The morning sun hanging over the town of Carmona was real. It wasn't the harsh, unfiltered radiation of the pre-war era, nor was it the sterile, simulated light of the cryo-dream. It was heavy, humid, and smelled of roasting street meat, damp earth, and the unwashed bodies of a thousand travelers.
Homer stood near the central fountain in the town square. The water bubbled from the mouth of a stone lion that looked suspiciously like Rhard, the tavern owner, splashing into a basin filled with copper coins—wishes made by the desperate and the hopeful.
The pilgrims were gathered around their wagon, strapping down crates and preparing for the final leg of their journey into the heart of the capital for the festival.
"You're sure you won't come with us to the temple?" Mara asked, adjusting the strap of her sandal. She looked at Homer with that same motherly concern that made his chest ache with a phantom familiarity. It reminded him of a time before the ice, before the betrayal. "The High Priest is giving a blessing of protection. A scholar could use all the protection he can get."
"I have some paperwork to file first," Homer lied, the falsehood tasting like copper in his mouth. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. "And I need to return this. I wouldn't want you to get fined on your way out."
It was the guest pass they had lent him the day before. Or rather, it was the original guest pass.
Flashback: The previous night at the Old Well Inn.
Homer sat at the small, rickety desk in his rented room. The original pass lay flat on the wood. His hand hovered over a blank sheet of parchment he had bought from the innkeeper.
He didn't have a printer. He didn't have a scanner. He had something better.
"Castor," Homer whispered. "Scan and replicate."
Initiating molecular reconstruction, the AI responded.
From Homer's fingertips, a grey mist flowed. Nanites. They swarmed over the blank parchment, breaking down the cellulose fibers of the wood pulp and rearranging them. They analyzed the ink of the original—a mixture of carbon soot and berry dye—and synthesized a perfect chemical copy.
But the hard part was the magic.
Crystal resonance detected in the original, Castor noted. It is a microscopic lattice of quartz dust embedded in the paper fibers. It vibrates at a specific frequency to verify authenticity. Replicating lattice structure now.
The nanites worked with atomic precision. In ten seconds, the blank paper had transformed into a perfect duplicate of the official document, but with the text altered to read HOMER OF CUPANG instead of MARA OF SOUTHFIELDS.
Forgery complete, Castor stated with a hint of digital satisfaction. Indistinguishable from the original by any known magical or scientific metric.
End Flashback.
Jina took the pass from him now, tucking it safely into her belt pouch. Her eyes were bright with excitement. "You're going to the Guild, aren't you? You're going to be an adventurer!"
"Something like that," Homer smiled. It was a tired smile, but genuine. "I figure if I'm going to travel, I should do it legally. I need to find some answers, and apparently, the Guild is the place to find them."
"Just don't go fighting any dragons," Tor grunted, hoisting a sack of grain onto the wagon with effortless strength. He walked over and clapped a massive hand on Homer's shoulder, nearly buckling the Architect's knees. "You're a reader, Homer. Keep your nose in the books and your head down. Let the Orcs do the dying. They're built for it."
"That's the plan," Homer said, resisting the urge to check his shoulder for bruises.
"Safe travels, Homer," Kael nodded, climbing into the driver's seat.
"And to you," Homer replied.
He watched them go. As the wagon rattled away down the cobblestone street, merging with the river of travelers flowing toward the inner districts, Homer felt a sudden, sharp pang of isolation. They were simple, kind people living in a world built on lies, and for a few days, they had made him feel human again. They had offered him food and protection without asking for anything in return.
Now, he was back to being a ghost. A relic of a dead age pretending to be a man.
Sentimentality is inefficient, Castor's voice buzzed in his ear, though the tone was softer than usual, lacking its usual biting sarcasm. However, establishing social camouflage was a tactical success. You have successfully integrated into the local populace without raising alarms. Now, proceed to the objective.
"Right," Homer muttered, turning toward the massive stone building that dominated the northern side of the square. "The Guild."
The Adventurer's Guild Hall was less a building and more a fortress that had decided to open a bar. It was constructed from blocks of grey granite, reinforced with pillars of white sung-wood that pulsed with faint defensive enchantments. The double doors were open, wide enough to admit a carriage, and above them hung a massive shield made of dragon scale, emblazoned with a sword and a quill crossed over a compass.
Homer stepped through the threshold and was immediately assaulted by the noise.
