Humberto Ojeda

The Weight of What Remains

Copyright © 2025 by Humberto Ojeda

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1

Chapter 1: Resilience

The man sat cross-legged on the cold floor, his eyes were closed, his breathing slow—but ragged. Pain throbbed along his ribs, a deep, dull ache that made every breath feel too short.

He pulled back the edge of his tunic, running his fingers over the dark bruise spreading along his right side. The flesh was tender, swollen. He had taken a bad hit today. His armor had held, but the force behind the strike had sent him reeling. Without it, he would have been ripped open.

He inhaled slowly, letting the pain ground him as he settled into his meditation….

—-

The machine had been half-buried in debris, its form unnatural, broken, its movements glitching and erratic. He did not know what it had once been, only that it was still moving, still hunting, still dangerous. He heard it before he saw it. A faint metallic scrape, something shifting in the rubble. Then the red flicker of its eye-light.

He raised the slugcaster instinctively, the weapon felt heavy, its long barrel made of esoteric materials that propelled a metallic slug to blistering speeds. As he trained the sights on the rising machine he felt the weapon drain power through his hands all the way up his arms and then down to the power pack latched to his spine.

Just as the machine began striding towards him he felt the weapon finish its power cycle, he fired without hesitation and the air rippled with a muffled thud as the slug was launched against its target. He saw shrapnel and black fluids spray the wall behind the machine as its upper body was shredded by the impact, it fell a few feet away from him.

The slugcaster was already pulling power through his skin, but it would take a few seconds before it accumulated enough for a another shot.. too long. Before he could react the machine rose and lunged a metallic claw at him in one vicious motion.

His body twisted on instinct, but not fast enough, the machine’s clawed limb raked across his right side, its impact sending shock waves of pain through his ribs. His chain mail held, the interlocked rings absorbing the brunt of the blow, but the sheer force of the strike slammed him back.

The machine dragged itself forward, its limbs moving wrong, its broken optics still locked onto him. It seemed on the verge of collapse, its previous attack a last ditch attempt to take him with it. But he was taking no chances, he switched his weapon to his left hand so it kept charging and grabbed a mace fastened to his belt with his right hand.

The machine attempted another strike at him, but the angle was off and the movement erratic, he capitalized on the opportunity and with a powerful swing shattered the thing’s appendage and then, in one fluid motion, swung the mace upwards towards the machine’s head. It’s red eye-light shattered and the machine fell to the floor again.

But the man wasn’t taking any chances, he put the mace away and trained the slugcaster at the thing’s head, the power cycle had just finished. He felt the subdued thud of the slug being accelerated thorough the barrel and the machine’s head exploded in hundreds of fragments an instant later. This time it was down for good.

—-

He exhaled slowly, absorbing the memory.

His initial reaction had been adequate, he aimed at the machine’s body instead of its head so he had the best chance to hit, besides destroying the “head” of these machines didn’t always result in a kill. He decided that his mistake had been waiting for the weapon to charge for a second shot, he should have taken the mace and smashed the thing as soon as it fell to the ground.

He touched his bruised ribs again, a painful reminder that while powerful, the slugcaster had its limits. It needed precious seconds to charge before it could fire again. He was grateful for the pain and the lesson it bestowed, delving the ruins rarely allowed to learn from your own mistakes, as they often proved fatal.

The soft whistle of boiling water pulled him from his meditation. His small kettle trembled over the fire, steam curling upward. From his backpack, he retrieved a small gray brick, unwrapping it and shaving thin slivers into the water. The mixture thickened into a dense, goopy soup. It was odorless and had a barely discernible flavor… he thought it tasted much like wet paper. But he didn’t complain too much about it, that small brick could sustain him for an entire day and all he had to do was dilute it in some water.

As the stew settled, he reached behind him and grabbed the power pack latched to his belt. The pack’s metal plates pressed against his lower back, warm against his skin. As long as they made contact, power would flow, feeding whatever weapon or tool he held.

Lifting the power pack to the firelight, he frowned. Four of the five bars were dark. The last one blinked red. He exhaled, retrieving his generator from the side of his backpack. It was a tall, slender device made of metal and plastic, it reached almost to his waist when he stood beside it. He poured thick yellow liquid into its intake, watching it settle before placing his palm over the device. With a quiet, measured voice, he spoke the activation phrase, memorized syllables that brought the device to life.

The generator hummed, venting warm air as the power pack’s second bar flickered on, beginning the long recharge. Six hours before full capacity. Until then, he would be vulnerable.

He needed a second power pack—a spare to swap out when one was drained. But getting one was another matter entirely. Power packs weren’t just valuable, they were rare, built from salvaged components that only a handful of people knew how to piece together.

The artificers of the Citadel were the only ones he knew who could make them, and their prices were steep. The Citadel was a place of knowledge and power, the closest thing there was to a city, where those who understood the workings of ancient machines held dominion over those who only knew how to use them. If you wanted technology repaired, if you wanted to buy something as rare as a power pack, you had no choice but to deal with them. And the artificers never gave anything away for free.

As the fire crackled softly and he sat to eat his bland and tasteless stew his mind wandered— He’d been prospecting and scavenging the ruins for years and he had accumulated a decent amount of equipment and devices. He knew the value of ancient technology, knew how the right find could make a man wealthy, powerful, or dead.

His power pack was proof of that. It had cost him a small fortune in trade and favors to get his hands on one, and he still wasn’t sure if the price had been fair. But out in the ruins, where machines lurked in the dark and every advantage mattered, it had been a price worth paying.

When the bowl was empty, he wiped it clean, rolling out his thin sleeping mat onto the cracked floor— He’d seen so many of the wonders that the ancients built, the dilapidated structures that disappeared high into the clouds, the carcasses of flying machines rusting under the unyielding passage of time.

He wondered how it all fell apart, how could the people who built all these marvels be reduced to vultures who picked and prodded among the bones of the past. — He grabbed his mace and placed it over his chest — It had no charge to manage, no delicate parts to fail. It would never betray him, not like the machines his ancestors had placed their faith in.

2

Chapter 2: Descent

The morning air was dry and still as he tightened the last strap on his pack. His campfire had burned down to faint embers, the last wisps of smoke curling into the hollowed-out remains of the ceiling above him. He ran a hand over his belt, feeling for the familiar weight of his gear, then reached for the power pack.

It was full. The five bars glowed a steady red, signaling a full charge. He latched it to his belt, and the charge seeped into his flesh, threading through his muscles, and nerves. He reached for his slugcaster, the weapon humming to life as it siphoned power through his hands, the coils inside gathering a slow, lethal charge.

One shot, always ready.

