Ficool

Chapter 37 - A journey North

He allowed himself several minutes to settle, slowing his breath and letting the ambient quiet assist in the gradual replenishment of his Psyche—however marginal the gain.

Once his internal cadence had steadied and the tension in his limbs dissolved into something softer, he lifted a single finger and drew it slowly through the air.

The page turned on its own.

The first entry read:

"𝓚𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓵𝓮𝓭𝓰𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓴. 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽. 𝓛𝓸𝓰𝓲𝓬 𝓲𝓼 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓰𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓭𝓸𝓾𝓫𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓪𝓷𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓡𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓮𝓻, 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻: 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓵 𝓪𝓼 𝔀𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮, 𝔀𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓃𝓸𝓉 𝓁𝓸𝓈𝓮 𝓸𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓮𝓁𝓋𝓮𝓈 𝓉𝓸 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓰𝓈 𝓉𝓸𝓸 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹."

He lingered in stillness, letting the text steep in the quiet.

The words hovered like mist at the edge of his mind—simultaneously grounding and unsettling.

Eventually, he exhaled, a long breath pushed from somewhere beneath his ribcage, and turned the page.

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𝒥𝓸𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝓔𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓎: 9

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𝓦𝔂𝓻𝓶 𝓸𝓯 𝓐𝓼𝓱 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓕𝔂𝓻, 𝓑𝓁𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵.

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𝓣𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂, 𝓪 𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓪 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓾𝓹 𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱. 𝓐𝓼 𝓹𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓰𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓽𝓸 𝓰𝓾𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓮, 𝓪 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝔂𝓻 𝓸𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓳𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓲𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓪 𝓚𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓒𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻, 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓛𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓐𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓟𝔂𝓻𝓮, 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶 𝓪𝓷 𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓕𝔂𝓻, 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓐𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂, 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓼?

𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓳𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝔂 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓫𝓮𝓰𝓾𝓷 𝓫𝓾𝓽...

𝓘𝓽 𝓯𝓮𝓵𝓽 𝓾𝓷𝓾𝓼𝓾𝓪𝓵 𝓽𝓸 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓼𝓸 𝓼𝓾𝓭𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓵𝔂, 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓷. 𝓘𝓽'𝓼 𝓫𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓪 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓘 𝓪𝓵𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝔂 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓵𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓱𝓲𝓭 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓵, 𝓘 𝓼𝓪𝔀 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓭𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼, 𝓶𝔂 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼—𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓪 𝓯𝓮𝓪𝓻, 𝓪 𝓭𝓸𝓾𝓫𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓭𝓪𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷.

𝓛𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓼. 𝓘 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶 𝓽𝓸𝓸, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘'𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂. 𝓗𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓯𝓾𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓸𝓷...

𝓦𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓪 𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮. 𝓜𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓭 𝓲𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓾𝓹 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓮𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓴𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓱 𝓲𝓽 𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓕𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓻𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝓢𝓸𝓾𝓵-𝓕𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓻. 𝓘 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓷 𝓫𝔂 𝓪𝓷 𝓐𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓸𝓴. 𝓒𝓪𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽? 𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓼𝓸 𝓮𝔁𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓫𝓵𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓪 𝔀𝓸𝓵𝓯, 𝔂𝓮𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓽.

𝓐𝓼 𝓪 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝔂𝓻 𝓶𝔂 𝓳𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝓲𝓽'𝓼 𝓳𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝔂.

𝓒𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓵𝔂 𝔀𝓮 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓽 𝓪 𝓼𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓹 𝔀𝓮'𝓿𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓽 𝓾𝓹. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰, 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓪𝓭𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼... 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻. 𝓐𝓽 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓪𝓷𝔂 𝓲𝓼𝓷'𝓽 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓪𝓭, 𝓲𝓰𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓜𝓻 '𝓘'𝓶 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓬𝓸𝓸𝓵 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓴,' 𝓣𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓸𝓾𝓽.

𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓘 𝓼𝓪𝔂. 𝓒𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓴𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓼, 𝓪𝓶 𝓘 𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽?

