"A man does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time."
—André Gide
The Jungle at Night
The jungle whispered to life around Jack.
His broken crude spear lay beside him, a grim reminder of the danger waiting in the shadows. He hadn't dared to sleep through the night—keeping the fire alive until daylight was his only defense.
Jack stared into the flame with heavy eyes. His body trembled with exhaustion, but he refused to show fear.
The island was hostile. And for the first time, he realized how fragile he truly was.
His eyes blinked once.
And then—the golden haze returned.
He stood in a vast underground hall, lit by flickering braziers.
Intricate carvings covered the stone walls, spirals glowing faintly with a soft blue light, like veins pulsing in the rock.
At the center stood a figure in long ceremonial robes, his face hidden behind a sun-shaped mask.
Behind him loomed an enormous machine—gears grinding beneath plates of gold, its surface alive with a humming blue glow.
The Atlantean Priest.
His voice thundered—not in English, not in Latin, not in any tongue Jack had ever studied. Yet the meaning carved itself into his blood, forcing understanding into his mind.
"Follow the path of the fallen kings."
Images crashed through Jack's mind like waves:
– A hoplite warrior standing guard at a crumbling ruin.
– An underground canyon lined with statues of giants, their faces broken by time.
– A stairway plunging into endless shadow.
The vision twisted—
– A ruined city surrounded by black water.
– The spiral symbol, fractured and broken.
– Warriors of old, their eyes hollow, lifeless.
– A massive shield, humming with power, guarded by a towering mechanical beast—the same nightmare Jack had glimpsed in the storm.
The priest's voice pressed harder, branding itself into Jack's soul:
"The Aegis waits. To touch it without wisdom is to drown Atlantis again. Walk steady, child of blood. Or fall."
Jack jolted awake, gasping.
The fire was still alive but low, glowing faintly against the damp air. Sweat clung to his skin, though the night was cool. His broken spear rested at his side, useless against the shadows pressing in around him.
The jungle whispered again. He was lucky—the beast hadn't come while he dreamed.
But the echoes of the priest's words throbbed in his skull like a war drum.
Follow the path of the fallen kings.
Jack's eyes narrowed. His father's notebook. The spirals of Atlantis. The riddles in ink. It was all pointing somewhere.
He pulled the notebook from his coat, flipping through its warped, water-stained pages.
There.
Sketches of an underground canyon lined with statues. Exactly what he had just seen in the vision.
Jack pressed his palm against the page, heart pounding. The priest hadn't given him a dream. He had given him a map.
The first light of dawn broke through the trees, painting the jungle in pale gold.
Jack kept the fire alive until morning, but his body ached with every movement. His mind, however, was clear.
He looked down at the crude spear lying beside him. Splintered from the panther's assault, its shaft still stained with blood.
Jack picked it up, jaw tight.
"Not enough," he muttered.
He searched the clearing until he found a straighter branch—thick, strong. With his stone knife, he shaved it clean, then bound a sharp rock to its head.
This time, the spear looked sturdier. A true weapon.
Still… he could feel hungry eyes watching from the jungle. Waiting.
And then, through the firelight, he saw it.
A figure.
The Hoplite Warrior. Bronze helmet gleaming, round shield slung at his side, spear planted firm into the earth.
The warrior's voice rumbled, low and commanding:
"You are not prey. Stand your ground. The blood of warriors flows in you. Remember who you are."
Jack blinked—
And the figure was gone.
But the words lingered.
Remember who you are.
Jack shouldered his meager supplies and stepped into the mist-heavy jungle.
Birds called. Monkeys chattered unseen.
But soon… silence.
The jungle held its breath.
Jack's boot caught on something half-buried in the soil. He crouched, brushing away dirt with hurried hands—
Bronze.
The rim of a corroded shield. Etched with a spiral, nearly worn away by centuries.
A hoplite's aspis.
Nearby, bones jutted from the ground. A cracked bronze helmet. A broken spear shaft stabbing upward like a grave marker.
Jack's pulse raced. He was close.
Pushing deeper, he found the remains of a battlefield. Scattered bones tangled in tree roots, shields faintly glowing with spiral symbols, broken spears dulled by rust but still heavy with menace.