As he pulled the scarf over his mouth, his mind drifted back to the settlement, someone he cared for was back there, sick and slowly dying. Shallow, wheezing breaths, the way each night the sickness seemed to take more and more. The healers didn’t know what caused it, only that without the ancient medicine, he wouldn’t live to see another winter.

He exhaled, pushing the thought aside. He had no choice but to succeed. He stepped outside, into the ruins of the dead world.

He moved with care, avoiding long stretches of open ground. The cracked roads and skeletal buildings around him stretched in every direction, the ruins swallowing him deeper and deeper as he walked.

He had seen it in a previous expedition months ago, a symbol, barely visible beneath dust and grime. He had seen similar markings drawn over the chirurgeon’s temples at the citadel, and that was enough. If this place had survived, if the medicine was still sealed, then there might still be a chance.

The building stood half-collapsed, its walls shattered, exposing dark corridors beyond. He scanned the area, listening. Nothing. Then he saw it, a stairwell descending underground. The entrance to the depths.

He pulled a thin metal circlet from his pack and settled it over his eyes, covering his vision. He tapped one side of the circlet and heard a low whirring sound as a small quantity of power was drawn through his body.

The device hummed to life, his vision shifting to a hazy green. The world became a distorted web of light and shadow, but it was better than stumbling blind.

Step by step, he descended.

The air grew thick, stale with the scent of old dust and stagnant air. The walls were lined with peeling paint, faded notices pinned behind shattered glass. He passed by a rusted chair, overturned and broken, and further ahead, a doorway leading into a small waiting area.

The walls were covered in posters, their colors muted but their smiling figures intact. He stopped, staring at the people frozen in time, figures in spotless white coats, parents cradling their newborns, children laughing as a machine handed them a bright-colored candy.

The images felt unreal, a time when medicine had been abundant, when life had been certain. He tore his gaze away. It was nothing but a dead promise now.

Further ahead, he found a metal door, heavier than the others. Locked. He wedged his crowbar into the seam, muscles straining as the mechanism groaned and gave way.

Inside, racks of sealed containers lined the walls. His eyes scanned the labels, none of them meant anything to him. But at the far end, something stood out, a metal cabinet, its glass door still intact.

Inside, vials rested in individual slots, each fitted with a slim injector. He had found them. He reached out…

Then the alarm triggered…. A piercing electronic wail echoed through the halls. His blood ran cold. Then he heard it. A metallic whirr. A scraping sound. The unmistakable clatter of something approaching fast. He turned, raising the slugcaster, his finger tightening over the trigger.

It moved like a blur, darting between the pillars; small, precise, unnatural. He could barely track it. His eyes locked onto its movement, his breath steadying as it closed the distance. It leapt, he fired.

The slugcaster recoiled, the shot ripping through the air. The thing crashed to the floor in a heap, its body twitching, fluid leaking from its shattered frame. Dead. Then the second one emerged.

It was slow, but heavy, the floor tiles cracking beneath its weight. Its movements deliberate, overpowering. It wasn’t rushing him, it was cornering him.

His slugcaster was still draining power for another shot. He wouldn’t have time.

He dropped it. Drew his mace. The first blow shattered one of its limbs, but it kept coming. The second, a dent in its casing. The third—

It swung.

Pain exploded through his leg as he was thrown backward, his body slamming against the floor. The world spun. His ears rang, his vision blurring with pain.

His leg, something was wrong. He saw blood pooling, his foot twisted at an unnatural angle. The thing lurched forward, its weight crushing the ground beneath it.

Not yet.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up, lifting the mace with one final surge of strength. He slammed it down, again, again, but he couldn’t break through the plating. The thing was too thick, too armored. His slugcaster was too far away.

A heavy hand closed around his torso, claws tried to burrow into his chainmail, the pressure slowly crushing all his ribs. He felt the thing bearing down, its eye-light shining intensely over his face, as if the thing wanted to savor every sliver of pain he could give before grinding him to a bloody pulp…. he knew he was about to die.

Then, something primal took over. He grabbed its head, locking his hands onto the machine’s casing and screaming in agony and desperation he willed the machine to die with all the rage and fury he could muster.

Power rushed from the pack into his flesh, his veins igniting with pure energy. His hands burned, his body convulsed, but he held on, forcing the charge forward.

The thing seized violently, its circuits frying under the raw surge. Sparks erupted from its seams, its body jerking as power overloaded its systems.

Then, it collapsed, its body shuddering and going still. Dead.

The room swam in his vision, his breath ragged. His hands trembled, scorched, his leg a ruined mess of blood and shattered bone.

He was bleeding too fast. He wasn’t making it out of here. Unless… His eyes flickered to the injectors. He crawled leaving a blood trail, he reached up, gripping one. He had no idea what was inside. He didn’t care. With shaking hands, he tore off the cap and jammed it into his leg… Agony.

It tore through him like fire, his body seizing up, convulsing. His vision fractured, his breath stalled in his throat. He felt something moving inside him, crawling through his veins, tearing through his very flesh—

Then, nothing… Darkness. He passed out.

3

Chapter 3: Echoes

Darkness. A void without shape, without form. Then, a sensation. A pull.

His fingers twitched. His chest rose, slow, deliberate. He felt the air fill his lungs, felt the quiet pulse of his own heartbeat, steady and strong. His eyes opened, and the world returned to him.

He flexed his hands, expecting pain—but there was none. He pressed his palm to his leg, finding smooth, whole flesh where there had once been shattered bone. His chainmail was ruined, the metal rings crushed and deformed, but his chest was intact, not even a bruise where the machine had crushed all his ribs.

He exhaled. The injector had worked.

It was dark. The only light came from the faint glow of an emergency beacon, pulsing in slow, rhythmic intervals. His circlet visor was dead, its power depleted. He reached for his power pack, it was still connected, but completely empty. He had drained everything.

Then the memory hit him—the fight, the machine, the final desperate surge of energy. He had no idea how he had done it, how he had channeled all that power into the machine. But the strain it caused could have killed him just as surely as the machine’s claws.

His gaze shifted to the cabinet across the room, where two remaining injectors lay untouched. His mission, the reason he came here was a success.

Then he felt it, hunger. A gnawing, hollow ache deep in his gut. How long had he been out? Hours? Days? There was no way to know. He had heard the healers speak of these ancient medicines as if they were magic. He never believed in such things. But now he had felt it.

Maybe the artificers were right, machines lived in the blood of the ancients, repairing them, healing them. It didn’t matter. He only cared that it worked.

He wanted to leave immediately, but he had to be prepared. He would not leave with his power pack depleted. The first thing he did was take a brick from his backpack and slice a sizable chunk, he placed it in his mouth and began sucking on it. He hated consuming the thing this way but he wasn’t about to set camp and start a fire after all he went through.