𝓣𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓼𝓵𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓶𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓬𝓴 𝓸𝓯 𝓯𝓸𝓸𝓽. 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓼𝓸 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓪𝔂 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓽'𝓼 𝓽𝓸𝓸 𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓵𝔂 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓳𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓘 𝓼𝓾𝓹𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓮.

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𝓟𝓻𝒶𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓫𝓮 𝓗𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓫𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝒶𝓻𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓾𝓷. 𝓣𝓻𝓾𝓵𝔂, 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵.

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The next coming week detailed of the perilous journey to the temple and the droves of creatures they'd encountered.

Statements like:

"𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓵. 𝓘𝓷 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂, 𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓽 𝓼𝓵𝓪𝔂 𝓼𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓿𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂. 𝓘𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓫𝓮 𝓪𝓷 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓬𝓵𝓪𝓲𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓮𝓯𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓽."

And more chilling acknowledgments.

"𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓲𝓵 𝓰𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓼 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱 𝔀𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵, 𝓘 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵 𝓲𝓽 𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓲𝓵, 𝓽𝓾𝓰𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓫𝓸𝓸𝓽𝓼. 𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓼𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓼𝓾𝓵𝓯𝓾𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓼𝓶𝓸𝓴𝓮, 𝓘 𝓼𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓲𝓽 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓼 𝓶𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓼 𝓪𝓽 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽."

The world he finds himself lost in seemed wild and vibrant as he took to reading more of the journal.

"𝓦𝓮 𝓬𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓪 𝓯𝓲𝓮𝓵𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓹𝓮𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓯𝓲𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓼, 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓹𝓼𝓮𝓼 𝓵𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓶𝓲𝓭-𝓻𝓸𝓪𝓻. 𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓒𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓚𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓼𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓪 𝓫𝓪𝓼𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓴 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝓪𝓻, 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝓖𝓮𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓻. 𝓝𝓮𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓼 𝓶𝓮."

As the journal entries continued, things only seemed to escalate.

"𝓐𝓹𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓲𝓮𝓼, 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯. 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝓲𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓸 𝓳𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓪𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮. 𝓦𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓽𝓸𝓶𝓮. 𝓘𝓽 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓶𝓼 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓼𝓪𝓯𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓻. 𝓨𝓮𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵, 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓻𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓼."

And another...

"𝓕𝓮𝓵𝓵-𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓾𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰-𝓯𝓸𝓰 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂. 𝓦𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶—𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓯𝓮𝓵𝓽 𝓪 𝓼𝓾𝓭𝓭𝓮𝓷 𝓪𝓫𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓱𝓾𝓷𝓽 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓼𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓫𝔂 𝓭𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓶𝓪𝓵 𝓼𝓲𝓰𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼; 𝔀𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓵𝔂 𝔀𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓫𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓴𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓰𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂. 𝓐𝓵𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓼 𝓭𝓲𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓪𝓬𝓽 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓬𝓴 𝓮𝓷𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱, 𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝔃𝓮𝓷 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓻𝓸𝓻, 𝓪𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓷𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓵𝔂 𝓭𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓶𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓿𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓰𝓮𝓼. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓐𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓸𝓴 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓹𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓯𝓯 𝓱𝓮𝓻, 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓘 𝓭𝓲𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓫𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓮, 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓵𝓸𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻-𝓚𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓮𝓻 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓲𝓰𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂, 𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓮𝓷𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓾𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓬𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰."

Altha felt himself shiver at the thought—invisible entities in the mist that could neither be heard or seen, only felt far too late. It sounded like something straight out of some strange folklore.

"First they were in a place with alot of trees so it was obviously a forest, then a grassland with scarce trees which should obviously be a savanna, so next should be a Rainforest... is that where I am?"

He thought of what he's seen of the temple's surrounding so far, within the barrier: the lack of trees, the barren rocky surface, the absence of truly intelligeable life anywhere. This couldn't be it, or could it? But if so, what could possibly produce this much geotransformation? And how long ago was this journal written?

He continued reading.

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𝒥𝓸𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝓔𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓎: 18

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𝓦𝔂𝓻𝓶 𝓸𝓯 𝓐𝓼𝓱 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓕𝔂𝓻, 𝓑𝓁𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵.

