The Wastes weren't dusty or sandy; they were just endlessly gray and structurally desolate. Imagine a world built only out of wet concrete and broken hopes.
We'd been walking for two days. Two days of the same flat horizon, the relentless hum of the distant city, and the slow, agonizing realization that nothing was alive out here.
"Look, I'm just saying," Benny chirped weakly, having conserved his energy for a full twelve hours. "If the Garden of Eden is out here, it was either a really poorly named garden, or someone needs to update their botanical dictionary."
My feet ached. My mandatory black shift was stiff with dirt. The ration bar I ate that morning tasted like sweetened nothingness.
"We need to find an old structure," I whispered, shielding my eyes. The colorless sun was harsh, even without clouds. "The NWCO didn't destroy everything when they built the city. They just paved over it."
The worst part wasn't the hunger; it was the loneliness. In the city, you were surrounded by people, all equally numb and compliant. Out here, there was only me, Benny, and the terrifying expanse of silence.
We spent the night huddled in the lee of a massive, overturned ventilation shaft. I kept my hand—the one that still faintly pulsed green—tucked deep in my sleeve.
"So, about this 'Garden' clue," Benny said, interrupting the silence. "Your mom, bless her chaotic soul, was never known for giving direct answers."
I pulled out the only thing my mother had left me besides the stone pouch: a small, smooth, oval pebble. It was the only object I owned that wasn't black or gray; it was a muted, earthy brown.
"She didn't give me a map," I said, running my thumb over the pebble. "She gave me a riddle."
I pressed the pebble firmly into the residual green spot on my palm. The tiny green spark flared, momentarily illuminating the inside of the shaft.
The brown pebble, which looked like nothing more than common dirt, suddenly had microscopic etching visible on its surface.
"Where the old words sleep and the noble still weep."
Benny tilted his head. "A kindergarten riddle. I prefer my riddles with a cheese reward."
"No, Benny. 'Old words sleep.' That's not just a phrase. Before the NWCO, people read things... they called them books."
My heart hammered again, but this time not from fear—from cold, analytical certainty.
"And 'the noble still weep.' That Noblewoman was terrified of losing her Power Stone," I continued, tracing the etching with my finger. "Maybe there are others like her who escaped or hid away, preserving the past."
"So, you're looking for a dusty old building full of paper," Benny summarized. "And rich people who are sad. Great. How do we find the coordinate for the sad rich people library?"
I pointed past the ventilation shaft, toward a barely visible, slight rise on the otherwise flat horizon.
"My mother always said, 'Never trust what you see, only what you sense.' The NWCO would never build anything that high out here. It has to be an old foundation."
If I was wrong, it was another four hours of walking toward nothing. But I was done with waiting for the NWCO to find me.