Day 3
The morning light crept in like a lie, soft and golden, trying to pretend the horrors of the night before hadn't happened. But no one was fooled. Rachel, Terra, and Naemor walked in silence, each stolen glance toward the trees filled with suspicion. Shadows seemed to flinch just a breath too late. Branches shifted like they were whispering secrets to the wind.
The snow thinned as the air warmed. Dew collected on the leaves, and birds chirped overhead—too suddenly, too perfectly.
"Looks like winter's ending," Naemor muttered.
Rachel stared upward, wary. "Then what comes next?"
"Let's not jinx anything this time," he replied.
"Agreed," both girls said, almost in unison, but the tension laced their voices like invisible thread, pulling tight.
Then, the path betrayed them.
A fork in the road—no, three. A crossroads, clear as day. Dirt paths splitting left, right, and straight. All equally real. All equally wrong.
Terra's voice cracked. "What the fuck is this?"
Naemor stepped forward without hesitation. "Don't pay attention to it. Just go straight."
Before he could move, Rachel's hand shot out and gripped his wrist. "Are you out of your mind? There is no straight path! There's nothing there!"
He turned and met her eyes. "What did the guide say? 'A straight path to the mountain.' She never mentioned choices. No forks. This isn't real." He extended his hand. "Trust me."
Rachel hesitated, glancing at Terra, whose eyes darted between paths like a rabbit in a snare. "I think… I can't trust what I see anymore," Terra said quietly. "But you two haven't broken yet. Whatever you decide—I'll follow."
Rachel looked at Naemor's outstretched hand, at the void where no path existed, and then—against instinct, against every shivering doubt—she stepped forward. Took his hand.
"Thank you," he whispered, and they walked.
To Rachel's eyes, it was madness. Trees tangled around them. The forest thickened. No signs, no trail, just wilderness stretching endlessly in every direction. Her chest tightened. "I don't know about this," she murmured. "We're just walking into the woods."
Naemor stopped. "Rachel, look down."
She did.
A path. Dirt-packed and clear. Right beneath her feet. As if it had always been there.
She spun around. The crossroads were gone. Just trees behind her now. Nothing more.
"What about the crossroads?" she whispered.
Naemor tilted his head. "What crossroads? We've just been walking forward."
Realization hit her like a slap. It got me. "A minute ago… I was choosing. I thought I had a choice." She looked down at her hand in his.
"I think that was the test," Naemor said softly. "To see if you'd trust me. Or if your fear would win." He held her gaze for a moment too long. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
"I didn't choose the path," she said. "I chose you."
He smiled faintly. "Then I'm glad you did."
They walked in silence again. Behind them, Terra trailed, unnoticed, her breath quieter than the wind. In her head, one thought circled like a vulture: I'm the third wheel.
Day 5
The air dried out. Sweat clung to their clothes. The forest had become a furnace, every step scraping away the last of their energy.
"Cold… now heat?" Terra groaned. "This is cruel."
Naemor's eyes narrowed. "The mountain still looks the same, but something's wrong with the space. It feels bent."
Rachel glanced at him—and froze. "He's not here."
"What?" Terra turned.
"Look at his eyes. He's gone."
Naemor stood still, staring into nothing. His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.
Inside His Illusion
Naemor found himself in a grand hall—silver draped over marble, a throne glimmering at the far end. His feet echoed across the floor. He knew this place.
"You left us," a voice called. Familiar. Authority wrapped in silk.
"I had to."
The figure stepped forward. A man draped in royal robes, his features hazy like memory. "You walked away from the plan. From your place."
Naemor clenched his fists. "I refuse to be another ornament. A pet prince in a palace while the world turns. This planet is changing. She is rising. I won't be a spectator."
The man tilted his head. "You think the families don't know? That you're the only one who can see the shifting tides?"
Naemor stepped closer, voice trembling. "I will define what it means to be royal."
The man touched his face, gently. "Poor boy. You think this is rebellion. But it's just another move on the board. You've always been part of the plan."
And then—
The marble cracked. The throne dissolved into ash. The man melted into the shadows.
Naemor blinked awake, breathing heavily, and found himself mid-step off the path.
The air had grown thin—sharp, even. As if the very oxygen fought against them.
Naemor's eyes fluttered open, his weight dragging dangerously toward the edge of the path, but before he could fall completely, Terra and Rachel caught him. Their hands clutched his arms, his clothes, anything they could grab.
"You can stop," he said hoarsely. "I'm awake."
Terra collapsed, panting. "Dear gods… Why are you so damn heavy?"
"Body refining," Naemor replied. "Every bone, every cell—compressed and hardened. My body feels like air to me. To others, I'm a mountain."
"Fantastic," Terra groaned, half-laughing as she shook the numbness from her arms.
Rachel steadied him as he stood. "We've got you. You'd do the same for us."
A soft silence passed between them.
Then Terra spoke, her voice tentative. "Naemor… What did you see?"
"Terra!" Rachel snapped, a warning in her tone.
