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    merlin_os\MnemonicEngine>Beginning Recollection


    merlin_os\MnemonicEngine>Recollection ID:J053413


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    The lives my children lead are far removed from the world of my childhood. I grew up in Domatoba, a village stitched into the canopy of ancient trees. Our homes clung to trunks like stubborn barnacles, built on stilts or nestled in the embrace of converging branches. Building among the trees was slow, dangerous work, but it saved us from the relentless spring floods that would otherwise wash away everything we built on the jungle floor.


    At the heart of it all stood the Mother Tree—an anomaly, an impossibility. Its roots sprawled across the earth, weaving natural basins that cradled rainwater. The village elders called it a gift from the gods, though now I understand we were only repurposing what others left behind. Once, long ago, they’d found strange cylinders labeled filters among ancient debris, and from them, clear water poured like a miracle.


    The gods were everywhere in Domatoba—etched into every artifact we uncovered. Manuals, the elders called them. Pages of alien symbols no one could read. Children were shown the books early, and most lost interest when the symbols refused to make sense. But the elders… they hoarded those manuals in a temple-library and whispered secrets among themselves.


    My naming ceremony was to take place beneath the Mother Tree. Fourteen summers of life had earned me this rite: the right to choose my name, to apprentice under a tradesman, to begin building a life of my own.


    But the gods had other plans.


    The first sign was light—a sharp, blue glare that cut through the canopy and painted our faces in unnatural hues. Gasps rippled through the crowd gathered under the Mother Tree. I grabbed my sister''s hand as a red comet blazed overhead, trailing fire and chaos. Smaller orbs fell from its tail, crashing into the jungle in bursts of flame.


    Then came the silence.


    And then—the wind. A furnace-hot gust swept through the clearing, carrying the smell of scorched earth and something metallic.


    Some villagers broke away, stumbling back to check on their homes and farms. But most of us remained frozen, eyes locked on the elders beneath the Mother Tree, waiting for them to speak.


    Waiting for someone to explain what had just happened.


    But no one spoke. Not at first.


    The Mother Tree’s roots vibrated faintly beneath my bare feet, a hum so subtle I might have missed it if not for the stillness. My sister turned to me, her wide eyes reflecting the strange blue light still lingering in the sky.


    Somewhere far off, beyond the village, smoke began to rise.


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    It’s been seven days since the comet fell. Seven days since the sky screamed and the Mother Tree trembled.


    The jungle hasn’t been the same. Birds no longer call at dawn, and the air tastes of ash and something sharp, something unnatural.


    The village elders spoke of Cometstrike—a punishment from the gods, a sign of their displeasure. But in their eyes, that displeasure had a focus. Me.


    The accusations had started subtly—whispers carried on the still air, sideways glances during morning gatherings. But suspicion spreads like mold in damp wood. By the third day, mothers were pulling their children away when I passed. By the fifth, my name—no, not my name, because I’d never been given one—my face had become a curse.


    They said the gods marked me. That my naming ceremony had summoned the wrath of the skies. That the comet had been my fault.


    I tried to defend myself. I tried to explain—to plead. But how can you reason with people who are already afraid?


    On the seventh day, they gathered beneath the Mother Tree again. There was no ceremony this time. No firelight or celebration. Just the cold, flat words of Elder Kaelin:


    "You must leave."


    There were no tears, no farewells. My sister wasn’t even allowed to see me off.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    They gave me a bag—dried fruits, a waterskin, and a crude knife—and sent me into the jungle. Away from the canopy bridges, away from the pools of filtered water, away from the only home I had ever known.


    The jungle swallowed me whole.


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    The jungle had gone quiet again. Not the stillness of twilight or the lazy hum of midday heat—this silence was sharp, breathless, like the world itself was holding back a scream.


    For hours, I had walked with nothing but the distant echo of my own footsteps and the occasional snap of a branch beneath my feet. The weight of exile hung heavy on my shoulders, but something else gnawed at me now—a pull, a feeling in my gut like invisible threads drawing me forward.


    Then, I smelled it.


    It wasn’t the sharp green scent of wet leaves or the musky rot of jungle floor. It was something… wrong. Acrid and sour, but also strangely cold, like rain on stone. I couldn’t place it, but it made my stomach twist.


    When I pushed through the last curtain of tangled vines, the world opened up before me, and I froze.


    The clearing was a graveyard.


    Black scars marred the earth, jagged trenches carved by something impossibly heavy and fast. Trees lay uprooted and splintered like broken bones. Shards of something silvery and glass-like glinted in the soft light filtering through the canopy.


