Norman disembarked off the SVoyLPad on Minhauthus, and stepped into the capital city of Katikus. He had not chosen this location on a whim. Celine followed behind him, her tail high up in the air.

This location was connected to the Yaskh. In fact, this planet was one of the few historical sites where the Yaskh had come in touch with human civilization.

Minhauthus was currently best known for its spice production. A large variety of seasonal spices native to the planet had come to be recognized as delicacies far and wide across the planet. So, not surprisingly, as he directed the driver of his pre-hired hydraulic rover to lead him towards the location of the old relics he remembered from his visions, he found himself speeding through acres and acres of spice fields.

The multicolor farms around him stretched out as far as the eye could see, a vibrant mosaic of hues that seemed to defy the very laws of nature. The air was thick with the scent of rich soil and the crisp aroma of ripening crops.

He hoped that the structure still stood and hadn't been ravaged completely by the passage of time. Unlike the ziggurat, this was not something designed for maximal durability and security. At least the weather here was a lot more pleasant. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting long shadows across the sprawling landscape.

As he approached the old Yaskh burrow, he noticed that a few shops had been set up around it, and many people were wandering around the area. It looked to be a tourist attraction, but not one that was particularly prominent. As he approached the complex, a couple of stout-looking Katican natives approached him: "Welcome traveler, I can be your guide for this ancient historical site, for a very modest fee of 0.9 sols. Over the last five years, I have guided hundreds of tourists through this old Yaskh settlement." One of them held up some sort of badge with a certification seal.

The fee was indeed modest but Norman didn't want the company. And also he doubted there was anything these tourist guides could tell him that he couldn't find out from his companion.

"I am a researcher; I can find my way." He said in the second generation simplified Yaskin and the astonished native thought better than to argue further. Interesting that Yaskin was still known to the natives.

As he walked through the dilapidated circular corridors around the burrow, he reconciled the ramshackle ruins around him with the structure he remembered from his vision. The roofs and arches around the structure constructed by later generations were all gone now - only some pillars remained. As he entered deeper into the structure, he came face to face with the oldest construction - the burrow itself. A hole that extended half a league deep into the ground. The surrounding area was completely restricted by Yellow tape. Norman waited for the few remaining tourists to disperse, then ducked down the tape and ventured in.

Along the single spiraling pathway that descended into the abyss were small hatches—places for incubating eggs.

Birth control was a core tenet of the Yaskh culture. Their eggs could last for centuries in an inert state. Warriors would contribute their seed to the burrow as part of the sacred annual ceremony of Harak'Uthalha and the queen would keep the eggs protected until a time of crisis came upon them. The Yaskhs born would inherit much of the knowledge and skill of their forefathers. In contrast to human births, it was more akin to reincarnation.

Norman walked down and came across a few broken husks of eggshells. A lot of this structure was unstable; his shoes kept sinking into the detritus that had accumulated over the years. And the burrow was not designed for humans in the first place - the steps were too steep and too narrow. Norman tried hard not to imagine what would happen if he fell. Of course, none of this was an issue for Celine, who effortlessly led the way.

Eventually, diverting off to a narrow lane from the main pathway, he arrived at a small semicircular underground opening. In a corner, shrouded in shadows and covered in cobwebs, there was a rack from which a couple of hilts were protruding out. As he placed his hand on the hilt, it pierced his skin. Wyrmblood coursed out and impregnated the weapon. The weapon obeyed.

He pulled out the demonclaw and walked over to a wider opening at the base of the burrow. The space was dimly illuminated by the crimson evening sunlight filtering in from the hole far above.

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Norman closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to ground himself. He could feel the memories of Waz'lhim, the Yaskh warrior whose memories he had reexperienced, resurfacing. He could feel the weapon in his hands beckoning him.

With a grace and fluidity that belied his experience, he raised the demonclaw. The blade seemed to come alive in his hands, as if it held the soul of the dance within it. He began to move, his body swaying and weaving through the air, each step and twirl imbued with the power of the ancient art.

