Buried deep within the emerald jaws of twin peaks, lay a temple, ancient and untouched for generations. It was neither marked nor mapped — its presence felt only by those attuned to the echoes left behind by that first civilization. And yet, on this rainy night, it was under siege.
Through ancient archways carved with sacred geometry, a unit clad in advanced armor swept silently forward. Their faces masked by black visors lit with blue sigils — bodies mechanical yet organic. They moved with the brutal precision of a species born not of nature but of optimization, each step was calculated, each movement synchronized.
They advanced through a stone alley flanked by forgotten artifacts, stepping over faded glyphs etched into the ground — arcane deterrents nullified by specialized EMPs. At the alley's end, massive doors awaited — slabs of black stone inlaid with pulsing threads of white and gold. A ring of concentric circles spun silently at its center, nested like the iris of some cosmic eye. Each pulse from the gate sent ripples through the air, distorting light and reality alike.
The Operative, appearing seemingly out of thin air, stepped forward and extended a hand. No key. No device. His palm glowed, circuitry flaring beneath artificial skin. A small disc, impossibly thin, extended from his wrist. He placed it against the center ring.
No resistance. The rings stopped spinning. The gate inhaled. With a low groan that sounded more like a grief-stricken sigh, the doors parted — effortless as air — and revealed impossible space.
Beyond the gate was no chamber. No vault. No altar. There was infinity.
A chamber stretched impossibly wide, filled not with walls but with stars. Nebulae shimmered in all directions, and the floor dropped into an endless cosmos. A narrow bridge extended toward a staggered stone platform in the distance. At its center stood a monument — concentric rings of radiant crystal and ancient gold, suspended and spinning slowly in the air, humming with power.
The unit approached the rings cautiously following protocol; four moved to the corners of the platform, each one unfurling narrow black cases and extracting strange, humming devices — slim rods, coils, anchors laced with dark metal that drank the ambient light. One technician began calibrating frequency alignments, another traced glyphs into a holographic overlay, syncing the Monument's movements with a projection on their hands.
Equipment clicked and whirred as they interfaced with the structure. The monumental wheels began to spin at their whim — yet from the void, a flash of light cracked the heavens.
Between stars stepped a figure robed in shimmering light, skin marked with symbols older than language.
He didn't speak. He moved.
With effortless grace, he danced through the invaders — each gesture undoing flesh, metal, and machine. Bodies stunned, broken, cast into the cosmos.
All but one.
The last figure removed his visor, revealing sharp, calculating eyes.
"Teaching you was a mistake," said the Enlightened One.
"You said Creation does not make mistakes," — his voice cold and ancient.
"I'll make sure it doesn't."
Their clash lasted a fraction of a second, light versus force, memory against will. The energy release sent shock waves felt far and wide, and left the two forces sealed in a stasis, trapped in that frame of time. Their silhouettes drawn from light and shadow, carved against the open temple doors.
Waves crashed distantly, sea mist hung in the cold air. The wooden tavern leaned like it has had too many drinks of its own, battered by salt and time. From within, laughter spilled through warped wooden walls, along with the clink of mugs and the occasional shout of a card game gone sour. The mix of mist rolled in heavy from the sea, and smoke, painted the dockside in a dreamlike hush.
Inside, beneath smoke-blackened beams, sailors, merchants, and drifters huddled around dimly lit tables. In the far corner sat a figure with a frayed cloak and the look of someone drowning slowly. He nursed his drink with the quiet resignation of a man used to be defeated.
Then the door creaked open.
Three figures stepped in — hooded, confident, armed. They scanned the tavern with the sharpness of men used to blood. When they saw him, their path was straight.
"Still here, eh?" one of them said, a sneer curling his lip. "Thought you'd be on the waves by now… or sunk below 'em."
The other two flanked him, casting shadows over the table.
The man didn't flinch. "Tide hasn't turned. Yet."
"Captain wants his coin," another snapped. "You said two moons. It's been four."
They didn't wait for more. Rough hands dragged him from the bench, his mug clattering to the ground. He fought — out of pride more than hope — but they had numbers and purpose.
Outside, the rain had begun.
They tossed him into the mud behind the tavern like a sack of rotting fish. A boot slammed into his ribs, another into his back, then he lost count.
"One more moon," the last of them hissed. "No more mercy."
They walked back into the inn, leaving him coughing in the dirt, his breath ragged and mouth full of blood.
That's when he heard it — a voice like barnacled driftwood, dry and brittle.
"The tide… has never turned for those who swim against it."
He turned his head slowly.
There, slumped beneath a rain-slicked arch, sat an old beggar, wrapped in seaweed and rags. His eyes glowed like moonlight caught in glass. He smiled, wide and eerie.
"What are you — drunk? Cursed?" the man asked, forcing himself upright.
"Both, maybe," the beggar said. "You're in trouble, I see."
"You're definitely not blind."
"And I've seen things…"
"Have you seen a hundred golden coins by any chance?"
As the young man sat on the drenched stairs, a brief yet sharp tremor caught him off ward, prompting him to look up.
"Let's say I have seen much more than that."
"Yeah, right." spat the young man, as he turned his attention from the brief distraction to a distant horizon, lost in thought.
The beggar took it as a challenge, and leaned forward.
"Far inland — beyond the broken hills and the mist-eaten forest, beyond the lost river and the forgotten ruins. A hill with a name no tongue remembers. On it stands a thing not built — but manifested."
"I'm really tired for stories, old man. And I'm out of coin."
"Ah yes, coin. Well, riches await you there if you go. It actually brings it… all."
An almost impulsive spasm made the young man turn his head towards the beggar, who grinned, showing too many teeth. He stood as he pulled his hood down. From under his dark robes an apple-sized, golden sphere fell to the wooden stairs. Seemingly unaware, the beggar kept walking into the rain, the young man's eyes fixed into the shining promise.
He limped through the narrow corridors of a crumbling apartment block. He opened a door, and warmth hit him like an embrace. Candles burned low. Herbs boiled over a small flame. On a cot near the hearth, a little girl coughed in her sleep.
His wife, kneeling at her side, turned at the sound of the door.
"Ashem! What happened to you?" she asked, rising quickly.
He didn't answer right away. He walked past her, knelt by the girl, and brushed a strand of hair from her damp forehead.
"I found something," he murmured, still watching her sleep. His wife looked at him confused.
"You found…?"
"A way out."