He fueled the generator but left it strapped to his backpack, it could work while he explored around and decided how to proceed. He figured that if nothing had attacked him while he was unconscious there weren’t any more machines lurking in here. There was usually only one or two in buildings this size.

He removed the powerpack and connected it to the generator. It would take hours before it was fully charged, but he would make the most of it. He grabbed the mace from the floor and inspected it for damage. There were a few dents, but the weapon was remarkably sturdy. He kept it in his hand and strapped the slug caster to the empty side of his backpack; it was useless until his energy had recharged.

The same was true for the circlet, which he stowed away. He didn’t need it anymore, as the emergency beacons had lit up the minute he opened the metal door that led into this room, it was a dull sickly light, but enough to see.

Before leaving, he surveyed the room, noting the rows of small boxes neatly stacked on the shelves. Opening one, he recognized the pills that the citadel’s healers dispensed to the sick and wounded. However, he understood that the healers’ true skill lay in knowing which pills treated which ailments—a knowledge he lacked. The boxes bore strange names he couldn’t decipher, and he was aware that taking the wrong pill could be as deadly as an infected wound.

He decided to take a few boxes as evidence of his discovery. Selling the location of this stash back at the Citadel could earn him a tidy sum. His good standing with the prospector guild there would ensure a decent finder’s fee. It wouldn’t match the profit of selling the pills directly to the healers, but he couldn’t possibly carry them all himself.

—-

He stepped into the corridor, his movements slow, deliberate. The flickering pulse of the lights cast shifting shadows along the walls, creating the illusion of movement where there was none. His grip tightened on the mace, still slick with oil and metal dust from the last fight.

His first instinct was to leave, but another thought gnawed at him. This place had survived the collapse, its medical stores intact. What else might still be here? The healers claimed these ancient places were filled with wonders that could defy death itself, artifacts that could extend life, strengthen the body. He doubted much of that before, but he had already found the injectors, he would be a fool not to search a little longer.

The corridor stretched ahead, bathed in the slow, rhythmic glow of emergency beacons. The air was thick with dust, the scent of decay hanging in the stagnant space. He moved cautiously, mace in hand.

He passed rows of broken furniture and strange machines whose purpose he couldn’t begin to guess. He searched with practiced efficiency, opening drawers and shifting debris. Among the chaos, he found small trinkets he could trade back home, a spray that sealed wounds, and lights that revealed broken bones when pressed against the skin.

He also picked up a few items he did not recognize and didn’t know what they were for, but they looked like they could be worth something to more discerning eyes. Some people made a living identifying ancient devices such as these, and he hoped these mysterious objects might hold value to those with the knowledge to understand them.

Most of what remained was too large to carry, too obscure to understand. Great metal pods, strange chairs with restraints, blinking panels emitting ghostly blue light. He had seen many such things in the ruins, machines once built for specific, unknowable purposes, their functions lost to time.

But then, a closed door. Something about it was different, he couldn’t place it, but it beckoned to him. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

—-

The door groaned on its hinges as he pushed it open. Beyond, a brightly lit chamber stretched out before him. Rows of cabinets with blinking lights, intact, lined the walls. Screens flickered faintly with unreadable symbols. The air here was different, sterile, preserved, as if untouched by time.

He stepped forward, scanning the space, searching for anything worth taking—

Then, behind him— A flicker of light.

Instinct took over. He spun on instinct, mace already swinging.

The weapon passed clean through the figure, disrupting its form into a cascade of flickering light before it stabilized again.

He exhaled sharply, stepping back.

A man stood before him, tall, well-groomed, dressed in the spotless clothing of the old world. Not real.

“Welcome to MedicaCorp’s Vitality Solutions Clinic. How can I assist you today?”

His pulse slowed as he took in the familiar sight. A ghost. He had heard of them before—hollow imprints of the past, flickering remnants of long-dead systems. They where rarely useful, repeating words meant for a world long gone.

He lowered his mace, watching the thing. “Who are you?” he asked.

The hologram’s smile did not falter. “I am MedicaCorp’s Patient Interface Assistant. How may I assist you?”

It was no different than the others. Still, he had seen something worth taking in this place. He reached into his pack and pulled out one of the injectors, holding it up in the bright light.

“Can you tell me what this is?”

The hologram’s gaze shifted, scanning.

“This product is classified under regulated nanomedical treatment. I am not authorized to dispense or prescribe medicine. Unauthorized use may be hazardous.”

He scowled. “I’ve already used one.”

“Unauthorized use may be hazardous.”

He exhaled through his nose. Pointless. But then—a thought.

He tucked the injector away and leaned forward slightly. “People are dying,” he said. “They need treatment.”

The hologram’s expression did not change.

“Patients must be brought to this facility for proper care.”

His jaw tightened. “There’s no time,” he lied. “It’s an emergency, many are sick.”

The hologram hesitated. For the first time, it paused, not a glitch, not an error, but something else. As if the words meant something to it.

“Describe symptoms.”

He thought fast. What was the most valuable medicine?

Infection. That was what people feared most—the thing that killed slowly, the thing that turned a small wound into a death sentence.

“What prevents sickness from wounds?” he asked.

The hologram glitched slightly, then raised a hand. A glowing list of names appeared in the air.

He stared at them—rows of words he didn’t understand.

His fingers moved automatically, reaching for scroll and charcoal in his backpack. He began copying the names, scrawling the symbols as best he could.

Then “What are you doing?”

He froze. The voice held no hostility, no alarm—only curiosity.

His fingers hovered over the scroll, the rough marks standing stark against the leathery scroll. He wasn’t very good at writing or reading, that was something for the scribes and the artificers. But he had picked the habit of scribbling things down, crude maps, signs and names of things that could be valuable if found in the ruins.

He looked up. The hologram was watching him. No anger. No suspicion. Just… confusion. For the first time, it truly considered what it was seeing.

It seems the ancients never wrote anything down. They probably had no reason to. Their machines remembered everything.

The act of writing, the idea of needing to record knowledge by hand, was something this thing had never encountered.

He swallowed, keeping his expression neutral. “Writing it down” he said cautiously.

The hologram tilted its head slightly, considering.

“Do you know what happened to the world?” he asked quickly before it had time to react.

“What do you mean” the hologram said before it glitched..

“Theee” the word seemed to be stuck on his lips for a few seconds… “world?”

its face turning to pure horror as it opened its mouth as if to scream.. then it simply vanished.. reappearing a few seconds later a few steps further away.

“Welcome to MedicaCorp’s Vitality Solutions Clinic. How can I assist you today?” The ghost said, repeating the exact phrase it had said when it first appeared.

