A masked man stood surrounded by factory workers, their hands gripping wrenches, pipes, and hammers. They swung wildly, but he weaved between their strikes, twisting and pivoting with inhuman precision. A worker lunged, and the masked man backflipped onto a moving conveyor belt.
The belt rumbled beneath him, dragging him toward danger—on one end, a spinning circular saw screeched, hungry for metal and flesh. On the other, security lasers pulsed a warning red.
A worker leaped onto the conveyor, swinging a crowbar at his legs. The masked man vaulted over him in a single motion. The worker lost his footing—his scream was cut short as his arm got caught in the saw.
Another worker scrambled onto the belt, reaching for him. The masked man flipped over him, planting both feet into his back and sending him sprawling toward the saw. At the last second, a fellow worker yanked him away, sparing him a gruesome fate.
The masked man landed near a massive control lever. Without hesitation, he grabbed it and pulled. Metal groaned. Sparks flew. The lever snapped off in his grip.
The factory roared to life. Gears spun faster, belts lurched, machines churned with reckless speed. The man who had fallen onto the conveyor was seconds from being processed like scrap metal when a colleague yanked him free.
But the damage was done. The overworked machinery let out an agonized screech. Smoke billowed. Warning lights flashed. The masked man didn't wait—he bolted for the nearest exit.
Behind him, the machines buckled under the strain. Pistons cracked, gears jammed, and with a deafening explosion, the entire system went up in flames. Factory parts rained down like shrapnel. Workers dove for cover, shielding themselves as their livelihood collapsed in a storm of metal and fire.
The masked man was already gone.
Spam heard a sound and sat up in bed. The night was still, save for the distant hum of insects. He rose, stepping cautiously toward the door. Outside, beneath the pale glow of the moon, a masked man stood in silence.
Spam stared at him for a moment, then simply turned and walked away.
The man exhaled, removing his mask. It was Scorn.
Dawn painted the sky in soft gold as Adam ran along the forest path. His breath was steady, his strides even, but his eyes kept flicking to the right. Something felt off.
After a while, he slowed to a stop.
"Where is she?" he murmured.
He stepped off the path, deeper into the trees, and soon saw a woman on the ground. She was already pushing herself up when he reached her.
"You okay?" he asked, offering a hand.
She nodded, taking it. Once she was steady, she brushed the dirt from her dress.
Adam plucked a stray leaf from her hair.
She gave him a small nod of thanks and turned to leave, but he called after her.
"Your basket."
He bent down, picking up a woven basket filled with mushrooms, and handed it to her.
She accepted it quickly and hurried away, lifting the hem of her long dress to keep it from dragging through the grass.
Back in the village, the women worked as they sang.
Weee would, water the plants
We would shelter the plants
For one day they would water and shelter us
Weee would, clear all the weeds
We would burn them to ash
For one day they would try to clear and burn the trees.
Their voices wove through the morning air as the girl stepped into the village. Minutes later, Adam arrived.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the singing stopped.
Their huts were on the far side of the village, and they usually took another route home. But today, Adam had taken this path—just to make sure the girl got home safe.
The next day, the village buzzed with urgent news. A masked man had attacked the factory overnight, and the story spread like wildfire, overshadowing the quieter revelation that Raith had finally regained consciousness.
As soon as they heard, they rushed to the clinic.
"You've been sleeping for a week," Emac said the moment he arrived. "It was about time you woke up."
Paps was already there, fast asleep on the floor. Spam, Adam, and Naté arrived soon after.
Spam and Emac helped Raith sit up while the healer nodded toward Paps.
"Don't forget your friend," she said.
Adam nudged Paps awake, and together, they all walked Raith home.
As they neared the village, Raith's steps faltered. His gaze locked onto a plume of smoke rising above the treetops.
"The forest is burning—someone has to warn them!" He tried to hurry forward, but Emac grabbed his arm.
"It's the factory," Emac said.
Raith froze, his breath catching. Only for a second—but Emac noticed it.
