In The Ruins, A Compass—Not A Grave.

Dawn on Oenrust Island was a soft hymn of waves and wind. Mist clung to the mangroves, their roots cradling schools of darting silver fish, while the calls of hornbills and the rustle of macaques in the canopy filled the air. David stood on the deck of the research station, his sleeves rolled up, a map of the island’s coral reefs fluttering in his hands. His team gathered around him, their faces lit by the golden haze of sunrise.

“The Nine Dragons want us to think we’re outmatched,” David said, his voice steady, almost reverent. “But this?” He gestured to the untouched beach, where sea turtles crawled toward the surf. “This is why we’re winning. Every nest protected, every reef restored—it’s a language they don’t understand.”

Felix leaned against a driftwood post, arms crossed. A scar on his forearm—a relic from his Syndicate days—itched as he watched the tree line. “They understand fire,” he muttered. “And they’re not here to talk.”