The sun was now high, bathing the island in a fierce, golden warmth. Ram stirred, his porcelain skin glowing under the light. He sat up and went through a series of slow, clumsy stretches, his newborn muscles still adjusting to the weight of the world.
He looked around the clearing. The massive bones of the beast were all that remained of his feast, and the blue-eyed raven was busy picking at the stubborn bits of meat left behind. Ram reached behind his back, feeling for the heavy wings and the heat of the golden fire, but his back was smooth and bare. He didn't panic or wonder where they had gone; he simply stood up, accepting the change with the same quiet indifference he had shown the night before.
The raven stopped its scavenging and looked at him. It gave a sharp, deliberate nod of its head. Ram blinked, watched the bird for a second, and then mimicked the gesture, nodding back simply because the bird had done it first.
With no destination in mind, Ram began to walk. He headed toward the "path" the monster had carved out when it charged him—a wide, violent scar of knocked-down trees and scraped earth. He was still practicing, his steps uneven and slow, but he was learning. The raven took flight and landed softly on his shoulder. Ram didn't even flinch or look at the bird; he just kept moving forward.
As he walked through the dense jungle, many eyes watched from the shadows. Great prehistoric cats and scaled predators peered through the leaves, but none of them pounced. Whether it was the lingering scent of the golden fire on him or the presence of the mysterious blue-eyed bird, the island's hunters chose to let the boy pass in peace.
Finding a sturdy fallen branch, Ram picked it up and began using it as a cane to steady his staggering steps. After twenty minutes of trekking through the wreckage of the forest, the scraped path ended abruptly at the edge of a wide, sparkling river.
Ram stopped. He had never seen so much water in his life. He bent down, his golden eyes wide with curiosity, and tried to "grab" the blue surface. His fingers closed on nothing. He tried again, frustrated and confused, but the blue just slipped through his grasp.
Finally, he cupped his small hands together and scooped. When he lifted them, he saw the clear liquid shimmering in his palms. A wide, genuine smile broke across his porcelain face—the joy of a child discovering a new toy. He watched as the water leaked through his fingers and flowed back into the river, then repeated the process, mesmerized by the way it moved.
Then, without a second thought, he jumped in.
**Splash.**
The river wasn't deep—about four feet—while Ram stood at five feet. He wasn't in danger of drowning, but the sensation was overwhelming. He stood perfectly still in the center of the current, the cool water rushing against his skin.
He closed his eyes. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever felt—a constant, rhythmic pressure that was both soft and unstoppable. Inside his mind, something began to click. He wasn't just feeling the water; his "Anomaly" mind was **registering** it.
The way the liquid curved around his legs, the way the current pushed against the rocks, the ebb and the flow. He stood there for a long time, a white statue in the blue stream, as the concept of *Flow* burned itself into his memory.
For hours, the world of the "Green Star" vanished for Ram. He stood in the river, anchored to the bed, while his consciousness drifted into a strange, meditative zone. He didn't just feel the water; he *became* the current.
Deep in his mind, he "heard" the ripple of a single drop falling from a leaf a mile away. He "felt" the swaying of underwater grass and the frantic, rhythmic heartbeat of fish darting through the reeds. It wasn't sound—it was a sensory registration of the world's flow. The **"Will"** of the world was beginning to speak to him, though he had no name for it yet.
When Ram finally opened his golden eyes, the sun had passed its zenith. He waded back to the shore, his wet clothes clinging to his porcelain skin. He looked at his dripping hands, wondering why everything felt different, but his quiet contemplation was shattered by the raven.
The bird was frantic, letting out sharp, metallic clicks and whistling sounds. It dived from its perch, circling Ram's head before landing firmly on his shoulder. With a sharp, deliberate movement, the raven pointed its beak toward the left—into a part of the forest where the trees grew so densely they formed a natural, wooden fortress.
Ram stared in that direction. As he looked, he felt it again—the sensation from the river. But unlike the smooth, constant flow of the water, the "flow" coming from the dense trees felt jagged and heavy. It was a presence.
His curiosity, fueled by this new sense, pushed him forward. He picked up his wooden cane, the wet earth squelching between his toes, and began to walk toward the dark heart of the forest. The raven gripped his shoulder tighter, its sapphire eyes scanning the shadows as they approached the "fortress" of trees.
Whatever was waiting in the darkness didn't have the simple mind of a beast. It had a "flow" that felt old and powerful..
Ram walked with slow, deliberate steps, his wooden cane thumping against the mossy floor. The raven sat like a silent sentinel on his shoulder, its sapphire eyes darting toward every shadow. As they reached the boundary of the "fortress," Ram stopped, his golden eyes widening in wonder.
The trees here were unlike any he had seen before. Their trunks weren't just bark and knots; they bore the distinct shapes of **faces**. Some looked pained, some looked peaceful, and others looked as if they were mid-scream.
Ram reached out and touched one. He expected the cold, rough texture of wood, but beneath his fingers, it felt strangely like skin—thick, ancient, and alive. He moved from tree to tree, his porcelain fingers tracing the wooden lips and eyes with a look of pure bewilderment. He tried to reach for a face higher up, but his ten-year-old frame was too small, and he couldn't touch it.
Suddenly—*shwoosh*.
The "flow" he had felt in the river surged through his mind again, but this time it was sharper, like a beckoning call. It was coming from deeper within the wooden labyrinth.
Ram abandoned the faces and pushed forward. The trees grew closer together, their branches weaving overhead to create a veil that blocked out the sun, turning the forest into a world of emerald twilight. As he reached the final layer of the "protection," he passed one last tree. This one stood apart from the rest. Carved—or perhaps grown—into its trunk was the face of a **beautiful woman**. Her expression was one of eternal sorrow, her eyes closed as if in a deep sleep.
Ram paused for only a second. He didn't know what "beauty" was, and he didn't care for the mystery of the woman's face. His focus was entirely on the power radiating from just beyond the veil.
He stepped through the final thicket and emerged into a wide, silent clearing.
There, in the very heart of the forest, stood an ancient **temple**.
It was a structure that shouldn't have existed on an island of prehistoric beasts. It was made of white stone that shimmered with a faint, ghostly light, similar to the porcelain color of Ram's own skin. Vines and roots tried to reclaim the stone, but the temple seemed to push them back with a silent, invisible force.
The "flow" here wasn't just a feeling anymore—it was a roar in Ram's head. The raven on his shoulder grew restless, flapping its wings and clicking its beak as it stared at the temple's dark, open entrance.
Ram gripped his cane tighter. He didn't know about history, or Heroes, or Marines. He only knew that the thing calling to him was inside that stone.