The teleportation thread fizzled, scattering faint blue sparks across the sand. The three emerged inside a camp that was nothing like the barren wasteland they left behind.
A metallic tent stood in the middle, its walls reinforced with plates of strange alloy that shimmered faintly under the sun. A series of antennas spiraled upward, blinking with red light.
Around the camp, pylons hummed softly, creating a faint dome of energy that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air smelled like heated metal, oil, and something sterile, almost like medicinal.
"Don't move."
Figures stepped out from behind the tent. Seven of them, clad in long golden robes threaded with wires and etched with glowing sigils.
The robes weren't ceremonial but up close, you could see their seams hid compartments and holsters. Each raised a plasma rifle, sleek and deadly, their muzzles pulsing with bluish light.
Arlong muttered, "Well, they know how to throw a welcome party."
One of the robed guards barked, "Identify yourselves."
Johan lifted his hands slowly, calm as ever. His golden hair caught the desert's glare, but his eyes were steady, like stone.
"We're not here for quarrel," Johan said. His voice carried no fear, but firm enough to silence the camp's hum for a moment. "I ask for a meeting. Urgent business and then we will leave."
The leader sneered, mask shifting with the weight of his breath. "Huh? Why should we? Outsiders appearing uninvited at our waypoint? That's grounds for execution."
Tom shifted, but Johan stepped forward just enough to claim their attention.
"You think if I meant to harm, I'd walk right into your guns?" Johan's tone hardened. "If I wanted blood, we all could have been half stomped on the desert like cactus."
A silence fell. In fact, it delivered with the cold edge of truth.
The guards glanced at each other. One muttered beneath his breath.
Johan continued, quieter this time. "But instead, here I stand. Empty-handed. Not throwing hands. That should tell you what kind of man I am or at least, the kind I'm trying to be right now."
Arlong chuckled softly, lifting his bow just enough to tap it with a finger. "He's telling the truth. Trust me, if he wanted to, I wouldn't even be standing here smiling at you. I might have ran out somewhere else "
Tom watched, sharp-eyed, his hand hovering near his dagger but not moving further. His mind traced the edges of the camp, exit points, weak spots, ways to counter their rifles if things turned ugly.
The leader of the robed men lowered his rifle slightly, though suspicion lingered in his voice.
"Words are cheap. We've heard men speak of peace while sharpening blades behind their backs."
Johan tilted his head, his tone almost reflective now.
"Then listen to action, not words. If I came with a knife in my hand, then doubt me. But when a man walks bare into a den of wolves…. perhaps he comes not to kill, but to talk."
The leader stared at him long, unreadable. Then finally lowered his weapon fully.
"Follow. Remember, one wrong step, stranger…. and we'll burn you where you stand."
Johan gave the faintest smile he could. "Fair enough."
The trio was ushered into the tent, the air inside even colder, humming with machinery that felt out of place in the desert.
Tom's curiosity got the better of him. While Johan was being escorted toward the council chamber, Tom and Arlong exchanged a look.
The cheerful archer grinned, "Exploring time, eh?" and nudged Tom forward.
They slipped through a side passage lined with etched gold plates. The path descended, deeper and deeper, until the air changed again—dustier, still, and filled with the faint musk of parchment and stone.
When the stairs ended, Tom found himself staring into a cavernous library.
The ceiling arched high above, held by blackened pillars carved with solar motifs. Shelves stretched endlessly, carrying tomes bound in leather, bark and even scales. Some of the books were chained shut.
Others pulsed faintly, alive with their own strange rhythms. Warriors in golden robes stood at each corner, their plasma rifles resting but not forgotten. Their gazes flickered to Tom and Arlong, sharp and suspicious, but no one dared move to stop them.
Arlong whistled low. "Well… this is cozy."
Tom didn't speak. His eyes were caught by something else like a row of sealed artifacts at the far end of the library, placed on stone pedestals. Each was locked in crystal-like cases, engraved with runes.
One was a dagger made of bone, its blade etched with constellations that shifted when you blinked. Another was a broken crown, half-melted, yet glowing faintly with trapped radiance. The last looked like a small cube of black stone, simple, harmless but yet the very air around it felt warped, like gravity was being forced to go against its nature.
Tom stepped closer. He could feel their weight, not just physical but something older, heavier, like the artifacts carried fragments of civilizations long vanished within the mist and sand grains.
A guard's voice echoed across the hall.
"Don't touch. You're not allowed near the Sealed Relics."
Tom stood silently, fingers pulled back from the crystal case. He hadn't realized how close he had wandered. He glanced back, meeting the guard's cold gaze.
"I wasn't planning to." His voice was steady, though his curiosity burned deeper now.
The guard grunted. "Even if you were, they wouldn't open. Not for someone your age. Not for someone without the mark of inheritance. These relics choose when they wake…. and who they wake for."
Tom backed off slowly, eyes scanning the cube one last time. Something about it…. it felt like it was staring back.
Arlong leaned close, whispering, "Looks like this place has more secrets than Johan warned us about."
Sound of boots carried across the hall, crisp and unhurried. Tom and Arlong turned from the sealed relics as Johan returned, but he wasn't alone.
Walking beside him was a woman who commanded presence without even trying.