If the "Broken Tusk" was a rough tavern, the Guild Hall was a stock exchange for violence. The main hall was a cavernous space with ceilings three stories high. One wall was entirely dominated by a massive job board, where sheets of parchment fluttered like dead leaves in the breeze of the ventilation fans.
Crowds of armed individuals swarmed around it. Homer saw races he had only read about in Griphook's books. There were Lizardmen sharpening obsidian spears, their scales glinting under the magelights. There were Elves in light scout armor, looking bored and dangerous, standing apart from the "lesser" races. There were humans in battered plate mail, arguing over the payout for a goblin nest clearance.
But there were no Demons.
Scan complete, Castor reported, his sensors sweeping the room in a fraction of a second. Demographic breakdown: 40% Human, 30% Beastkin, 20% Elf, 10% Other. Zero signatures matching the 'Iron Remnant' physiology. The segregation appears absolute. If a Demon walked in here, the building would likely be leveled within seconds.
Homer moved deeper into the room, keeping his hood up. He drifted toward a pillar near the job board, where a smaller, separate notice board was encased in glass.
Unlike the chaotic requests for herb gathering or rat killing, this board held only a few posters. They were detailed drawings, inked with magical precision.
WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE
Homer leaned in. The face staring back at him was striking. It was an Elf, or at least, it looked like one. High cheekbones, angular features, regal bearing. But the eyes were different—predatory, vertical slits like a viper. And curving back from his forehead were two jagged, black horns made of chitinous bone.
NAME: GENERAL HOPPS
DESIGNATION: IRON REMNANT COMMANDER
CRIMES: High Treason, Violation of the Treaty of Silica, Use of Forbidden Tech-Magic.
BOUNTY: 10,000 Gold Sovereigns.
"Ugly bastard, isn't he?"
Homer turned slightly. Two adventurers were standing next to him, eyeing the poster. One was a human with a nasty scar running down his cheek, leaning on a heavy mace. The other was a Bird-Beastkin, a humanoid with the head and talons of a hawk, wearing light leather armor and preening his feathers.
"He's not ugly," the Hawk-man said, his voice a series of clicks and whistles that Castor auto-translated into rough trade-tongue. "He's terrifying. My grandfather fought in the skirmishes fifty years ago. Said Hopps moved like smoke. Said he killed three battle-mages before they could even finish a chant."
"They say he's as old as the Council," the human spat, hawking and spitting on the stone floor. "They say he preaches that the Elves are the true monsters. That they stole the world from the rightful rulers."
"Rightful rulers?" the Hawk-man scoffed. "And who would that be? The Demons? Please. To Hopps, a human and a rat are the same thing. The Iron Remnant hates everyone who isn't them. They think we're all 'biologically compromised.' Inferior stock."
"I heard," the human lowered his voice, looking around nervously, "that Hopps claims the Elves imprisoned the 'Great Architect.' That the gods we worship are just jailers."
"Keep your voice down!" the Hawk-man hissed, his feathers puffing up in alarm. "You talk about the Remnant's heresy too loud, and people start thinking you're a sympathizer. Or worse, the Inquisition hears you. You want to end up in the Silent Cells?"
"I'm just saying," the human grumbled, shouldering his mace. "If he's back, the borders aren't safe. I'm sticking to the inner routes. No amount of gold is worth meeting that horned devil."
Homer turned away, his heart hammering a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs.
General Hopps, Homer thought. One of the survivors. A soldier who remembers the truth.
Or a soldier who has been driven insane by three hundred thousand years of war, Castor countered immediately. Do not assume an ally just because you share an enemy, Architect. The 'Iron Remnant' appears to view the current biological diversity of Earth as an infection. You are the source of that diversity. You created the nanites that allowed these species to evolve. They might hate the Elves, but they might hate you more for 'ruining' humanity.
"Fair point," Homer murmured. "Enemy of my enemy is just another variable."
He approached the reception counter. It was a long, curved desk manned by several clerks. Most were humans or half-elves, looking overworked and underpaid. But the central station was manned by a full-blooded Elf.
She was immaculate, her white robe stiff with starch, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun. She looked at the line of adventurers with the same expression a biologist might look at a petri dish of mold.
Homer stepped up to the line. When it was his turn, the Elf didn't look up from her ledger.
"Name and business," she said, her voice melodic but bored.
