"Speak for your people?"

The man speaks in their native tongue—K'ehli, as they call it.

"Yes," I reply, having discussed this earlier with Imani and Arjun. Since I started speaking first, it only made sense for me to continue. It's not like I enjoy being in charge—not at all—but Lukas isn't here, so…

He studies me for a moment, then continues. "Your place... not known. But you Nalwin. Nalwin not enemy. You now Chak'Aj. Only we have Chak'Aj. So—two paths. One, you leave. Peace stays. Two, you stay. Join us. But build Tohk'uh first." He pauses, watching my reaction. "You choose now."

Rather straightforward… I kind of get what he means by Nalwin—it seems to be what they call themselves, like "human," maybe "people." The opposite of Xok'al—their enemies. Same species as the seventh boss from the last stage.

As for Chak'Aj and Tohk'uh, I'm not certain, but I have my suspicions.

I take a deep breath.

"Can ask questions… before I choose?"

"Ask. May not answer," he replies, plain and firm.

Fair enough.

"If join, what rules follow? What freedom stay with us?"

The man doesn't answer right away. He looks at me, then glances at the others behind me—Imani, Arjun, Diego, all standing still but watching closely.

Then he speaks.

"Live here, live as us. Follow what we follow. Work, share, fight. No steal. No hide. No Xok'al ways. You sleep where told. You eat what earned. You take nothing you don't give for."

Ok...

"What if we break rule?"

He narrows his eyes slightly.

"Break once, speak. Break twice, gone. If bad break—cut."

I feel a slight shift behind me. Probably Diego moving. Yeah, that word landed hard.

"And freedom?" I press, just to be sure.

"You walk. You speak. You live. But you part of all. No wall between us. No lone path. Not here."

So… communal. Controlled. But not prison. If we pull our weight, we earn our space.

"And if we leave? Later?"

He tilts his head.

"Leave good, if Tohk'uh strong. If not… leave brings shadow."

That one I don't quite get. I glance briefly at Imani. He gives a barely-there nod. He's following, but that last bit might need decoding later.

The man steps forward, stopping just short of me.

"You choose now. Stay, or go."

I take a deep breath.

I expected the question. I'd already discussed it with the others.

The offer has its issues—potential restrictions, less freedom of movement or action—but honestly, we have too much to gain. And everything about this new stage in the Tower feels like it's nudging us toward this path. Ignoring that would be… stupid.

Facing hundreds—maybe thousands—of creatures like the seventh boss, some probably stronger, on our own? Impossible.

We need allies. We need better gear. We need knowledge. We need power.

And for that… there's only one rational choice.

I nod.

"We stay. We build Tohk'uh."

His jaw tightens just a bit. Not a smile. But not nothing.

Then, without another word, he raises one hand.

A pulse comes.

It's loaded.

The message uncoils inside my mind.

This place… this village—it's not the center. Not even close. We're on the edge. A border post. Outpost number 57. But the number doesn't matter. It never mattered to them. It's not a hierarchy built on digits. It's about proximity—to the core, to the current, to the living pulse of their world.

Further northwest, past the mineral cliffs and the dense jungle spines, lies Nahil'Tuun. The Heart-Stone. The Core City.

That's where everything flows to and from.

Not a capital in the way we'd imagine it—no towers of glass or central administration buildings. But a labyrinthine sprawl of stone terraces, magnetic causeways, and stepped temples grown around ancient EM fonts—natural peaks in the planet's crust where the ground itself pulses with low-frequency fields. These are tapped through pressure-anchored conduction rings and redistributed via layered basalt and copper veins carved directly into the foundations.

And inside those cities—and the dozens of outposts spread across the land, of which this seems to be one, if not the smallest and most isolated from the central network—live their people, their workers, and their warriors. From the hidden valleys to the forested ridgelines, their society is shaped not by castes, but by power.

First are the Tz'ib'K'ah—Those who Write the Force. Civilians, apprentices, artisans. The backbone of daily life. They make up most of the population. They aren't powerful, but they're not powerless either. They're trained in basic EM perception and low-grade manipulation—enough to tend fields in response to magnetic shifts, to build or repair wave-reactive structures, or to inscribe low-frequency loops into textiles and tools. Some run logistics. Others serve as scouts or relay crews in wartime. None are sent to fight directly. Their value lies in support, in making things work.

As for the actual fighting… that's where the Chak'Aj come in.

