Time in the bunker did not pass; it accumulated. It gathered in the corners like dust, measured not by the rising and setting of a sun Homer could barely see, but by the steady, rhythmic restoration of his own body.
For two weeks, the routine was absolute. Wake up. Eat the nutrient paste that tasted like wet cardboard mixed with vitamins. Eat the hex-deer jerky he had learned to smoke over a heating vent. Exercise until his muscles burned and his lungs screamed, forcing the atrophy of three hundred millennia to retreat. And then, study.
The book he had stolen, The Chronicle of Light, was not just a history text; it was a Rosetta Stone.
"Pronunciation is incorrect," Castor's voice cut through the silence of the bunker, overlaying a phonetic diagram on Homer's vision. "You are aspirating the vowel. The Elven tongue—specifically the High Dialect of the Sahara region—relies on tonal inflection. You sound like a choking goblin."
"I sound like a guy who hasn't spoken in an eon," Homer grumbled, rubbing his throat. He looked at the glowing holographic script floating in front of him. "Try again. El-ar-thas. Men-cal-or."
"Better," Castor allowed. "Though you still lack the inherent arrogance required to truly pass as a native speaker. You must project the assumption that you are the most important being in the room."
"I'll work on my ego," Homer muttered.
They spent hours deconstructing the language. It was a fascinating, terrifying puzzle. The root structure of the language was indeed a bastardized mix of ancient Romance languages—bits of French, Italian, and Spanish—but evolved over geological timeframes and infused with what Castor identified as "Command Syntax."
"Look at this," Homer pointed to a passage describing a harvesting spell. "The word for 'grow' isn't just a verb. It's a command string. Cres-cere. If you say it with the right pitch, the nanites in the soil recognize the frequency and execute a rapid-mitosis protocol."
"Precisely," Castor replied. "They are not asking the plants to grow. They are hacking the root systems with voice commands. It is crude, inefficient, and remarkably effective given their lack of hardware."
By the end of the second week, Homer could read the text fluently. He could speak enough to pass for a traveler from a distant province, provided he kept his sentences short and his accent vague. But language was only half the battle. He needed to know the enemy.
And the enemy was close.
The opportunity came on the fourteenth day.
Homer was three kilometers from the bunker, deep in the dense canopy of the oversized rainforest that now covered the ancient Sahara. He was wearing his modified cryo-suit, but over it, he had draped a mesh of light-bending fibers he'd fabricated in the bunker—an active camouflage cloak.
"Stealth Field active," Castor reported. "Power consumption nominal. Visual distortion is less than 0.2%. To the naked eye, you are a heat haze. To a magical sensor... we are about to find out."
Homer crouched behind the massive, moss-covered root of a tree the size of a skyscraper. Below him, in a clearing created by a fallen branch, a patrol was moving.
They were Elves. Five of them.
They were breathtaking. Their armor was not metal, but a seamless, organic material that looked like white wood hardened to the density of steel, trimmed with gold that seemed to be grown directly into the material. They moved with a silence that put Homer's tech-assisted stealth to shame. They didn't break twigs; they seemed to flow around them.
"Subject identification," Homer whispered, his throat mic picking up the vibration.
"Scanning..." Castor's reticle locked onto the faces of the patrol. "Four standard infantry units. Lightly armed with kinetic spears and mana-focusing staves. One commanding officer."
The leader was different. He was taller, his hair a cascading waterfall of silver that defied the humidity of the jungle. He wore no helmet, his face exposed—sharp, regal, and etched with a weariness that looked out of place on an immortal.
"Do you know him?" Homer asked.
Castor paused. In the deep processing core of the AI, a file was flagged. Subject ID: NERO. Genetic Match: 99.9%. Status: Pre-War Associate. Anomaly: Subject should be deceased.
"Data corruption in facial recognition archives," Castor lied smoothly. "Likely a high-ranking official based on the armor density and deference shown by the squad. Listen to the audio feed."
