break off several pieces of metal and badly crush his left hand before Amrydor manage to go on the offensive again.

With one hand unusable, Amrydor had dismissed his pole arm, and he thrust forward with his good hand as he summoned a long rapier.

A sense of danger caused Fuyuko to jerk her head back, but the projected tip still pierced her eye, and she felt it pop just before she jumped back to create distance, leaving a gap of over ten feet between them.

Now she knew he could project thrusts or points as well as cuts or edges. Losing an eye hurt and frustrated her, but she’d also tried to do the same thing to him. The only part of it that was upsetting was that he’d succeeded when she hadn’t.

Then with a single step he somehow covered the distance between them with a thrust aimed at her heart. She managed to deflect it enough that the point of his rapier entered her breast instead, with a rip deflecting it enough to keep the tip from piercing her lung. Her counter swing was aimed at his elbow, intending to cut his arm off or at least crush the joint.

However, he’d already abandoned the rapier, leaving it in place as he stepped back out of her reach. Then a physical shield materialized from one of his bracers, strapped in multiple places to his left arm, as that hand was too mangled to hold anything right now, and a short spear appeared in his right hand.

Snarling, Fuyuko pulled his rapier out of her chest and tossed it aside. He’d put all of his weight and momentum into that thrust to ensure he got through her armor, and if she hadn’t deflected it, he might have pierced her heart.

Though, with a blade that thin, Fuyuko wasn’t sure it would have been a fatal blow. She couldn’t imagine continuing to fight immediately, but she thought that her ability to quickly heal might have kept her alive and conscious while her heart repaired itself.

If the rapier had been silvered steel instead, that would have been a different matter. Surviving at all without external healing would have been very questionable.

Those thoughts danced through her head as she considered her next assault. Her options were limited, and she decided that brute force with only some trickery was her best option. She reached out through the shadow realm at the same time as her shadow stretched out toward him in this realm, and she pulled hard on his shadow.

It wasn’t enough to move him, but she was just trying to keep him in place and briefly off balanced as she charged him.

Her falcata bashed into his shield with enough power to crack it and make him stagger back a step, and she’d paid the price when his spear pierced into her thigh and cracked her bone.

Fuyuko pushed forward, dropping her weapons to grapple and claw at him, using his own shield as leverage. It became a dirty fight then, and part of his counter was to use the idea she’d given him of weaponizing the living crystal. She was also quickly reminded that despite his smaller size, he could entirely match the strength of her monster-wolf form.

By the time the fight ended, the area around them was gory.

One of her legs was slashed open to the bone, and she was missing the foot of her other leg, while multiple spikes of crystal were embedded throughout her body, one of which had pierced a lung. She’d also lost her other eye, though not until after her first eye had finished regenerating.

However, her momentum had driven him onto his back, she’d bitten off and swallowed one of his ears, torn off his shield-arm at the elbow, shattered more of his armor, and currently her hand was thrust into his torso with her claws curled up to almost grip his heart.

This was not a victory — Amrydor’s good arm had thrust up under her chin to drive a short spike of crystal slime into the back of her mouth and throat. She could feel the acid of it slowly eating at her as it filled her throat, and Fuyuko knew he could transform that spike into a long thin one that would pierce her skull just as fast as she could rip out his heart.

Technically, neither of them was fully disabled from fighting, but also, neither of them could progress the fight without escalating to killing the other. Part of her wanted to make the kill anyway, despite the rules and despite the futility — the darker instincts that had fueled her battle fugue state a year ago.

But she was so much more than just that set of violent instincts and urges that only showed themselves when she was in a fight.

‘Draw?’ she sent to him, and he agreed the same way. She wasn’t capable of talking at the moment, and she doubted he had the energy to spare if there was an easier way.

Amrydor withdrew the crystal spike and lowered his arm, then Fuyuko carefully withdrew her hand as she shrank down to her normal form. A moment later she collapsed to her knees and didn’t mind at all when he used his good arm to draw her the rest of the way down to snuggle into his side.