The word had been thrown at me before, and I had some guesses, but now it clearly lands. It's not a title of honor. It's a classification. A role. The Chak'Aj—Red Warriors—are those of the K'awiil Aj stage, which in essence means they've reached the First Pillar and Body State. Warriors with enough control to channel waves into speed, strength, or disruption.

They are the spine of their defense. They don't lead armies. They hold lines. Patrol villages. Guard temples. Strike fast and die hard if needed.

But above the Red Warriors are the B'alam Tun—the Stone Jaguars. Warriors of the Nal K'uh stage, which seems to relate to their ability to compress EM energy into internal body nodes and release it in short, overwhelming bursts.

The Stone Jaguars are the vanguard. Their job isn't to hold the line—it's to break it. They're the primary strike force against the Xok'al.

Further up the power hierarchy are the Ahau K'awiil—Lords of the Spark. Rare, revered commanders of the Kab'il Tun stage. Warpriests. Tacticians. Each one fuses internal control with weapon and armor resonance. Their suits aren't decorative. They're functional—woven with node-linked lattices tied to specific body nodes. Materials? High-density composites. Magnetite and conductive copper from pressure-forged strata beneath the empire's volcanic crust.

And that's not the end of it.

There are more stages. I can feel them hinted at in the information passed to me—but it's clear they were intentionally left out.

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So to reach those stages—to be given that knowledge? To even be taught anything above base survival?

You need Tohk'uh.

This culture doesn't hand out books or manuals. They don't share secrets. Knowledge here is layered, encrypted, embodied. You unlock it the same way you unlock their gates: with weight. Not physical mass, but contribution. Tohk'uh. Spiritual charge. A measure of your presence, effort, intent, and impact within their society.

The steps to reach the next stage—supposedly the one following mine—are tied to Nal K'uh, the Seed of the God. But the information in the pulse doesn't explain how to get there. It only hints at what it does. And what's interesting is that it seems to deviate from the clear-cut Body and Pillar Path. Less a realm or state, and more an application—something that merges both into action. A technique, maybe. And that, honestly, is tempting. Very tempting.

And the same goes for the stages above that.

I do wonder… maybe the later tiers require mastering the Second Pillar and Second Body State first. Or maybe they're simply different—their own path entirely.

I go through more of the knowledge and notice something curious.

They refer to themselves as Ajnal—something like the true people or those of the current. But apparently, there's a second group… another civilization composed of Nalwin—so basically, more humans. Not part of the Ajnal, but not enemies either.

Their relationship seems stable, but distant. I wouldn't call them allies, not exactly. There's a lingering sense of rivalry in the shared memory. Long ago, they might have competed—maybe for land, for resources, maybe even ideology. But after the arrival of the Xok'al and the scale of the threat they posed, things changed. They had to join hands.

There's also mention—brief, almost like a footnote—about other groups. Tribes scattered across the Sital'an Expanse—vast, open plains between the two major civilizations. Not Nalwin. So not exactly human. Something else. Half-beast, half-man. Broad-shouldered, thick-boned. Very strong, raw physique. But no structure. No known EM control. No node training. Just muscle and instinct.

Barbaric, in the eyes of this civilization.

They're divided—fractured into clans that roam the plains in loose patterns. Not a united people. And because of that, not a real threat. But still a nuisance.

Every so often, one of their groups stumbles too close to a supply path. Some caravan-like transports between the Ajnal and the other Nalwin civilization have been attacked in the open stretch. Not organized assaults—just opportunistic raids.

Still, they're tolerated. Barely. There's no real profit in launching a full campaign into their home territory, especially with the Xok'al pressing hard against the far northern border.

I keep digging through the knowledge contained in the pulse. There's so much more—traditions, customs, rules—but I scan through it quickly. Prioritize what matters for now.

Then I look back at the man standing in front of me.

Even with all that flooding my thoughts, not even half a minute has passed since he sent the pulse.

I look at him differently now. With a bit more respect. Now that I understand—he's a B'alam Tun. A Stone Jaguar. That means he's not just some local leader. He's my superior, both in strength and in hierarchy.

So I do what feels natural. Not a bow—too foreign to them. Instead, I press my palm flat to the center of my chest, then extend it out slowly toward him, fingers spread—a gesture I saw encoded in the traditions of greeting and acknowledgment. A simple motion, meant to show understanding and mutual grounding.

He watches me, unmoving for a moment. Then nods once, firm and slow. He places his hand briefly over his chest in return, his expression still unreadable.

"You receive the current," he says. "Now walk with it."

Then his eyes flick past me toward the others still waiting.

"Call them. All. Time to pass first gate. No more visitors. Now you become Ajnal."

