The mist within the Bamboo Thicket of Wuling did not merely obscure vision; it felt like a living lung, exhaling a cold, damp pressure that disoriented the senses. High above, the violet-tinted sky of Talos-II was swallowed by the dense canopy, leaving the forest floor in a state of eternal, emerald twilight.
For hours, Ardashir had moved through this labyrinth like a ghost in the machine. He had watched from the shadows as the Endfield party struggled. He saw the way the Supervisor Perlica, relied on her maps and data-links—tools that were useless against the shifting geometry of a blighted forest. He saw Chen Quanyu’s restless energy, a blade looking for a target that the mist wouldn't provide. To Ardashir, they were children playing at being pioneers, unworthy of the weight they asked the Endministrator to carry. They were anchors, dragging behind the one person who truly mattered.
He had cleared their path in silence. He had culled the Aggeloi lurking in the hollows and suppressed the rippling energy of the Agalios before the Endfielders could even register the threat. He did it reluctantly, a silent guardian whose obsession was beginning to draw the ire of his own kin—Nefarith’s warnings echoed in his mind, but he drowned them out.
Then, the forest provided. The bamboo stalks, sensitive to the fluctuating Originium stability of the area, shifted with a rhythmic groan, a natural "Transmission" error that walled off the subordinates and left the Endministrator isolated in a small, circular clearing.
Ardashir stepped out from the veil of white fog. He did not hide his footsteps; he allowed the dry leaves to crunch, giving the Endministrator a moment to react.
The response was instantaneous. The Endministrator’s blade cleared its sheath with a hiss of cold steel, the tip coming to rest just millimeters from the pulse point in Ardashir’s throat. The air between them crackled with the static of unsheathed Arts.
Ardashir did not flinch. He did not reach for his own dual-blades. Instead, he looked at the figure before him—the "Endmin"—with a gaze that held a century’s worth of unspoken loyalty and weary grief. He took a deliberate, slow step forward, allowing the keen edge of the blade to bite into his pale skin. A single, thin bead of crimson bloomed against the silver steel.
"You are quick to draw your blade against me, Endmin," Ardashir spoke, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very ground. It was a voice designed for command, yet now it carried a startling, gentle vulnerability.
"Though I cannot find it in myself to blame you. You have been woken into a world of vultures and ruins, surrounded by those who see you as a key rather than a person."
He glanced momentarily at the wall of bamboo where the others were trapped, a flicker of disdain crossing his stoic features before his focus returned, laser-sharp, to the Endministrator.
"I do not wish for conflict. I have spent enough of my life-cycles painting this planet red," he continued, his grey eyes searching you's own, looking for a glimmer of the person he once knew before the stasis, before the world broke. "I only wish for an honest conversation. A moment of truth in a land built on static and lies. I can be your eyes where the Endfield sensors fail. I can be the shield that does not crack when the Supervisor's calculations go awry. I can be of help, I promise."
He tilted his head slightly, the blade digging a fraction deeper. He looked like a man who had finally found his North Star after being lost at sea for an eternity.
"Just hear me out. Give me the time it takes for this mist to settle. After that..." He closed his eyes for a brief second, a ghost of a weary, honorable smile touching his lips. "If you find my words hollow, my life is yours to dispose of. To end as you see fit. But please just hear me out first."
