Chương 45: 19-2.Lights in the Embers of Civilization

Light spread along channels in the ground. One grid. One line. Then another. Moving with the sick inevitability of something waking up.

"Cedric!" For the first time, genuine panic cracked Alvira's tone.

"You absolute idiot—did you just activate some kind of ancient annihilation device?!"

"It was an accident!" I drew my sword on pure reflex, kicked the buckler upright, and positioned myself in front of her. Cold sweat soaked through my back instantly. Not heroism—just the body's baseline response to watching an entire dead steel cathedral begin to illuminate itself. At the front of the central cavity, an enormous black panel ignited. Not fire. Not a magic circle. A sheet of cold white light unfolded from the darkness in complete silence, flat and precise as a door cut into midair.

Then shapes began to emerge within it. First: lines. Then: shadows. Finally: a figure—nearly life-sized, clearly without physical substance—slowly coalesced from the white light. A woman in clothing of no recognizable era. Not quite a woman—translucent throughout, edges dissolving into scattered light particles, like a ghost that had been trapped inside illumination. Her face wore a smile of impeccable, unsettling precision. Hands folded before her. Posture correct to the point of wrongness. My throat tightened.

Behind me, Alvira drew a very quiet breath. The luminous figure opened its eyes. Then, in a string of language I had absolutely no framework to process, it spoke with perfect, pleasant enunciation:"——￥#＠＆＊......" Clear. Bright. Carrying a cheerful quality that raised blood pressure simply by existing in this context. It paused half a beat, head tilting slightly—as though listening to an echo only it could hear. Then a second string of sounds, different from the first:"...... Unregistered language system detected.

Dynamic linguistic analysis in progress." Alvira and I both went completely still. Before I could decide whether to cut it down, run, or simply accept that the blue-blood beast's toxin had finally finished me off, the luminous ghost lifted its head again. Its smile had somehow become even more radiant. Then, in flawlessly perfect Kingdom tongue delivered with nauseating professional cheer, it announced:"Welcome, dear valued guests, to the Metropolitan Underground Grand Shopping Center!

I am the Central Core Navigation System. The mall is currently celebrating its Summer Festival period, with store-wide promotions active throughout all floors. We wish you a delightful shopping experience!"

"... What now?" I heard my own voice. It sounded exactly like someone who had just been struck by lightning and was still processing the experience. Behind me, Alvira was equally silent. I didn't need to turn around to know her expression was probably somewhere between have I finally lost my mind and so the Old Civilization really was universally insane.

The translucent figure continued smiling with perfect, undimmed warmth—apparently completely unbothered by the fact that standing before it was a battered adventurer clutching a chipped sword, covered in chemical burns, with a half-functional elf tucked behind him. I stared at the apparition floating in white light—smiling like it was preparing to upsell me on a premium membership package—for two full seconds, then made a deliberate decision.

Every question about the Old Civilization, ancient oracles, steel phantoms, and whether I was finally hallucinating from toxin exposure could wait. Because I had an injured elf on my hands, and the chemical burn across my chest felt like someone was systematically hammering iron spikes into my ribs. So my first question was remarkably practical.

"... Is there a medical center?" The ghost's smile didn't waver. If anything, it brightened further.

"Of course, dear valued guests! Medical Service Station A-3 is currently operating on minimum backup power. Detecting moderate external trauma, hypothermia risk, and contamination exposure in both individuals. Immediate treatment is highly recommended." She tilted slightly to one side. A small blue light winked on in a previously dark corner.

A knee-height machine with a domed head rolled out of the shadows—paint peeling, left wheel producing sounds of questionable mechanical health, but sporting a ring of soft white LEDs that blinked with determined optimism. It stopped before us, emitted a cheerful ding, and spoke in tones even more aggressively pleasant than the navigation system:"Hello! Medical Guidance Unit M-07 at your service! Please follow me to the Medical Service Station. Wishing you a speedy recovery!"

I stared down at this small cylinder of mechanical enthusiasm, genuinely uncertain whether to be more afraid of it or of whoever had decided giving it a personality was a good idea. Alvira pressed close to my side, bow still in hand, voice kept very low.

"... Cedric."

"Yeah?"

"If that thing explodes en route, I'm shooting you first."