It was useless from there on, it would always reset when asked about what happened. He managed to get a more names for the medicines using different excuses but nothing else.

When he was ready to leave the hologram reappeared one las time.. “What is MedicaCorp?” he asked.

The hologram brightened instantly, the fake smile widening just slightly too much.

“MedicaCorp is the global leader in cutting-edge biotechnology, nanomedical advancements, and next-generation human enhancement! With over 400 years of excellence, we have revolutionized the way the world experiences health and longevity! From genetic optimization to full-body restoration, our patients enjoy unparalleled vitality and well-being!”

The voice was cheerful, unnervingly rehearsed and too enthusiastic to be real.

“At MedicaCorp, we believe that a healthier future is a brighter future!”

He just stared. He had no idea what half of that meant.

It seemed this thing had no concept of the world outside this room. It thought that MedicaCorp still existed, that it still mattered.

He shook his head. “Right,” he muttered, slinging his pack over his shoulder and stepping toward the exit.. “I should get going.”

The hologram watched him.

“Before you leave, may I ask for your name?”

He paused mid-step. His brow furrowed. In the dozens of times the ghost had vanished and reappeared it never asked his name or showed any real interest in him personally.

He hesitated, then finally muttered, “Jacen.”

The hologram’s smile never wavered.

“Thank you, Jacen.”

Jacen frowned. “And yours?”

“I am MedicaCorp’s Patient Interface Assistant.”

Jacen scoffed. “Figures.”

Then, the hologram glitched for several long seconds before saying “But you can call me Asclepius.”

Jacen stopped.

Turned. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if it was just another script, or if the thing had actually made a choice.

Their gazes met. “Asclepius” Jacen said awkwardly trying to commit the strange name to memory.

Jacen exhaled. It didn’t matter. He had what he came for and he needed to leave.

He nodded. “Alright then… Asclepius.” Jacen said pronouncing the strange name awkwardly, trying to commit it to memory. “I need to leave, someone very dear to me urgently need this medicine” He said as he waved the injector.

The hologram looked at the injector and then looked him in eyes “I understand, thank you for coming Jacen. I hope to see you again.”

Something about the words felt off… it almost seemed as if he was talking to a real person now and not a ghost.

As Jacen walked away, he glanced back one last time.

Asclepius’s form lingered a second longer than it seemed right, watching him leave.

Then it vanished.

4

Chapter 4: Determination

Jacen walked in silence, his boots crunching softly against the cracked pavement. The ruins stretched around him, endless and still. Days had passed since the clinic, since the fight that had nearly killed him. The pain was gone, his body whole, but his mind lingered on what had happened.

The machines, the fight, the near-death… that, he could understand. But the ghost?… Asclepius… such a strange name.

He kept moving, his thoughts drifting back to the clinic. The ghost had been unlike anything he had seen before. Holograms weren’t unheard of, ruins were full of echoes, recordings stuck in endless loops. But this one was different. It had reacted. It had asked for his name.

The memory unsettled him. Was it alive? Could a ghost be alive? He shook his head, pushing the thought away. It didn’t matter. The ruins were filled with mysteries, and most of them weren’t meant to be solved.

Instead, he turned his focus to the packs of medicine strapped securely to his gear. He had taken all he could carry, mostly the ones the ghost had called “antibiotics”, but also a handful of rarer treatments it mentioned. These would trade well in the Citadel. Maybe even with the chirurgeons.

He frowned at the thought. There had been more. So many more, hundreds of sealed boxes left untouched. He had intended to sell the location, let others pick the place clean. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Should he go back later?

It was risky. The machines would come again. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. The clinic wouldn’t stay untouched forever.

But if he could return first, if he could take more, he wouldn’t have to sell the location at all.

The idea settled in his mind. Something to consider. He adjusted the straps on his pack and kept moving.

—-

The first few days passed without issue. He followed old paths, roads he had mapped long ago, threading carefully through collapsed districts and skeletal towers, staying clear of the dead highways where machines sometimes roamed.

There were no real threats. He encountered a few broken drones, shattered things that twitched but did not react. A scavenger nest, long abandoned. A lone beast, little more than a shadow in the distance, watching but not approaching.

On two separate occasions he used his slugcaster to take down stragglers—machines too weak to be a real fight. He fired without hesitation, the weapon humming as it discharged a single, precise slug each time. They fell without much resistance, he kept the smaller one to scavenge for parts later.

Then he reached the large road that stood on many pillars, it marked where the ruins turned dangerous, not from machines, but from people.

Raider territory.

He traveled by night from then on. Machines didn’t care whether it was light or dark, they saw with their eye-lights. but humans? Humans struggled in the dark.

Very few had the means to see without light—torches, lanterns, floodlamps. All of which made targets of their owners.

But Jacen had his circlet visor.

With it, he became a ghost.

Moving unseen through the rubble-strewn streets, watching from shadowed rooftops, his steps careful, deliberate.

And then, he saw the fire.

—-

Jacen crouched low, peering through the shattered frame of an old office window. The camp was nestled in a hollow between two collapsed buildings, their flickering torches casting long shadows across the crumbling concrete.

Slavers.

He counted at least eight of them, rough men and women dressed in scraps of armor, their weapons patched together from scavenged parts. They lounged around a central fire, eating, sharpening blades, speaking in low murmurs.

And at the center of camp, chained to an iron post, were the slaves.

Maybe a dozen, filthy, exhausted, heads bowed in defeat. Their wrists and ankles were bound in rusted shackles, their clothes ragged and torn.

Jacen watched, suppressing his emotions.

He had seen slavers before. Everyone had.

Most settlements shunned the practice, but some embraced it. Some thrived on it. Raiders needed a way to profit from their victims, and there was always a place, some distant enclave, some warlord’s domain, where human labor was worth more than scrap.

He had heard stories of entire villages raided, every able body taken, the rest left to rot in the sun.

And yet, he did nothing. He was one man. There were eight of them, maybe more in the shadows. He had his slugcaster, his mace, but that wouldn’t be enough against so many.

More than that, he wasn’t a hero. Risking his life for strangers was the fastest way to end up in chains himself.

Still, he watched.

One of the slavers kicked a captive in the ribs, sending them sprawling. A man, maybe mid-fifties, too weak to fight back. The others didn’t react.

A woman sobbed softly, muffled by the weight of exhaustion and fear. One of the slavers, a broad-shouldered man grabbed her by the hair, pulling her close, whispering something in her ear. She didn’t resist.

Jacen’s grip on his mace tightened slightly.

“Not my problem” He muttered between clenched teeth struggling to convince himself not to intervene.

He had seen slaver camps before. He had even visited one, a walled settlement where slaves tilled the fields, dug trenches, and carried loads until their bodies gave out. He had gone there to trade once.

