The portal closed behind him with a sigh, like the last breath of the world he'd left behind.
Rajendra stood on a platform of what looked like polished bone-wood, its surface so warm and smooth it felt like skin. The air was crisp, sweet with the scent of night-blooming orchids and cold mountain streams—too clean, too perfect. No diesel. No chai. No sweat.
Before him, a world unfolded in impossible serenity. Vast forests of pearl-barked trees rose like cathedral pillars, their leaves shimmering with internal light in shades of sapphire and amethyst. Between them, structures grew from the earth itself—towers of spiraling ivory coral, arches of dark, lacquered wood that curved like the ribs of some ancient, gentle beast. Stained glass windows glowed from within, but the glass looked like crystallized honey, trapping rainbows. In the distance, floating islands hung in the violet-hued sky, tethered to the ground by cascading vines that glowed like neon.(image attached)
It was breathtaking. And it was silent. Not peaceful—empty.
A figure emerged from beneath the luminous canopy, moving with a liquid grace that seemed part of the landscape itself.
She was tall, slender, her skin pale as moonstone. Her hair was silver-white, braided with living vines and tiny bioluminescent buds that pulsed softly. Her eyes were the sharp, assessing green of deep forest pools. She wore a gown of twilight-purple velvet that seemed woven from shadows and starlight, clinging to her like a second skin. She looked less like a person and more like a monument to stillness. (image attached)
She stopped a few paces away and spoke. Her voice was melodic, cool, and utterly alien—a cascade of soft vowels and sharp consonants that meant nothing to him.
"I'm sorry," Rajendra said, shaking his head. "I don't understand."
She tilted her head, a gesture so precise it felt studied. Her gaze went distant for a moment. Then, a message appeared in his System's communication log:
The Mad Scientist: Your language is not in my active registry. Transmit your linguistic data packet via the System interface. I will reciprocate. The System will provide real-time translation within this channel.
Blunt. Efficient. Rajendra focused and sent the packets for Hindi and English. A moment later, he received one in return—an elegant, flowing script labeled Faewild Prime Standard. He accepted it. There was a faint, cooling sensation behind his eyes, like a mint dissolving in his mind.
"Can you understand me now?" he asked aloud.
The words appeared translated in the chat window as he spoke. She read them, then nodded.
The Mad Scientist: Comprehension is established. Welcome to Faewild Prime. I am Lady Elara, Warden of the Chrysalis alias The Mad Scientist. You are Rajendra Shakuniya alias Shakuniya, Merchant of Earth-Prime. Your request for temporary asylum was… unexpected.
Her lips moved slightly out of sync with the translated text, an eerie disconnect.
"I needed to step away," he said. "Somewhere… not there."
The Mad Scientist: Distance often clarifies systemic failures. Follow me. Your accommodations have been prepared.
She turned without waiting and glided away. He followed, his footsteps soundless on the spongy, living pathway.
They moved through the tranquil landscape. He saw others—tall, elegant beings with pointed ears and an air of detached purpose. Some had skin textured like birch bark, others with hair like cascading moss. They tended glowing flora, consulted floating holographic schematics, or stood motionless in silent contemplation. Their eyes brushed over him with polite, impersonal curiosity. No one smiled. No one frowned. No one spoke above a whisper. The only sounds were the gentle chime of crystal leaves, the soft rush of water, and a low, resonant hum from the earth itself.
It was peace perfected. It was also, he realized with a dull thud in his chest, profoundly dull.
They entered one of the organic spires. Inside, the air was cooler. The walls curved like the interior of a seashell, glowing with soft bioluminescence. It felt less like a building and more like the inside of a living, thoughtful creature.
She led him to an archway that dilated open at her approach. The room beyond was spacious, minimalist, and stunning: a bed formed from a mound of resilient, velvet-soft moss; a basin where water flowed from a wall and vanished silently into the floor; and one entire wall that was transparent, looking out over a floating garden of glowing fungi and crystal flowers.
The Mad Scientist: *All necessary biological functions will be supported here. Rest. Tomorrow, my scholars will conduct a series of non-invasive scans. They are keen to study a Tier-0 biological entity with active System interfacing. You are a unique specimen.*
"A specimen," Rajendra echoed, a wry smile touching his lips. "Not a guest?"
The Mad Scientist: You are both. The categories are not mutually exclusive. Your value as data does not negate the hospitality owed.
Her bluntness was almost refreshing.
Then her expression shifted, not into warmth, but into focused intensity. "There is another matter. A prior transaction of yours. With the entity 'Pixel-Lord.' You traded primitive light-narratives. Pyaar Ki Jeet. The Unbroken Loom. I acquired copies."
Rajendra raised an eyebrow. "You watch Bollywood movies?"
The Mad Scientist: I analyze them. They are inefficient. The energy devoted to ritualistic social conflict, the illogical narrative progressions, the extreme and unregulated emotional displays—from a systems perspective, they are chaotic to the point of dysfunction. She paused, and for the first time, something flickered in her cool green eyes—not amusement, but a deep, hungry curiosity. And yet, they contain a data type my world lacks. I have viewed the scene where the protagonist sings of love while standing atop a moving train forty-seven times. I cannot derive the survival or social utility. But I find myself… compelled to understand the compulsion itself.
She wasn't entertained. She was performing an archaeological dig on a feeling.
"Sometimes it's not about utility," Rajendra said. "It's about feeling something. Even if it's messy. Even if it doesn't make sense."
The Mad Scientist: Illogic as a desired state. A fascinating paradox. You embody this paradox. Your presence here is a valuable research opportunity. Do not touch the silver-vined flora in the lower gardens—their neurotoxin is quite potent, and the antidote is unpleasant to synthesize.
With a final, slight inclination of her head, she turned. The archway sealed behind her, leaving no seam in the wall.
Rajendra was alone in the serene, beautiful cage.
He walked to the transparent wall. The floating garden was a still-life of breathtaking beauty. Not a petal out of place. Not a flicker of disorder.
He thought of the deafening clatter of the Pune assembly line, the fierce, betrayed light in Shanti's eyes, the sweat and terror in the Shanghai factory air. It was all chaos, and pain, and trouble.
He ached for it.
This world, Faewild Prime, was a museum of perfection. And Lady Elara, its serene, elegant curator, was slowly starving as she studied blueprints of a banquet she could no longer taste.
He felt awe. And a loneliness so deep it was a physical coldness in his gut. In this entire, glorious, silent world, the only thing that felt truly alive was the confused, hungry look in an elven queen's eyes as she tried to decipher why a man would sell pressure cookers to win a woman's heart.
He sat on the moss-bed. It molded to his body perfectly. It was the most comfortable thing he had ever touched.
He lay back, closed his eyes, and listened to the perfect, endless, crushing quiet.