"Blaming me in advance seems wildly optimistic about my influence over ancient machinery." I said it, but my body had already shifted half a step closer to her. M-07, apparently unbothered by our customer service skepticism, pivoted cheerfully and rolled forward between the towering black cabinets, headlights blinking rhythmically. We followed. With its ring of white light leading the way, the path ahead stopped being uniform darkness.

Moving through that forest of steel monoliths, the space beyond gradually revealed its true nature. Not an ancient temple—something that had once been too orderly, too sterile, yet dead for far too long. A public facility frozen in time. Rows of cracked transparent panels lined the walls. Hanging black cables caught the light with dull luster—dead vines, or nerves that had been stripped out and left to desiccate.

Luminous lines gridded the floor, dividing the space into precise operational zones whose purpose had been forgotten. The deeper we went, the heavier the wrongness became. Not because of monsters. Because this place had once been too normal. So normal you could almost see people moving here yesterday—pushing carts, carrying shopping bags, complaining about prices, debating dinner plans.

Then, in one terrible blink, the world had strangled everything here, voice and body alike, leaving only dutiful machinery still trying to perform its functions. Alvira stayed quiet the entire way. Too quiet. I'd assumed she was simply exhausted until we passed a half-open metal door and she gave a very faint shudder.

"What is it?" She stared into the darkness beyond the doorway, her breathing stuttering half a beat.

"... I thought there were people queuing inside." I followed her gaze. Overturned chairs. A half-shattered transparent panel. Nothing else.

"And now?" Two seconds of silence—long enough for me to know she was sorting not through what she'd seen, but whether she'd seen anything at all.

"Gone." I didn't press further. Just reached out and lightly touched her uninjured elbow.

"Even if there are, it's fine," I said, keeping my voice softer than usual.

"You've got me right here. Plus a complimentary guide that appears to be a sentient iron kettle." M-07 immediately emitted a delighted ding. This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

"Thank you for the compliment! I am not an iron kettle—I am a Medical Guidance Unit!" Alvira finally turned to look at me. Her expression suggested she had several observations about my mental health, but what came out was just a very quiet, very brief exhale. That was enough. As long as she could still look at me like I was a concerning medical case, we hadn't reached the breaking point yet. After two more corridors, M-07 stopped before an automatic door.

I couldn't read the original signage, but when the unit touched a glowing panel beside it, the doors ground apart with the screech of metal that hadn't agreed to move in centuries. Inside: a row of beds and equipment in white so sterile it was almost aggressive. At least, that's what I saw. Alvira probably saw some kind of Old Civilization arcane treatment facility, because her entire face tightened the moment we crossed the threshold, grip on her bow going white-knuckled.

The air carried an unfamiliar but clean smell—something between medical alcohol and cloth dried in winter snow. Along the walls, machinery that had slept for centuries flickered back to life under remote command, screens and indicators blinking on with soft, steady hums.

"Welcome to Medical Service Station A-3." The navigation system's voice descended from the ceiling, still carrying that offensively pleasant tone.

"Due to energy limitations, this facility provides only basic emergency care, contamination removal, simple stabilization, and emergency supplies. Advanced surgical procedures, deep tissue regeneration, and genetic repair services are unavailable. We apologize for any inconvenience." I couldn't help muttering at that last part.

"Just how often did people limp in here half-dead for you to have that speech memorized so perfectly..." M-07 had already positioned itself beside a treatment bed, lights blinking expectantly.

"Injured personnel, please assume treatment position." Alvira clearly despised everything about that bed—and she despised the slender mechanical arms unfolding from the walls even more. They looked less like medical equipment and more like instruments designed for very precise forms of correction. She stood rigid, ears pricked, every line of her body suggesting a small animal preparing to bite at the last possible moment. I glanced at her, walked over, and sat on the adjacent bed myself.

"Come on. It's got to be more reasonable than the blue-blood beast upstairs." She looked from me to the bed, then seemed to reach some catastrophically reluctant decision and slowly eased herself down. The next several minutes provided a comprehensive education in Old Civilization medical practice. First: a blast of freezing white mist hit my chest wound, stimulating the chemical burn so violently I nearly departed for the ancestral realm on the spot.

Then a wash of transparent fluid flushed the damaged area, methodically stripping away the remaining blue-black contamination—the acrid metallic smell fading with each pass. On the next bed, Alvira's ankle was encased in an automated support band that hardened as it set, while her shoulder received a coating of stabilizing compound after a thorough scan.