It had felt wrong, even then. The way the slaves never met his eyes, the way the air was thick with the stink of sweat, piss, and despair. He remembered the auction block, the barking of numbers, the deadness in the captives’ faces.

He pulled back, staying low, moving silently away.

The world was cruel. He had always known that.

—-

After that, he kept moving.

The raider lands stretched wide, but he had traveled these roads long enough to know how to avoid them. He stuck to side streets, collapsed tunnels, and rooftops when he could manage it.

By the time he felt safe again, days had passed.

He took stock of his supplies, realized he was low on slugs. He needed to make more.

He made camp in the shell of a collapsed building, set down his pack, and retrieved the remains of a machine he had killed earlier. The slender, broken frame lay still, its eye-light long since faded.

Jacen knelt beside it, prying apart the metal plating. Joints, bolts, small dense pieces—anything solid enough to be reshaped.

His fingers worked quickly, pulling free a handful of metal scrap. He selected the smallest, heaviest pieces, rolling them between his fingers. They would have to do.

He took out a rough file from his pack and began shaping them, grinding down jagged edges, smoothing the surfaces into something that would fire cleanly.

He ran a finger over the finished rounds. Not as precise as the one the smiths made back home, but they would kill just the same.

When he was done, he set the slugs beside his pack and leaned back against the wall. His body ached, his soul was weary from the things he had seen this past few weeks. He tried to push it all aside… A few more days, and he’d be home.

—-

The nights blurred together. He moved swiftly, resting only when necessary. There were no more machines, no more slavers—just the long, empty road.

Each night, he let his generator hum softly beside him as he sliced another piece of food brick, he didn’t care to boil it into a stew anymore, he just put it in his mouth and let it dissolve.

Each night, he listened to the distant wind moving through the ruins, carrying echoes of a world long dead.

He was close now. Soon, he would see the walls of his settlement. Soon, he would know if his journey had been worth it.

5

Chapter 5: Reunion

Jacen saw the settlement in the distance, plumes of black smoke rose from its makeshift chimneys, carried by the wind into the cold sky. The scent of burning fuel and worked metal clung to the air, sharp and bitter. Faint echoes of hammers striking iron, and voices shouting orders reached his ears. The closer he got, the more the past weeks of silence weighed on him.

It was strange, returning.

He hadn’t been here when they first claimed the factory, hadn’t helped clear the machines from its halls or repurpose the ruins into something livable. He had arrived years later, when the place was already a settlement, when its defenses had already been raised, its people already calling it home. Now, so did he.

The ancient factory loomed ahead, a massive structure of rusted steel and broken glass, its form warped by time and necessity. Its original purpose was long dead. Now, it lived again.

The main gate was a fortress in itself, towers of salvaged plating, reinforced beams, and long barrels protruding from the watchtowers. The heavy slugcasters mounted above the entrance could fire at a rapid rate, enough to shred most machines to pieces before they could get close.

The guards spotted him immediately.

One of them, a burly man wrapped in patchwork armor recognized him first. His brows lifted, and he muttered something Jacen couldn’t hear. The second guard nudged the first, then leaned against the barricade.

“Back in one piece?”

Jacen grunted. “More or less.”

The first guard smirked. “We were making bets,” he said. “Couple of the boys figured you were scrap by now. Told ‘em you’d crawl back even if your arms were missing.”

Jacen snorted, adjusting the strap on his pack. “Hate to cost anyone their rations.”

The second guard grinned, nodding toward his pack. “Find anything good?”

Jacen didn’t answer.

That was enough for them.

They respected him, scavengers were a bit of a folk hero. He was one of the few who dared to go deep, who ventured where the ruins were darkest, where machines still prowled. Stories about him had circulated over the years, some exaggerated, some true. They called him a madman, a ghost, a bastard too stubborn to die.

He stepped forward. They didn’t stop him.

They never did.

—-

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and sweat, humming with the rhythm of machinery and the clang of hammer on steel. Sparks flared in the dark corners where smiths shaped metal, pouring molten slag into crude molds.

Jacen walked past the forge, past the tables lined with slugs, past the rows of simple tools and wagon wheels stacked for trade. These things were their lifeblood. Without slugs, there were no defenses. Without tools, nothing could be built. Without wagons, there was no trade.

People noticed him.

Some turned their heads as he passed, their eyes lingering for a moment before they returned to their work. A scavenger returning from the deep ruins was always an event. Some saw it as a good omen, proof that fortune could still be wrestled from the bones of the old world.

A broad-shouldered man in a soot-streaked apron, stepped away from one of the forges, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. His face was lined with sweat, his hair damp from the heat, but his grin was wide and easy.

“Jacen!” the smith called, stepping toward him. His hand clasped Jacen’s forearm in a firm grip, shaking once. “You made it back. Damn good to see you.”

Jacen gave a small nod. “Good to be back.”

The smith pulled back, smearing the rag over his face, then tucked it into his belt. “Heard you went after something real important, for the boy” he said, voice lowering slightly. His eyes flicked to the pack slung over Jacen’s shoulder, but he didn’t pry.

Jacen only said, “We’ll see.”

The smith studied him for a second, then let out a short chuckle. “You never say much, do you?” He slapped a hand on Jacen’s shoulder. “Listen, once things settle, come by the house. Bring the boy and your girl. We’ll have a proper meal.”

Jacen exhaled through his nose, something close to a laugh. “She’s not my girl.”

The smith only grinned. “Yeah, yeah… Oh and bring me that tattered thing so I can fix it for you” he said pointing at his ruined chainmail.

He waved him off with a friendly smile. “I will”.

Jacen kept moving.

—-

The factory’s upper levels had once been offices, but now they were homes, rooms sealed against the cold, walls patched with salvaged plating, broken doors replaced with scrap wood and iron.

Jacen climbed past the first floor, where the communal kitchens smoked with morning fires, past the second, where traders haggled over goods, and past the third, where families gathered in the halls, sharing meals and quiet conversation.

His was on the fourth floor, far enough from the noise below to be quiet, but close enough to still hear the heartbeat of the forge.

He passed a few neighbors along the way, nodding at familiar faces. Some returned the gesture, others simply watched him go.

The door to his home was partially open. A smile crossed his lips… he was home.

The home was quiet, warm. Not like the tight, single-room dwellings that filled most of the factory. His was larger, spacious by comparison, the rewards of years spent scavenging, trading, and risking his life in the deep ruins.

The main room was neat, well-kept, a sturdy table with matching chairs, a small kitchen stocked with preserved food, shelves lined with tools and supplies. To the left, a narrow hallway led to two separate rooms, his own, and the one shared by his nephew and his mother.

