"Don't worry, you are not alone."
Once again, Nemo felt the warmth of Arbil's hand as a gentle green shimmer entered his vision. A moment later, he sensed a tug within his mind—subtle, insistent—guiding him toward a specific thought. It didn't form like his usual internal musings. Instead, it crystallized within him, as though it had always existed, waiting to be remembered.
Without understanding how, Nemo realized he had imagined something entirely new. But was it truly imagination? A memory? Or something more?
"I know it's weird," Arbil said softly. "It feels like you're remembering your present while you're living it. Like a memory of this exact moment, right now. That's what it feels like for me—and many others."
"It feels more like I'm daydreaming," Nemo admitted.
"Ha! That works too. Okay, now tell me—broadly—what are you dreaming about?"
"I see a small, empty space. In the middle, there's a tiny plant with three roots. There are other things swirling around it—things I don't recognize. One root is silver, one is dark red, and the last is white."
"Very good. Those are your roots. Now comes the third part: you need to draw out some of their power and connect it to the bridge we just built."
"How do I do that?"
"Just like before—it's about instinct. I can't teach you how to react to heat, just like I can't teach you how to draw power. But I can guide you toward your own answer."
Nemo focused inward, sinking into his dreamscape. It appeared exactly as he had described to Arbil, though now more detailed. The roots didn't just have color—they had texture, structure, and their own unique ways of growing.
The swirling things were familiar now: the fruits he had consumed from the Tree of Hunger. He still didn't know what they truly were. But two other things stood out.
On the dark red root, a blue, semi-transparent, tentacled creature was half-buried. Its spotted appendages writhed with eerie speed, accomplishing seemingly nothing.
Above the stem hovered a white flame. It hurt to look at—either because it was something he wasn't meant to understand or because it simply was: a flame, white and pure, burning within him. The idea was unsettling.
But he shoved aside his unease. He had a task.
Concentrating, he tried to understand what it meant to draw power. But what was that, really?
Before the question could spiral further, Arbil spoke again.
"Drawing power can mean anything. What does it mean for you? Do you imagine it literally—drawing with a pencil? Then see a line being drawn from the roots to the bridge, power flowing along it.
"Or perhaps you draw power from memories of a loved one or your duty. In that case, channel your spirit through those feelings."
"Is a power plant an option?" Nemo asked.
Arbil laughed. "A very literal interpretation—but yes, if it works, it's valid."
Nemo fell silent again. What did power mean to him? He had never really asked himself that question. Not until now.
Arbil continued, "If 'power' doesn't resonate, maybe 'energy' is a better word."
That struck a chord. Of course Arbil would know the right thing to say.
Energy. Waves were full of energy. He had seen them—massive, relentless—towering over the tallest structures in Atlantis. They had hurled the city around like a toy. That was power. That was energy.
But the sea wasn't just strength. It was also dangerous, unknowable. He didn't like imagining it drawing his energy—it felt like something could be lost forever in its depths.
The sun also gave energy. It nourished crops and warmed frozen bones after long harbor nights spent repairing nets and gear. But how did the sun draw energy?
Then he remembered something.
It was from his childhood. Atlantis had once drifted far north—so far that the sun didn't rise for days. Midday was a dim gray; night swallowed the city whole. He had hated it—always cold, always lonely. Even as a child, he had sensed that life was not what it should be.
But then, one night, he had seen something miraculous.
The sky had come alive, dancing in waves of green and red. Some called them spirits of the dead. Others called them the northern lights.
The memory clicked into place like a puzzle piece.
When Nemo opened his eyes—within his mind—he saw those lights again. They danced from his roots to the bridge he had constructed. Both shimmered green, but their hues were worlds apart.
"I think I did it," he said, awed. "I managed to draw out some power."
"Very good," Arbil said. "Now comes the last step. We have connected your power to your mind, which means you should know what is inside you. However, brains are tricky things—sometimes they can't accept what's already within. So, we have to make it see. The final step is to take the energy that's now part of your bridge and connect it to one of your eyes. Once that's done, your brain will accept the information presented to it. Try it."
This last step seemingly came easily to Nemo. He could feel the bridge, instinctively, and drawing power through it came as naturally as breathing. Only...
"How do I connect it to my eye?"
"Ah, I always forget this part. Actually, you can't go wrong. The body is a wonderful machine that inherently knows how to do many things. If you were to draw your power to your liver, it would work better. If an awakened person wants to avoid getting drunk, no one can make him drunk. All you need to do is draw it somewhere near your eye. That's enough to make it clear to your subconscious what you need. It will do the rest."
Nemo followed Arbil's instructions and guided the northern lights—his manifestation of power—until they touched the back of his eye.
Then he opened his eyes—and the world exploded.
His brain couldn't process everything it saw. He shut his eyes immediately, then clamped his hands over his ears. Collapsing to his knees, he tried to shield his senses—nose, ears, eyes, and mouth—from the onslaught.
Still, his skin remained exposed. And that was enough.
A deluge of unfamiliar sensations rushed over him—none of which he could describe. He simply didn't have the words.
The state didn't last long, but it felt like days. His head throbbed, and exhaustion set in, like he'd been awake for a week. He curled into the fetal position, shielding himself, while his body experienced a new world for the first time.
Eventually, the intensity faded. He relaxed—only to immediately smell the world. Taste it.
Another surge of new information. Sharper, more focused, yet still overwhelming. This time, he recovered more quickly. He knew hearing and sight were next.
Best get it over with.
He opened his eyes. Freed his ears.
To his surprise, the new wave wasn't nearly as bad. His brain had begun to adapt.
He looked at Arbil.
The man appeared mostly the same—but there were differences. Nemo could smell his sweat and see the perspiration on his pores. He also noticed the green glow—previously confined to Arbil's hands—now subtly covering his forearms and chest.
The rest of the room, however, looked eerily unchanged. Identical to how it had been.
"Nemo, how is my voice feeling?"
Nemo flinched at the sudden sound. It was not unpleasant—but intense. He heard it clearly. And felt... something else. Was it color?
"It feels... nurturing? Hard, but fair. That's how I'd put it."
Arbil nodded and sat back down, gesturing to the seat opposite him.
"You've connected your subconscious with your conscious. You're experiencing the world as it truly is, unfiltered by your mundane senses. But that's not the true reason I asked you to do this. There's a reason I told you to connect it to your eye.
"Our world is confusing. Anything that makes our start easier is a useful tool. Think of this as training wheels on a bicycle. Use them to learn—but don't grow reliant. Learn to ride without them. Understand?"
Nemo nodded.
"Good. Now for the final step: visualize letters, runes, or pictures—shapes that can contain the knowledge dormant within you. Through them, you'll find the answers you seek."
Nemo listened carefully. Then he tried.
He began by imagining a book—but he wasn't much of a reader. He tried a newspaper—but the news was always the same. Eventually, he just pictured floating letters forming a string of text.
Visualization was harder than expected. Did the appearance even matter, as long as the information came through? Why did it have to be so complicated?
He stopped forcing it.
Instead, he simply willed his subconscious to reveal the knowledge already inside him. A more direct approach. It was his information, after all—why add extra steps?
At first, nothing happened. As if his subconscious resisted.
But he was himself—at least mostly—and his persistence paid off.
In the eye he had connected to the bridge, threads of green and pink energy began weaving themselves into letters. Since he hadn't visualized a medium, his subconscious used what was available: the strands of energy themselves.
Soon, an entire lattice of information floated before him.
Shocked—and exhilarated—Nemo began to read.