"Homer," he said. "Registration. I want to become an adventurer."
The Elf finally looked up. Her eyes were a piercing violet. She scanned him—the dusty cloak, the cheap sword, the lack of visible mana aura. She wrinkled her nose slightly.
"Hometown pass," she held out a manicured hand. "We cannot register vagrants. You must have proof of citizenship from a recognized settlement. No exceptions."
Homer reached into his pocket. He pulled out the pass he had forged the night before.
This was the moment. The paper felt heavy in his hand. If the forgery failed, the alarms would sound, the guards would descend, and he would be forced to use his powers—exposing himself to the entire city.
He handed it over. His pulse remained steady, controlled by his bio-dampeners, but his mind was racing.
This is the test, he thought. If this fails, we fight our way out.
The Elf took the paper. She didn't read it. She placed it on a flat, obsidian stone set into the counter. She waved her hand, murmuring a word that sounded like buzzing bees.
Magical scan detected, Castor warned. Active mana ping. Frequency matches the resonance pattern we embedded. Hold fast.
A soft, white light flared from the obsidian stone. It passed through the paper, making the ink glow for a brief second.
Homer held his breath. He knew the physics of it—he knew his nanites could mimic the energy signature perfectly. But seeing magic interact with his science was nerve-wracking. If the Elf was thorough, if she checked the isotopic decay of the paper, she'd see it was only twelve hours old.
The light faded. The paper remained whole. It glowed with a faint, steady blue light—the color of authenticity.
"Cupang," the Elf said, reading the text now that the magic had verified it. She slid the pass back to him, her boredom returning instantly. "Fishing village. We don't get many from the Bay. Usually, you types stick to the nets."
"I get seasick," Homer said deadpan.
The Elf actually snorted. A tiny crack in the armor. "Very well. Standard registration fee is five silvers. Place your hand on the slate."
Homer counted out the coins—also forged, mere slugs of silver arranged on a molecular level—and placed his hand on the obsidian slab.
"This will bind your bio-signature to the Guild database," the Elf recited by rote. "It creates a Soul-Link. If you die, the link is severed. If you commit a crime, the link is flagged. Do not lose your card; replacements cost fifty gold."
She pressed a blank wooden card onto the slate next to his hand.
Bio-metric scan initiating, Castor reported. The slate is drawing a microscopic blood sample through the pores of your skin. It is analyzing DNA. It is also attempting to map your mana-signature.
Spoof it, Homer commanded. Give them the profile of a standard human male. Low mana potential. No anomalies.
Executing. Masking nanite density. Projecting 'Human_Standard_v1' profile.
The slate glowed blue. The wooden card hissed as if branded by an invisible iron. Words appeared on the surface, burned into the grain.
NAME: HOMER
ORIGIN: CUPANG
RANK: COPPER (F-CLASS)
STATUS: ACTIVE
The Elf picked up the card and tossed it to him. "Welcome to the meat grinder, Homer of Cupang. Next!"
Homer grabbed the card and stepped away from the counter, his knees feeling momentarily weak. He moved to a quiet corner of the hall, leaning against a pillar.
"That was too close," he whispered. "They rely on magic, but their verification protocols are sloppy. They check for the signal, not the source."
Sloppy, perhaps, Castor replied, but pervasive. Hold the card up. I am interfacing with its tracking matrix.
Homer held the wooden card in his palm. To anyone else, he was just admiring his new license. To his silver eye, the card was exploding with data.
Accessing Guild Network... Castor's voice shifted, becoming more mechanical as he processed the data stream. The card is a terminal. It connects to a central magical mainframe. Tracing signal... signal relay at Carmona Tower... bouncing to... Muntinlupa.
In his mind's eye, Homer saw a map of the world light up. A web of blue lines connected every Guild Card in existence back to a single point.
Target acquired, Castor said. The central database is located in the 'Sun Spire' of the Muntinlupa Royal Castle. It is a massive crystalline storage drive.
"Can you see the data?" Homer asked. "Pre-war records? The original prisoner manifests?"
Negative, Castor said. The database is strictly post-war. It contains records of every registered citizen since the founding of the Council, approximately 290,000 years ago. It lists the status of the High Elves, the known Demon Generals, and every adventurer who ever died. There is no data from before the collapse.
"So the history really was wiped," Homer sighed.