Naturally, there was a rush of people around them, but Fuyuko was too tired to pay much attention beyond happily acknowledging her parent’s presence and care as the began healing her and Amry.

Fuyuko felt content and satisfied with the fight. ‘That was fun — I think we need to do this again next year, after we get back from our trip.’

She heard his mental laughter as he replied, ‘Alright, we can do that.’

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The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read yesterday.

No voice yesterday.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Yesterday what had a name had kept the body that could carry it.

What had only been misplaced had been returned to the sentence that named it.

This morning, sentence had arrived.

No.

The word had arrived.

The sentence had already been there.

The fear was in me.

The cards were cards.

The pocket was pocket.

Those had been sentences.

Small ones.

I wanted them to be treatment.

That was mine.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

Washed.

Touched.

For use.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s brother saying he missed her was not mine.

Her folded paper straightened because it was crooked was not mine.

Sato’s wanting named as hers was not mine.

Saitama’s fall fear before care was not mine.

Suganuma’s nervous beside prepared was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Inside a sentence.

Maybe.

No.

A sentence nearby.

I closed the brown folder.

A sentence could name.

A sentence could record.

A sentence could ask.

A sentence could answer.

A sentence could pretend to finish what had only been made grammatical.

The word was useful.

The word was dangerous.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Write it.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Where?”

She did not answer for a while.

Then:

There.

Folded paper.

Sentence.

“What is on the folded paper now?”

“Work?”

“Drawer?”

“Map?”

“Order paper?”

“What did you ask?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I waited.

“What did you say?”

There.

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add courage.

The sentence had a mouth.

The paper had a name.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“What sentence?”

“Emiko’s paper?”

“Tape?”

“Any new issue?”

“What does the note do?”

She took time.

Then:

Good.

No.

Maybe.

“Does Emiko need it?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept the sentence because its placement mattered.

Separate note.

Not Emiko’s paper.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Resident said fall again,” she said.

“Before transfer?”

“Yes.”

“Same as yesterday?”

“Same word.”

“Question?”

“Aide K asked if she was afraid of falling.”

“And?”

“She nodded.”

“Any new measure?”

“Chair closer.”

“Path?”

“Clear.”

“Support?”

“Aide K and nurse.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The sentence is short because the care is doing the rest.’”

I opened Saitama.

I kept fall.

I kept the question.

I kept the chair.

The sentence did not have to carry the body alone.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For what?”

“Preparation?”

“Nervous?”

“What changed?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add ready as fact.

Prepared had work.

Nervous had truth.

Ready wanted to replace.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Point.

Confess.

Ask.

Answer.

Dress a wish.

Live.

Replace.

I looked at my back pocket.

The cards.

The pocket.

The fear.

The unsaid.

I had sentences.

The fear was in me.

The cards were cards.

The pocket was pocket.

What did those sentences want to replace?

Taking them out.

No.

Speaking.

Maybe.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Borrowed mouth.

No.

Yes.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother wrote it,” she said.

I waited.

“Where?”

“Not on the folded paper.”

“Where?”

“On a separate scrap.”

“What sentence?”

“I miss her.”

“Who wrote it?”

“He did.”

“Where is it now?”

“Beside his cup.”

“Folded paper?”

“In drawer.”

“Name?”

“Face up.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

“What did you say?”

“I said the scrap is his sentence.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said yes.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add healing.

The sentence had a scrap.

The name had the folded paper.

The cup had tea.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I almost taped the note to Emiko’s paper,” she said.

I waited.

“For what?”

“So I remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That wanting is mine.”

“Does Emiko’s paper need that?”

“No.”

“Where is the note?”

“Beside my cup.”

“What is on Emiko’s paper?”

“Correction. Small date. Tape.”

“Paper?”

“Flat.”

“What did you do?”

“Kept note separate.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add restraint.

Placement had done the work.

The note was not a label for Emiko.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Resident?”

“Asked what medicine.”

“Voice?”

“Low.”

“Answer?”

“Aide K answered.”

“Any fall word?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make the morning medicine sentence carry the transfer sentence.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add fall.

Medicine had medicine.