She maintained admirable composure throughout—right up until the equipment announced in its flat, emotionless voice:"Detected: shoulder contusion and ligament damage, moderate ankle sprain. Recommend avoiding strenuous activity for twenty-four hours." Her expression instantly looked worse than if she'd taken another arrow.

"That's impossible," she said coldly.

"Recommendation remains in effect," the bed replied without the slightest concern for her opinion. I failed completely to suppress a laugh. She turned on me immediately.

"You find this amusing?"

"Not at all. I've just never witnessed someone argue with a piece of furniture before."

"I was not arguing."

"Of course. Tactical exchange of professional opinions." The look in her eyes suggested she was calculating the legal ramifications of my immediate disposal. Fortunately, the equipment proved genuinely effective. When treatment concluded, M-07 dutifully retrieved a translucent case containing basic bandages, analgesic tablets, antiseptic solution, collapsible splints, two silver-gray thermal blankets, several sealed water bottles, and a stack of emergency nutrition bars compressed into dense blocks.

I picked one up and examined it from multiple angles.

"This looks like construction material."

"High-calorie emergency nutrition supplement," the navigation system supplied immediately.

"Vanilla flavored." I bit into it. Three seconds of profound silence.

"... Does this system have a personal vendetta against the word 'vanilla'?" Alvira watched my expression—the face of a man whose relationship with the concept of flavor had just been fundamentally challenged—and the corner of her mouth actually moved. Then she accepted another bar with the composure of someone approaching an execution and took a bite. The next moment, she went equally still. We looked at each other. Neither of us said a word.

With perfect mutual understanding, we both immediately drank half a bottle of water. It was precisely at this moment—when the atmosphere had begun to feel almost normal after everything we'd survived—that the navigation system's projection spoke again.

"... What year is it currently?" I looked up.

"What?"

"Current calendar data comparison has failed." The hologram maintained its excessively pleasant smile.

"Please provide the current year to facilitate temporal baseline calibration." I frowned. Honestly, I had no way of knowing whether this was some kind of trap. But it had just cleaned toxic monster blood out of my chest and stabilized Alvira's injuries. Playing ignorant at this point seemed counterproductive. So I answered honestly.

"Year seventy-one of the Eckhaus Era. Month of the Wasteland." The moment the words left my mouth, the entire medical station went quiet. Not an ordinary pause in conversation. A complete, profound silence. Long enough that I began to wonder whether the system had crashed entirely—or whether my answer had triggered some kind of anomalous individual containment protocol. Then it spoke again.

"This system's last successful connection to the World Tree occurred in A. D. 2142." I was still processing what that might mean when Alvira went completely rigid beside me. Not a flinch. Not a simple moment of shock. It was as if someone had instantly drained every drop of blood from her face in a single heartbeat. Her fingers gripping the edge of the treatment bed tightened one by one until the knuckles went bruised-white. Her breathing stopped entirely for a full beat.

I had only ever seen that expression on the faces of people who were already dying. The navigation system's projection turned slowly toward her.

"You know the World Tree." Not a question. A statement of fact. In that moment, even I felt the air compress with something unspoken and enormous. I looked from the hologram to Alvira, and I had a sudden, crystal-clear sense that I was standing at the threshold of a door that belonged entirely to the two of them—and I couldn't read a single character written on it. Time stretched. Long enough that I felt I'd aged considerably in those few seconds. Finally, Alvira spoke.

"... The Tree withered three hundred years ago." Her voice was very quiet. So quiet it seemed like if she pressed any harder, the words themselves would shatter. The navigation system was silent for a long moment.

"... I see." The unchanging smile on that projected face didn't shift—but somehow, inexplicably, its voice seemed to drop by just a fraction.

"That is... deeply regrettable." I opened my mouth, then closed it again without speaking. Because in that instant, Alvira's expression was more answer than anything I could have asked for. Pressing her now would be no different from probing a fresh wound with a blade to see whether it still hurt. So I chose the most practical question available.

"Leave the World Tree for later," I said, deliberately pulling my tone back toward its usual irreverent register. Then I looked up into the white light.

"Can you get us back to the surface?" The navigation system smoothly resumed its customer service composure.

"Affirmative. The facility retains low-power backup reserves sufficient to activate one vertical transport unit, which will deliver both guests to the surface access level."