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𝓘𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓼𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓾𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝔀𝓮 𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓪𝓯𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓾𝔁𝓾𝓻𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓹.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓲𝓸𝓼𝓹𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓵𝔂 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓰𝓮 — 𝓪 𝓯𝓪𝓬𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻.

𝓕𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓲𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓛𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓷, 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓵𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽-𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓙𝓲𝓷-𝓜𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓼.

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓭𝓲𝓻𝓰𝓮𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓶 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓾𝓷𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼, 𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓵𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓱𝓪𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝔀𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓯𝓾𝓵𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼.

𝓑𝔂 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓻 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓫𝓪𝓫𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂, 𝔀𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓾𝓶𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓾𝓹𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓿𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓰𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓐𝓷𝓴𝓪.

𝓘𝓽𝓼 𝓹𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮 — 𝓽𝓪𝓬𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓼 — 𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓾𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓯 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓻𝔂.

𝓘 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓼 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓱𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓽.

𝓘 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓱 '𝓢𝓲𝓻 𝓴𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽' 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓫𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓸 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓾𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂'𝓻𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰…

𝓢𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵, 𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓭. 𝓘𝓷𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂, 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽𝓲𝓫𝓵𝔂.

𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓰𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓾𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂, 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓷𝓾𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮.

𝓑𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓸𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓽, 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝓶𝓪𝓷 — 𝔀𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭, 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝔀𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽.

𝓛𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓴𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔀𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓯𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓬𝓴 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝔂 𝓐𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓸𝓴,

𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼 '𝓢𝓲𝓻 𝓚𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽' 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝓴𝓮, 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓸𝓾𝓽.

𝓕𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝔀𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓸𝓷.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓪𝔂𝓼 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓵𝔂, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓸 𝓘 𝓯𝓲𝓰𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓘'𝓭 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓼𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓴.

𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓸𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓵𝔂, 𝓘 𝓫𝓻𝓸𝓴𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓯𝓮𝓵𝓽 𝓪𝓫𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓹𝓮𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓹𝓼:

"𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓻 𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓸𝓸𝓷?" 𝓘 𝓪𝓼𝓴𝓮𝓭. "𝓘𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓪𝓼 𝓸𝓷𝓮, 𝔀𝓱𝓲𝓬𝓱 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓸𝓼𝓮?"

𝓐 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮𝓰𝓲𝓷 𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓘'𝓵𝓵 𝓪𝓭𝓶𝓲𝓽 𝓲𝓽𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓪 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝓶𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝔂, 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓪 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓷 𝓪𝓷 𝓾𝓷𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭.

𝓐𝓷𝓭 𝔂𝓮𝓽… 𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭.

𝓦𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓭 𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓫𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓸𝓷.

𝓘 𝓪𝓼𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓱𝓲𝓶 𝔀𝓱𝔂, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓮𝓵 𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓶 — 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓼𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓮 — 𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓭, "𝓑𝓮𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼, 𝓷𝓸 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓾𝓻𝓷."

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓮𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓲𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓸𝓷𝓮, 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼. 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽. 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓪 𝓒𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻-𝓚𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 — 𝓪 𝓯𝓲𝓰𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝓻, 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮.

𝓦𝓮 𝓼𝓹𝓸𝓴𝓮 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓭𝓪𝔀𝓷 𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷 𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼. 𝓘𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓵𝔂 𝓱𝓾𝓶𝓪𝓷 𝓶𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓴𝓼.

𝓝𝓸𝔀, 𝓪𝓼 𝔀𝓮 𝓬𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓼 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓽𝓸𝓶𝓮 — 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓻𝓾𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓪𝓷 𝓡𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 — 𝓘 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓱𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓯𝓾𝓵. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓳𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝔂, 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓪𝓼 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓼 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓯𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭.

𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓱𝓸𝓹𝓮, 𝓘 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀, 𝓲𝓼 𝓸𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱 𝓫𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽. 𝓢𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵, 𝓘 𝓹𝓻𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼.

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𝓟𝓻𝒶𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓫𝓮 𝓗𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓫𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝒶𝓻𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓾𝓷. 𝓣𝓻𝓾𝓵𝔂, 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵.