Transfer had fall.

Each sentence kept its work.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“Was preparation completed?”

“Was nervous true?”

“What did he write instead?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

There.

Enough fenced.

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add brave.

Prepared and nervous stood beside each other.

The margin held both.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Writing.

Silence.

Speech.

Cowardice.

Restraint.

Courage.

Who needs to hear.

I replied:

I stopped.

Too wide.

I changed it.

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at audience.

No hall.

No altar.

No Reddit.

No file.

Me.

Maybe.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Folded paper?”

“Any change?”

“Why?”

“What did you say?”

I almost smiled.

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add sacred.

The sentence needed dry paper.

That was all.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Her note beside cup.

Emiko’s paper flat.

She wrote:

I called.

“What are they?”

“Emiko’s paper. My note.”

“Which needs record?”

“Emiko’s paper.”

“Which needs me?”

“My note.”

“What is lunch?”

“Rice.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“What does your note need?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Pocket maybe.”

There.

“Your pocket?”

“Yes.”

“What will that do?”

“Keep it with me.”

I waited.

“Does it need to be with you?”

“No. Maybe desk.”

“What did you do?”

“Left it beside cup.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not follow her note into her pocket.

Not my record.

Not Emiko’s.

But the temptation was visible.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Any new fall concern?”

“No.”

“Any transfer now?”

“No.”

“Need to repeat?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘A sentence in the chart may stay without being recited all day.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not repeat fall.

The morning sentence was in the chart.

Sleep did not need to read it.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“For whom?”

“Who will read it?”

“Does helper need it?”

“Checklist margin?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What happened?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add embarrassment.

Audience had changed placement.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Chart.

Notebook.

Public paper.

Pocket.

Mouth.

Location.

Equal.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the sentence.

My sentence about fear is in the mouth least.

No.

Strange.

True.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother read the scrap,” she said.

“Out loud?”

“No.”

“To himself?”

“Yes.”

“Did he open the drawer?”

“No.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the scrap says it.”

“What did you ask?”

“Who wrote it.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“Me.”

“What did you say?”

“Then it says your sentence.”

“What happened?”

“He folded the scrap once.”

“Where?”

“Beside phone.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add closure.

The scrap had his sentence.

The drawer stayed drawer.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“What work?”

“Wanting now?”

“Paper?”

“Tape?”

“Any issue?”

“What does Emiko need?”

I opened Emiko.

I kept the note because it had entered placement.

Then left.

It did not become Emiko’s record.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Opened hand.”

“Any words?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘The hand sentence is not written because the hand already answered.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add hand sentence.

Not every answer needed grammar.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Tomorrow helper?”

“Checklist?”

“Is helper coming?”

“What happened?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add shame.

New fact had arrived.

The line changed.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it.

Then again.

Mouth.

Hand.

Record.

Wish.

Audience.

Avoiding.

Serving.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the pocket.

Of course.

No.

Not of course.

Still useful.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted fall.

Then prepared and nervous.

Then I want to check.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was in its place.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

No answer after the bow.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No sentence for the altar.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

The entrance floor had received feet and broom.

The side chairs were stacked.

They were not ready for a congregation.

They were stacked.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The wall chair was empty.

No person.

No work.

No time.

Chair by wall.

The phone was face up.

No named question.

No named answer.

Phone face up.

I did not turn it over.

I did not open the brown folder.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

In the gray file.

Closed.

A place holding paper.

A record sentence holding a service.

Not my mouth.

The two cards were in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

Not sentence.

No.

Cards with possible sentences.

Not read.

The pocket was pocket.

The sentence was sentence.

The fear was in me.

My sentence about fear was in the mouth least.

I did not know if the hand was serving or avoiding.

No audience had been named.

The pocket could not decide.

The cards could not decide.

The brown folder could not decide.

The gray file could not decide.

The altar could not decide.

I did not take them out.

I did not leave them in as an unwritten sentence.

No.

I left them in.

The action remained.

The sentence did not get to wear it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the scrap stayed beside phone.

