The morning after the ceremony, the road to the construction site was thick with movement. Trucks groaned under the weight of materials, local laborers arrived with their food packs and nervous energy, and the rising sun cast long shadows over the clearing where machines had begun to rearrange the earth.
Kinamis, still humming from the festival-like excitement of the previous day, now held its breath as steel met soil. The road had begun.
Stephen Brandt was the first to arrive. He always made it a point to beat the crew to the site, not out of pride, but discipline. Decades in the field had taught him that leadership wasn't in speeches, it was in presence. He stood with arms folded beside a table where blueprints were spread and studied the lines as if they were ancient runes. His hardhat sat firm on his head, and his boots, already coated in a sheen of dust, were planted wide like he was rooted to the ground.
He lit a cigarette, an old habit that refused to die, and glanced up as the others began to arrive.
The first was Keyslar, the foreman with the strength of a rhino and the mouth of a sailor. He walked with the gait of a man who had known both poverty and power, and who didn't fear either anymore.
"Good morning, boss," he grunted, slinging a faded backpack onto a stack of steel rods.
"You're late," Stephen replied without looking up.
"Not for the work, just the waiting," Keyslar said with a grin, then began barking orders to the younger men who'd followed behind him. They scattered like startled chickens, grabbing helmets and tools, shouting over the noise of engines and moving parts.
The team was a mix, foreign engineers from Andar Holdings, mostly Europeans, and local contractors hired through state government referrals. There were welders, electricians, masons, soil analysts, environmental technicians. There was Kizito, the site's topographical surveyor who wore glasses too big for his face, and Elinz, a soft-spoken female safety officer who didn't say much but saw everything.
Each of them carried stories. Some were chasing paychecks to feed families, some were here to make their reputations. Some, like Stephen, were looking for something less tangible, purpose, perhaps. Or redemption.
They all worked beneath the shadow of the machines. Towering caterpillars crawled across the earth like mechanical beetles. Excavators dug deep into the stubborn Kinamis soil, scooping out the old world to make way for the new. Sparks flew from welding tools, and the clang of iron striking iron filled the air with industrial music.
By mid-morning, sweat had soaked through shirts, tempers had begun to rise, and the rhythm of work had found its own strange harmony. And with it came tension.
The first argument broke out between two workers, Kento, a young, eager bricklayer, and Grat, older and more experienced, but quick to take offense. It started over a shovel and almost ended in fists.
"Who gave you the right to jump my task?" Grat shouted, his eyes bloodshot.
"You weren't there! You were under the shade with your legs up!"
Stephen walked into the argument like a storm. He didn't shout. He didn't need to.
"Both of you, off the line," he said. "You argue on my site, you don't work on my site."
Grat protested.", he's,"
"I said off," Stephen growled, pointing to the exit path.
They left, muttering curses under their breath. But the message was clear, this was no place for pride.
The lunch bell clanged against the midday wind, sharp and urgent. Workers dropped their tools like schoolchildren released from class, and made for the feeding tent. It was a simple shade, canvas stretched across wooden poles, where plastic chairs and steaming food trays offered thirty minutes of comfort in the middle of concrete, dust, and sweat.
Most came back on time, their boots dragging from fatigue, ready to pick up their posts again. But two men were missing. Stephen Brandt checked his watch, they were supposed to return earlier.
He didn't wait any longer. Marching down to the tent with long strides, he pushed aside the flapping tarp and spotted them immediately. Mayo and Kefas, sitting like they had nowhere else to be, slouched with empty plates and toothpicks between their lips.
Stephen didn't raise his voice, he never had to. His silence, sharp and cold, was louder than most men's shouting.
"You two have a new job?" he asked, folding his arms.
Mayo leapt to his feet. "Sorry, sir. Time just flew."
Kefas rose slower, brushing imaginary crumbs off his shirt. "We were just about to head back."
"You've had thirty-five minutes," Stephen said flatly. "You know the policy. First time is a warning. Second time is suspension without pay. Third time, you're out. You want me to write it down for you?"
"No, sir," they muttered in unison, heads lowered.