But Naemor raised a hand. "It's fine." He looked past the trees, almost like he could still see it—the grand hall, the silver glint of judgment. "I saw my father. He warned me that getting involved with this planet was a mistake."
Rachel blinked. "Did you just say… this planet?"
Naemor tilted his head, realizing what he'd just said. "Right. That's not in the Wasteland archives. Each of the royal families rules a planet within this solar system. Most appear barren—fake atmospheres, falsified data feeds—but we've been here for nearly a thousand years."
Terra's eyes widened. "Wait, so… which one's yours?"
"Neptune. Cold, quiet. But perfect for our disciplines."
"Can we visit someday?" Terra asked, half in jest.
Naemor gave a faint smile. "Maybe. But without a sharp mind or mana to guide you, you wouldn't even know which way was up. Our home warps more than just the body."
They kept walking.
The forest turned again—capricious and cruel. Snow became steam. Wind whipped and howled, then died so suddenly it was like the trees were holding their breath.
Then came the rain.
They couldn't light a fire. Too damp. Too dark. They huddled beneath an overgrown root arch, clothes clinging wet to skin.
Rachel broke the silence. "We've heard your stories, Naemor. But Terra… we barely know anything about you."
Terra sat still for a while, knees to her chest, steam rising from her skin. Finally, she spoke.
"My story's… short. I was just a normal girl. Until one day at school, a girl was bullying me. I don't know what came over me, but something snapped. I felt this force, this pressure rise inside, and… when it broke…"
Her voice shook.
"There were bodies. Pieces of people. Lockers shredded. Walls bent outward like paper. I blacked out."
Neither Rachel nor Naemor said a word.
"When I came to, people were staring at me. Not like a person. Like a monster. So I ran. Somehow made it home. But they were already waiting. Not the police… The Organization. They erased everything. Everyone's memories. Rebuilt the school. My friends, my teachers… all of them forgot me."
Her voice cracked, just once. "Except my parents."
Naemor looked stunned. "You're… a Natural."
"A what?"
"In the Wastelands, natural awakenings are almost extinct. The mana field's too thin. With the resurgence still dormant, it should've been impossible. You're one in a million. Maybe rarer."
He paused, then added solemnly, "If the Organization hadn't disappeared you… something else would've. There are forces that would do anything to stop humans from rising again."
As if summoned, Naemor cried out, clenching his jaw as a searing burn flared along his back. A sigil ignited—bright red—visible even beneath his soaked clothes.
"Naemor!" Rachel lunged and caught him before he hit the ground, his body convulsing.
"It's alright," he gasped through gritted teeth. "That's… the failsafe. I said too much."
"What the hell was that?" Terra demanded.
"A mark. It protects knowledge. If someone tries to speak what shouldn't be said—to the wrong ears, at the wrong time—it triggers. Keeps us from endangering the truth. From unsealing things that should remain closed."
He winced, curling forward slightly. "It has upsides, though. Even a master mentalist can't rip secrets out of you—not if the mark holds."
"Wait… a mentalist?" Rachel asked slowly. "Like someone who can… read minds?"
He nodded, weakly. "Cultivators often choose paths—classifications. Mentalists manipulate and navigate minds. Most of them come from my family. They're... terrifying."
Both girls took a cautious step back.
Naemor noticed. "Relax. I'm no mind reader. At best, I can catch surface thoughts—flickers. My specialty is different."
He raised his palm.
"Sacred Speech," he said.
A single word: "Fire."
A small flame flickered to life, hovering above his palm. Despite the downpour, it held steady—pure will, burning against the odds.
They stared, transfixed.
"But," he continued, letting the flame extinguish, "that took everything. No mana here. Just raw energy. If I had access to the real thing, that spark could've lasted an hour. Or… torn down this forest."
Rachel whispered, "That's beautiful. Dangerous. But beautiful."
Terra leaned forward. "How do we choose our path?"
"After these trials," he said, "those unaligned go through one more test. A quiet one. Mana itself will decide your path."
Terra shivered again—not from the cold. "And it just… knows?"
He nodded, his gaze distant. "It always knows."
Rachel looked at him, eyes narrowing with something between awe and suspicion. "You've seen more than any of us. You know more."
"I've seen enough," Naemor said. "But even I don't understand the full shape of what we're walking toward."
She leaned back. "Then tell us. About your world. About your father. We're not sleeping in this storm anyway."
Naemor smiled faintly, like a memory had just stirred from beneath centuries of dust.
"Alright," he said, and the fire flickered again—less from flame and more from his voice.
"Let me tell you about the day my father brought lightning down into our living room…"
In the Observation Room
The air was still. Too still.
A voice spoke behind glass. "Report today's findings to the President."
But the guide, half-shrouded in shadow, didn't turn.
"No need," she said. "The President already knows."
A low silence stretched across the room.
"Then the decision…?"
"Approved. All of it. Even that part."
The attendant's throat bobbed. "Understood."