Homer adjusted his earpiece. The directional microphone amplified the Elves' voices, cutting through the ambient noise of the jungle.
"Nothing," one of the younger soldiers said, frustration evident in his melodic voice. He kicked a piece of debris. "The earthquake shook the roots, High Councilor, but the Wards held. There are no breaches."
The leader—Nero—did not look relieved. He knelt by a fissure in the earth, running a gloved hand over the soil. "The Wards are old, Elara. They are tied to the ley lines. When the earth moves, the magic bleeds. And where the magic bleeds, the Iron Remnant finds a door."
"The Demons haven't been seen in this sector for fifty years," another soldier scoffed, though he kept his eyes on the shadows. "Not since the raid on Carmona."
"And that raid nearly burned the outer district to the ground," Nero said sharply, standing up. His eyes swept the treeline, passing right over Homer's invisible form. For a heartbeat, Homer felt a jolt of panic, as if those silver eyes could see right through the nanite field. "Do not underestimate them. They possess the Shadow Arts. They can walk unseen, unheard. They are not mindless beasts. They are calculating."
Homer froze. Shadow Arts.
"Did you hear that?" Homer thought. "He's talking about stealth tech. Invisibility."
"Affirmative," Castor replied. "The 'Iron Remnant'—the Demons—appear to possess functioning active camouflage technology. This confirms they are the descendants of the military factions. And the Elves are terrified of it."
"If they think invisibility is a Demon power..." Homer realized the danger immediately. "If my cloak fails, they won't just see a trespasser. They'll see a Demon."
"Then I suggest you remain very, very still," Castor noted drily.
Nero turned back to his squad. "We are done here. The tremors have settled, but the pilgrimage has begun. With thousands of Humans and Beastkin flocking to Muntinlupa for the Festival, our defenses will be stretched thin. We return to the capital via the Carmona Gate."
"Yes, High Councilor," the squad chorused.
As they moved out, fading into the forest like ghosts, Nero paused one last time. He looked back at the clearing, his expression unreadable. "Be vigilant," he murmured, almost to himself. "The silence is ending."
Then he was gone.
Homer let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Muntinlupa," he whispered. "That's the place."
"According to the text," Castor confirmed, "Muntinlupa is the capital city of this region. The 'City of Spires.' The center of magical governance. And Carmona is the trade hub guarding its southern approach. If you want answers, Architect, that is where we will find them."
"And he said there's a pilgrimage," Homer added, a plan forming in his mind. "Crowds. Chaos. The perfect cover for a ghost."
The road to Carmona was less a road and more a river of beaten earth cutting through the jungle, widened by centuries of foot traffic. Homer waited two days after the patrol, finalizing his preparations.
He stripped off the stealth tech—it was too dangerous if discovered. instead, he wore layers of rough, scavenged fabric he had synthesized in the bunker. He looked like a traveler, a drifter. He carried a pack filled with dried meat and a few "artifacts" Castor had deemed safe to sell—lumps of pure copper and refined quartz.
But he couldn't just walk up to the gate. He needed a group. A lone traveler with no papers and a strange accent would be stopped. A pilgrim in a crowd was just another face.
He found them resting near a roadside shrine about ten kilometers from the city gates.
There were four of them. Humans.
"Blessings of the Spires be upon you," the woman said as Homer approached. She was older, her face weathered by the sun, wearing the simple grey robes of a devotee. She was stirring a pot of stew over a small fire.
"And upon you," Homer replied, bowing his head slightly as the book had instructed. "May the light guide your path."
The group relaxed instantly. There were two women and two men. The older woman, Mara, seemed to be the matriarch. Beside her was Jina, a younger woman with bright, curious eyes. The men, Tor and Kael, were clearly brothers—large, silent types with calloused hands that spoke of farm work, not war.
"Come, sit," Mara gestured to a log. "The road is long and the shadows are growing. Are you headed to the Festival?"
"I am," Homer said, sitting down. He accepted a wooden bowl of stew offered by Jina. It smelled of roots and gamey meat. "I hail from... a distance. My journey has been long."