I signal the others.

Imani moves first, calm as always. Arjun steps in behind him. The rest linger for half a breath before falling into line, silent. None of them ask questions. Good. Because I wouldn't know what to say even if they did.

The man—the Stone Jaguar—turns and begins walking back toward the central temple, the stepped structure carved from naturally magnetic materials and layered with reactive copper veins. We follow silently.

The villagers watch as we pass. No one speaks. Some nod once. Most just stand still, their hands folded or resting on the hilts of tools and weapons.

When we reach the steps of the temple, the man stops. He doesn't turn around. Just waits.

Then, from within the temple, movement.

The same elder from before steps out. His armor hums faintly with each step—but this time, I recognize the patterns.

Ahau K'awiil.

A Lord of the Spark.

The man's presence alone shifts something in the air. Even the Stone Jaguar lowers his head slightly as he approaches.

The elder says nothing at first. He steps to the edge of the stone platform and extends one arm toward a small basin carved into the ground—circular, ringed with symbols I now recognize as an initiation well, the kind used in some of their rites.

He points to it.

"You step in. One by one," he says, voice low but clear. "Touch stone. Accept place."

We follow.

I step first, boots on smooth stone. The basin responds, barely—a subtle vibration underfoot, like it's checking something. Not testing power. Just resonance. Alignment with my natural wave signature.

I place my palm against the central plate. There's a brief warmth—like touching sunlit rock. Then it fades.

The elder nods.

"Ajnal," he says, simply.

Imani steps in next. Then Arjun. Then the others.

Each repeats the gesture. Each receives the same word.

When it's done, the elder steps back and gestures toward the village.

"You live now. As us."

Then he turns and disappears into the temple again, the quiet hum of his armor fading into the stone behind him.

No applause. No explanation.

But it's done.

We are no longer visitors.

We are part of them.

We are Ajnal.

Ayu widened her eyes.

They were still walking. No one had said a word to her, but they hadn't pushed her away either.

So she kept following.

The pace wasn't slow. They moved like people who had somewhere to be—not urgent, just steady.

She stayed a few steps behind, half-watching their backs, half-scanning the area. Nothing felt dangerous.

The terrain shifted. Taller grass. Harder ground. Worn trails. That meant foot traffic—lots of it. The wind carried a different smell too. Smoke. Dry wood. Cooked meat.

More of them? A settlement?

The group dipped between two thick trees, then passed a rock ridge, and suddenly the world opened.

Ayu stopped. Just a second.

It was a village.

Huts. People. Fires. Tools. Drying racks. Smoke curling from fat clay chimneys. Kids yelling. Everyone barefoot or half-covered in wraps of leather and fur.

She stepped forward again, slow and steady.

The beast-people didn't look back at her. They just kept moving, casual, like bringing in an outsider wasn't a big deal. Maybe it wasn't.

Ayu stayed alert. Not tense. Just aware.

The villagers were scanning her up and down. Some curious. Some wary. One woman held her child back with a hand across the chest. A boy with bright yellow eyes crouched behind a crate, sniffing the air.

They exhibited more beast traits than she expected.

One man had a flat nose and a split lip that never quite closed over sharp, uneven teeth. Another—taller, lean—had fur covering half his chest and shoulders, the pattern striping down his arms like a wildcat. One of the older women had only three fingers on each hand, thick and clawed.

Ayu didn't flinch. Let them look.

She kept her arms loose. Her walk steady. No sudden moves. No wave. No smile.

Just walked.

They passed a large fire pit ringed with flat stones. An older figure sat beside it, scraping something with a long bone tool. Big frame. Dense fur around the neck and shoulders. Not armored, but not soft either. Probably important.

One of the hunters said something to him—fast, sharp.

The old man didn't reply. Just stared—straight at Ayu.

Her senses spiked.

This elder was strong. At least at her level. Maybe even stronger.

His gaze didn't waver. Didn't blink. Just locked onto her like he was reading something beneath her skin.

Then, slowly, he stood.

The chatter around the fire dipped. One of the hunters shifted back a step.

The elder raised one hand and gave a low grunt.

The crowd moved. A circle cleared.

Ayu got into stance.

Didn't need to ask why.

The elder stepped forward.

His foot landed—CRACK.

Stone split under his heel.

A blur.

He was in front of her.

Ayu moved on instinct.

She twisted—fast.

A dagger flashed.

Thrust.

The blade cut through empty air where her ribs had been a second earlier.

Her eyes narrowed.

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