Chapter 26 - It Breathes, Again

The morning sky was painted in soft blues and silvers, the kind of light that belonged to beginnings.

Ren stood near the edge of the village, tightening the straps of his satchel. Around him, the villagers gathered, some offering bundles of food, others simply watching in silence.

Behind them, the relic drill still churned quietly, guarded by the early-shift team.

Tobren stood nearby, already directing a group to reinforce the well walls with timber and stone.

Ren turned to London and Fera, the two chosen wagon drivers. Both were equipped with travel cloaks and small sidearms. Behind them, Becca and Daro were already harnessed, the wagon loaded with trade goods and barter items: leftover preserved meat, bundles of herbs, hand-woven baskets.

"You two ride the wagon," Ren said. His voice was calm, but firm. "Stay with the guild members, but don't take orders from them. You're representing the village. Speak if you must, but observe everything. Watch how people treat you. How they treat us. Learn."

London gave a single nod. "Got it."

Fera adjusted her gloves. "Okay."

Ren stepped back and turned to the four guild members, Caden, Solen, Mirana, and Kaela already mounted and prepared to depart.

"You've done your job," he said, respectful. "No hard feelings if you leave once we reach Ironpeak. You've earned that choice."

Caden tilted his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "You really plan on walking the whole way again?"

Ren nodded.

Solen leaned forward slightly. "Why not ride with us? You're still recovering."

"I need to walk," Ren said. "The map only reacted when I neared the area. That's my guess. And if I'm right…"

Kaela, already halfway turned away, muttered under her breath. "Still chasing ghosts…"

Mira raised a brow but said nothing.

Caden chuckled softly. "You're something else, Ren. You know that?"

Ren gave a small grin. "I'll take that as a compliment. Don't miss me, we'll meet again soon."

"Pfft. Hah!" One of them laughed, and the rest followed. Lanton shook his head, his grin easy.

"Don't go getting eaten by a rock lizard or something," someone teased.

Ren's grin widened. "I'd feel bad for the lizard."

Laughter rippled through the group, light and genuine. Just for a moment, the burden of the wasteland seemed to lift.

Then the wagon creaked as it began to roll. The horses huffed, hooves kicking up dust.

Ren raised a hand in farewell.

They waved back, their figures growing smaller with each turn of the wheel. The laughter faded. The road stretched empty.

Ren turned to Tobren.

"You keep building. Start with the elders. Bathrooms, shelters, fences. You know the order. Follow the plan."

Then, to the whole group:

"I'll bring back what we need. Tools. Seeds. Rope. Everything."

And he began to walk, alone. Toward the hills.

***

Dust kicked up with every step of his worn boots, the rising sun at his back casting a long shadow down the dirt trail.

He carried only what he needed:

A hammer at his belt.

A hoe tied across his back.

A satchel with dried food, flint, a cloth map, rope.

No blade. No armor. Just tools.

The same ones he used to rebuild a village.

The same ones he would use again.

Every rise, every bend, every sunbaked stone reminded him of the last time he walked this road. When it was just him, one piece of bread, and tired feet.

The land looked different now.

Not greener. Not yet.

But it felt different.

***

As Ren passed cracked ridges and scattered rock fields, he paused now and then.

Ren knelt, brushed soil aside, he pressed his palm against the ground.

He wasn't a mage. He couldn't sense mana.

But he could feel something else. Density, texture, potential.

The instincts of a planner. The instincts that hadn't failed him yet.

And then, just past a worn hill crest…

A glint.

Not sunlight on metal, but something caught beneath a fractured ledge of exposed stone.

He crouched, scraping gently with the flat end of his hoe. Loose dirt fell away, revealing veins of pale, waxy green threading through the dark rock.

He leaned closer. Not ore. Not slag. This was different.

Carefully, he chipped at the edge with his hammer. A solid piece came loose with a clean snap.

Smooth. Cool to the touch. It held a natural luster. Subtle, not flashy, but unmistakably valuable to the trained eye. A deep, translucent green core ran through its heart.

Ren turned it in his palm, the old instincts stirring.

"Nephrite…" he whispered. "No. Jadeite. The good kind."

The kind that emperors once wore. The kind used in royal seals and ceremonial blades. Pure green jade, hidden beneath ash and dust.

His heart beat faster, but his hands stayed steady.

He scanned the surrounding stone wall, running his fingers along the exposed striations. More greener, deeper inside. A pocket, maybe. A seam.

And next to it, something else. Rougher in texture. Unassuming at first glance, but under the sunlight… the tiniest reflection. Like glass embedded in earth.

He knelt again, struck gently with the hammer, and pried a pebble-sized chunk free.

It sparkled, but not like raw stone. The angles were too clean. The facets too precise.

Ren held it up to the light, slowly rotating it between thumb and finger.

Each turn revealed a shape, a deliberate cut. Not chipped by time or pressure.

A shaped diamond.

Not quartz. Not random.

"...This was carved," he breathed. "Not dropped. Maybe left by someone."

The shape was familiar, something ceremonial. Maybe once part of a clasp. Or a crown.

It wasn't just a gem. It was proof.

Of what, he didn't know.

But someone had been here before him. Long before.

And they'd left something behind.

He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of that moment settle into his bones.

More valuable than the silver earring he gave Evelyn.

More than the wagon. More than the horses.

Maybe even more than a week's worth of supplies for fifty people.

He stared down at the earth. Scarred, quiet, forgotten.

But not empty.

He took out a strip of cloth and carefully wrapped the finds, jadeite and shaped diamond, nestling them deep inside his pack. Then he knelt and stacked three stones at the base of the rock face. Not too large. Just enough to remember. Just enough to return.

With a piece of charcoal, he scratched the mark onto the edge of his map. Faint, but deliberate.

Then he walked on.

Slow steps. His eyes scanned left, then right. The terrain shifted. Less stone, more scrub, brittle grass rising where the land hadn't yet decided if it wanted to die.

He kept going, one foot at a time. Hope tugged at his thoughts with every rise and dip in the soil.

Nothing.

Another ridge. Still nothing.

He paused, standing tall again, the wind brushing past his face.

And then he laughed.

Quiet at first, then a breathy chuckle that slipped into the open sky.

Not because of the silence. Not because of the land.

But because the map was breathing again.

He pulled it out with trembling fingers. The ink shimmered faintly. New lines slowly crawled into existence across the lower edge, marks that hadn't been there an hour ago. Like veins pulsing under skin. A pulse. A pattern.

Something had changed.

Another signal.

Not noise. Not random.

The map had awakened again. Responding, somehow, to him.

To movement. To discovery. To belief.

His grip tightened.

It didn't matter if he didn't understand it fully. Not yet.

Because it meant one thing:

There's more.

More beneath the soil.

More to uncover.

And he was the only one who could read it.