The jungle path wasn't really a path. It was a memory.
Toren stepped over a root knot as thick as his thigh, boots scuffing against moss-slick stones. Morning mist coiled between the trees like sleepy spirits, and the forest sounds had not yet begun in earnest. Just the distant drip of dew and the quiet shuffle of something small in the underbrush.
He hadn't told anyone he was leaving.
Not Mira, who'd mock him for chasing ghosts. Not Wess, who'd insist he bring a spear. And certainly not Old Jakel, who'd just squint and mutter about "omens in your blood."
Toren just… walked. He didn't question why.
The old wreck wasn't far—only a half hour's walk, if you knew where to duck, when to jump, and where not to grab any vines that twitched on their own. It loomed behind a curtain of trees with rust-colored bark, its hull tilted sideways into a ravine like it had died mid-scream.
Every child in the village had dared the wreck at least once. But most came back saying it was boring. "Just metal and mold." But Toren had always felt something different there. Not fear—more like magnetism. Like the place was waiting.
He approached the side panel where he'd once found his "mirror"—that smooth chunk of crash metal. This time, he pushed aside the overgrowth, knelt, and slipped through a narrow breach into the dim.
Inside, the air was colder.
The corridor had been ravaged by time and damp. Ivy crept across half-dissolved control panels. Ceilings had collapsed in places, forming jagged metal archways. Toren moved slowly, fingers trailing the wall. He passed symbols he didn't understand—faded labels, slashed warnings in a language that wasn't his.
Then, something hummed.
Toren froze.
It came from below—a deep, pulsing throb beneath the metal like a long-held breath finally released. Faint blue light flickered between two shattered bulkheads.
He crouched and crawled through the gap.
The chamber was circular, maybe eight meters across. Broken consoles lay like fallen statues, their guts spilled in coils of ancient cable. But one still pulsed—dim, intermittent, like a heartbeat through murky water. It sat on a raised pedestal in the center, half-covered in dust and what looked like dried moss.
Toren stepped forward.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't question. His fingers touched the panel—
And the chamber came alive.
Light flared along the walls in racing arcs. Symbols spun across the interface. A cool feminine voice spoke, calm and unmistakably artificial:
"Initializing… Kingdom Protocol."
Toren's heart leapt into his throat.
"Biometric match: confirmed. Authorization level—Reclaimer."
"Welcome, Toren Vale."