Sand circles above. In the rays of light, no longer can she trust anything before her. Voices call to her. Souls lift her hide-wrought bag, turn her dazedness to weariness. She sees a land without limit, a land rich with life. She feels something tightly grip her hand. She looks back, and in the haze of memory fumbles for her own name. Kal'tsit. She knows she was born into these ruins of civilization bearing a calling, but there is no one to shine a light on what is to come for her. Ultimately, she cannot live free from this calling. It is akin to taking a meal, or sleeping. She begins to walk, walk upon the lost dust, carefully sorting through her myriad years of memories and knowledge. She sees a new nation rise from yet more ruins. She recalls how the result of her abandonment was deposed royalty. She sees fresh, novel flags howl atop the blood-soaked battlefield. She recalls how both sides of the war united against a common enemy in those ancient times. She sees forests yet thinks of barrens, gazes on mountains yet recollects lakes—she walks through the river that is Time, picking up stones, while the eras surge, parting around her, rushing forward on. But she is immutable. She has no past, and no future either. It takes her a deal of Time before she has her thoughts reorganized. She remembers the last death. The years stretching long enough to see the form of life itself change. Still, she never thought death would be so fast; some things are changing at this very moment. Lives flourish without rhyme or reason, and the land morphs and fluctuates. Man-made machines operate with a rumble, the radiance of Originium energy shining into the umbra. In the dark, the people struggle, yearning for the light, scorning shadow in an age of brilliance, on and on. Her countenance is concealed by the flurry of grit stirred by a nomadic city, and she feels anxious to the depths of her heart. Does the will that hid the stars behind the false sky still watch the surface recur in its rise and fall? How long until the Terrans, so proud of their thriving civilizations, personally send those same civilizations into the ice-cold void, to join countless lost lives? Time is running short. This is what Kal'tsit tells herself. She has fallen to blaming herself. She has wasted too much Time, and at so many moments barely averted the self-destruction of Terra, barely led them to a safe place to develop. It has exhausted her, drained her. She is no omniscient, omnipotent being. And yet, she tasks herself with tending to the entire World. Her calling was never a fair one. She has to hurry. She has to do whatever it takes. Her gaze comes to rest on a shattered Kazdel. It is far from the first time she's touched on the legend of the Lord of Fiends. In the boundless years, more than once she has thought of retrieving and exploiting this ancient force. She cannot help but stifle her memories of the Teekaz—to make an effort not to long for the bygone days where Originium had not yet molded life into its present form, and not to commemorate a possibility that has long since vanished. Maybe this time, it's time she made up her mind. ...... ... 'So this was your previous journey, Kal'tsit.' 'It stretches longer than the fragment you've seen. Thousands and thousands of times longer, Theresa.' 'But perhaps it's only now I've truly understood you... my enemy.' '...I feel the same, King of Sarkaz.'