"We're from the southern farmlands," Jina piped up, eager to talk. "We've saved for three years to bring our offering to the High Council. They say the High Councilor Nero himself might bless the crowds this year!"
Homer focused on his stew to hide his expression. "Is that so?"
"It is," Tor grunted, eyeing Homer's simple sword. "Though with the tremors, the guards are jumpy. They say the Goblins have been raiding the caravans near the ruins. You handy with that blade, stranger?"
"Handy enough to keep my head attached," Homer said. "But I prefer a quiet road."
"Don't we all," Mara sighed. "But the Elves keep us safe. Without the Wards, the Demons would have eaten us all in our cribs. We owe them our lives."
Homer listened, eating quietly. It was exactly as the book had said. The humans didn't just respect the Elves; they worshipped them. They viewed them as divine protectors who held back the darkness. It was a perfect, self-sustaining system of control.
"You're welcome to walk with us," Mara said kindly. "Strength in numbers. And Jina here could talk the ears off a stone gargoyle, so you won't be bored."
"I would be honored," Homer said. And he meant it. They were his ticket in.
The walls of Carmona rose out of the jungle like a cliff face of white stone. They were massive, easily fifty meters high, carved with intricate geometric patterns that glowed with a faint, pulsing blue light.
"Shield generators," Castor whispered in Homer's mind. "Primitive, run on ambient mana, but effective against kinetic bombardment. Do not touch the walls, Architect. The feedback loop would likely stop your heart."
The queue to enter the main gate was massive. Hundreds of travelers—Humans, Beastkin with fur ranging from spotted leopard to shaggy bear, and even a few hulking Orcs carrying massive crates—were lined up.
Homer stuck close to Mara and Jina, keeping his hood low.
"Don't look at the guards," Castor advised. "Your pupil dilation indicates a fight-or-flight response. Lower your heart rate. Look bored."
The guards were not Elves. They were Orcs—towering, grey-skinned humanoids with tusks jutting from their lower jaws, wearing heavy plate armor emblazoned with the silver tree sigil of the Elven Council. An Elf officer stood behind them on a raised platform, watching the process with bored detachment.
"Next!" the Orc guard bellowed.
Mara stepped forward, presenting a small wooden token. "Mara of the Southfields. With three kin. Pilgrimage."
The Orc grunted, scanning the token with a handheld crystal that buzzed. "Clear. Move along."
He looked at Homer.
Homer froze. He didn't have a token. He didn't have papers. He had a fake sword and an AI in his head.
"You," the Orc pointed a massive finger. "Papers."
Homer opened his mouth, his mind racing. He could try to use a command word? No, the Elf officer would hear. He could run? He'd be dead in seconds.
"He's with us," Mara said suddenly, stepping back. She smiled at the guard, a sweet, grandmotherly smile. "Poor lad lost his pack crossing the river two days back. Washed his writ right away. He's from Cupang, neighbor to our farm. We vouched for him on the road."
The Orc frowned, looking from Mara to Homer. "Cupang?"
"The fishing village," Homer added quickly, pulling the name from the map he had memorized in the bunker. "By the Bay. I... I'm a simple fisherman. I just want to see the lights."
The Orc stared at him for a long, agonizing second. Then he shrugged. Humans all looked the same to him anyway.
"Loss of identification is a fine of two coppers," the Orc grunted.
"I have it," Tor stepped up, dropping two coins into the Orc's gauntleted palm.
"Move along. Glory to the Council."
"Glory to the Council," they repeated.
They walked through the massive archway and into the city. As soon as they were out of earshot of the guards, Homer exhaled.
"Thank you," he said to Mara. "You didn't have to do that."
"The Spires teach us to help the traveler," Mara said, patting his arm. "Besides, you listened to Jina's stories about her cat for four hours without complaining. You've earned a pass."
She reached into her robe and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment. "Here. This is the temporary guest pass they gave us for the return trip. We won't need it until we leave. You hold onto it for now, in case a patrol stops you inside. Just give it back when we meet for the evening meal."
