The great hall at Oxford University had the atmosphere of an impending verdict. Overhead, crystal chandeliers cast golden light on polished oak panels, but the room was already humming with the anxious energy of a crowd expecting something grand—something controversial. Ren “Compass” Waynd stood backstage, hidden behind a velvet curtain, staring down at the artifact in its case. His reflection shimmered off the polished gss surface of the cube. He exhaled slowly. This is it.

  Months of excavation, transtion, sleepless nights spent with ancient symbols, dreams of recognition—and fears of being wrong. All of it had led to this moment. A single presentation, ten minutes long, in front of some of the most esteemed archaeologists, historians, and skeptics on the pnet.

  Beyond the curtain, the low murmur of voices buzzed like a swarm. The room was packed—standing room only. Media outlets, schors, government observers, and even a few venture capitalists had crowded in to hear what some had already dubbed the discovery of the century.

  Ren gnced sideways. Seated near the front row, his team waited with visible tension. Sphinx sat ramrod straight, cane resting across his p, his face unreadable but his eyes burning with anticipation. Rivet tapped nervously at her ear-mounted comms unit, chewing the inside of her cheek. Echo adjusted his camera rig, focused on the stage like a sniper. And Doc sat still, hands folded, staring into nothing with clinical calm. He didn’t need to say anything to them. They all knew what was at stake.

  “Professor Waynd,” a voice whispered.

  An assistant motioned to the stage. Ren stepped forward.

  As he emerged, appuse rippled politely—just enough to acknowledge his credentials, but not yet his message. He walked toward the podium, his stride controlled, measured, as though he didn’t feel like an imposter in front of giants.

  The massive projection screen behind him fred to life. A crisp, high-resolution image of the artifact filled the space—silver-gray, weathered, impossible. The cube glowed under the lights, its edges sharp and alien, the engravings faintly visible to the naked eye.

  Ren pced both hands on the lectern.

  “Good afternoon,” he began, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest. “My name is Ren Waynd. Some of you know me as Compass. I’ve spent the st fifteen years of my life studying ancient anomalies—artifacts, ruins, mythologies that don’t quite fit into our historical puzzle.”

  He clicked a button. The image zoomed in. A close-up of the cube’s surface. Patterns—etched lines, like veins or circuitry—snaked across the metal, converging toward a single symbol.

  “This,” Ren said quietly, “is not just another relic. It is a message. And it did not come from any single culture that we know.”

  A new slide appeared—two ancient scripts, side by side.

  “On one face, we discovered Sumerian-Akkadian cuneiform. On another: Egyptian hieroglyphs. These nguages existed roughly in the same epoch... but never in the same pce. Never on the same object. Never meant to be read together.”

  The room hushed. The audience leaned forward.

  Ren gestured to a composite image that overid the cube’s engravings onto a stylized brain.

  “At the center,” he said, “this symbol—seen in various forms across the artifact—resembles a human brain entwined with something organic. Fiment-like. Mycelial.”

  A few people exchanged gnces. Others whispered.

  “We believe this represents a conceptual model. A network of thought. A consciousness. Not bound to one individual—but shared. And ancient.”

  He paused.

  “There is more. References in the scripts to 'Abzu'—Sumerian for 'the deep'—and 'Ta-Netjer,' or 'Land of the Gods,' from Egyptian myth. These cultures speak of gateways, of forbidden knowledge, of beings that walked before men. And this artifact may be the first physical proof that such myths were rooted in something real.”

  The air in the room thickened. It was working. Ren could feel the shift—curiosity taking hold. Doubt giving way to wonder.

  Then came the question.

  “Are you saying this is from Atntis?”

  From the back of the room, a young voice rang out—eager, unfiltered. The name dropped like a stone in a still pond. Ren’s stomach twisted. He saw Sphinx wince.

  “I’m not making that cim,” Ren said, keeping his tone even. “I’m saying we’ve found something that suggests contact—or continuity—between ancient civilizations. Something predating what we’ve previously accepted.”

  But the damage was done. The word Atntis now floated over the room like a ghost—and it summoned its own hunter.

  From the fifth row, a tall, gaunt man in a dark suit rose to his feet. Ren knew him instantly. Professor Michael Rivers.

  The man whose career was built on tearing down frauds, hoaxes, wishful thinkers. He had destroyed reputations in a single op-ed. Some called him a necessary evil. Others called him a bastard with tenure.

  The room fell silent as he made his way to the aisle, then slowly approached the stage.

  “Mr. Waynd,” Rivers called out, his voice dry as sandpaper. “May I?”

  Ren hesitated. The cube sat on a velvet-draped pedestal beside him. Rivers didn’t ask again.

  With effort, Ren uncsped the protective case and lifted the artifact. He held it a moment longer than he should have—then handed it over.

  Rivers turned it in his hand with mock reverence.

  “The craftsmanship is excellent,” he said, almost sincerely. “A lovely fabrication. Nice patina.”

  He raised it above his head like a chalice.

  “But let’s be honest: this is a modern hoax.”

  Laughter—nervous at first, then emboldened—echoed from the crowd. Ren stood frozen. Rivers smiled like a predator.

  “You want to believe it’s ancient? That’s charming. But let’s consider reality. Modern ser etching, friends. Look at these edges—machine-perfect. The ‘mycelium brain’? A fun piece of graphic design. Symbolism pulled from contemporary neurology and pop science.”

  More ughter. Some cps. Sphinx sat stonily, jaw clenched. Rivet looked ready to jump from h

  er seat. Doc closed his eyes. Rivers continued, now pacing.

  “And of course, the inevitable references to ‘the deep’ and ‘the nd of the gods.’ You might as well put up a slide of Atntis and py whale sounds.”

  He let the cube drop into his palm with a soft thud.

  “We’ve seen this before. The Voynich Manuscript. The Dropa stones. Now, the Waynd cube. The public eats it up—but we, the scientists, have a responsibility not to indulge in fantasy.”

  Ren tried to speak, but his throat was dry.

  “I never said it was—” he managed.

  “Atntis? Of course not,” Rivers interrupted. “You left that part for your eager audience to assume. Clever. But sloppy.”

  More cameras clicked. Ren turned back to the podium. His hands shook. He looked to his team. Rivet met his eyes, silently urging him to say something—anything. But he couldn’t. He felt hollow. Burned out. And just like that, the energy in the room shifted—from anticipation to derision. He backed away from the podium. Then, without a word, Ren Waynd walked off stage.