Jacen stepped inside. Then, movement.

A boy sat up from the couch, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, his dark eyes widening the moment he saw Jacen.

“Uncle!”

His smile was weak, but it was real.

Before Jacen could reply, a second figure moved—fast.

The boy’s mother ran across the room, arms wrapping tightly around Jacen’s shoulders, pressing herself against his chest.

“I knew you’d come back,” she whispered.

Jacen froze for half a second before relaxing, his hands settling against her back. He could feel the tension in her shoulders, the way she exhaled all at once, like a weight had been lifted.

She pulled back, her hands lingering on his arms. Her eyes searched his face, taking in the bruises along his jaw, the fading cuts on his hands. Small wounds he accumulated in the journey back, nothing compared to what he endured before.

“You’re hurt.”

Jacen shook his head. “Not bad.”

Her gaze flickered to the slugcaster slung over his back, the mace still strapped to his hip.

“You’re back home with us” she murmured.

The mace hit the floor with a dull thud. The slugcaster was set aside with practiced ease as he removed his chainmail. For the first time in days, he let himself unburden.

The boy was still watching, his blanket pulled around his shoulders.

“Did you find it?” She asked, but there was no doubt in her voice, she knew he wouldn’t be back if he hadn’t.

Jacen exhaled, kneeling down, pulling open the pack. His fingers wrapped around the injector.

“Let’s find out.”

The boy was still watching him, his thin fingers gripping the blanket. Jacen could see the sickness in his face, the way his breath came short, the way his skin looked pale, drawn.

The injector was cool against his fingers, the glass vial inside reflecting the dim light. He held it up, letting the mother see.

“This is it,” he said.

She nodded once, then stood. “I’ll get the healer.”

Jacen sat on the cot beside his nephew, the injector rolling between his fingers. The boy looked at him with wide, trusting eyes, unaware of how close the line had been, how easily this could have gone another way.

He set the injector down on the table.

Hoped it would work. And waited.

6

Chapter 6: Restoration

The knock at the door was expected, yet it still pulled Jacen from his thoughts.

He opened it to find the healer standing there, wrapped in a heavy cloak, the scent of dried herbs and oil clinging to his clothes. Beside him stood another figure, the scribe, clutching a thick roll of scrolls.

The two men stepped inside, shaking off the chill of the evening air. The scribe gave Jacen a familiar nod before his gaze fell on Rhoan.

“Hello, master,” the boy said weakly from the cot. “Sorry I haven’t attended my lessons.”

The scribe’s face softened. He walked over to his apprentice and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “There is nothing to apologize for. Your place is here, resting. When you are well, we’ll continue.”

Rhoan gave a small nod, too tired for more. The scribe then turned to the table at the center of the room, unrolling his scrolls with practiced ease, smoothing the parchment with his fingers.

Jacen shut the door behind them and turned to the healer, who grasped his forearm in greeting, their grips firm.

“You have it?” the healer asked.

Jacen raised his hand, revealing the injector. The small vial caught the dim light, its swirling liquid shifting as it settled.

The healer took it with careful hands, tilting it, watching the substance inside shift and settle. His brow furrowed in awe, lips parting slightly.

The scribe leaned in, studying it just as intently before finally returning it to Jacen. “I’ve only read of these in records. To see one in person…” His voice trailed off as he quickly jotted something down.

The mother, seated beside her son, clutched the boy’s frail hand, her knuckles white. “Will it work?” Her voice was quiet, edged with the kind of hope that bordered on desperation.

Jacen exhaled. “It worked on me.” And he told them—briefly, plainly—of his encounter with the two machines, how his leg had been broken, his ribs crushed, and how the injector had restored him completely.

The room fell into silence.

The healer’s expression was unreadable. The scribe, who had been writing, paused and looked over at him. The mother’s breath caught, her gaze locked onto Jacen with something like reverence, disbelief mixed with awe.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Jacen knelt beside the cot, rolling back his nephew’s sleeve. The boy, Rhoan, watched him, eyes heavy with exhaustion, his breath still shallow but steadier than before.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Rhoan said with a weak smile. “For everything.”

Jacen kissed the boy’s forehead. He pressed the injector against Rhoan’s pale skin and pushed down.

The reaction was immediate.

Rhoan’s body jerked violently, his limbs locking up before seizing with tremors. The mother let out a strangled gasp, clutching his hand as his back arched, breath catching in his throat.

Jacen didn’t move.

The healer stepped forward, but Jacen raised a hand. “This happened to me,” he said, his voice steady. “Then I blacked out. I was out for days.”

The boy’s convulsions slowed. His breathing evened, though he did not wake.

Jacen stood. “Whatever’s inside that vial,” he said, staring down at his nephew, “it’s working.”

The mother said nothing, just watched her son, holding him close, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

The scribe, who had been watching intently, set his quill to parchment again, recording everything.

The healer exhaled. “Then we wait.”

—-

Jacen sat at the table, his hands resting on the worn surface. The fire in the corner cast a soft glow, shadows flickering across the room as the scribe, Saedind, continued to write, his pen scratching against scroll.

Across from him, the healer remained beside Rhoan, watching the boy’s chest rise and fall. The breathing had become steadier—a good sign, the healer had said—but there was still no movement, no waking. It had been nearly two days now.

Jacen exhaled, shifting his gaze toward Saedind. The man had a sharp, studious look about him, thin but not frail, his robes marked with ink stains from years of careful record-keeping. He was focused, methodical, the kind of person who asked questions most people didn’t even think to consider.

They had passed time like this before—Jacen returning from an expedition, Saedind recording what he had seen, what he had found. The scribe had once said it was his duty to preserve knowledge, to rebuild a world that had long since fallen apart. Jacen wasn’t sure if that was possible, but he didn’t mind talking.

“It was a long journey,” Jacen finally said, his voice breaking the silence. “Longer than I expected.”

Saedind looked up, setting his pen aside. “Was it worth it?”

Jacen’s eyes flickered toward Rhoan. “If it works, yes.”

Saedind nodded. “Tell me about it.”

Jacen leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He started from the beginning, the trek through the ruins, the old symbols that led him deeper. He described the corridors of the building, the ancient medicine locked away, the machines that had stood in his path.

And then, after a moment of hesitation, he told them about the ghost.

The healer’s brow furrowed, his gaze lifting from Rhoan. Saedind’s pen stilled over the scroll.

Jacen kept his voice measured, speaking of the flickering light that had appeared behind him, the way he had swung his mace only for it to pass through empty air. He described the man in clean clothes, the rehearsed speech, the hollow politeness. He told them how the thing had watched him, asked him questions, seemed almost aware.