One skeleton still clutched its sword and shield, gleaming faintly in the morning light as though refusing to die.
Jack whispered, lifting a bronze spearhead into his palm:
"…You fought here. You died here. And now… your fight is mine."
He bound the spearhead to his new shaft, rope and fiber making it whole again. A true spear.
Before leaving, something else caught his eye.
A bow.
Its strings long rotted, but the frame was intact. Using leftover rope, Jack repaired it. Awkward, but usable.
His vision blurred again—
The Hoplite appeared on a sunlit plain. Bronze armor gleamed, but this time, he carried a bow.
He placed it in Jack's hands.
"Stillness is its strength. Breath is its power. The arrow flies where the heart commands."
Jack fumbled, nocking an arrow. His hands shook until the warrior's voice thundered:
"Remember who you are. You have the blood of those who stood unshaken."
Jack steadied his breath. Released.
The arrow struck the edge of a shield. Not perfect. But enough.
The warrior nodded in approval. His voice echoed as he faded back into the haze:
"Fear weakens the spear. Doubt weakens the bow. Master both—or this island will devour you."
Jack blinked awake. The bow was in his hands.
He had no arrows but found bronze arrowheads among the bones. Using wood shafts and bird feathers scavenged from nests, he fashioned a dozen crude arrows.
Rustling broke the silence.
A rabbit emerged from the brush, ears twitching.
Jack's breath caught. Shelter, fire… now food.
He crouched, nocked an arrow, pulled back. His arms quivered until the warrior's words cut through:
"The arrow flies where the heart commands."
Jack exhaled. Released.
The arrow hissed through the air, striking the rabbit clean through the flank.
It squealed, collapsed into the grass.
Jack froze. Hands trembling—not from fear, but from disbelief.
He had done it.
But before he could celebrate—
The jungle went silent.
A low growl rolled through the underbrush.
The same thunderous warning from the night before.
Jack's body went rigid. His heart pounded, but this time not from fear. From adrenaline.
He raised his new spear. The warrior's strength burned in his blood.
Shield on one arm. Sword at his hip. Bow across his back. Spear in hand.
Jack Hale stood firm.
Two sets of eyes glowed in the shadows of the trees. Not one panther. Two.
The first panther—already wounded—sprang.
It was a blur of muscle and claws. Jack planted his feet, spear leveled. The bronze tip punched into its shoulder again.
The beast shrieked, twisting in midair, but its momentum carried them both down.
Jack slammed against the dirt, shield raised just in time to block raking claws. The spearhead was soaked in blood, staining the ground.
He rolled aside, ripping the weapon free. The panther staggered, wounded, but still alive—still circling.
Before Jack could rise, the second panther struck from the side.
Its fangs clamped onto his shield, the impact rattling his bones. The beast's hot breath reeked of blood. Jack roared back, shoving upward, teeth gritting, every muscle straining.
The shield held. Barely.
Jack jammed the spear into its ribs. The beast yowled, stumbling back.
Two predators. Both circling. Both are ready to kill.
The hoplite warrior stood outside the battle, bronze gleaming, spear planted like an unmovable pillar.
"Stand your ground. Two foes are no stronger than one if your will does not break first."
Jack blinked—
And the warrior was gone like smoke.
The Panthers roared back.
Jack's eyes burned with fire.
The wounded panther lunged again. Jack swung his spear like a pike, driving the bronze head into its chest.
The beast roared, thrashed, then collapsed into the dirt.
The second roared louder, fury shaking the leaves. It charged headlong.
Jack dropped his shield, pulled his bow, and nocked an arrow in one motion. His breath steadied. The warrior's words echoed in his mind:
"The arrow flies where the heart commands."
He loosed.
The shaft hissed through the air, striking deep into the panther's throat.
It choked, staggered, then fell silent on the ground.
For a long moment, the jungle was silent.
Then… the whispers returned.
Two black shadows lay still at Jack's feet. The Jungle Phantoms—apex predators of the island—were dead.
Jack staggered, chest heaving, blood running from fresh scratches, sweat stinging his eyes.
But his grip on the spear was steady.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
For the first time, Jack had conquered the island's hunters.
And deep in his chest, he knew—
He was no longer prey.