2639 AD – The Coast of East Timor
The swim through the mine-infested, drone-patrolled waters had been a nightmare of cold and terror. Enki dragged his broken body onto the black sand beach under the cover of a monsoon rain, the wound in his shoulder screaming with every movement. He was a ghost of a ghost, barely substantial.
Before him, nestled in a verdant, mist-shrouded valley, was the city of Dili. Or what was left of it. It was not a ruin, like Singapore. It was a scar. Buildings were pockmarked with old artillery shells, but they were not collapsed. Gardens grew in the craters. The air, even through the rain, smelled of woodsmoke, salt, and living earth, not ozone.
It was the last quiet room.
He had made it.
But as he stood there, trembling on the threshold, a new horror dawned on him. He was the hunter now. He had led the Oracle here, to this last sanctuary. His very presence was a death sentence for everyone inside. The Veil of Mortality was not just a rule; it was a shield for them.
He could not enter.
He fell to his knees in the sand, the rain plastering his hair to his scalp, washing the blood from his wound. He was the Witness. And his final, most sacred duty was to turn away. To protect the story by refusing to be part of it.
He opened his satchel. He took out the small, oilskin pouch. The last seed from Ur. The first piece of evidence.
With the last of his strength, he dug a small hole in the wet sand, above the tide line. He placed the seed inside and covered it.
It was not a grand gesture. It was an offering. A message in a bottle thrown onto the shores of the only hope left in the world.
Scrapbook Entry: I have come to the end of my journey. I have seen the garden, and I dare not enter. My final testimony is this: the seed is planted. The story is here. Protect it. I will lead the hunter away.
He stood, his body screaming in protest, and turned his back on the garden. He would run again, a bright, bleeding beacon, drawing the Oracle's wrath away from this place. It was the only gift he had left to give.
He took one step back into the water, towards the waiting darkness. And then he heard it. A voice, clear as a bell, cutting through the rain.
"Bondia."
He froze. Slowly, he turned.
Standing at the edge of the tree line, a woven basket in her hand, was a girl. Her hair was dark as the rich soil, her eyes held the calm of the deep earth, and she was looking directly at him.
It was Nina.