While the other nations’ Chosen Ones fought for their lives in the forbidden zone, I sat on a dune beside the Withered Sea of the Yellow Springs and cast my first line.
Three days later, I hooked a bronze coffin.
The lid slid open. Inside lay a person.
The same face, the same scars, even the tiny mole behind the left ear was in exactly the same place.
The livestream chat went wild.
But no one noticed the slip of paper clutched in the person’s hand. It bore a single line:
