As we're led by the man in front, I notice the others glance at us with curious eyes—but there's a certain respect to it.

I sense no malice in their expressions, none of the subtle hostility or suspicion that often lingers toward outsiders in closed societies. It's not rejection. Just… curiosity.

We make our way forward, the path widening with every step. The jungle gradually thins, giving way to cultivated land.

Homes line the slope on either side of the path—stone-built, low, and rounded at the corners. Their walls are fused from layered rock and dark mineral composites.

Some buildings have thin, arched bands of metal tracing their domed rooftops—wave-guides, probably, redirecting EM energy for temperature control or field dampening.

Children peer from behind doorways, short and lean like the adults, skin tanned and hair tied back. Some wear coil-wrapped necklaces or metallic cuffs, their forms woven seamlessly into the fabric. Their eyes are sharp, observant. One blinks and I swear for a moment I feel a tiny ripple of pulse—low-frequency, playful, untrained.

Then I see them.

Past the homes and between terraces, big animals move through open stone corridors—domesticated, clearly. One has hide like armored bark and carries a stack of copper bricks on a platform strapped across its back.

Another, broader and slower, wears fitted armor with sockets pulsing in intervals—some sort of EM tool-rig? It pulls a grinding platform, its weight driving the wheels that churn something I can't yet identify. Cattle, but built like tanks.

They clearly use these creatures for labor… and food.

I see a different group herding a sleeker, horned variant toward a pen. Blood stains mark the grooves carved in the stone under their hooves—fresh.

A group of men returns from the treeline, dragging what looks like two downed beasts across sleds magnetically elevated an inch off the ground. Spears hum faintly in their hands—shorter rods, still sparking at the tips.

A hunt.

Near the river, I catch sight of the irrigation system. It's not a system of wooden canals or aqueducts. No. Pipes of stone and layered metal snake beneath the surface, guided by magnetized channels that flow in looping, spiral patterns. Water is pulled uphill in short bursts—compressed pulse pressure redirecting flow without the need for slope. Some villagers stand along those channels, activating switches embedded in the stone with a twist of the wrist. Controlled wave inputs. Pulse-tuned irrigation.

Past that, small fields—stacked in shallow terraces—grow tight clusters of food crops. I recognize none of them, but their leaves shift faintly, almost magnetically aligned. Engineered to respond to EM perhaps? To absorb energy more efficiently?

I exhale softly.

Even here, in what I assume is just a village on the fringes of their world… the sophistication is undeniable. Not in complexity, but in intent. Every piece has purpose. Every pulse and groove flows with meaning. It feels like a society shaped by generations of evolution around EM control—refined, internalised, lived.

Would Earth have looked like this if humans had evolved the ability to manipulate the EM spectrum with their minds?

Eventually, we reach what looks like some sort of temple.

The man leading us raises his left hand, fingers spread in a precise motion. A soft wave reaches me—visuals again. This time, an image of us halting, while he continues alone into the structure.

I nod in acknowledgment and stop, gesturing for the others to stay close but hold position.

Then I turn my attention to the temple itself.

It's built in low steps, wide and solid, with edges that curve slightly inward rather than out, as if the structure were pulling gravity toward itself.

Copper veins run down the walls, looping in symmetrical patterns. The stone is dark, not rough, but not polished either—worn smooth through use rather than design. Slender pillars flank the front, wrapped with tight spirals of silvery mesh.

At the base, shallow channels cut into the stone funnel water from the river nearby, creating a soft, flowing resonance that echoes faintly underfoot. I realise it's not just a spiritual site. This place is designed for something more.

This entire structure is built for energy convergence. Like a hybrid between a broadcast tower and a data center, but made from stone, metal, and water. The channels act like fluid conductors, directing the flow of electromagnetic fields through specific pathways. The metal veins—likely copper and some unknown alloys—serve the same function as superconducting circuits or waveguides back on Earth.

They're using the temple to amplify and transmit. Long-range communications, maybe even field synchronization across distant settlements. On Earth, you'd need satellites or massive antenna arrays to accomplish this. Here, they've fused architecture and function—resonance as a physical design principle.

And maybe not just for communication.

Depending on how finely they can tune the pulses, this place could be used to monitor regional EM signatures, coordinate troop movements, or even project defensive interference—like a low-frequency shield, rippling outward across the jungle.

As my thoughts drift through the many possibilities and hypotheses about the structure's use, several minutes pass.

We wait in respectful silence—the only sounds the low whisper of wind through the copper-lined channels and the slow swirl of river mist drifting across the open square.

Then, the man returns.

He's not alone.

Beside him walks an older figure—slightly taller, with a lean but solid build. His skin is darker, lined and weathered by time, but there's an unmistakable presence to him. Authority—not just in posture, but in the steady pressure of the EM field around him. Subtle, controlled, yet undeniably powerful.

His attire differs from the others. He wears layered armor, each piece embedded with fine metallic coils—tight, intricate, almost like woven wire. They twist through the plates in deliberate patterns, like circuits made from copper and silver.

Broad bands of metal wrap around his shoulders and forearms, carved with deep glyphs that look burned or pressed in, not etched by hand. At the center of his chest, a triangular core glows faintly—its light pulsing slow and steady, like a second heartbeat.

Is he some sort of priest...? He looks a bit too tough though. Maybe it's just how things are in this culture—like some sort of warpriest.

His gaze lands on me. Calm. Measured. Heavy.

And as I meet it, I feel it instinctively—this man is strong. Not just in presence, but in raw power. Stronger than the seventh boss by a very wide margin. Maybe just a breath below that wyvern asleep on the mountain.

If I might've had a chance to run before, now I know—we're completely at their mercy.

But I can't show fear. Not now.

This is no longer just a cautious introduction.

I straighten my back and—

My senses spike!

I instinctively push Overdrive to the limit and step back immediately.

My heart pounds. My breathing quickens. But my senses no longer scream.

I stare ahead—but nothing seems to have changed. The man hasn't moved.

"Alonso?" Imani's voice comes from behind.

I signal for them to hold. "It's okay."

What just happened? That feeling...

I felt it—like death, sharp and sudden. Inevitable. Just for an instant.

I swallow hard, eyes scanning their expressions. Still serious. The shorter man's gaze narrows slightly.

Seconds pass. Then the older one turns without a word and walks calmly back toward the temple.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

That's it?

The warrior who remains looks at me—then I feel it: a pulse.

I catch it. Decode it.

And I'm stunned.

It's more than I expected. A dense stream of visuals, diagrams, phonetic cues, symbols, gestures. Not as vast as what the orb gave us in the seventh boss fight—but it's clean.

No encryption. No cognitive traps. It's meant to be learned.

Still, it's a lot.

The language is simpler than anything on Earth. Fewer words, clearer syntax, rooted in physical references. A survival tongue—but layered with meaning. Direct. Efficient.

I focus.

Thanks to the First Pillar State and the increases in Stage Progress, my mind's sharper than ever. Faster. I can't reach fluency in a matter of minutes—not yet—but I don't need that.

I just need to find the right words.

The ones that matter now.

So I scan the stream—sorting. Prioritising names, intent phrases, key relational structures. Basic diplomacy. No poetry. No flourish. Just signal clarity.

The man waits. Patient, unmoving.

After several minutes, I raise my eyes.

Then speak—slowly.

"K'ate'ech. In k'aaba' Alonso. Chak'Aj in k'uchul tok'oba'. In winik-o'ob ma' in wilik ajk'ax. Tz'ak in yojel tech. K'inam k'u'uk'um-o'ob ku k'uxi' tumen k'a'ab in winik."

("Thank you. My name is Alonso. I am a Chak'Aj from another world. My people come with no harm. I accept the knowledge you've shared. We are also enemies of the K'u'uk'um.")

The man nods.

Then he speaks again, voice calm but with weight behind every word.

"Ba'ax a k'amik—t'aan a k'uchul?," he asks.

The translation unravels in my mind: "What is your purpose—will you walk with us, or go alone?"

A test. Or maybe a fork in the path.

I pause. My thoughts flash to the others behind me—Imani, Arjun, Mei, Diego, Ishaam. Each one tired, bruised, but alert. Still standing. Still watching.

I look the man in the eyes.

"K'inam ku k'uxi'. Kuxa'an, mixba'al," ("War surrounds us. To live, we must adapt.") I say carefully.

Then, slower, I add: "Ma' tu'ux k'áat u páajtal. Mix k'áat in bin—ma' leti'e', ma' teche'. K'inam ti' in wotoch." ("We do not come to conquer. Nor to run—neither from you, nor toward you. Only to survive.")

The man studies me again. Then turns.

He walks.

We follow.

The path bends away from the temple.

After several minutes walking, he stops.

An open space—a clearing rimmed with short stone markers, moss gathering along the bases. No buildings. No seating. Just an empty patch of land.

The man steps forward again, then turns to face me.

He sends a wave.

Simple. Visual.

The clearing. We settle here. Build here.

Another pulse. Another image. Us—teaching one another. Sharing words. Staying put.

No wandering. No mixing with the rest of the village yet.

I nod slowly.

He lifts one hand and presses it to a thin plate on his armor. A frequency signature ripples outward. He points to me, then sends one last wave:

"When you are ready… call."

I nod.

He leaves us alone.

The others stay silent behind me, waiting.

I turn to them.

"I'm sure you all have a lot of questions. Let's go over it."

"Nothing yet?"

Chiara shook her head. "I've expanded the detection range by roughly 84%. I integrated systematic resonance into delayed transmissions to broaden the sweep—but still nothing."

Lukas exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "Alright… I guess it's time to move. Looks like we were dropped into separate regions. We'll head north, follow the river upstream. It's our best shot."

Chiara gave a small nod, her eyes scanning the distant horizon. But then—she froze. Her gaze narrowed, expression tightening.

"Something's coming," she said.

Lukas straightened immediately, but said nothing—giving her space.

Chiara closed her eyes, her mind calibrating against the low-frequency shifts. The signal was faint—strange. Unlike the erratic pulses from local fauna, this one was tight. Controlled. She measured the distance: 46.2 kilometers.

"It's different," she murmured. "Not a creature… more structured. Defined. There's EM cloaking involved—fairly advanced, but I can breach it. I'm picking up the signature through the gaps in its harmonics."

"What about ground vibrations?" Lukas asked.

"They're not traveling by land," Chiara said, her voice sharper now. "They're floating. Just slightly above the surface. I'm detecting minimal terrain interaction. They're also dampening sound propagation—low-decibel noise diffusion, very calculated. And…"

She paused, her expression sharpening further.

"There's a mechanical component. A vehicle of some sort. Fast. It's maintaining a constant velocity of approximately 266.7 kilometers per hour."

Chiara narrowed her focus, tuning her perception tighter around the incoming disturbance.

Beneath the resonance gaps, she found the shape of it—not by sight, but by field pressure, the curvature of the pulse distortions left in its wake. It was like tracing wind by how it kissed the grass.

"Slowing," she whispered, half to herself. "Curved deceleration path… forty-two degrees. They're adjusting altitude. Closing in on visual range—" she cut off, then opened her eyes.

There.

On the horizon, where the mist thinned into flat fields, a ripple shimmered. At first, it was barely visible—a shimmer above the brush, like heat distortion. But it expanded, clarified, refracted.

Chiara's breath hitched.

A platform. Low-slung, dark bronze in tone, shaped like a stretched hexagon with curved edges. It floated barely a meter off the ground, completely silent. Its surface was smooth, patterned with geometric etchings that subtly pulsed with inner light—some EM frequency she couldn't yet match.

And riding atop the platform—nine figures.

Not all human.

Three of them stood near the front—shorter than average, lean rather than muscular. Their skin was sun-darkened, their faces composed beneath helms threaded with fine metallic filaments that traced across their temples and jawlines.

Their garments were layered in dark green and copper-toned bands, tightly woven into angular patterns.

Each of them had a single rod—slim and dark, pulsing faintly at the tips—and they stood still, one hand placed on crystalline nodes embedded into the platform.

And behind them…

Chiara focused harder, shifting her frequency range to deeper harmonics.

Six statues.

They stood tall—almost two meters each—like statues carved from stone and polished copper. Their limbs were thick, joints reinforced with lattice-like girders. Their heads were helmeted but expressionless, eyes like polished obsidian that didn't glow, but absorbed light. Each carried a weapon, heavy hafted arms humming with low-pitch energy. Staves, maybe. Spears.

And each adjusted slightly as the platform curved—but not freely. Not autonomously.

She could feel it.

The three humans at the front—each was tethered to two of the constructs. The EM control lines were obvious to her now. A neural resonance web. Similar to her own. Similar to what she'd begun to feel when controlling her field over wider distances. But theirs was… stable. Tight. A loop closed between user and tool.

Chiara clenched her fists, not from tension, but from curiosity.

They weren't machines.

They were extensions.

And if her theory held, then the people controlling them had reached a higher Pillar mastery than her own.

She watched the platform slow as it crested a ridge, drifting silently across the fields below.

"Lukas," she said, still locked onto the disturbance.

He stepped up beside her, gaze following the same faint shimmer now visible to the naked eye.

"Humans?" he asked, calm, assessing.

Chiara nodded. "Seems like it. Possibly a civilization native to this stage."

She tilted her head, tuning into the sharp magnetic burst emitted by one of the constructs—or perhaps puppets was the better word. A wave: precise, directional, but not aimed at them. A scan, maybe. A systems check.

Lukas stayed quiet for a moment, watching her work.

"Think you can keep us out of sight?" Lukas asked.

Chiara took a slow breath. "Yes… but should we?"

Lukas glanced at her, catching the subtle glint in her eye. The corner of her mouth lifted—barely, but enough.

He exhaled quietly through his nose.

"Are you confident if this turns into a fight?"

"If you boost me and Wang, we should manage—if it comes to that," she said. "But I don't think it will. Something about their field patterns… it's not aggressive. Purposeful, yes. But not hostile."

She paused. "It's not a feeling. Just analysis."

Lukas smiled faintly. "You can just say you have a hunch."

Chiara didn't respond, but the corner of her eye twitched.

Lukas turned his attention back to the shimmering craft in the distance. He had already sent Wang a silent pulse at the first sign—he'd be there in less than two minutes.

"Alright," Lukas said. "Let's see how this plays out."

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