Stephen didn't dismiss them with anger. Just a nod. "Get back to work. Let's not have this conversation again."
As they jogged back toward the site, Keyslar, the site foreman, met them halfway and gave them a look so scorching it could have melted steel. "Food will not kill both of you," he grumbled, before turning to shout at a welder handling rebar.
Meanwhile, back at the steel frame where concrete was being prepared for pouring, Emral, another worker, stood frozen beside his wheelbarrow. His face crumpled in slow realization.
"I left my safety shoes," he muttered.
He had come out after break in his worn plastic slippers, forgetting that his station required reinforced safety boots. The site was strict about gear, hardhat, vest, gloves, boots, non-negotiable.
He looked toward the rotation line where Klepman, the worker he was supposed to relieve, was already waving impatiently.
"No shoes, no post," Klepman barked.
Stephen caught sight of the commotion and approached. "What's going on?"
Emral swallowed hard. "Sir, I forgot my safety shoes in the dorm."
"You forgot?" Stephen echoed, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes sir. I'll run and get them now."
Stephen looked at his watch. "You have ten minutes. After that, Klepman continues, and you cover his shift after hours."
Emral didn't argue. He dropped the wheelbarrow and sprinted off in a cloud of red dust, heart thudding in sync with his pounding feet.
Discipline on a construction site wasn't just about rule, it was about survival. A forgotten shoe, a late return, a shortcut taken, they all added up, sometimes in blood. Stephen knew it. So did the ground they worked on.
And the ground never forgave mistakes.
Later, as the sun reached its peak, Stephen sat apart, scanning through drone footage on a tablet. He zoomed into a section near the base of a rocky hill they had begun to drill through, something about the soil density there wasn't matching the readings.
He frowned.
"Keyslar," he called.
The foreman walked over with enthusiasm. "Boss!"
"What's underneath that ridge? Near the fault line."
Keyslar scratched his head. "Old folks say that place used to be sacred. I don't know the full gist. Something about a forbidden grove. But it's just bush now. Why?"
Stephen stared at the image for a long second before locking the tablet.
"Keep the drill running. But slow it down. Tell the team to dig clean. No explosives."
Keyslar nodded and left, but a frown lingered on his face. Something about the land felt tight. Heavy. As if it remembered things the machines were not meant to know.
That night, around a fire not far from the staff quarters, a few of the local workers gathered to eat and share drinks. They talked about pay, about women, about the foreigners who didn't smile, about the road that would change everything.
Kento leaned in and asked, "have you people ever hear anything about this land we're digging through?"
An older man named Damitz, the camp cook and part-time storyteller, leaned back against a barrel and took a long swig before speaking.
"They say this whole land was once protected by a stone," he said slowly. "A black stone that fell from the sky. No one could touch it. The elders say the ground around it was always warm, even when the air turned dry and cold. Then one day, the stone grew quiet. They buried it, and built silence over its grave."
Then others laughed nervously.
"It's a myth," Grat scoffed.
"Maybe," Damitz said. "But every myth is born from a truth."
A long silence followed, broken only by the crackle of firewood and the distant rumble of machines still humming in standby. The following morning, things shifted.
The drill operators struck something they couldn't explain. It was not rock, and it was not metal. It rang hollow, almost like a bell. A low, humming sound escaped from the earth, deep and sustained. Workers paused. Some thought it was feedback from the machines.
Stephen ordered a halt and walked to the site. He knelt beside the hole, brushing away the dirt with a gloved hand.
And then he saw it.
Just beneath the disturbed soil, embedded like a wound, was a smooth, obsidian-black surface. It gleamed, even in shadow. No scratches. No cracks. Just there.
Get the archaeologist," Stephen said, rising slowly.
"We don't have one on site yet," Elinz replied, stepping beside him.
Stephen stared at the stone again. "Then get me someone who knows what the hell this is."
As the team began to cordon off the area, a soft breeze passed through the site. It was cool, almost soothing. But something about it felt wrong. The air held a whisper, low and shapeless, like a name being exhaled by the land itself.
Osungho. No one heard it. But the ground did. And it remembered.