I narrowed my focus, activating Analyze on the massive entity before me. The status screen materialized in my consciousness, but what appeared defied conventional parameters:

Name: Voiceless Prophet

Level: 1

Species: Whispering Rock [MONSTER]

Gender: N/A

Age: 103

Strength: 1279

Endurance: 1458

Dexterity: 1255

Intelligence: 1126

Wisdom: 1333

The statistics made no logical sense. Strength: 1,273. Endurance: 1,458. Intelligence: 1,126. Every core attribute exceeded one thousand; impossible values for a mere level 1 entity.

Mulmin, I transmitted reflexively, then caught myself. No, that's not right. You're... what are you exactly?

A ripple of amusement flowed through our mental connection.

"Names are containers too small for what we are," the Prophet responded. "Am I the remnants of Borosmemnok with Mulmin's memories? In a way."

"I am known as the Voiceless Prophet here," it continued. "I am Mulmin and Borosmemnok in the same way you are Vardin and Machalaziel."

I understand, I replied.

"No. Not yet." The mental voice carried a strange certainty. "You remain caught in the between: you think with a human's thoughts while Primordial instincts pull you elsewhere. You are not yet you."

Frustration surged through my body. What does that even mean? These riddles solve nothing.

Beside me, Yudron chuckled, his weathered face crinkling with amusement. "I reacted much the same when I first began conversing with the Prophet. The words seem nonsensical until suddenly they don't. You'll adjust."

"To become who you are, you must grow stronger," the Prophet continued.

You mean reaching level 100? I asked. When the godseed hatches?

"No."

My mechanical body tensed with irritation. The tendril-laden war frame felt suddenly constricting, its hydraulics whining softly as my agitation translated into physical tension.

Then what? If you summoned me here, at least speak plainly, Mulmin.

The name slipped out again unbidden. I couldn't help it. That voice; Vardin's memories recognized it instantly, stirring emotions that weren't mine yet manifested with overwhelming intensity. Love, longing, comfort, all of it twisted with confusion and pain. The feelings burned through my consciousness with frightening authenticity.

"You called me by that name again," the Prophet observed, not unkindly.

I apologize, I transmitted. These memories... they're not mine, but they feel real. Too real.

"They are real," the Prophet replied. "Just as the body of Machalaziel that you wear is real. The question is not which one belongs to you, but which you will choose to belong to."

I stared at the massive, wounded form before me, suddenly aware of our parallels: both of us were fragments of ancient beings, both carrying the memories of those who destroyed us, both transformed into something neither fully Primordial nor fully human.

"You think yourself a machine wearing a monster's flesh," the Prophet continued. "I once thought myself a king trapped in an enemy's shell. Neither perspective serves the truth."

The words penetrated deeper than I wanted to admit. Since my awakening, I'd defined myself by what I lacked: a complete form, a clear identity, a singular purpose. Perhaps that approach itself was the obstacle.

Then what am I supposed to be? I asked, genuine uncertainty replacing frustration.

"Discovering that," the Prophet replied, "is precisely what will lead you to truth."

I let out a mechanical sigh, the sound escaping through the vents of my war frame like steam from a kettle. Frustration coiled through my systems, tightening cables and straining joints.

This is getting us nowhere, I transmitted. These riddles and metaphors. I came seeking answers, not more questions.

The massive red boulder remained silent for a moment, its wounds pulsing slightly, seeming to follow some unknowable rhythm. I wondered what had happened to transform the proud warrior-king from Vardin's memories into this cryptic, damaged being.

As if hearing my thoughts (perhaps it had), the Prophet suddenly answered.

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Images cascaded through our connection; not words, but visceral experiences that crashed against my consciousness like waves against stone.

"I awakened ten decades ago, here in this caldera," the Prophet said. "Alone. Incapable of movement. A mind trapped in immobile stone."

The sensation of absolute stillness washed over me, the horror of consciousness without the ability to shift even a fraction of an inch. I felt phantom limbs that no longer existed trying to twitch, to stretch, to move. The memory was so intense I had to check my own mechanical limbs to ensure they still functioned.

"Days became weeks. Weeks turned to months. Months to years. Years to decades."

Each word carried the weight of countless empty hours. I experienced the maddening sameness of the caldera, unchanging except for the slow crawl of shadows as the sun moved overhead, the occasional rain that would sizzle against hot stone, the rare cloud that might momentarily block the relentless sky.

"I felt myself go insane," the Prophet transmitted. "Then sane again. Then back to madness. A cycle without end.

"The isolation was absolute. No voices. No touch. No purpose. Nothing but thought spiraling inward upon itself, consciousness becoming a prison.

"I had no one to speak to. Nothing to do. All I could accomplish was to think and reach out with my mind."

Through our connection, I felt the desperate grasping of consciousness straining against its limitations. The Prophet had pushed outward, seeking any connection to break the solitude.

"I began to see without eyes. Hear without ears. Speak without lips."

The mental landscape shifted, showing me how perception had changed. The Prophet's awareness had stretched beyond physical senses, touching the world in ways I couldn't fully comprehend.

"My mind stretched, twisted, flew. I searched the sky, the stars, the dirt, the gravel, the heat within the air, the distance between one molecule and another."

