Galen's tent smelled of vinegar and ozone.
It was a chaotic mess of scrolls, glass beakers, and disassembled weapon parts. In the center, on a bloodstained operating table usually reserved for amputations, lay the corpse of the machine.
Marcus stood over it. His burned hand was wrapped in linen soaked in numbing salve. It throbbed—a dull, rhythmic pulse that synced with the headache behind his eyes.
Galen was frantic. The physician's ears were heavily bandaged, yellow pus seeping through the cloth. He couldn't hear a thing. He moved with the jerky, erratic energy of a man whose mind was racing faster than his body could follow.
"Light!" Galen shouted, his voice too loud in the confined space. "More light!"
Narcissus held two torches close to the table. The flickering orange glow illuminated the exposed guts of the glider.
It was a marvel of nightmares.
Galen's hands, stained with ink and grease, tore at the bamboo casing. He pulled out the central drive mechanism. It wasn't magic. It was a spring—a coil of dark, blue-tempered steel as thick as a man's thumb.
"Damascus!" Galen yelled, tapping the metal with a chisel. Clink. "High carbon! Folded steel! They pressed this cold! Do you understand? They have hydraulic presses!"
Marcus ignored the shouting. He knew the enemy had industry. He didn't care about the spring.
He stared at the nose of the glider.
There, nestled in a bed of wool to dampen vibration, was the glass tube.
"This," Marcus said, pointing.
Galen didn't hear him. Marcus grabbed Galen's shoulder and forced him to look. He pointed at the tube, then made a gesture: Careful.
Galen squinted. He picked up a pair of fine bronze tweezers. With surgical precision, he disconnected the wires leading to the tube.
He held it up to the light.
Inside the glass, metal filings sat loosely between two silver electrodes.
"A switch?" Galen shouted. "It closes when shaken?"
Marcus shook his head. He grabbed a slate and a piece of chalk. He wrote in block letters:
RADIO. INVISIBLE LIGHTNING. IT CATCHES THE SPARK.
Galen read the words. He frowned. He looked at the tube, then at Marcus. The physician's eyes went wide. The madness in them shifted to awe.
"Voice of Jupiter," Galen whispered.
Marcus grabbed the slate again.
IT GUIDES THEM. LEFT. RIGHT. DROP.
He erased it quickly and wrote again, pressing hard enough to snap the chalk.
WE NEED TO HEAR IT.
Galen looked at the tube, then at the table where Marcus had dumped the remains of his laptop.
The laptop was dead. Marcus had smashed the lithium battery with a rock in Episode 32 to stop the virus. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks. The casing was bent.
But the speakers? The copper wiring inside the motherboard?
Galen understood. He didn't need words. He grabbed the laptop. He didn't treat it with reverence anymore. It wasn't a god-artifact; it was a resource.
He pried the casing open with a knife. Crack. Plastic flew.
Marcus winced. That machine had been his only link to home. Watching Galen gut it felt like watching an autopsy on his own memory.
Let it go, the Ghost whispered. The past is dead. Use the bones.
Galen ripped out the speaker wires. He stripped the insulation with his teeth. He connected the laptop's tiny, high-quality speakers to the crude copper coil of the drone's receiver.
"Power!" Galen shouted.
He pointed to a jar in the corner. A "Baghdad Battery"—a clay pot filled with vinegar, housing a copper cylinder and an iron rod. Crude, low voltage, but enough.
Galen connected the leads.
Hiss.
Static filled the tent.
It sounded like frying bacon. Crackle. Pop. Shhhht.
Narcissus jumped back, his hand going to his axe. "It speaks!"
Marcus leaned in. He closed his eyes, filtering out the roar of the static, searching for a pattern.
Click. Click. Buzz.
Nothing but atmospheric noise.
"Adjust it!" Marcus gestured at the coil.
Galen tapped the glass tube, shaking the filings loose. He slid a magnetic rock closer to the coil, tuning the induction.
Screeeech.
The sound changed. It wasn't random anymore. It was rhythmic. A carrier wave.
And then, a voice.
It was faint. Ghostly. It sounded like it was coming from the bottom of the ocean.
"...correction... wind... three degrees..."
Marcus froze. His breath caught in his throat.
English.
It was distorted, tinny, and clipped, but it was undeniable.
"...Sector Four... impact confirmed... reload... reload..."
Marcus grabbed the edge of the table. His knuckles turned white.
For thirty-three episodes, the enemy had been abstract. A "Red Blob" on a map. A "Horde." Even "The Player" had just been text on a screen.
This was a human voice. A male voice. Bored. Clinical. American accent, maybe mid-western.
"Reload," the voice said again. "Cycle two. Launch in... mark."
Narcissus looked at Marcus. "What tongue is that, Caesar? Is it Parthian?"
"No," Marcus whispered. "It's mine."
The realization hit him like a hammer. The enemy wasn't just a time traveler. He wasn't just a gamer.
He was a professional.
The voice didn't sound like a tyrant gloating. It sounded like an air traffic controller.
Click. The transmission cut. The static returned.
Marcus opened his eyes. He wasn't shaking anymore.
The fear was gone.
Fear comes from the unknown. Monsters are scary. Gods are scary.
Guys with radios? Guys checking wind speeds?
Marcus knew how to kill those.
He looked at the wreckage of the glider. He looked at the gutted laptop.
The "Tech Gap" was real. The enemy had better steel, better comms, better reach.
But they were arrogant.
They were broadcasting in the clear. They didn't encrypt the signal because they thought they were the only ones with a radio. They thought Marcus was an NPC—a "Non-Player Character" with a sword, stuck in the Iron Age.
They didn't know the NPC was listening.
"Galen," Marcus said. He grabbed the physician's arm to get his attention.
He wrote on the slate:
CAN YOU BUILD MORE?
Galen looked at the glass tube. He nodded slowly. "Glass. Filings. Wire. Yes. It is simple. Delicate, but simple."
BUILD FIFTY, Marcus wrote. I WANT TO HEAR THEM BREATHING.
Galen grinned. It was a jagged, manic look. He loved the challenge.
Marcus turned to Narcissus. The giant was watching him, waiting for the panic to return. Waiting for the weakness he had seen in the mud.
Marcus stood straight. The Ghost draped the mantle of Emperor over his shoulders.
"Get the shovels," Marcus said.
"We march?" Narcissus asked.
"No," Marcus said. He picked up the crude receiver unit—the glass tube and the speaker—and held it up. "We dig."
He walked to the tent flap and threw it open. Outside, the camp was still chaotic, fires burning low.
"They are watching the roads," Marcus said, his voice cold and sharp. "They have eyes in the sky. If we march, they bomb us. If we stay, they bomb us."
He looked at the dark hills to the North.
"So we disappear."
He turned back to his men.
"Dig in. Trenches. Tunnels. We go underground. We turn this camp into a graveyard. Let them bomb the dirt."
Marcus looked at the radio receiver in his hand.
"They think this is a video game," he muttered. "They think they can sit in a tower and click a mouse."
He clenched his fist around the device.
"I'm going to drag them into the mud."
He looked at Narcissus.
"And when they come down here to find us? When they have to step into the dark?"
Marcus smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of the Ghost.
"Then we eat them alive."