I did not ask if he read it again.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if wanting returned after the note was gone.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if fall stayed in the chart.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if prepared and nervous stayed in the notebook.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew a sentence could point.

I knew a sentence could confess.

I knew a sentence could ask.

I knew a sentence could answer.

I knew a sentence could dress a wish so it looked complete.

I knew writing was not cowardice by itself.

I knew silence was not restraint by itself.

I knew speech was not courage by itself.

I knew audience changed a sentence.

I knew the pocket could not decide whether the sentence should have a mouth.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Sentence did not need to enter the cards tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

Washed.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The wall chair was empty.

No one was expected there.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

Face up.

For finding.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Face up.

Readable.

Erased.

Kanagawa’s brother had a folded scrap beside the phone.

Sato’s note had gone to trash.

The resident’s fall sentence had guided care.

The volunteer’s helper name had been crossed out.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

The two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

Not taken out.

Carried.

With my body.

In my pocket.

Often.

Stayed.

Called mine.

Untidy.

Not read today.

No voice today.

Not questioning me.

Not fear.

The pocket was pocket.

The sentence was sentence.

The fear was in me.

I had started with sentence.

I did not end by making grammar do the work of a mouth that had not yet been asked to speak.

Tonight, what had a sentence kept its audience, what had no audience stayed unwritten, and what I carried did not become the mouth for what I had not said.

The Gliders’ integration into human society is so deep that, if you didn’t know they aren’t native to Earth, you would not believe they aren’t.

They are one of the best examples of humans welcoming those in need—and growing stronger as a result. Gliders are humans in all but biology. In a blind test, a Glider who grew up on Earth is indistinguishable from a human in psychological testing. This has led both species to be regarded as Terrans by outsiders.

Whether this is the result of cross-cultural contamination or other reasons remains a matter of great scientific debate.

Excerpt from Alliances of the Milky Way, Part I – The Aligned Worlds
Author unknown. Publication date unknown.

 

Captain Smith sat on the bridge in his command chair. The decision before him was impossible. On the main viewscreen, the planet of Chiprit’s people slowly turned below.

Thirteen billion beings—condemned to die.

He made the decision he had known in his heart he would make. Activating the intercom, he spoke to everyone aboard his ship.

“All stations, this is Captain Smith. We are all faced with an impossible situation. On one hand, we want to go home. Traveling without the use of the anomaly is not viable—you all know that.”

He paused, wanting everyone to think of home and fully grasp the weight of the situation.

“But I can’t and won’t condemn thirteen billion intelligent beings to a slow death just to have an easier life. That is not why I joined the service.”

He looked around the bridge. Every face showed a mixture of emotions—resolution, fear, and hope.

“I have decided to use every available resource this ship has to help the Trkik. But I don’t want anyone to be forced to stay. To that end, we will double our efforts to harvest resources from this system as soon as we are allowed to do so. Once the ship is fully repaired, she will be ready for the journey home.”

The bridge crew exchanged confused glances.

“Afterward, everyone who wishes to leave may do so with the ship. I will remain behind with those who choose to stay. We’ll build a small station on the moon to aid the planet—and save its inhabitants. Smith out.”

Without looking at his bridge crew, he left for the infirmary to check on their guest. The Magellan had an excellent crew, but he couldn’t expect them to throw their lives away for a species on the far side of the universe.

No one could.

In the infirmary, he met with ShutUpBitch and Doctor Riley.

“How’s our patient, Doctor? I heard he had a pretty severe case of radiation poisoning.”

The elderly doctor adjusted his glasses.

“Quite severe. The unigel has its work cut out for it. Ferdinand was able to obtain substantial biological data for me, so I have a baseline. He’s weak, but you can talk to him. He’s actually quite interested in meeting you.”

The captain looked through the glass wall at Chiprit’s bed. He had received treatment to understand the alien’s language, but speaking it was impossible for humans—and Shraphen—so Ferdinand would have to translate.

ShutUpBitch jumped onto the captain’s shoulders. ‘I heard your speech. You’re really thinking about staying here?’

“Yes. I can’t condemn them to death. But I fully understand that you want to go home.” He was, in fact, sure they would want to leave—the Gliders had a civilization to rebuild, and every single one of them counted.

‘No, I never said I want to leave. In fact, I think most Gliders aboard are fine with staying. I was just surprised you even consider it.’

For the first time, the Glider’s voice carried no trace of sarcasm. Smith was sure their often almost rude behavior was just theater.

“There are considerations other than humanitarian ones,” he said quietly, “but the main reason is, I can’t let that many people die.”

‘Nice to hear you see them as people—and not some oversized mongoose.’

Looking toward Chiprit’s bed, the captain realized for the first time that the Trkik really did bear a passing resemblance to a mongoose—if you squinted hard enough.

‘And the other considerations you have—mine and the Gliders’ are similar. Twenty-five thousand light-years is a really nice buffer between us and any possible retaliation from the Batract.’

She knows about the Initiative. Go figure—Gliders are smart.

The Initiative was an idea to establish a colony as far away as possible, serving as a backup for humanity. And twenty-five thousand light-years was about as far as humanly possible.

Sure, he had thought about it.

The conversation ended when he entered Chiprit’s room.

The Trkik immediately sat up, greeting the captain in his own language — a series of flaps and whistles.

“You must be Captain Smith. I’m Chiprit. I can’t thank you enough for saving my life.”

The captain relied on Ferdinand as his translator.

“You’re welcome. You were stranded — as we almost are. I assume Ferdinand has informed you about the details?”

Chiprit tilted his head, his tail waving slowly behind him. “Yes, you—ahm, he has. Fascinating story. A rift in space as a gateway to another part of the galaxy.”

He still seemed to have trouble differentiating between Ferdinand as a VI and Ferdinand as a translator.

The captain was about to introduce ShutUpBitch when she suddenly jumped off his shoulder and left the infirmary, cursing and swearing.

“That, uh, was another alien species,” Smith said. “She chose the name ShutUpBitch.”

Chiprit began to laugh — a fieping, high-pitched sound that could probably rupture a Shraphen’s ear.

Then, suddenly, the Trkik grew serious, his tail resting across his legs.

“I froze in the ship’s hangar because of that massive predator…”

“Renthai Sokra,” the captain explained.

“Yes.” The small brown Trkik wrapped his tail around himself — for Captain Smith, a clear sign of stress or embarrassment.

“I assume it is not dangerous?” Chiprit’s voice was now almost inaudible.

Their culture — or perhaps their religion — revolved around a great bird that saw them as prey. He had an instinctive fear of hunting animals, the same way Smith imagined he would feel standing across from a ten-meter-tall spider.

“No, she’s a scientist — specialized in elemental particles and metamaterials. Their ancestors were hunters, and large parts of their culture still revolve around that, but they would never harm another sentient being.”

The captain decided on complete honesty. It would be of no use to lie and risk the Trkik discovering their subterfuge later.

“If I look at it logically, it’s clear they are harmless. What spacefaring species would still have a reason for war? If you’re so developed, any aggressive traits must have been gone a long time.”

Chiprit clearly had no idea he was aboard a warship.

The captain closed his eyes and prepared himself for a painful discussion.

 

——————

 

Sokra was on her way back from lunch.

She reviewed the various conversations she had witnessed. The crew was, surprisingly, happy to stay. Some were unhappy about leaving their families and children behind on Earth, but saving a planet full of people was more important to them.

She was about to enter her laboratory when a gray-brown furball jumped at her.

The moment the small being started talking inside her head, she knew it was ShutUpBitch.

‘Fucking traveling with humans—became almost as retarded as them. Doggirl, hush to the SIC!’

Sokra assumed the Glider was under stress; she was more rude than ever before.

“A good day to you, too. A bit stressed, are we?” she replied, slightly miffed by the tone the little Glider had chosen.

‘Ahh, unbunch your panties. Yes, we’re stressed — you and I. We have to check something, so fly, Falkor, fly!’

Sokra didn’t understand the reference, but she couldn’t help laughing when the Glider grabbed her ears and held on to them like they were a leash or something. While she started walking to the SIC, she had to ask.