"It's been a long time since you were home, hasn't it?" Emac murmured.
A thin film of tears formed in Raith's eyes, but he said nothing.
When they reached their hut, they settled Raith in to rest. But barely an hour later, he was up again, slipping toward the door.
"Where are you going? You need to rest," Paps said, catching him off guard.
"I need to see my parents."
Without another word, he left.
The others stayed behind, training.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. Planks.
Repetition, rhythm, focus.
But Raith's mind was elsewhere as he reached his parents' hut. They were speaking with a man outside. He waited. When the man left, he stepped forward.
"What was that about?"
His mother hesitated. His father crossed his arms.
"There was an attack last night," his mother finally said.
"So it's true, then. There's a factory now." Raith's voice tightened. "What about the land? The trees? The animals? You used to protect them—"
His father's expression darkened. "We're working on it."
"We are," his mother added quickly, but his father cut her off.
"We're working on it. What do you expect us to do, kill them?"
The words hit harder than Raith expected. He swallowed, looking away. A knot of frustration and sorrow formed in his chest. He hugged his mother and murmured a goodbye, nodding stiffly to his father before leaving.
When he returned to the hut, the others paused their training.
"Which one of you attacked the factory last night?" Raith asked, his voice sharp.
Silence. They glanced at each other, unreadable.
"So none of you did?"
Before anyone could answer, a figure stepped from the shadows.
"I attacked the factory," Scorn said.
Everyone turned to him in shock. But Spam… Spam felt something different. A chill ran down his spine. He hadn't initiated a split.
Scorn had stepped out on his own.
"They complain about the factory every day," Scorn continued. "So I decided to help."
Raith's jaw clenched. "That's not—"
"That's what they do," Raith continued. "They complain. But if they found out one of us did something about it? They'd turn on us in a second."
Silence stretched between them. Then, one by one, they all made the same unspoken agreement.
No more interference.
Scorn promised. They all did.
Even if the factory kept growing.
Even if the trees kept falling.
They wouldn't help again.
Three Months Later
Every morning, Adam found her in the forest. At first, it was just helping her pick mushrooms during his run. Then came conversation. Then, chores.
It became a habit, a quiet part of his day.
When he wasn't with her, he trained with the others. At first, endurance was a struggle. A few push-ups, a few sit-ups, and exhaustion set in. The oxygen levels on Eden were too high. Their bodies weren't built for it.
But after three months, they adapted.
One night, a ship landed near the factory. By morning, a stranger walked into the village.
He was tall and thickly built, his face covered in scars. A heavy jacket concealed most of his body. He moved with a quiet menace, following the factory's foreman like a shadow.
The villagers gathered as the foreman raised his voice.
"We still don't know who attacked the factory," he announced. "As punishment, I'm going to burn a few houses."
With a snap of his fingers, factory workers moved in, setting homes ablaze. The flames spread quickly. The villagers watched, silent, helpless.
They left but the scarred man returned later.
A flicker of motion—before anyone could react, he grabbed a villager by the arm and twisted. A sickening crack echoed through the square.
The villager screamed, collapsing to the ground.
"An arm for an arm," the man said flatly. Then he turned and walked into the forest.
By morning, the scarred man returned—with the foreman at his side.
The foreman started to speak. "We will be—" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes locking onto the injured villager. He stalked over, his expression twisting.
"Who did this?"
No one answered.
The villagers kept their eyes down, but tension rippled through the crowd.
The foreman turned sharply to the scarred man. "Did you do this?"
Silence.
The foreman's face darkened. "I thought we agreed to punish—"
A blur. A snap.
The foreman's head separated from his body, rolling onto the ground.
Gasps and screams rang out. Some villagers stumbled back in horror. Others stood frozen, unable to process what had just happened.
The scarred man wiped his hand on his jacket and turned to face them.
"I am Lomi of the Yorkatta Syndicate," he said. His voice was calm, almost bored. "From now on, I am the foreman. If you have any problems, address them to me."
Without another word, he turned and walked away.