Several days had passed since the Gilded Crescendo announcement. The initial euphoria had faded, replaced by the relentless grind of development. It was late at night on Friton. In his studio, Dorian was deep in the codebase for Hades, wrestling with the foundational logic of the underworld.
"Error: Room transition logic loop detected in Tartarus generation seed 44-B," Leo's voice intoned flatly.
Dorian groaned, rubbing his temples. Today was not a good day. The code was fighting him at every turn. "Again?" he muttered. He leaned back in his ergonomic chair, staring at the wall of red text on his monitor. He felt tired, a bone-deep exhaustion that wasn't just physical. It was a strange, nagging anxiety, a feeling that he didn't have enough time, that he was being chased by something he couldn't see.
"Maybe you should rest, Dorian," Leo suggested, its optical sensor dimming to a soft, soothing orange.
Dorian sighed, closing his eyes. "You're right. I need a reset." He opened his eyes and looked at the messy code. "Can you at least help me clean those lines up while I'm gone?"
"Leave it to me," Leo replied efficiently.
"Thanks, Leo."
Dorian stood up, stretching his stiff back, and walked out of the studio. The hallway of the new house was quiet. He wandered to the kitchen, the silence only broken by the soft hum of the refrigerator. He made himself a mug of hot cocoa, the rich scent filling the air, and grabbed a thin blanket from the back of a chair.
He walked to the back door and slid it open. The night air of Friton was cool and fresh, smelling of damp earth and alien flowers. He sat on the doorstep, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, and looked out at his land.
The garden was swelling with life. And it wasn't just the soil. From the small, colorful hut he had materialized from the Gacha, the Junimo Hut. Tiny, apple-shaped spirits were emerging. They glowed with a soft, internal light as they hopped around the crops, tending to the plants, harvesting ripe fruits, and fertilizing the soil.
Dorian smiled, blowing the steam from his cocoa. "Haaaa... that's good."
One of the Junimos, a small blue one, noticed him and hopped over. It stared up at him with large, simple eyes. Dorian chuckled and reached out a finger, gently petting the top of its leafy head.
"Cute. Hehe."
The Junimo squeaked happily, leaning into the touch. Suddenly, a larger, red Junimo hopped over, grabbed the blue one's tiny arm, and began dragging it back towards the pumpkin patch. The blue Junimo let out a series of indignant squeaks as it was hauled back to work.
Dorian chuckled at their antics, the knot of anxiety in his chest loosening just a bit.
"Burning the midnight oil, Dorian?"
The voice came from behind him. Dorian looked back to see John standing in the hallway, wearing his old robe. John paused, realizing Dorian wasn't hunched over a datapad but was simply sitting there, watching the garden.
"Oh," John said, a smile touching his lips. "You're not working."
"Noo..." Dorian admitted, shifting to make room on the step. "I have been in the studio a lot lately, huh?" He gestured with his mug. "There is some hot cocoa left in the pot if you want."
"Ooh, you made some?" John rubbed his hands together. "Don't mind if I do."
Dorian chuckled. He knew his father just wanted to make him laugh. John disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned with a steaming mug. He sat down beside Dorian on the step, looking out at the garden.
To John's eyes, it was just a beautiful, moonlit field of swaying crops. He couldn't see the magical forest spirits running around. "A good view from here, huh?"
"It is," Dorian agreed, watching a green Junimo trip over a melon.
They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying the cool night and the warmth of the cocoa.
"Do I work too much?" Dorian asked suddenly, his voice quiet.
John took a slow sip of his drink. He didn't answer immediately. "Are you happy?" he asked instead.
Dorian looked down at the dark liquid in his cup. "I don't know," he whispered. "Seeing my works as nominees for the Gilded Crescendo... it kind of... makes me feel... less? If that makes sense."
"Why?" John asked gently. "Is it because your name isn't on it?"
Dorian fell silent, pondering the question. His father's words hit a nerve he hadn't realized was exposed. "The day of the gala," he began slowly, "you guys couldn't stay because I hid my identity. The after-parties, the celebrations... you guys can't come because 'Percival' has to be a ghost."
He looked up at the stars, the feeling of being chased returning. "I just feel like I closed a door for Lyra and Marcus. Am I denying my own family the opportunities I have earned? Am I hiding us away when we should be shining?"
John pondered the question, taking a slow, thoughtful sip of his hot cocoa. The steam curled up into the cool night air.
"Ever heard a classic miner's story?" he asked.