“It wasn’t like the others,” Jacen said finally, rubbing his temple. “It knew what I was saying. It… reacted.”

Saedind leaned forward, eyes alight with fascination. “It understood you?”

Jacen hesitated, then nodded. “For the most part. Until I asked what happened to the world.”

Saedind exhaled sharply, gripping his pen a little tighter. “And?”

Jacen met his gaze. “It broke.”

The fire crackled in the silence. The healer shifted uncomfortably, returning his focus to Rhoan. He wasn’t a man of stories, he believed only in what he could see, touch, heal. This was beyond him.

Saedind, on the other hand, looked like he had just been handed the most valuable piece of knowledge he had ever heard.

“It was MedicaCorp,” Jacen continued. “That’s what it called itself. It didn’t just assist in healing, it was part of the old world’s knowledge of medicine. It talked about… enhancements, treatments. It didn’t just heal wounds. It changed people.”

Saedind was already writing again, his hand moving rapidly over the scroll.

Jacen let out a breath, shaking his head. “I don’t know if it was truly thinking, or if it was just some broken thing stuck repeating a dead script. But it asked for my name.”

Saedind’s hand froze mid-word.

Jacen rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable just thinking about it. “And when I asked for his… it said I could call him… Asclepius.” Again struggling to pronounce the name.

The room went still.

Saedind set his pen down carefully, folding his hands together. “It chose a name.”

Jacen nodded. “Seems that way.”

The scribe exhaled, running a hand over his beard. “I’ve read accounts of ghosts, stories from old scavengers, rumors of lingering voices in dead places, but never something like this.” His gaze lifted to Jacen.

Saedind pursed his lips but didn’t press further. Instead, he asked, “And where exactly did you find this place?”

Jacen tensed, just slightly.

He could feel the weight of the healer’s attention now, too. It wasn’t just about the ghost, it was about the medicine. That place still had stores left. That kind of knowledge, that kind of resource, it was worth too much.

Jacen shook his head. “Not yet.”

Saedind studied him for a moment, then nodded in understanding. He leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Then when you return there,” he said carefully, “I would like to go with you.”

Jacen looked up sharply. That was unexpected.

Scribes didn’t venture into the ruins. They collected knowledge, recorded history, deciphered meaning from what others found. But they didn’t go.

“You?” Jacen asked, narrowing his eyes.

Saedind offered a small, knowing smile. “I never said I was content simply listening and writing down stories.”

Jacen studied him, searching for any sign of hesitation, but the scribe’s gaze was steady.

For a long moment, Jacen said nothing. He had spent years bringing back scraps of the old world, trading relics and knowledge for things of practical use—tools, weapons, medicine. But of everything he had ever salvaged, nothing had been more valuable to his family than the day Saedind had taken Rhoan as his apprentice.

Rhoan was sickly, too frail for the work most boys his age were expected to do. His mother had feared what kind of future awaited him—what place he could carve out in a world that had no patience for weakness.

If he couldn’t fight, if he couldn’t work the forges or haul supplies, what use would he have to the settlement? That fear had hung over them both, unspoken but ever-present, a quiet dread of a life spent barely surviving, reliant on charity and pity.

But Saedind had seen something else in the boy—a mind sharp enough to keep up with his own, a curiosity that burned brighter than his sickness. And when the scribe offered to take him as an apprentice, everything changed. Suddenly, there was a future. A path that didn’t end in quiet despair. A trade that didn’t demand strength of body, only strength of mind.

Jacen had never forgotten that.

He owed the man.

“Very well,” Jacen said at last. “When I go back, I will take you with me.”

Saedind’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in his posture—a slight shift, a quiet understanding. He knew what this meant.

Jacen exhaled, shaking off the moment. He continued recounting his trip back—the ruins, the desolation, the long, empty stretches of silence where the world felt hollow.

Then, a shift. A breath, deeper than before.

Rhoan stirred.

Jacen turned sharply, his breath catching.

His fingers twitched against the blanket, his chest rising fuller now, stronger. His head shifted slightly to the side, his breathing no longer labored.

Then, with slow, heavy lids, his eyes opened.

The mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth before she reached out, cupping her son’s face. “Rhoan?”

The boy blinked, unfocused at first, then clearer, his gaze drifting across the room. He swallowed, lips dry, and his voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Uncle?”

Jacen exhaled, tension bleeding from his body. He leaned forward, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Yeah, kid. I’m here.”

The mother sobbed, pulling Rhoan into her arms, holding him as if she were afraid he would disappear again.

Saedind was already writing, his pen moving swiftly across the scroll, recording the moment.

The healer crouched beside them, checking Rhoan’s pulse, placing a hand against his forehead. Relief flickered across his face. “His body is strong,” he murmured. “Whatever was in that vial, it’s done its work.”

Jacen ran a hand down his face, exhaustion finally settling in.

The journey had been worth it.

7

Chapter 7: Beauty

A week had passed.

The change was undeniable.

Rhoan was alive in a way Jacen had never seen before. His movements were no longer careful, no longer dictated by the fragile limits of his body. He ran. He worked. He laughed.

And as Jacen stood at the edge of the rooftop farm, arms folded across his chest, he watched the boy move through the rows of crops with the other children, harvesting crops and pulling up roots with strong, steady hands.

It still didn’t feel real.

He had spent so long watching Rhoan struggle, waking to the sound of his coughing in the middle of the night, seeing the exhaustion etched into his face as she soothed him. He had accepted, long ago, that the boy would never be strong. That every winter would be a battle. That every sickness might be his last.

But now?

Now, Rhoan worked alongside the others, his face flushed from the effort, his hands streaked with soil.

He was healthy.

Jacen exhaled slowly. The rooftop farm stretched before him, perfect rows of metal bins, filled with carefully cultivated crops. He ran his fingers over the edge of one, feeling the cool steel beneath his touch. They had built this place with pride, shaping the bins from salvaged scrap, refining the irrigation system until it wasted nothing. Every drop of water accounted for, every inch of soil hard-won.

And now, for the first time, Rhoan was part of it.

Jacen spotted him moving toward the water barrels, carrying a basket of harvested greens. Without thinking, Jacen stepped forward, intercepting him.

“Rhoan.”

The boy turned, blinking up at him.

For a moment, Jacen just looked at him. Studied him. There was no tightness in his breath, no cautious movements, no sign of struggle. Just a boy, whole and strong.

Jacen placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid weight of him.

“You look strong,” Jacen said.

Rhoan grinned, a little proud, a little shy. “I feel strong.”

Jacen nodded, squeezing his shoulder briefly before letting him go. Rhoan turned back to his work, hurrying after the others, completely unaware of the storm raging in Jacen’s chest.

This was real.

