The phone's display showed a single video file, timestamp reading 10,000 years ago despite the impossibility. Ren's hands shook as he pressed play.
A man's face filled the screen. Human. Exhausted. White hair stark against dark skin, eyes reflecting purple light.
"If you're watching this, then I failed," the man said in accented Japanese. "The dimensional cascade couldn't be stopped. The anchors are breaking down. I've been walking the Mist for... time stops meaning here. Years? Decades? Looking for other survivors, other shelters."
"What's he saying?" Elanil pressed close, her warmth a stark contrast to the cold dread filling Ren's chest.
"He's... he's another human. From the original disaster." Ren's voice cracked. "He survived somehow."
The man continued: "I've found seven facilities. All empty. All failed. The Protocol Seven sites are gone—whoever activated them didn't understand the cost. But there might be hope. The eighth protocol. Hidden in the code. Dr. Tanaka knew the seven would fail, so she built a backup. It requires... fusion. Genetic blending between survivor strains. Human and adapted. Pure and evolved."
Static interrupted, purple light flashing across the screen. When it cleared, the man looked older. Worn.
"I'm leaving these messages everywhere I can. If another human survives, if the barriers hold long enough... find the control bunker beneath the First Tree. Activate Protocol Eight before the cascade completes. Before He breaks through."
"He?" Ren whispered.
The man's expression darkened. "The first to merge with the Mist. The Void King. We thought sealing him would be enough, but the seals require maintenance. Living maintenance. And we're all dying."
More static. The final image showed the man standing before a massive tree—the Great Tree, Ren realized with a shock. But younger, smaller.
"Time's up. The Mist is calling me back. If you find this... I'm sorry. We tried to play god and became ghosts instead. The children... tell them we tried. Tell them—"
The video cut off.
Silence fell like a physical weight. Elanil's hand found his, squeezing tight enough to hurt.
"Your ancestor," she said quietly. "Walking the Mist for millennia, searching for hope."
"Not my ancestor. Just another human who got screwed by cosmic forces." But the words felt hollow. The man's final expression haunted him—resignation mixed with desperate hope.
"The control bunker beneath the Great Tree," Elanil said suddenly. "The restricted archives. Even Mayfell doesn't have access."
"You think it's real? This Protocol Eight?"
"I think my sister died believing it was." She released his hand, stepping back into combat stance. "Now fight. If we're breaking into the forbidden archives, you need to not die at the first guardian."
"Guardians? What guardians?"
Her smile was all teeth and promise. "The kind that make my training look gentle."
They sparred under the dancing moons, but something had changed. The video had shifted the dynamic, added urgency to what had been routine. Elanil pushed harder, moved faster, and when their bodies collided in a tangle of limbs, neither pulled away immediately.
"You're improving," she panted, pinning him after a particularly brutal exchange. "Still pathetic, but improving."
"High praise. I'll treasure it always." He was acutely aware of every point of contact between them, her weight warm and solid and absolutely not helping his concentration. "Um. The pin is educational and all, but—"
"But what?" She leaned closer, crimson eyes reflecting moonlight. "Uncomfortable?"
"The opposite, actually. Which is the problem."
She blinked, then seemed to realize their position—her straddling his waist, hands pinning his wrists, faces inches apart. Color bloomed across her cheeks, visible even in the moonlight.
"I—this is—combat positions are—"
"Totally professional. Absolutely. Nothing personal about this at all." His mouth ran on autopilot while his brain screamed alerts. "Just two people discussing world-ending prophecies while in a completely platonic pin position."
She scrambled off him like he'd caught fire, turning away to hide her expression. "We should continue. Training. With weapons. At distance."
"Good idea. Great idea. Distance is very educational."
But when she turned back, something new flickered in her crimson eyes. Not just irritation or duty anymore. Something warmer. More dangerous.
"Tomorrow night," she said firmly. "Same time. We'll need to be ready if we're infiltrating the archives."
"Right. Ready. Prepared. Other synonyms for not dying horribly."
She paused at the edge of the training ground. "Ren? Thank you. For translating. For... understanding about my sister."
"Thank you for not stabbing me when I touched the phone."
"Night's not over yet." But she smiled as she said it.
Rating: 8/10 for emotional development, 11/10 for confusing feelings about being pinned by beautiful elf warriors.