Dorian looked at his father, confused by the sudden change of topic. "I don't know. I don't think so."
"It's a story passed down by old miners to the new blood," John began, his voice taking on the cadence of a campfire tale. "It's grueling, cruel work down there in the dark. You are put in a hole and told your team has to meet a quota that seems impossible."
He gestured with his free hand, painting the picture. "When I was starting out, I was a young man, hungry, eager. I heard stories of people making it big by striking a vein of Grade-A minerals, so I rushed in."
John looked out into the distance, past the garden, into his memories. "My team leader was a Neman. A massive guy, easily three meters tall. And he had a beard that reached his chest, intricately braided and woven with charms, beads, and metal rings. As you know, Nemans, men or women only braid their beards to signify a major life event."
"The Surviving Death Braids," Dorian murmured, recalling his xenobiology classes.
"Exactly," John nodded. "Each braid means they looked death in the eye and blinked last. So, imagine my shock having this three-meter-tall giant, with a beard full of braids, as the guide for my first day." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Hahaha, I can tell you, I almost shit my pants."
Dorian laughed, the sound easy and light. "I can imagine."
"As he taught me the basics over the next few days," John continued, "we somehow became close. And one day, when I was panicking about the quota, he told me this story."
John leaned back, his voice dropping an octave.
"Once, there was a young miner who wanted to reach the Heart of the Mountain. He swung his pickaxe with all his might, angry at the stone, terrified he wouldn't make it in time. He hit the rock, expecting it to break, but the rock just dulled his tool. He swung harder, faster, exhausting himself, but the wall wouldn't move. He cried out, 'Why won't you open? I am giving you everything I have!'"
John paused, taking a sip of cocoa.
"Then, an Old Miner came along. He didn't swing hard. He touched the wall gently. He listened to the hum of the stone. He told the boy, 'You are trying to break the mountain. But you cannot break a mountain. You can only ask it to move.' The boy asked how. The Old Miner said, 'You don't look at the whole mountain. You don't look at the Heart. You look at the single crack in front of your nose. You place your chisel there. And you tap. Not to break, but to open.' The boy did as he was told. He stopped looking at the miles of stone ahead of him. He looked at the inch in front of him. He tapped. And the wall... it didn't break. It crumbled, welcoming him in."
Dorian sat silently, pondering the words. His mind, trained for complex narratives and branching dialogue trees, immediately began to dissect the metaphor. 'Was the mountain the industry? Was the pickaxe his talent? Was the "Heart" the Gilded Award?' He furrowed his brow, overthinking, trying to find the perfect logical connection.
"I don't see how that correlates with my situation," Dorian finally admitted, feeling a bit defeated. "I'm not trying to break into the industry; I'm already in it. And I'm not angry at the work."
John looked at him, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "I don't either."
Dorian blinked. "What?"
"I don't know how it correlates either," John admitted with a grin. "But I did take the problem out of your head for a solid minute there, didn't I? Hahahaha!"
Dorian stared at his father for a second, stunned, and then he burst out laughing. It was a full, belly laugh, releasing the tension that had been coiling in his chest for days. "That... that was silly, Dad."
"I was a miner, son. We're simple folk," John chuckled, patting Dorian's knee. His expression softened, becoming serious again, but lighter. "I'm no genius like you. Or Lyra. Or even Marcus, in his own way. But strangely enough, that story was enough for me to stay working as hard as I could for seventy five years."
He looked up at the vast, starry sky of Friton. "Maybe that's the difference between all of you and me. I tend to work on the thing right in front of my face. The rock. The garden. The breakfast. But geniuses like you... you look far ahead. You look at things barely seen on the horizon. You worry about the destination before you've even taken the step."
John smiled, flexing his arm, the muscle still hard from years of labor. "But always remember this. If you are the miner reaching for the Heart of the Mountain... then I am the Prop."
"The prop?"
"The wooden beam," John said, gesturing to the frame of the doorway they sat in. "The heavy timber we wedge against the ceiling of the tunnel. It doesn't dig. It doesn't find the gold. It just stands there, taking the weight of the whole world on its shoulders, so the miners underneath can work without fear of the sky falling on them."
He looked at Dorian, his eyes shining with fierce love. "That is what I am here for. To lift you up. To hold the ceiling. So you don't have to be afraid to look at the horizon."
He smiled. "So, let the Prop worry about the weight, Dorian. You just keep tapping at the rock."
Dorian and John sat in comfortable silence, finishing their cocoa as the steam thinned in the cool night air.