Her violet chlamys draped over one shoulder, falling loose enough to reveal the casual linen beneath. Brown hair, silky and tied at the back, swung gently as she moved.
Her eyes were sharp, not the kind that stabbed but the kind that measured, weighed, and then dismissed what wasn't worth her time. When she smiled, it was faint, polite, but her gaze carried more than courtesy.
Her steps were neither fast nor slow. It was the measured walk of someone who knew the ground was already hers.
"This," Johan's voice carried easily, "is Rhea Scourge. She leads this camp."
Arlong, ever the eager one, gave a deep bow with a hand across his chest. "An honor," he said brightly.
Rhea's lips twitched, the kind of smile that didn't fully bloom but stayed locked behind restraint. She extended her hand toward Tom.
He studied her hand, then instead bowed at the waist—only halfway, just enough to show respect without lowering himself too much. His face was unreadable, almost calm to the point of being cold.
Her brows lifted faintly, and a flicker of amusement sparked in her eyes. She withdrew her hand with grace, no sign of insult. "Respect in form over contact," she murmured. "Rare."
Johan's mouth curved. "He's a stubborn one."
"Stubborn men don't survive long," Rhea replied, but the edge of a grin showed she didn't mean it as a threat.
She gestured with a sweep of her hand. "Come inside. The sun does no favors."
The four of them followed her deeper into the camp, past corridors where guards stood straight as statues, past the faint hum of machinery buried beneath sand. Soon they entered a chamber dressed far more warmly than the stone around them.
The room was simple but deliberate. The Low sofas arranged in a half-circle, small wooden tables marked by rings of past cups, the faint scent of jasmine rising from an incense stick. The camp's heart, Johan realized, was not its weapons or relics but the rooms like this, a soft corners to conceal steel teeth.
Rhea disappeared through a side arch and returned with a silver tray. On it, porcelain cups rattled lightly, steam twisting from their mouths. She set it on the table and began pouring tea herself rather than letting a servant do it.
"Desert herb blend," she explained, her tone smooth. "Sharp on the tongue, softer on the stomach."
Arlong reached first, sipping loudly before smacking his lips. "Gods above! that's better than cactus brew."
Tom accepted his cup silently, letting the heat seep into his palms before taking a cautious sip. His expression didn't shift much, but his silence was an answer enough " not bad "
Rhea leaned back on the sofa across from Johan, one arm sliding casually along the cushion. Her gaze lingered on him, almost too long. "You've grown…. but not poorly," she said. "The desert carves men into statues. You're still walking."
Johan smirked faintly, crossing one leg over the other. "Careful, statues are brittle. Push them to see them break."
Her lips curved, eyes glittering. "Some things are worth breaking, dear."
Arlong choked on his tea, glancing between the two. Tom just stared into his cup as though the leaves inside were far more interesting.
Johan tilted his head, his tone lazy but edged. "You don't want me, Rhea. You want what follows me. Trouble, blood, smoke." He leaned in just slightly. "Trust me, it's not lust, it's hunger."
For a beat, silence sat heavy. Then Rhea laughed with soft, musical, but with something sharp hidden in its notes. She looked away, sipping her tea. "Perhaps," she said.
Tom finally spoke, breaking the tension. "Why invite strangers inside if you only plan to test them?" His voice was steady, but his eyes didn't lift from the cup.
Rhea set her porcelain down with a faint clink. "Because sometimes," she said, "strangers answer questions the faithful are too afraid to ask."
Rhea's gaze drifted back to Tom, the faintest curl tugging at her lips. She leaned her chin against her hand, studying him the way a hunter studies tracks in sand.
"You're quiet," she said. " And Interesting...."
Tom finally raised his eyes, meeting hers. No flinch, no shift but just a steady calm, as if her words were dust in the wind.
"Words aren't always worth saying," he replied.
The corner of her brow arched. "Or perhaps you fear what they reveal?"
Arlong squirmed, his armor clinking softly. "Uh.… he's just not a talker," he offered, like a shield against the tension.
But Rhea ignored him. "You bow, but you don't bend," she continued, tone silk-wrapped inside steel. "That makes me wonder, boy… what will snap you first? Pride, or fear?"
Tom tilted his head. His voice was even, but there was a thread of bite beneath it. "Depends. Which one broke you?"
Even Johan's smirk faltered before curling into something sharper, amused at the audacity. Arlong froze, cup halfway to his lips.
For a moment, Rhea didn't move. Her eyes narrowed, then softened again into that unreadable calm. She exhaled through her nose, almost a laugh but not quite.
"Sharp tongue," she murmured. "Hidden blade. I see now why Johan keeps you close."
Tom didn't reply. He sipped his tea instead, as if her probing hadn't left a mark.
Rhea reclined again, but her gaze never truly left him. It was less flirt now, more test with more calculation.
Johan leaned back as well, his grin returning. "Careful, Rhea. If you poke him too much, he'll stab back."
"I like to know where the thorns lie," she said smoothly. "Makes it easier to hold the rose."
Arlong muttered under his breath, "What rose? This place has more daggers than flowers."
The silence broke with low laughter—Johan's first, then Rhea's quieter, darker one.
Our Mister Tom? He just set his cup down gently, eyes steady on the table. And that, somehow, unsettled her more than anything he'd said.