Or hidden elsewhere, Castor corrected. However, the tracking system is primitive. It tracks the card, not the individual. It uses a triangulation of ley-lines. If you leave this card in a ditch, the Council will think you are in the ditch. It does not monitor vitals or location in real-time unless actively pinged by a Guild official.
"Useful," Homer noted. "I can be in two places at once."
He looked back at the counter. The Elf was yelling at a dwarf now.
"I need to finish the profile," Homer realized. "She didn't ask for my class."
He walked back to a secondary clerk, a tired-looking human with ink stains on his fingers. "Excuse me. I need to register my proficiency."
The clerk sighed, dipping a quill. "Right. What is it? Warrior? Scout? Hedge Mage?"
Homer hesitated. He had thought about this in the bunker. He could simulate fire, ice, lightning—anything. But flashiness attracted attention. He needed something versatile, something that let him use his mind, something that felt... right.
"Mage," Homer said. "Wind Affinity."
"Wind," the clerk scribbled. "Common enough. Telekinesis? Gusts?"
"Telekinesis," Homer said. "Moving things with my mind."
"Right. Don't lift anything heavier than a wagon or you'll pop a vessel. Next."
Homer walked away, a small smile playing on his lips. Wind. Telekinesis.
It wasn't just practical. It was nostalgic.
He walked toward the exit, his hand drifting to his belt. In his mind, he wasn't holding a scavenged iron sword. He was holding a cylinder of chrome and plasma.
Focus, he thought, almost playfully. Feel the Force.
He reached out with his mind—with the nanites—and nudged a pebble on the floor. It skittered across the stone.
Suddenly, a sharp, blinding pain spiked behind his eyes.
The Guild Hall vanished.
Flashback.
The air smelled of sterilized plastic and popcorn. He was sitting on a couch that was too soft. A screen the size of a wall was flickering with the image of starships dogfighting in deep space.
Beside him sat a figure. A young man. But the face... the face was a blur of static. Like a corrupted video file. He couldn't see the eyes, the nose, the smile. He only felt the warmth of the shoulder pressing against his.
"I'm telling you, Homer," the faceless friend said, pointing at the screen with a half-eaten slice of pizza. "The Jedi possess the ultimate moral authority. Not because of the lightsabers. But because of the discipline. To have that much power and choose peace? That's the dream."
"It's a movie, man," Homer heard his own voice say, younger, lighter. "But the telekinesis would be cool. Imagine never having to get up to get a beer."
"You have the soul of a sloth," the friend laughed. It was a rich, warm laugh. "When we fix the world, Homer... when your machines work... we'll be like them. We'll be the guardians. The Jedi of the new age."
"I just want the laser sword," Homer grinned.
The friend turned. The static over his face swirled, almost revealing... almost showing...
ERROR. NEURAL PATHWAY CORRUPTED. SEGMENT BLOCKED.
"Argh!" Homer gasped, stumbling. He grabbed a pillar to keep from falling. The pain in his head was blinding, a white-hot needle driven into his temple.
Architect! Castor's voice was a roar, drowning out the ambient noise of the guild. Stabilize! You are experiencing a memory cascade. Your vitals are spiking. People are staring. COMPOSURE!
Homer grit his teeth, forcing the pain down, forcing the static away. He blinked, tears streaming from his eyes.
The Guild Hall swam back into focus. A few adventurers were looking at him with mild concern, but most just ignored him. Drunks and drug addicts were common here. A mage having a migraine was nothing new.
"I'm... I'm okay," Homer wheezed to a passing goblin who hadn't even asked.
That was dangerous, Castor scolded, his voice tight. The associative trigger—'Jedi', 'Telekinesis'—accessed a high-priority memory file associated with Subject Nero. Your brain is not ready to process the emotional context of that relationship. I have re-encrypted the file.
"That was him, wasn't it?" Homer wiped the sweat from his forehead. "My best friend. We wanted to be Jedi."
The identity is irrelevant to your current survival, Castor evaded. Move. Get out of here before you have a seizure in front of the quest board.
Homer stumbled toward the massive doors, his new Guild card clutching tightly in his hand.
He burst out into the sunlight of the square, sucking in deep breaths of air. The pain faded to a dull throb.
He walked toward the town gates, needing to get away from the noise, away from the people. He approached the checkpoint. The Orc guards were there, the same ones who had hassled him the day before.