"Oh," John said, pointing towards a distant patch of tall stalks swaying in the moonlight. "Look. The corn is ready to harvest. They grew fast." He stretched his arms. "Want to come and join the harvest next evening, Dorian? It's good exercise."
Dorian squinted. He saw a small, green Junimo hanging precariously from a corn stalk, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. He smiled. "Sure. I could use a break."
…
[Planet: Dagma - Accord Pacification Camp]
Horus moved through the underbrush, a shadow within a shadow. Since finding the cave, his mind felt different. Sharper. It was as if seeds of knowledge had been planted in his brain, memories of tools he had never used, recipes for food he had never tasted, and fighting styles he had never learned.
He crouched behind a thick fern, watching the perimeter of the Accord camp. He opened his palm. He focused. With a shimmer of blue light, a crude, heavy sword materialized in his grip. It was rough, forged from his own memory and the cave's magic, but it was solid.
He also had a new, strange blessing. He could store things... away. Into thin air. Into a space that didn't exist.
'Dear God Bepoo,' he thought, his mind fierce and devout. 'Today, I offer the blood of these heathens to you.'
He saw two Legion troopers standing guard near a supply crate, their backs to the jungle.
Horus moved. He didn't make a sound. He crept up behind the first trooper. With a fluid, practiced motion he hadn't possessed yesterday, he slit the trooper's throat with the crude blade. Before the body could fall, Horus leaped. He coiled his strong, agile legs around the second trooper's neck, using the momentum to slam the man face-first into the mud. He stabbed downward, the crude sword piercing the weak point of the neck seal.
Silence returned to the perimeter.
He saw the lights of the camp sweeping nearby. Quickly.
He touched the sword. It vanished into thin air. He then slammed his sharp, obsidian claws into the troopers' armor, dragging the heavy bodies into the deep shadows of the treeline.
He began to strip them. He strapped the heavy chest piece over his own bare chest. He pulled on the white gauntlets, but they were too small for his changed hands. With a savage jerk, his sharp, obsidian claws tore through the fingertips of the gloves, the white fabric shredding to reveal the lethal black points underneath.
He picked up a helmet. It was damaged, cracked wide open on the left side from the force of his earlier blow. He put it on. The HUD flickered to life, a broken, jittering display, but his new instincts made sense of the chaos.
The shattered visage exposed half of his face, his dark skin gleaming in the moonlight, his eye burning with a cold, terrifying conviction. The pristine white of the armor was a beacon in the dark jungle, a target.
He dipped his clawed hand into the warm, wet mud where the troopers had fallen, mixing it with their pooling blood. He didn't just smear it to hide; he painted it. He streaked the visceral, red-black mixture across the white plastoid in jagged, tribal lines, turning the symbol of Accord purity into a mask of bloody, terrifying vengeance.
Then, a bright, harsh light swept over the spot where the bodies had been. A patrolling Compadre, its alarm klaxon blaring instantly.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! "Intruder Alert! Sector 4!"
Horus didn't panic. He leaped backward, his powerful legs carrying him high into the canopy. He landed silently on a thick branch, watching from above.
Three more Legion troopers rushed to the scene, their rifles raised. "Contact! Where is the contact?"
Horus used the moment. He pulled the stolen Radiant Carbine from his inventory, it just appeared in his hands and took aim.
Crack-thoom.
The lead trooper dropped, a hole in his chest.
Crack-thoom. Crack-thoom.
Two more went down before they even knew where the fire was coming from. The remaining troopers panicked, firing blindly into the trees. "Above! In the trees!"
Horus didn't stay to fight. He put the gun back into his inventory, freeing his hands. He turned and leaped. He sprang from branch to branch with a speed and agility that was unnatural, clearing ten meters in a single bound.
'God Bepoo,' he prayed as he flew through the canopy, the wind rushing past his stolen, blood-streaked helmet. 'Forgive me for I have not freed our people yet. But I promise and swear by the blessing you gave me, I will free my people from the heathens of the sky.'
Below him, the surviving Legion troopers lowered their weapons, staring up at the swaying branches where the assailant had vanished. Their night-vision visors had tracked the movement.
"Did you see that jump?" one trooper whispered, his voice shaking.
"Yeah," his partner replied, scanning the dark jungle with fear. "That wasn't a primitive. That suspect... he has some sort of Solar ability."
"We need to report this to the Commander," the first trooper said. "Now."
…
Several days later, the new wing of the Kepler house on Friton was buzzing with the quiet, focused energy of a hiring process. Ratik sat at her immaculate desk, a holographic feed open in front of her. Leo hovered nearby, acting as the second interviewer and conduit for the reclusive Dorian.