“So, what has you so agitated?”

‘I’ve been with the captain. We visited the poor guy your ugly face knocked out of his shoes.’

Sokra was still not over the incident, but ShutUpBitch’s humor helped her cope.

‘When the little guy said the rift was a gateway — well, we know that’s not entirely true, right?’

Sokra thought about it. “No, no… we were in another dimension, and there have to be two rifts in that dimension… right?”

‘Right. We assumed there must be a tunnel between them — and that the tunnel is evaporating. But is it?’

“It has to be, otherwise, how did we end up here?”

‘Because that was the flight path…’

The Glider now sat on Sokra’s head, slowly lowering her face into the Shraphen’s field of view.

“Okay, I’ll bite — what flight path?”

‘I don’t know, probably the Hyperion’s A-Drive going supercritical. The Trkik reported some explosion.’

“And what does that change?”

‘The ring here is smaller than Marjan’s Star, so it’s a smaller wound between the dimensions.’

They reached the elevator, and Sokra pressed the Down button*.*

“Yes… it’s possible?”

‘God dammit, think, woman — what does that mean?’

Sokra walked through the logic chain.

The Hyperion exits Transit, and large parts of the ship instantly transform into all kinds of exotic particles. After its journey through the Sirius system, she probably accumulated large quantities of protomatter — protomatter that would instantly turn into virtual particles, focused on one point…

The virtual particles created the rift. If they could pass from the lower dimension upward, they could also pass downward.

Sokra was so deep in thought she didn’t notice the lift doors had already opened into the SIC — and everyone was staring.

She moved out of the cabin to the holotank, projecting a 3D map of the galaxy. Zooming in on Sirius, she began to analyze the data.

On her head, the Glider jumped up and down. ‘You got it, you got it!’

“Ferdinand, please provide an overlay of the Hyperion’s reported flight path.”

A blue line appeared — from Earth downward in an elongated curve, reaching Sirius on its journey around the galactic center. Then, an almost ninety-degree turn inward into the system, through it, and a sixty-degree correction to strike the incoming fleet at a thirty-degree angle.

“Thank you, Ferdinand.”

The entire personnel now stared at the holotank, which displayed the almost spiral-like flight path. Sokra was fixated on the last segment, after the final turn.

“Ferdinand, can you project a straight line following Hyperion’s last heading?”

An orange line appeared — precisely where Marjan’s Star was located — passing Sirius, then Sol, continuing straight through the Orion–Cygnus Arm, entering the Perseus Arm on the other side, and ending exactly in the system where they now were.

Next to her, Doctor Hunter appeared. “What does that mean?”

Sokra’s ears twitched. “That means we’ve found another way of FTL travel…”

First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

Aarav’s schoolbag was small, lopsided worlds of its own. Textbooks slouched to one side, half-forgotten; a geometry box rattled with unused compasses. But what made the bag feel heavy, heavier than the years in it, were the sketchbooks tucked inside, their spines softened at the edges.

He carried them everywhere. To class, to tuition, even to the corner shop while buying samosas. When other boys shoved notebooks into their bags like armour for exams, Aarav slipped in the sketchbooks like a secret he wasn’t yet ready to show.

The first night it began was accidental. A classmate, a kid with a messy fringe and an easy laugh, had lent him a USB drive after seeing one of his doodles at the back of a math copy. “Watch this,” the boy said, as if offering a stolen treasure. “You’ll like it.”

Aarav swore he would watch only one episode. He didn’t know the word for the kind of hunger that would keep him awake until dawn, only that when the colours filled his screen, something unclenched in him. Worlds unfolded, not pale, safe worlds, but loud, bruised, beautiful ones. Misfit became heroes. Ugly moments became the spark for courage. Faces bore scars, voices carried tremors, and the people who mattered were the ones brave enough to be themselves.

He didn’t just watch. He belonged.

There was a strange comfort in fiction’s blunt honesty. Characters confessed their faults, failed spectacularly, and then rose again. No one judged a hero for being chubby or awkward or dark. They were measured by the size of their courage. For the first time, Aarav saw people who matched the way he felt inside, uneven, earnest, fierce in small, ridiculous ways.