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A Rainforest as he'd suspected, he was still doubtful of the theory and yet how else could the journal have found it's way here?

The question gnawed at him: if this journal described a living biome — vivid and wild — how had it found its way here, in this inert, sterile ruin?

Unsure he kept reading hoping some answer would eventually reveal itself.

"𝓦𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓡𝓾𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂—𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓷 𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓣𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓫𝓾𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓭 𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓯𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓲𝓷 𝓸𝓫𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓲𝓪𝓷 𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓰. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓲𝓻 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓻𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓚𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓸𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓾𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓮 𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓪𝓵𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭: '𝓡𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓮𝓻.' 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓻 𝓷𝓸𝓽, 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓭𝓲𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝓼𝓪𝔂."

Finally it seemed after pages upon pages of journaling they were closer to reaching their destination. As statements such as "𝓦𝓮'𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓼𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓰𝓮, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓸 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻 𝓯𝓵𝓸𝔀. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓭𝓻𝓲𝓯𝓽 𝓾𝓹𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓭. 𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓕𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓻𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓯𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓴 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶." Grew in frequency.

A few entries later and the journal read "𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓣𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓮. 𝓦𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓲𝓽 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮. 𝓐𝓽 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓘 𝓯𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓪𝓬𝓵𝔂𝓼𝓶 𝓵𝓪𝔂 𝓪𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓪𝓷 𝓐𝓻𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓮 𝓑𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓼. 𝓘𝓽 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝓼𝓾𝓷 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓹 𝓪 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓶, 𝓲𝓽𝓼 𝓼𝓸 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽."

The next page turned by itself following the motion of his finger, made his heart skip a beat as an emotional pulse, stronger than any pulse before that point caught wind of his senses.

His finger stopped and thw page paused mid turn as he remembered the prior warning the author gave.

"𝓚𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓵𝓮𝓭𝓰𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓴. 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽. 𝓛𝓸𝓰𝓲𝓬 𝓲𝓼 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓰𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓭𝓸𝓾𝓫𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓪𝓷𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓡𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓮𝓻, 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻: 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓵 𝓪𝓼 𝔀𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮, 𝔀𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓃𝓸𝓉 𝓁𝓸𝓈𝓮 𝓸𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓮𝓁𝓋𝓮𝓈 𝓉𝓸 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓰𝓈 𝓉𝓸𝓸 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹."

"Through thought, meaning, and doubt I must remember to be wary of things too deep, and not stoke those fires." He said to himself outloud.

The page resumed it's motion and layed flat.

It emanated a certain allure as it's surface oozed with latent emotional energy, and perhaps even more odd was the note attacked to the page, a note that radiated a similar emotional wavelength but somehow seemed more refined... older.

The world extinguished.

A moment of absolute black followed — not simply a lack of light, but a suspension of phenomenological certainty. No ground, no orientation. And then, swiftly, the darkness drew back like the inhalation of some cosmic tide.

He found himself walking, though not by volition. His limbs moved autonomously, caught in the rhythm of a another's will.

He found himself approaching what appeared to be a sun— immense, radiant, and unmistakably solar— resting on the earth. It was not poetic exaggeration, nor allegory given shape; it was the sun itself, embedded in the earth like some divine relic misplaced by some careless God.

It was no meteor or comet or even a meer asteroid, no, a few feet from him what looked like the sun itself rested on the Earth.

He tried to stop and turn back but his feet, not his own shakily advanced forward, his red robe billowing behind him in the night's breeze.

As he walked into that sunken sun, he felt fear blossom from him , fear that was quickly replaced by the growing embrace of Fyr. Soon heat transfigured into warmth, and fear gave way to an unsettling familiarity, as though some primordial part of him had always known this place.

And as he emerged on the other side a path awaited — coals aglow with a sinister, smoldering red stretched out beneath a sky of deep indigo.

