The transition from the calculated precision of the Capital to the raw, untamed geography of the Western Reach felt like downgrading from a high-speed fiber connection to a rusted copper wire. As the scout-skiff crossed the invisible border into the Old Iron-Woods, the steady, rhythmic hum of the Valmere Standard didn't just fade—it fractured. The indigo light of the engine-core began to sputter, casting erratic, strobe-like shadows across the deck.
I stood at the prow, my hands white-knuckled against the railing. The obsidian pattern on my wrist was no longer just a faint itch; it was a rhythmic, agonizing pulse of violet heat that seemed to be communicating with the forest ahead. Every time the "Jammer" signal spiked, my vision blurred with ghost-lines of ancient code—sequences that looked less like magic and more like a hard-coded prohibition.