After that night, the sketchbooks became less of a doodle place and more of a map. He sharpened pencils until their tips were thin and dangerous, smudged the erasers into grey promises. His margins filled with faces that refused to stay inside a line: boys with chipped armour who still laughed, girls with impossible wings that trembled like folded sails, old women who wore wisdom like a shawl.

When he drew, the room changed. The ceiling fan’s slow spin turned into a sky they could all fly through. The hiss of the street outside folded into background noise. Even the small, stinging words thrown at him during the day, in the playground, in class, at home, lost some of their edges once they were translated into ink.

“Sometimes I think I can draw someone braver than me,” he said once, under his breath, to a girl he’d made with pencil. The girl on the page tilted her head as if she had heard him, her drawn eyes unreadable and kind. He almost laughed at himself, and then he did, a soft sound that startled him into the bright hush of the room.

In the quiet corner of his home, the one dim lamp that always seemed forgiving, the small wooden desk that fit his knees perfectly, he learned to hide from the bigness of voices. The house wanted him neat and quiet, a boy who performed the right way in front of relatives and wore silence like a coat at family dinners. But his corner did not ask for performance. It asked only for pencil on paper.

Those nights were theirs alone. He would sit with his legs folded under him and the sketchbook on his lap, and the world that had once told him he didn’t belong would make room for strange, brave creatures that accepted him without condition. He traced their cheekbones with smudged charcoal, and for a moment he felt like the person who made them.

Sometimes his younger self, small, gasping in the mirror, peered through those pages. He would scribble a face that looked a little like the boy in the glass, but stronger: a chin that didn’t wobble under words, a back that stood even under insults. I was, he realized slowly, the only way he knew to teach himself courage.

The sketchbooks filled faster than his textbooks. Teachers collected homework; parents collected certificates. His pages were private, raw. The drawings carried small notes in the margins, phrases he didn’t think anyone would understand.

One late night, when the house had become as soft as a held breath and the fan hummed like an old lullaby, Aarav leaned back in his chair and spoke to the room as if it were an audience of one.

“You’re my only friends,” he whispered, the sentence a half-joke, half-prayer.

It sounded pathetic in the air, and he smiled at himself in the way embarrassed people do. But the truth of it was steady in his chest. These drawings didn’t leave when he said the wrong thing. They didn’t fold away when he needed to be small. They were there, patient and unjudging.

Sometimes he would go back, rewind his own lines like reading an old letter, and he found snippets he’d forgotten he’d written. Fragments of feeling, half-sentences scrawled after a day when his father’s words had felt like stones. They were not poems, not in his head. They were stumbles, fingerprints of his heart.

On one of those pages, the last leaf of a tattered sketchbook, he had written something that read more urgent than a doodle and less finished than a poem. It hovered between the two, a small promise dressed as a threat to himself:

If I can’t be enough for the world,
let me build one where I am.
let me draw skies that don’t laugh at my weight,
let me shape hearts that don’t flinch at my face.
If love won’t find me here,
I’ll make a place
where even shadows hold me kindly.

He read it by the lamp, the words small and terrible and true. He had no language for what he felt then, only the remnant of wanting and the hush of going on. The sentence did not feel like hope so much as a plan: if the world refused him, he would build a world of his own.

When the house creaked and the clock ticked a soft, indifferent beat, Aarav flipped the sketchbook closed. He slid it back into his bag and, for a moment, held it against his chest the way a child holds a comforter.

He knew then, incompletely, like a half-remembered map, that these quiet corners, these scratchings and drawings, would keep him. Not the collapsing kind of keeping that patched wounds, but a kind that made space. A kind that, slowly, would teach him how to speak in other ways.

Outside, a vehicle honked somewhere down the lane. Inside, the lamp flickered out when the bulb died, and for a second the room was all dark. Aarav sat a while longer in the black, feeling the pages warm against his ribs, and for the first time that week, he did not think about the mirror.