    Bodies were strewn everywhere, their positions twisted in final moments of violence. I recognized the Zydrils immediately—their chitinous armor glistened darkly, some of their limbs bent at angles no body should ever bend. But among them were… others.


    Figures of metal and bone-like structures lay broken and scattered. Their limbs were long and thin, with exposed joints and cables sprawled out like the roots of dying plants. Weapons, unlike anything I’d ever seen, were gripped in skeletal hands.


    I swallowed hard, stepping forward. My bare feet sank into soft earth and something colder—thicker. Blood, I realized too late.


    I moved carefully through the wreckage, eyes darting to every shadow. Every so often, I thought I saw movement—just a twitch, a reflection of light on metal. But it was always still when I looked again.


    One of the metal things was leaning against a broken tree trunk, its chest cavity split open like an insect’s carapace. The inside glistened with something crystalline, and thin tendrils hung limp, as if whatever powered it had been ripped away.


    But there were no signs of life. No survivors.


    Or so I thought.


    At the far edge of the clearing, where the ground dipped into the shadow of heavy foliage, something stirred. A silhouette moved between the half-toppled trees, slow and deliberate.


    It stepped into the clearing.


    At first, I thought it was a person—a survivor, someone who had escaped whatever carnage had happened here. It wore a long robe, dark and tattered, draped over its form and obscuring its features. Its hood was pulled low, casting shadows where a face should have been. In one hand, it carried a long, slender staff—or perhaps a weapon? The metal glinted faintly beneath patches of dried mud and ash.


    But its walk was wrong.


    Too smooth, too deliberate, and yet oddly stiff—as if every step was carefully calculated.


    It stopped, facing towards me, I froze, gripping the small knife the elders had given me, though it felt laughably useless in my hand.


    For a long moment, neither of us moved.


    Then, it spoke.


    Or rather—it tried to speak.


    A garbled sound emerged from beneath the hood, a burst of static and unintelligible syllables, like a broken bird trying to mimic human speech.


    It’s not a person. The realization hit me like cold water. It’s one of them.


    I took a step back, my knife trembling in my hand. The figure froze, and for a moment, it seemed almost… confused?


    Then I did something I hadn’t planned.


    “Who… are you?” I asked, my voice trembling.


    The figure tilted its hood again. Static crackled, and then it repeated my words—badly.


    “Wh—Who… aaar… yyyouuu?”


    It sounded like rocks scraping together, but there was something intentional about it. Something trying to learn.


    I swallowed hard. “I… I’m—”


    I stopped myself. I didn’t have a name.


    “I’m from Domatoba,” I said instead. “The village.”


    The figure hesitated. Then, slowly, it repeated, “Doo-ma-to… bah.”


    I nodded. “Yes. Domatoba.”


    The voice crackled again, but this time, there was something… sharper. More clarity.


    “Doma…toba. Vill…age.”


    It was learning.


    The figure raised its head slightly, and I saw, just for a moment, the faintest glimmer of light beneath the hood—a soft, steady blue glow, hidden in shadow.


    “Not… threat,” it said carefully, the words still fractured but clear enough to understand.


    I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.


    “What happened here?” I asked, gesturing to the wreckage around us.


    The figure tilted its head again, as if considering the question. Its free hand twitched slightly, fingers flexing as though recalling something.


    “Conflict,” it said simply. “Zydril… hostile. Response… required.”


    My skin prickled at its tone—clinical, detached. But beneath it, there was something faint. A… weariness?


    Its head turned slightly toward the distant horizon, where faint plumes of smoke still rose into the sky.


    “Survivor,” it said softly. “You… survivor.”


    I nodded hesitantly.


    “And you?” I asked. “Are you… alive?”


    The figure was silent for a long moment, then finally spoke again, voice low and heavy with static.


    “Abraham.”


    I blinked. “What?”


    “Name… Abraham.”


    It had a name.


    The figure—Abraham—shifted slightly, the weapon in its hand lowering until its sharp edge pointed toward the ground.


    “Survivor,” Abraham said again. “We… move. Unsafe here.”


    The jungle rustled faintly in the distance. Something—or someone—was approaching.


    Without thinking, I stepped closer to Abraham.


    “Where are we going?” I asked.


    The faint blue glow under the hood brightened slightly.


    “Forward.”


    And with that, Abraham turned, its robe flowing behind it like a shadow as it began walking deeper into the jungle.


    After a brief hesitation, consideration being given for my circumstances and finding no better option, I followed.