The dance was complex, an intricate interplay of footwork, agility, and swordplay. With every leap and spin, Norman brought the blade down in precise arcs, slicing through the air as if to cleave the very essence of the world around him. His movements were a testament to the mastery of the warrior long past, a dance born of the need to survive in the face of unyielding adversity.

The dance was a reminder of the tenuous balance between life and death, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, one could find the strength to persevere.

As he unfolded the weapon in one final sweep, he suddenly noticed he wasn't alone. In the shadows, there was someone watching him. A child.

When Norman called out after him, the child ran. He followed.

The kid wove through the narrow passages and deep tunnels of the borrow with the obvious familiarity of someone who frequented these depths often. Norman struggled to keep track of him.

Eventually though, he cornered him in a cavern.

The child's eyes were wide with fear. The rags he wore were dripping with sweat and were plastered to his skinny frame. "What is your name?" Norman asked.

"F-Fortis." The Katican boy stammered, "We often sneak down here. I only saw you practice. It's just like the drawings."

"What drawings?" Norman was curious now.

The child pointed towards the distant wall.

The rough stone walls of the structure were adorned with faded drawings, their vibrant colors now muted by the relentless march of time. The ancient drawings were distinctly human - at some point, after the Khanate were evicted from the burrow, people had taken shelter there. Among these relics of the past, one image stood out from the rest: the depiction of a warrior performing a sword dance.

Norman hadn't noticed the images before in the darkness. But as he brought his flare closer to the walls, he could distinctly see many of the steps that he had just performed from memory, illustrated on the walls.

The alien warrior's body was in motion; his legs bent, and his torso twisted in an elegant curve. His feet were imprinted on the stone, their intricate patterns revealing the steps of the dance. The intricacies of the warrior's movements had once been captured in minute detail, though entire sections had now been wiped out.

"We have tried pulling out those swords many times. How did you do it?"

"I am stronger than I look." Norman muttered; he was still looking at the depictions on the wall with awe. When he turned back, his heart skipped a beat.

Celine was perched on a ridge far up. A single dark tendril had curled its way down the pillar and was now barely a foot away from the kid's throat.

"No," Norman barked. Surprised, the kid staggered back. The tendril dissipated. Celine withdrew into the darkness.

"If I give you a sol, do you promise to tell nobody about what you saw here?" Norman tempered his voice.

"A full sol?" The child squawked, "Yes, yes. I didn't see anything. But I don't have a Sol shard right now."

Norman was surprised that Sol shards were still in use. Standardizing the use of sol as a currency in all the vassals had been a Herculean effort for the empire. A lot of the cultures were too attached to the concept of using valuable metals for exchange. Replacing that with something ephemeral that only existed in records was a huge shift for them. The push for adoption of a centralized digital identity database was also in its early stages at the time.

The compromise the empire eventually settled on for vassal states was the concept of sol shards - Small crystal shards, that could absorb and hold on to a precious liquid called solemnus. The combination was quite remarkable - while the shards could be easily manufactured in most geographies, solemnus itself was extremely rare and could only be extracted from a dying red star through an advanced manufacturing process the empire closely guarded.

This way, the people could hold on to something tangible that was not necessarily tied to their identity, and the empire could curb pilferage. It was intended to be a short-term solution, but well, it had hung around for only a century or so longer.

"Come to the Valsohm hotel within the next three hours. Ask for Wilhem Sardius." Norman had a booking under a fake name. If sol shards were still in use on this planet, the hotel would have an exchange reserve.

"Ok. Can... Can I go now?" The child stammered, visibly scared and excited at the same time.

"Yes." Norman turned.

The child had scampered away up the staircase but turned back at the last moment, "Wait, How do you plan to sneak that out? If you'd like, I can help with that. We know a few hidden tunnels that you won't be able to crawl through."

Norman hadn't thought of that. Sure enough, he would not be able to walk away with an ancient relic casually past the security that patrolled the area.

"Fair enough. Bring it to the hotel." Norman handed him the demonclaw. For some reason, he found it easy to trust the child.

Neither of them knew it at the time, but that idea had saved the kid's life.