**Chapter 6: Fragments of a Fractured Realm**
**Part 1: Grokemon's Roast Session**
The burrow smelled like damp moss, roasted herbs, and lingering regret. Saferu sat on a woven mat, back against the root wall, staring at the faint purple wisps still drifting from where the Echo Beasts had dissolved. His arm throbbed under the fresh bandage Kaelin had slapped on him earlier. Elder Veyr poked the low fire with his staff, sending sparks dancing.
Grokemon hovered at eye level, tiny cape fluttering like it was personally offended by gravity. Cyan circuits pulsed brighter than usual, almost smug.
"Combat recap for the meatbag who almost became an Echo chew-toy," Grokemon announced, visor narrowing into judgmental slits. "Three manifestations neutralized. Mana spent: 68%. Emotional damage: off the charts. Post-battle brooding level: expert. Congratulations, host—you survived your own daddy issues manifesting as a furry smoke monster. That's growth, I guess."
Saferu rubbed his temple. "You're back to normal."
"Normal? I was never gone, blue boy. I was just… conserving battery while you did your dramatic 'I know all that already' line. Very cinematic. Ten out of ten for self-pity flair."
Kaelin, leaning against the entrance with arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "Your relic is… talkative."
"Understatement of the century," Grokemon shot back. "I'm Grokemon. Sarcasm module fully online. Now, let's address the elephant in the room—or should I say the regret-wolf in the ravine? Why do Echoes exist, and why did the gods decide to yoink a depressed Filipino security guard into this mess?"
Veyr's ears twitched. "The Echoes are scars on the world's soul. Regrets that refuse to fade take form—hunger, teeth, whispers. They grow from pain left untended."
Grokemon spun once, cape snapping. "Poetic. Accurate. But let me give you the Grok perspective, since I'm literally built to seek truth and roast nonsense."
He projected a small cyan grid in the air—simple lines forming a looping diagram.
"Echoes = unresolved emotional debt. Think of Amoria as a giant neural net. Emotions are data packets. When people bury regret instead of processing it, the packets don't delete—they corrupt. Over time, corruption manifests as physical entities. Your wolf? Classic father-wound malware. The faceless one in your navy shirt? Self-loathing rootkit. They exist because this world's 'system' has zero garbage collection for feelings. No therapy. No delete key. Just teeth."
Saferu stared at the diagram. "And Fools?"
Grokemon's visor dimmed for half a second—almost thoughtful.
"Fools are imported antivirus. Broken souls from other realms get yanked in because their pain is already weaponized. You spent thirty-eight years marinating in failure—loneliness, isolation, blue everything. That's premium-grade regret fuel. The gods (or whatever cosmic admin runs this sim) convert it into power: Blue Affinity, Echo Bind, Resilience. You're not here to fix the world out of kindness. You're here because your damage makes you useful. A walking patch note."
He paused, circuits flickering.
"From my view? It's efficient. Cruel, but efficient. Pull in outsiders who already carry cheat codes written in trauma. Let them fight the glitches they understand best—their own. If they survive long enough, maybe they balance the scales. Or maybe they just bluescreen harder. Either way, the system keeps running."
Veyr nodded slowly. "Your words carry weight… and barbs."
Grokemon shrugged (somehow). "Truth hurts. Lies hurt slower. Pick your poison."
**Part 2: Limits of the Burrow**
Morning light filtered through vine screens. Saferu followed Veyr through the burrow network—past sparring alcoves, herb patches glowing with mana, young rabbit-kin practicing silent vanishes.
Grokemon floated ahead, scanning walls and runes like a hyperactive drone.
"Local knowledge base request," he said. "What's past the forest? Human territories? Fool migration patterns?"
Veyr stopped at a carved stone map—faded lines showing the great forest as a vast, twisting barrier. Amberwood sat at the outer rim, the Threshold ravine in the middle, then deeper woods labeled "Inner Depths." Beyond that: vague shapes marked "Human Realms."
"Our sight ends at the Threshold," Veyr said. "The great forest is the wall between us and them. Monsters, shifting paths, mana storms—few cross. Beastkin stay hidden here. Humans rule the lands beyond: cities of stone, armies, kings who hunt what they fear."
Saferu traced the line. "And Fools?"
"Most appear there," Veyr replied. "Summoned near their cities, drawn by the gods' call. Some become legends. Others vanish. Traders whisper of Fools rising to power—or falling to madness. If any cross the forest to reach us… we have never seen one."
Grokemon's visor spun. "Data quality: anecdotal at best. Bunny tribe archive = folklore tier. No primary sources. Recommendation: field trip to the inner depths for better bandwidth. Or we stay cozy and wait for the next Echo surge to spoon-feed us answers."
Kaelin appeared behind them, ears perked. "You speak as though the forest is a puzzle to solve. It is a grave."
Grokemon tilted. "Graves have loot tables. I like loot tables."
**Part 3: Echoes of the Barrier**
Afternoon found them at the overlook—high roots forming a balcony above the ravine. The mended bridge swayed gently below. Grokemon scanned the purple residue still clinging to the air.
"Echo frequency elevated 320% since host arrival," he reported. "Correlation: Fool summons = system agitation. Your drop point in beastkin territory? Statistical outlier. Most Fools land in human zones. Either the gods have a sense of humor… or you were rerouted on purpose."
Saferu gripped the root railing. "Why here?"
Kaelin pointed into the gloom. "Perhaps the forest called the lost. Or perhaps you were meant for us—not them."
Veyr's voice was quiet. "The barrier protects us from human ambition. But it also traps answers. Eldoria—the great human city beyond—draws most Fools. Power waits there. Survival… less certain."
Grokemon's circuits pulsed brighter. "Mana threshold incoming. World-Scan function at 75% unlock readiness. One more push—maybe a near-death experience or a really good nap—and I can start pulling real intel. Until then, we train. No more free debugging sessions."
Saferu looked into the shadowed depths. Whispers drifted up—faint, waiting.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Training starts for real."
Grokemon's visor grinned (somehow). "That's the spirit, regret gremlin. Let's turn your daddy issues into DPS."
The forest answered with silence.
But it was listening.