Homer took the parchment. It felt warm to the touch.
"Castor," he thought. "Analyze this. Now."
"Scanning..." Castor replied. "Structure analyzed. It is a cellulose-based paper embedded with a microscopic resonant crystal pattern. It acts as an RFID tag. I have logged the frequency. I can instruct the bunker's fabricator to replicate this signature. We can forge our own passes for future excursions."
"Perfect."
Homer walked with the pilgrims into the heart of Carmona.
If the forest was a sensory deprivation tank, Carmona was an assault.
The streets were paved with white cobblestones that seemed to clean themselves. Buildings rose on either side, a mix of the organic, grown architecture of the Elves and the sturdy, blocky stone work of the Dwarves.
And the people. It was a melting pot of species that defied evolutionary logic.
Homer saw Goblins—short, green-skinned, with large ears and sharp eyes—running stalls selling everything from strange fruits to mechanical trinkets. They moved with a nervous, frantic energy, constantly haggling.
"Note the Goblins," Castor observed. "High dexterity, rapid speech patterns. They appear to be the merchant class. Note the similarity to the Dwarves working the forge across the street."
Homer looked. The Dwarves were stouter, broader, but their facial structures and skin tones were remarkably similar to the Goblins, just... healthier. Less frantic.
"You said they were related?"
"Genetically, they are cousins," Castor said. "The Dwarves likely had access to better resources and stable environments underground, leading to robust physiology. The Goblins were likely surface scavengers, adapting to higher radiation and scarcity. It is a class divide masquerading as a species divide."
They passed a group of Beastkin, massive wolf-men who walked with a dangerous swagger. The crowd parted for them. They were clearly the enforcers, the muscle.
But above them all, literally, were the Elves. They walked on raised bridges of crystal and wood that connected the upper levels of the buildings, never touching the muddy streets where the "lesser races" walked. They looked down with a mix of amusement and indifference.
"I need to find a place to stay," Homer told Mara. "And I have some trading to do."
"We're staying at the 'Old Well' inn near the temple," Mara said. "Meet us there at sundown for supper? We can get the pass back then."
"I'll be there," Homer promised.
He watched them disappear into the crowd, then turned down a side street. He needed information. And in every world, in every time period, information lived in the same place: the tavern.
The sign above the door depicted a broken tusk dripping with blood. The 'Broken Tusk'.
Homer pushed open the heavy wooden door. The noise hit him like a physical blow—a roar of conversation, clattering mugs, and the smell of roasted meat and stale beer.
He stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the glowing moss lamps. The clientele was rough. Mercenaries, traders, off-duty guards.
He made his way to the bar. The bartender was a massive Beastkin with the head of a lion, his mane braided with gold rings. He was wiping the counter with a rag that looked like it had seen better centuries.
"Welcome to the Tusk," the lion-man grunted, his voice a deep bass rumble. He eyed Homer's hooded figure. "We got ale, we got stew, and we got rooms. No fighting, no spell-casting inside, or I mount your head on the wall. What'll it be?"
Homer reached into his pouch. He found the small lump of gold he had transmuted in the bunker. It was rough, unpolished, but it was chemically pure gold.
He slid it across the scratched wood of the counter.
"Ale," Homer said, his voice steady. "And I'm looking for books. Magic, economics, history. You know anyone selling?"
The lion-man picked up the gold nugget. He bit it, his massive canine tooth making a clink sound. He looked at Homer with new interest, his golden eyes narrowing.
"That's a heavy coin for an ale, stranger," the bartender rumbled. "You're either rich, stupid, or looking for trouble."
"Maybe a little of all three," Homer said.
The lion-man grinned, revealing a mouth full of terrifying teeth. "I like trouble. Sit down. The ale is coming. And for books... you'll want to talk to Griphook. The Goblin in the corner. But watch your fingers. He charges extra for ignorance."
Homer took the ale, turned, and looked into the shadowy corner of the room. The game was on.