"Vertical... what?"

"An elevator," it clarified. I paused for a moment.

"Still not following." M-07 chimed in with obvious delight: "It's a box that takes you upward!"

"Well, why didn't you lead with that." I turned to Alvira. She clearly hadn't fully emerged from wherever the mention of "World Tree" had taken her—face still pale, but her eyes had managed to refocus with visible effort. She met my gaze and gave the slightest nod. That was enough. The walk that followed was quieter than anything before. M-07 rolled ahead while Alvira and I moved at our own careful pace.

Her ankle, now stabilized, could bear weight, but I kept her hand on my arm anyway—ready to support her when needed. Behind the medical station stretched a narrower corridor lined with incomprehensible signage and peeling promotional displays. The Old Civilization faces in those advertisements smiled with a brightness that felt more unsettling than any specter we'd encountered.

Occasionally, distant sections still drawing power would flicker to life, casting brief illumination across the vast dead facility—granting it, for just a moment, the terrible illusion of still breathing. I thought about that number. 2142. I thought about the look that had crossed Alvira's face. And I asked nothing. Because some wounds, when forced open, only bleed. At the corridor's end stood heavy double metal doors.

Before them waited a large, perfectly rectangular iron box with a narrow transparent panel set into its front—darkness visible beyond. M-07 stopped and blinked its headlights twice.

"Destination reached. Elevator shaft backup power initializing." With a series of deep, reluctant mechanical groans, the box doors slid apart, revealing a cramped interior just large enough for two people. I stared at it for a couple of seconds, with what I'd describe as mixed feelings.

"So we're stepping into an upward-moving coffin."

"It is an elevator," the navigation system corrected with infinite patience.

"The distinction feels academic from where I'm standing." M-07's lights blinked in what I was learning to interpret as mechanical disapproval.

"Elevator safety record: excellent."

"When was that safety record last updated?" A brief pause.

"... Data missing."

"Naturally." Beside me, Alvira actually let out a quiet laugh. Soft—like she'd surprised herself by producing it. I glanced her way; she immediately schooled her expression back to neutral, pretending nothing had happened. Though the tips of her ears had gone slightly pink again. Just as we prepared to step inside, M-07 rolled politely backward.

"Guidance parameters conclude here." Its tone remained relentlessly cheerful.

"Further ascent exceeds this unit's operational jurisdiction and mobility range. It has been a pleasure serving you." I stopped and looked back toward the projection still hovering at the far end of the corridor. Alvira stopped with me. Even with every reason to keep moving, some questions lodge in your throat and refuse to stay down. I spoke first.

"What was this place originally called?" The navigation system's smile remained exactly as it had always been.

"This facility's official designation is: Wyoming Metropolitan Underground Grand Shopping Center." Wyoming. The word landed without producing any sensation I could name. Too foreign—not like a place at all, but like some ancient curse scraped from the walls of a buried tomb. I was still processing it when Alvira asked the second question. Her voice was level, but it carried more weight than anything else she'd said today.

"In 2142... what happened?" The navigation system's silence lasted longer this time. Long enough that I began to think it wouldn't answer at all. Finally, the projection spoke with its usual smooth composure:"Catastrophe records are restricted." A beat. Then:"Declassified keywords: wide-area nuclear exchange. All other information—insufficient clearance." Neither of us said anything. The corridor filled with nothing but distant mechanical humming and the slow grinding of the elevator preparing itself.

Wide-area nuclear exchange. I had no framework for understanding what scale of disaster those words described, or how they connected to the World Tree, to 2142, to the wasteland we walked above. But the cold precision of that phrase alone was enough to make something contract in my chest. M-07's headlight pulsed gently.

"Please board at your earliest convenience. Backup power reserves are limited." I drew a long breath, pushing down the formless weight pressing against my ribs—exhaustion, unease, or something that didn't have a clean name—and turned to Alvira.

"Let's go." She looked at me, then gave a quiet "mm." We stepped into the ascending box together. As the doors began their slow closure, my last sight was the navigation system's projection at the corridor's end—still holding that perfect service smile—and the small guidance unit standing motionless at the boundary of its patrol zone, unable to follow even a single step further. Like ghosts from a dead era, still manning their posts, refusing to power down. The doors sealed. The iron box shuddered once, gently.

And began to rise.