I experienced fragments of this expanded consciousness, the ability to feel the vibration of a distant insect's wings, to taste the chemical composition of rock, to hear the whispered exchange of energy between atoms. It was overwhelming, beautiful, and terrifying.

"I discovered the truth about myself and the world around me. My mind stretched to the other wounds in the world and felt the threads of others like myself."

A map of awareness unfolded: other entities, similar yet different, scattered across the world. Most dormant, wrapped in protective nothing.

"Most still sleep, safe in their coffins of oblivion."

The loneliness eventually broke when the Prophet sensed approaching minds: creatures descended from those who had once served the Primordials.

"The distant descendants of my kind's distant descendants arrived and found me. I spoke. They listened."

Images flashed of the first intelligent monsters discovering the strange stone, hearing its voice in their minds, their initial fear giving way to reverence.

"They founded a community around me. I was not alone anymore."

The relief was palpable, a crushing weight finally lifted after decades of isolation.

"I sang. I spoke wisdom in their ears. I taught them how to survive. I created children to protect them."

Visions of the Voiceless taking form from the Prophet's will, the gradual construction of the enclave, the gathering of various monster species finding sanctuary within the volcano.

"I watched them thrive and grow."

Pride colored these memories, the satisfaction of seeing the community flourish, expand, develop its own culture and traditions.

"Then, I felt it. Another had arrived in this world, breaking through their womb of earth to be reborn anew."

I recognized myself in this memory, felt my own awakening, confused and alone, my Assembly power instinctively creating a body from surrounding materials.

"I tried reaching out, but you were so far. Only when you had grown strong enough to listen did you hear my calling voice."

The whispers I'd been hearing since my awakening suddenly made sense. It was as I had thought. They were not madness or hallucination, but this being reaching across vast distances.

"And here you are, before me." The Prophet's mental voice softened. "We are together at last."

I nodded, feeling the Prophet's relief at finally meeting another of its kind. The relief of knowing that it wasn't alone in the world.

What happens now? I asked, my mechanical limbs shifting restlessly against the volcanic rock.

"You must grow stronger," the Prophet replied, the mental voice resonating through my consciousness.

You said that before. Frustration leaked through my mental tone. What do you mean by stronger if not in levels?

The massive, wounded form pulsed slightly, a rhythm like breathing though the Prophet had no lungs.

"The numbers are an illusion," it transmitted. "A trap constructed by those who seek to keep us weak. This game you play is itself a cage built around power they fear."

I considered this. The System had been created to limit the power of humans. At least that was what Vardin had told me.

"Your ability is a mere remnant of what it once was," the Prophet continued. "As of now, you remain a shattered sovereign. You must heal yourself, restore what was fractured, make it whole again."

How? I asked, my tendril-arms flexing with impatience. How do I heal what I don't even understand?

The Prophet's mental voice softened, taking on a reflective quality.

"For me, I had to delve into the seas of enmity. My children-" an impression of the Voiceless flashed between us, "-had to venture forth and grow stronger, fighting the corrupted children in the wound. Their strength became my strength. Their victories healed my tattered mantle."

I processed this information, examining its application to my situation. My children all remained at level 1, untested in battle. Could I send them to fight? Risk their destruction for power?

The thought of losing even one made something twist painfully within me. These weren't just tools; they were extensions of myself, carrying fragments of my soul.

There must be other paths to strength, I transmitted, my mechanical body stiffening with resolve. I cannot sacrifice my children.

"Of course," the Prophet agreed, a ripple of what felt like approval flowing through our connection. "What worked for me may not work for you. We are different beings, after all. We have different wounds, different mantles. You must find your own truth."

Yudron stepped forward, his weathered orc face creasing with a gentle smile. "I believe that's enough for today. I've prepared accommodations for you back in the enclave. You'll need rest to process all you've learned."

I turned to the massive, wounded form of the Prophet, uncertain whether to bow or offer some other gesture of respect. In the end, I simply inclined my head.

Thank you for sharing your wisdom, I transmitted, though "wisdom" seemed a generous term for the cryptic guidance I'd received.

"Grow stronger, Vardin. I'm sorry… Vardiel," the Prophet's voice echoed in my mind as Yudron led me toward the staircase. "Find your path. Only then can your wounds truly heal."

As we descended the stone steps, the Prophet's presence gradually faded from my mind. The volcanic heat diminished with each step, replaced by the cooler air of the tunnels leading back to the enclave.

"What did you think?" Yudron asked, his voice echoing slightly in the narrow passage.

I'm not sure, I admitted. The Prophet speaks in riddles and metaphors. I came seeking answers but leave with more questions.

Yudron chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "That's how it usually goes. The Prophet's wisdom often makes sense only in retrospect, after you've had time to consider it."

I followed the elder orc in silence, my mind cycling through the conversation, analyzing each cryptic phrase for hidden meaning. One thing was clear: whatever path to strength lay before me, I would need to discover it myself.

The godseed within me pulsed faintly, as if responding to my thoughts. Level 100 might not be the answer, but it remained a significant milestone on my journey. For now, I would focus on what was tangible: learning about this enclave, understanding its inhabitants, and perhaps discovering how a community of intelligent monsters had thrived in secret for so long.

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