Dorian, as usual, was not visible on the call. He sat in a chair just out of the camera's frame, listening intently, occasionally typing messages to Leo or whispering instructions.
They had just finished interviewing a talented concept artist and a technical animator.
"Thank you," Leo's synthesized voice said, relaying Dorian's message. "We will notify you of our decision within a week."
The animator thanked them and disconnected. The hologram fizzled out.
Dorian sighed loudly from his hidden corner. "Is that it?"
"No," Ratik said, tapping her datapad. "One last candidate. For the programmer role. Bem Lendu."
"Adjust your mic, Dorian," Leo stated flatly. "I can pick up some of your sighs and grunts. It is unprofessional."
"Don't join Ratik to mock me, Leo," Dorian grumbled, but he leaned back further into the shadows.
"Are you ready?" Ratik asked.
"Sure."
Ratik initiated the call. A moment later, a man appeared in the hologram. He was wearing old clothes, a shirt and tie that had seen better decades. He was trying to look formal, but his tie was slightly crooked, and his eyes held a deep, nervous weariness.
"Hello," he said, his voice a little shaky. "I am Bem Lendu."
The interview began. Ratik asked the standard questions about his experience with engine architecture and physics integration. Bem answered them flawlessly, his initial nervousness fading as he talked about the work he clearly loved. His technical knowledge was deep, far deeper than the "generic shooter" developer his resume suggested.
Then came the inevitable question.
"Mr. Lendu," Ratik said, her eyes scanning his file. "There is a significant gap in your employment history. Fifteen years. Can you explain this?"
Bem froze. He had been dreading this moment. He looked at the calm, professional woman and the floating robot. He was sure they would find his status as a felon eventually. Should he lie? Say he was freelancing? Say he was sick? No. They wouldn't hire a liar. But they definitely wouldn't hire a convicted traitor with a life sentence on his record.
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. The spark in his eyes died. "I was... in jail," he said quietly. "And I couldn't find work after I got out."
Silence filled the room. Dorian and Ratik were both momentarily shocked by his honesty. The truth was, Ratik had already run a deep background check. She knew about the conviction, the trial, everything. She had been about to pass on his application, flagging him as a high-risk hire. But Dorian, reviewing the coding test, had insisted. Bem's code for the procedural generation problem was elegant, efficient, and brilliant. Better, even, than Dorian's own initial draft.
"Mr. Lendu," Leo's voice came through, prompted by a furious whisper from Dorian. "Are you not going to explain why you were arrested?"
Bem looked up, surprised they hadn't just cut the feed. "I was... too meek," he admitted, a bitter smile touching his lips. "I... I was put up as a scapegoat for my superior's incompetence. I lost everything."
He looked at the camera, his expression shifting. "But... I found your game. Stardew Valley." His voice grew stronger. "It revived my thirst for life. For the first time in years, I felt like I was starting to live, not just exist. Honestly," he said, a genuine, heartbreaking hope in his eyes, "I just want to be part of something that gave me my life back."
Ratik looked at him for a long moment. Then she glanced at the empty space where Dorian was sitting. She saw a thumbs-up emerge from the shadows.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Lendu," she said, her voice softer than usual. "We will inform you of your status within a week's time."
"Thank you," Bem said, bowing his head. The call ended.
Ratik turned to the empty chair. "Do you want to hire him?"
"Do you think his story is true?" Dorian asked, stepping into the light.
Ratik scoffed. "For an Accord official to throw a subordinate under the bus to save their own skin? I wouldn't put it past them for a second. It happens every week."
"Then put him on the hired list," Dorian said decisively. "We will go through a work-from-home phase first. We will see his performance then. If he's as good as his code says he is... we just found our lead programmer."
⋘ 𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒂.. .⋙
🎮:
- Stardwey Valley: Completed.
- Project Underworld?: ◌ loading...
🎬: -
♬:
- Your Name – Elton John (ch.9)
- A Lovely Night – La La Land (ch.20)
- Merry Go Round of Life – Howl's Moving Castle (ch.25)
- Small Fragile Hearts – Victor Lundberg (ch. 27)
- Skyfall – Adele (ch. 29)
- No Time To Die – Billie Eilish (ch. 30)
- Yesterday – The Beatles (ch. 32)
**A/N**
~Read Advance Chapter and Support me on [email protected]/SmilinKujo~
~🧣KujoW
**A/N**