"Hold up," the Orc grunt rumbled, stepping in front of him. "Leaving so soon, fisherman?"
Homer held up his new Guild Card. The wood gleamed in the sun.
"Homer of Cupang. Copper Rank Adventurer."
The Orc peered at the card, then looked at Homer. He threw his head back and let out a barking, guttural laugh.
"An adventurer! You?" The Orc slapped his knee. "Look at him, lads! The fisherman thinks he's a warrior now!"
The other guards joined in, snickering.
"Good luck, little human," the Orc sneered, stepping aside. "You'll need it. Adventuring is the quickest way to a shallow grave. It's the most dangerous job in the world, next to being a soldier on the Northern Wall. Try not to get eaten by a slime before sunset."
"I'll try," Homer said softly. "You stay safe too."
He walked past them, out of the city, and back onto the road that led to the jungle.
He walked until the city was just a white smudge on the horizon. He walked until the trees closed in around him. Then, he activated his stealth field.
The shimmer of light swallowed him. He was gone.
The journey back to the bunker was a slow, deliberate march. It would take two days on foot, and Homer used every step to think.
The sun began to set, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. The jungle came alive with the sounds of the night—the chirp of crystal-crickets, the roar of distant predators.
"We need to camp," Homer said. "My energy reserves are at 40%. The stealth field drains the batteries."
Agreed, Castor said. Find a defensible position. Away from the game trails.
Homer found a small hollow beneath the roots of a massive banyan-like tree. It was secluded, but damp.
"Time for some landscaping," Homer murmured.
He placed his hand on the thick vines hanging from the tree. He didn't speak a spell. He didn't channel mana. He simply sent a command code through his skin.
Crescere. Shape: Dome. Density: Max.
The nanites in his blood communicated with the nanites in the plant cells. The vines shuddered. Then, they began to move. They writhed like snakes, weaving themselves together, thickening, interlocking. In seconds, they formed a perfect, watertight dome, camouflaged against the tree trunk.
Homer crawled inside. It was dry and warm.
"Dinner," he muttered.
He sat at the entrance, his silver eye scanning the darkness. A rabbit hopped into the clearing. It wasn't a normal rabbit; its fur shifted colors like oil on water—a 'Phase Rabbit,' common in this mana-rich environment.
Homer extended his hand. Telekinesis.
He visualized the air around the rabbit solidifying. He didn't crush it; he just stopped it. The rabbit froze mid-hop, suspended in a gravity well.
With a flick of his wrist, he snapped its neck. Instant. Painless.
"I'm not a soldier," Homer said to himself as he skinned the rabbit with a blade formed from his suit's nanites. "I'm not a general. I'm just a guy trying to eat dinner."
He cooked the meat over a small, smokeless fire generated by a heating coil in his suit. As he ate, he looked at the map Castor projected onto the wall of the vine-tent.
"Poblacion," Homer said, pointing to the spot on the map that used to be France. "Why there?"
Intel suggests it is a free settlement, Castor replied. Humans, Beastkin, and 'freed' Goblins living outside the direct control of the Council. If there is anywhere we can find the truth about the war—the human side of the story—it is there.
"And maybe I can find out if humanity is worth saving," Homer whispered. "Or if we're just as bad as the Elves."
Two days later, Homer stood at the base of the cliff. The entrance to his bunker was exactly where he left it, hidden behind a hologram of rock.
He commanded the door to open. He stepped into the cool, sterile air of his home.
He didn't stay long. He packed everything. The nutrient paste, the refined gold, the books from Griphook. He put on his modified cryo-suit, checking the seals. He strapped the iron sword to his hip.
He looked around the room one last time. This place had kept him alive for three hundred thousand years. It was the womb of the new world.
"Seal it," Homer commanded. "Code Black."
Code Black confirmed, Castor said. Sealing facility. Engaging deep camouflage protocols. Only your biometric signature will be able to unlock this door again.
Homer stepped out onto the ledge. Behind him, the rock flowed like liquid. The door vanished. The seams vanished. In seconds, it was just a solid wall of granite.
Homer turned his back on the mountain. He adjusted his pack.
"Four thousand kilometers to Poblacion," Homer said. "Castor, play some music. Something from the old days."
Playing: 'In The End' by Linkin Park.
The ancient, aggressive guitar riff began to play in his head. Homer smiled.
"Let's go."
The Architect began his journey into the north.