The simulation chamber sealed behind him with a soft hiss.
For a moment, Ciprian-8 stood in total darkness.
Then the world shifted.
A cold wind slapped him in the face.
Wet leaves crunched beneath his boots.
The air smelled of pine, smoke, damp soil… and something else.
Fear.
A forest stretched endlessly around him — jagged black trunks rising like cathedral pillars. Mist curled between them, catching the faint glow of a dying sun. In the distance, wolves howled — not the tame, genetically pacified wolves of his century, but something feral, ancient.
Ciprian-8 shivered.
The machine hadn’t just recreated the 15th century.
It had dropped him into it.
He felt a weight on his shoulder — fur-lined, heavy.
Looking down, he realized he was wearing coarse wool, leather boots, and a hand-stitched tunic. Primitive. Rough. Real.
A deep voice boomed through the trees:
“Nu te uita la lume ca un copil, străine.”
(“Do not look at the world like a child, stranger.”)
Ciprian-8 spun around.
A man stepped from the shadows.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in furs that looked like wolf pelts. His beard was thick, streaked with early gray. A scar ran from his right temple to his jaw. His eyes — cold, sharp, suspicious — were the same eyes Ciprian-8 had seen in old holos of his family.
The man held a spear.
Not casually.
Not decoratively.
Ready to kill.
“Who…” Ciprian-8 began.
The man lowered the spear tip until it pressed lightly against Ciprian-8’s chest.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
His accent was old — older than Romania, older than Wallachia as Ciprian-8 understood it.
Ciprian-8 swallows.
“I’m… Ciprian.”
The man didn’t blink.
“I am Ciprian.”
A beat.
“The first. And you are no kin of mine.”
Ciprian-8 felt a strange pull in the air — as if the simulation itself were registering a contradiction.
“I am your kin,” he said. “I’m from far in the future.”
The man scowled.
“A lie. The future is God’s, not man’s.”
Ciprian-8 held up his hand — the faint glow of the chamber’s safety implant flickered beneath his skin.
The ancestor’s eyes widened.
He stepped back, gripping his spear tighter.
“Dracului! Ce fel de om ești?”
(“By the devil! What kind of man are you?”)
“I’m here to learn,” Ciprian-8 said softly. “To understand where I come from.”
Silence fell.
Only the wind moved, whispering through the trees like old secrets.
At last, the man lowered his spear.
Not fully — just enough.
He studied Ciprian-8’s face.
His posture.
His breath.
Finally, he spoke:
“Dacă spui adevărul, atunci urmează-mă.”
(“If you speak truth… then follow me.”)
He turned and walked deeper into the forest.
Ciprian-8 hesitated only a second before following.
They moved silently for several minutes, pushing through dense underbrush. The night deepened; the forest grew darker. Somewhere in the distance, the metallic clang of weapons echoed.
Ciprian-1 stopped suddenly and raised a hand.
He whispered:
“Ottoman scouts. Maybe ten. Maybe more. They hunt tonight.”
Ciprian-8 felt his pulse race.
This was no safe simulation.
The Bloodline Reality Engine was far more immersive — and dangerous — than anything permitted in 2276.
The ancestor looked at him, eyes narrowed.
“A man should know his blood.
But first he must know fear.”
Ciprian-1 handed him a small iron knife — crude, handmade, wickedly sharp.
“If you truly carry my name…
tonight you will prove it.”
A branch snapped nearby.
Shadows moved between the trees.
The Ottomans were closing in.
Ciprian-1 crouched, spear ready, and whispered:
“Stay low.
Stay silent.
Stay alive.”
Ciprian-8 clutched the knife, breath shaking.
He had come to learn about his ancestors.
He hadn’t expected to fight beside them.
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