Something had crashed here long before the war began.

Not by accident.

And not without purpose.

On the far side of the forest, miles deep within the jungle’s densest reaches, Bhima crouched low behind a thicket of ferns, his gaze fixed on the clearing ahead.

The trees bowed outward, warped by some long-forgotten impact. Bark peeled from their trunks in curling strips, and the ground bore scorched impressions—shadows of something that had once burned white-hot.

At the center, half-buried in mud and moss, lay a massive structure.

Black metal, twisted into impossible angles.
Fragments of it hummed faintly, a low vibration pulsing like breath.

Nakula clicked his tongue. “That’s not a meteor.”

Bhima’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s a war machine.”

It loomed like a fallen titan, half-consumed by the jungle. Vines coiled around its limbs like shackles, yet even time had failed to claim it completely.

They advanced slowly.

Careful. Measured.

The hull was etched with strange glyphs—curved, flowing symbols that glowed faintly in the dim light. None of them recognized the language. The air buzzed with static, thick with tension, as if the jungle itself was holding its breath.

Shadeva climbed onto a fractured slab of metal, crouching beside what remained of a shattered viewport. Inside, a cockpit lay in ruin—glass fractured into a web of cracks, panels overtaken by moss.

“This thing crashed here years ago,” he said. “Maybe decades. But it’s Riftwalker tech. No question.”

Bhima ran his hand along the hull, feeling the faint vibration beneath his palm.

“Something this big doesn’t just fall out of the sky unnoticed.”

They moved deeper into the wreckage, stepping through warped corridors where vines pierced the walls like veins. The structure groaned softly around them, as though it were not entirely dead.

At the heart of it, in a circular chamber dimly lit by flickering lights, they found it.

A machine.

Large. Blue. Silent.

It sat slumped at the center of the room, surrounded by broken cables and shattered glass, its frame half-buried beneath encroaching roots. Its form was alien—smooth and fluid, like water frozen mid-motion. Bioluminescent patterns shimmered faintly across its surface.

At its core, a dim light pulsed.

Slow.

Steady.

Like a sleeping heartbeat.

Nakula stepped closer, wary. “What in the stars…?”

The machine did not respond.

It simply… existed.

Still. Patient.

Watching—though it had no eyes.

Shadeva crouched beside it, studying the glyphs circling its chestplate. “It’s not dead.”

Bhima’s expression hardened. “No,” he said. “It’s waiting.”

“For what?”

Bhima didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

There was something about it—something unsettling. It didn’t feel lifeless. It felt dormant. Like a dream suspended in time, waiting for the moment it would be called back into motion.

Then—

Click.

A sharp sound cut through the silence.

Another followed.

Mechanical. Precise.

Whirring.

Shadeva straightened instantly. “Scouts.”

From the tree line, figures emerged.

Tall. Armored. Their visors glowed with cold violet light.

Riftwalker scouts.

Not many—but enough.

“Fall back,” Bhima ordered.

They moved without hesitation.

Nakula ripped a glowing data crystal from a console. Shadeva tore a shard etched with glyphs from the wall. Bhima gathered what he could, and together they withdrew as silent alarms pulsed faintly through the wreckage.

The Riftwalkers gave chase—swift, relentless.

But the jungle turned against them.

Roots snagged at their boots. Thorned vines tore at armor. Shadows swallowed Bhima’s team whole, closing behind them like a curtain.

By the time they reached their rendezvous point, the sun had vanished beyond the canopy. Night crept in, and the first stars flickered overhead.

Bhima paused.

He looked back.

Deep into the jungle.

The wreckage lay hidden once more.

And within it—

the machine remained.

Silent.

Unmoving.

Dreaming.

Waiting.

Back at Arjuna’s camp, a fire crackled at the center of their circle.

Its warmth did little to lift the weight in the air.

Arjuna sat apart, arms resting on his knees, his gaze distant—lost somewhere far beyond the present.

Bhima stepped into the firelight, his cloak torn and streaked with mud. Nakula and Shadeva followed close behind.

“You’re back,” Star said, rising. “Did you find it?”

Bhima nodded. “It wasn’t a star.”

He unwrapped a bundle from his satchel and placed it on a flat stone.

Inside lay fragments of dark metal, cold to the touch, faintly pulsing with an inner glow. Strange symbols etched across their surface shimmered in the firelight.

“It’s a war machine,” Bhima said. “Riftwalker design.”

Klara leaned closer, studying the fragments. “From another world?"

“Exactly,” Bhima replied. “It didn’t fall. It was sent.”

Siegfried exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. “So they’re testing us. Sending scouts. War machines.”

Shadeva added, “We found one of their constructs. Still operational, maybe. And we weren’t alone—Riftwalker scouts are already moving through the forest.”

Silence followed.

Heavy. Immediate.

“They’re here,” Bhima said. “Now. Which means they’re watching.”

Arjuna lifted his head, his voice low. “So this… this is how it begins again.”

Star’s gaze lingered on the metal in Bhima’s hands, then shifted to the fire.

“No,” she said quietly. “This is how we stop it before it begins.”

The flames crackled, rising for a moment as though stirred by her resolve.

Above them, the stars pierced through the canopy—silent witnesses to what was coming.

And somewhere, deep beneath the roots of the world…

something that had been silent for far too long

finally opened its eyes.