The moment my grandfather's breathing sank into the rhythm of sleep, I slipped quietly from the tent. The night air hit me with a sharp chill, carrying the faint tang of metal and scorched earth from distant engines and evacuation ships. I moved carefully through the forest, a place like no other I had ever known.
The trees rose straight and tall, their trunks smooth and unbranched. Leaves sprouted directly from the trunks in irregular spirals, glowing faintly in the moonlight like pale lanterns suspended in the air. As I walked, the forest seemed to hum, a soft, vibrating resonance that brushed against my skin and made the hair on my arms stand on end. I could almost feel the pulse of the forest itself, patient, silent, and alive.
Ahead, a pale glow illuminated a clearing. There it stood, the altar. Towering, carved from stone that reflected light like liquid silver, etched with flowing symbols that twisted subtly under my gaze. Circles, eyes, and spirals intertwined with images of leaves and waves, forming patterns that seemed alive, almost breathing. At its center, a depression waited a place for offerings, for signs, for something sacred. The altar exuded a quiet authority, a balance of justice, wisdom, and nature.
A group of soldiers knelt before it, their movements precise and deliberate. One by one, they drew blood and let it drip onto the altar. Each droplet hissed faintly as it touched the stone, dissolving into a wisp of faintly glowing mist. When the ritual was complete, they left silently, disappearing into the forest like shadows.
I stepped forward, hesitant, drawn to the altar's power. My fingers brushed against the cold surface, and a jolt ran through me. I felt a sudden vertigo as if the world itself had tilted. My knees buckled, and the last thing I saw was the altar's central eye-shaped symbol, staring into me, before darkness consumed everything.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in a space that was not space. The ground beneath me shimmered like liquid light. In my hand was a key it's white, radiant, has wings delicate yet strong, and with a single, blinking eye embedded in its head. I felt its energy hum against my palm.
Ahead, a gate towered impossibly high, its surface rippling in gold and silver patterns that shimmered like fire on water. Slowly, it shifted into a massive, living eye.
"I am Datora," the voice resonated, calm yet compelling. "You may choose: the darkness beyond, or the path within. Will you enter?"
Fear gripped me, yet my feet moved on their own. I reached toward the gate, feeling it pulse in time with my heartbeat, and as my hand touched it, I was pulled inside.
The kingdom that opened before me was immense. Soldiers drilled endlessly, their movements precise and tireless. Others danced in flowing circles, sang songs that echoed through the streets, or prepared meals in kitchens that stretched like endless corridors. Children ran, weaving through the adults' movements without ever disturbing the rhythm of life. Everything existed in motion, each act flowing into the next. No one paused, no one idled, yet there was joy in every movement—a harmony of purpose.
I was guided to a massive chair, a throne of disciplined simplicity. A blindfold was placed over my eyes. Beside me, a calm voice spoke.
"I am General Ardent," it said. "You are in the Land of Diligence. Here, all life moves with purpose. I am its guide, and soon you will understand the rhythm that sustains this kingdom."
Even blindfolded, I could feel the kingdom around me. The clash of weapons, laughter, the clang of tools, the murmur of voices, and the rhythmic hum of life itself filled my senses. Time seemed to flow differently here, measured not by hours but by action. Each movement was a contribution, a purpose fulfilled.
And then I noticed it. On my arm, faint but unmistakable, a tattoo had appeared. It glowed softly against my skin, etched in elegant, flowing lines. It was a symbol that felt ancient, a mark of something greater, something blessed. The design was circular, with arcs and spirals forming the shape of an eye in the center, encircled by what looked like delicate leaf patterns. It radiated a quiet warmth, as if it were alive, humming in tune with the key in my hand and the ceaseless rhythm of the kingdom around me. I could not name it; it did not need a name. It was simply a mark that told me I had been chosen, that I was part of something larger than myself.
Outside, in the waking world, my grandfather stirred hours later. Panic sharpened his features as he realized I was gone. He called frantically to the evacuation officers. They found me near the altar, unconscious, and carried me to the nearest hospital. The facility was crowded, every corridor filled with patients and urgent cases. My grandfather's anger flared, sharp and fierce.
"How can you let this happen?" he shouted. "My grandson was unconscious for unknown reason outside! How could you treat others before him?"
The staff spoke gently, explaining triage and the necessity of order, but their words did little to calm him. He paced the halls, fists clenched, eyes blazing, a storm of worry and fury, while I remained in the world beyond consciousness, still clutching the key, still feeling the soft pulse of the tattoo on my arm.
The Land of Diligence continued around me, indifferent to the real world. Soldiers trained without pause, dancers twirled in ceaseless patterns, cooks chopped and stirred in endless rhythm. Every motion was part of a greater flow, a river of purpose and discipline that stretched as far as the eye could see. The key in my hand shimmered in response to my heartbeat, and the eye embedded in it blinked, aware, patient.
Somewhere in that realm, Datora watched. The gate waited, silent and unyielding, a threshold between worlds. And I remained, suspended, my consciousness bound to the rhythm of the kingdom, the hum of the forest, the glowing tattoo on my arm, and the call of something greater than myself.