The injector hadn’t just saved Rhoan’s life. It had given him a new one.

—-

Jacen felt Rhoan’s mother, Elyne, beside him before he heard her step.

He didn’t turn immediately, just watched as Rhoan disappeared deeper into the farm, working among the others. The boy moved with ease, passing tools to the older farmers. He was laughing at something another child said, the sound light and free.

Jacen swallowed. He had never seen Rhoan like this before.

Elyne sighed, a soft sound, and when he finally looked at her, she was smiling—a real smile, one he hadn’t seen in years.

“I still expect him to collapse,” she admitted.

Jacen nodded. “Me too.”

They walked, side by side, watching the boy they had feared for so long would never have a future.

Elyne moved slowly through the rows, her fingertips brushing over broad leaves, tracing the delicate stems of growing crops. She crouched beside one of the bins, pressing her hand into the dark soil, testing its moisture, feeling its texture between her fingers.

The earth was rich, fertile—it had taken years to gather, to cultivate, to make it thrive in a world that had long since forgotten what a farm was.

She let out a slow breath, brushing away a stray leaf. This was her life’s work, the thing she had poured herself into when everything else had been uncertain.

When Rhoan’s sickness had worsened, when the nights had stretched long with fear, when hope had seemed a fragile thing—she had still come here, still worked these bins, still coaxed life from dead metal and salvaged soil.

She had done it all while carrying a weight no mother should have to bear.

And now, for the first time in years, that weight was gone.

Elyne turned toward him. “You gave this to him,” she said.

Jacen exhaled, shaking his head. “I just brought something back. It’s what was inside that did the rest.”

She reached out, placing a hand over his shoulder. “No. It was you.”

Her touch was warm, grounding.

For years, they had lived in denial, pretending there was nothing between them. That their feelings were simply the result of shared hardship, of raising Rhoan together, of surviving side by side.

But now, with the weight of Rhoan’s sickness finally lifted, there was nothing left to hide behind.

Elyne had always been strong. A woman who carried herself with quiet authority, who had taken the responsibility of feeding the settlement and made it her own. The people respected her, not just because she knew how to keep the crops thriving, how to ration and plan for the seasons, but because she never asked for anything in return. She worked tirelessly, never breaking, never faltering.

But Jacen had seen the moments when she was alone. When she sat by Rhoan’s bedside late at night, fingers tangled in her hair, exhaustion lining her face.

Without thinking, he reached for her hand.

Elyne didn’t pull away.

And just like that, the last of the distance between them was gone.

—-

Jacen leaned against the railing, Elyne beside him, her hand resting lightly over his as he gripped the metal. Below them, the settlement hummed with quiet activity—the distant clang of hammers, the murmur of voices, the scent of worked metal and tilled earth carried by the wind.

But beyond the settlement, past the walls and the watchtowers, past the rooftop farm and the illusion of safety, the ruins stretched endlessly.

The city swallowed the horizon, a maze of shattered towers, skeletal bridges, and crumbling roads. A graveyard of a world long gone.

Elyne exhaled, her gaze tracing the jagged skyline. “Tell me about it.”

Jacen turned slightly, brow furrowed. “What?”

“The ruins,” she said, tilting her head to look at him. “Not the horrors. Not the machines, or the slavers, or the things that hunt in the dark.” Her voice softened. “There must be more to it.”

Jacen was quiet for a moment. No one had ever asked him that before.

He looked back at the ruins, really looked, and found that after all these years of walking among the dead remains of the old world, he finally understood what she meant.

“There is no end to it,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful. “The city stretches north and south along the coast, farther than anyone has ever traveled. To the west, people have walked for weeks, months, hoping to find the edge… but all they ever find are more ruins.”

Elyne’s brow furrowed. “And east?”

Jacen’s gaze shifted toward the horizon. “The sea.”

She nodded, already knowing what he meant. The endless, black expanse of poisonous water that stretched beyond the ruins, choked with rusted ships, forgotten ports, broken piers that led nowhere. Once, the ancients had built great vessels to cross it. Now, no one dared.

Elyne traced a slow circle against the railing with her fingertip. “So this is it. The world.”

Jacen nodded. “As far as we know.”

She was quiet for a moment, absorbing that. Then, softly, “And yet, you still go out there.”

Jacen glanced at her. “It’s what I know.”

She studied him, then looked back out over the ruins. “There must be something you like out there.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “There are places,” he said slowly, “where the city gives way to something different. Places where the steel and concrete end, and the ground is soft, and the air is different.”

Elyne watched him intently.

“I’ve seen places where trees grow taller than this building we are standing on. Their roots break through the earth like veins. The air smells… cleaner there. The light filters through the leaves, green and gold, and it feels like stepping into something untouched.”

She nodded, her fingers tracing idle patterns against the railing. “The parks,” she murmured. “That’s where the soil comes from, where the seeds are traded from.”

Jacen glanced toward the farm, toward the carefully arranged bins of soil that made their survival possible. “That’s where we get the earth for the farm. The only place it still exists, where it’s still alive. Without those places, we’d have nothing to grow.”

Elyne listened closely, though she already knew this. She had spent years tending to the soil, planting the seeds that came from those places, ensuring that what they harvested would last another season. But hearing him describe it, the way the trees towered, the way the light filtered through the leaves, it was different. She had never seen them with her own eyes.

“There are statues, too,” he continued, his voice quieter. “Monuments to people and things we don’t understand anymore. Some of them have names etched into the stone, but the letters are too worn to read. Others stand in empty plazas, staring at nothing, waiting for a world that isn’t coming back.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “And then there are the towers.”

Elyne arched a brow. “The towers?”

Jacen nodded. “Some of them still stand, impossibly tall, vanishing into the sky. I’ve walked through their lower levels, through massive rooms with glass ceilings that let the sun pour in. It’s…” He hesitated, searching for the right word.

“Eerie?” she guessed.

Jacen chuckled. “…Beautiful.”

Elyne studied him, a small smile playing at her lips. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

Jacen huffed, amused. “Neither did I.”

They stood together in the quiet, watching as the city stretched endlessly before them.

For years, he had only seen the ruins as something to survive. A place of danger, of death. But now…

Now, he saw something else.

Something worth sharing.

Elyne’s fingers curled more firmly over his, warm and certain.

Jacen turned to her.

For so long, they had denied themselves this—ignored it, buried it, pretended it didn’t exist. But there was nothing left to run from now.

He leaned in, and when their lips met, it was quiet, unhurried—the first step into something new.

When he pulled back, he saw it in her eyes. The same thing stirring in his chest.

Hope.

For the first time in years, Jacen allowed himself to think about the future. And this time, it wasn’t just about surviving.

It was about living.