Above him, stars wept silently into the void. Below, a river encircled the landmass in totality — its current slow, its waters glass-like, and its surface veiled in a mist that moved with a sentient stillness. Whatever lay beneath those waters was occluded from both vision and understanding. What lurked just below that misty surface? Who could say.

At the end of the trail was a small island and waiting for her was a red-robed figure. The figure was dancing, the motions of their dance were always active, some parts more active than others, like the wild tendrils of Fyr.

And behind all of that was the temple, towering a small distance away.

The figure stood alone on the ashen plain, cloaked in crimson that bled into the fog like drying blood on snow. In their hand, they held a staff of an impossible black—its surface dull and charred like obsidian long cooled, but from its twin ends bled fire.

Not just flame, it was molten light. The fire did not burn upward. It dripped, like the tears of a dying star, each ember falling slow and heavy to the ground, vanishing into the mist with a hiss

He scanned his surroundings for his companions, but they were absent — erased from this pocket of reality or perhaps never permitted entry. The only certainty he retained was the compulsion pulling him toward the island. It was not coercive, but it was absolute — like gravity with volition.

He turned to his Amarok, who had remained faithfully at his side. With a quiet gesture, he stroked its fur, grounding himself in that single act of familiarity.

On first contact, the heat kissed his toe with violence. A searing pain, instantaneous and primal, forced a sharp retreat.

He stood motionless, toe throbbing, eyes fixed upon the long and agonizing path ahead — a road that did not merely suggest suffering, but promised it, paved with pain both literal and symbolic.

A heavy gulp escaped his throat before he could suppress it. At his side, his Amarok nudged his hand with a gentle insistence, sensing his faltering resolve.

He smiled — barely — his voice trembling, hoarse, and unfamiliar in his own mouth.

"I'm alright... seems there's only one way forward now, huh girl?"

He lifted his gaze to the heavens above — the yawning vault of night, jeweled with stars as distant as fate — and offered up a quiet prayer. It was not rehearsed. It was born in the moment, like flame from flint:

"O Lord... He who seeded the sky with suns and scattered stars like pollen across the void — I ask humbly: shield me, your child, born of Fyr's ember. Blessed though I may be, I am no more than dust without You. Embros."

He bawled his fists and committed to the journey.

He petted his Amarok and looked across the burning coal and without thinking too much about it, he ran.

Each step sizzling like meat over a grill.

He ran and ran and ran but for every step taken was a moment longer that he would have to endure.

But no fire stays still. No path stays bearable.

And eventually he couldn't bear to run anymore, and the water, those misty, still waters overtime seemed more and more inviting.

He couldn't run so he walked, until meat melted off bone.

He couldn't walk so he crawled, the pain was still a brutal agony, and meat melted off bone.

He couldn't crawl so he dragged himself across. The coals flayed his palms and knees, searing flesh from sinew. The pain was unrelenting. Brutal. Elemental. But still he crawled. Stomach to earth, cheek to cinder, breath shallow and ragged.

He felt every single moment, every burn, every brief reprieve, every tissue, every muscle, he felt every second passing, and it all seemed like eternity.

Altha tried to evacuate the vision, but with his Psyche nearly depleted and the vision's growing influence, escape was a distant hope.

He tried to swallow, but his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth like parchment. His lips were cracked. Salt lined his face — the residue of tears long since shed and forgotten by time. He was parched in soul and body alike. The waters — strange and still and scented with promise called to him louder now.

And he, desperate, began to crawl toward them.

He nearly succumbed.

But before his fingers broke the water's plane, a sound cut through the fog — sharp, familiar, undeniable:

A howl.

It was his Amarok.

It pierced the veil and pulled him back.

He clenched his fists, though nerves screamed protest, and forced himself upright. It was not immediate, nor was it painless. It was a climb through brokenness. But inch by inch, fragment by fragment, he stood.

And by the time the stars crowned midnight, Altha walked upon the shores of that waiting island. And collapsed atop its sands.

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