The armored vehicle comes to a sudden halt, jolting Sierra awake from her nap. She sits up, quickly descends from her perch, and opens the hatch, peering inside with a hint of concern.

‘Everything okay in there?’

‘The caterpillar tracks are slipping. We're gonna need to check them’, the mechanic's voice hollers from inside the cabin. ‘Just what we needed’, he mutters irritably over the clamor.

Sierra stretches, rubbing her neck. A shiver runs through her as she clasps her hands together for warmth. The temperature has dropped sharply, and each breath now sends a plume of vapor into the cold air. Was this the first bite of winter, or had they entered a region where cold was an intrinsic part of the landscape?

She focuses, summoning Oddball through the spiritual bond they share. Closing her eyes, she detaches from the world for a moment to commune with her Alter Ego.

She senses him suddenly—distant, yet present, beyond the ridge and many miles away. His presence is faint, almost imperceptible, but there he is, moving toward her.

Everything okay?

A soft trill echoes in her mind, a Morse code reassurance that there’s no need to worry. She exhales, relieved, and turns her gaze southeastward toward Asgartha, now hundreds of miles away. Pulling her thick coat tighter, she secures the fur collar around her neck. With a sharp rap of her blades against the tank’s hull, she receives three answering knocks in return.

‘I’m going to scout ahead, see what’s beyond the ridge.’

‘Knock yourself out. We’re not going anywhere!’, comes the reply.

Time to stretch her legs.

She hops down beside the Tumult jammer, watching its antenna rotate above her like an enormous weathervane. As long as it’s running, it will keep the Tumult's emanations at bay, preventing them from warping the landscape and twisting reality. While it’s active, she’s safe from their mutagenic effects.

Setting off, she treads carefully, mindful of the treacherous rocky terrain. Loose stones and brittle ground could easily lead to injury if she wasn’t cautious. But she needs to move quickly—Akesha isn’t far, and if the Mage reaches her Alter Ego before Sierra reaches hers, the land could be irrevocably transformed into something weird and befuddling.

It’s vital to prevent the Yzmir from staking their claim here. This territory must belong to the Axiom. According to the Prospectors’ Guild, the underground reserves are likely rich in Kelon and other rare minerals.

In the distance, Sierra notices wisps of rosy clouds drifting along the slopes before being abruptly driven back by the jammer’s pulses. In their wake, the stone transforms into smooth, saffron-colored striations. The concept of wind subtly manifests, forming brief gusts, only to be interwoven with other ideas. Checking her monitor, she watches alarming words flash across the screen: “Shrinking”—the risk of being reduced to ant-size; “Contamination”—the ominous promise of some unknown disease; “Rhyme”—this one makes her smile as she imagines the entire crew breaking into alexandrine verse.

The Tumult’s influence isn’t particularly strong here, and with time, she could likely undo the effects of these fleeting ideas. But time was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Best to steer clear altogether.

She leaps between rocks, avoiding a puddle embodying the concept of “Sweat”—not ideal, given how far the showers on the Ouroboros were. Sprinting down a slope, she vaults over a boulder pulsing with the idea of “Monochrome”, idly wondering how she’d look if everyone only saw her in black and white.

There’s something exhilarating about dodging ideas, weaving through disembodied concepts waiting for their chance to materialize.

Climbing a steep incline, Sierra weaves between patches of snow tinged with the notion of “Velvet”. Her breath grows labored, and she slows her pace. Just a little farther, and she’ll crest the ridge to glimpse the other side. Pausing mid-ascent, she glances back at the tank, its surface scarred with parasitic ideas. Maintenance had been completed, and she’d worked alongside the technical crew to restore it, but it wouldn’t last much longer without her stabilizing the path ahead.

Once the camp was set up, she’d prepare for the journey. At dawn, she’d set off toward Oddball. Reaching out through their bond, she feels her Chimera purring at her mental touch. Oddball is navigating Tumult currents, absorbing Mana despite the turbulence. Soon, he’ll have gathered enough for them to begin their expedition.

She rummages through her pack, pulling out her flask for a refreshing sip of cold water. Almost there. Drawing on her Construct, she imbues herself with the notion of “Speed”. Her strides lengthen, and the landscape blurs around her. The rhythmic click of her running blades echoes on the rocky ground. Clack, clack, clack, clack. As she scans the crest, Sierra notices a strange glow illuminating the horizon ahead. Could it be the northern lights?

Reaching the jagged ridge, she exhales deeply and freezes in awe. Before her stretches wild expanses of Tumult-battered sceneries, as it paints the world in iridescent hues. In a riot of mumbo jumbo, waves after waves of mutagenic energy ripple across the landscape, transforming and recombining it erratically. Rivers morph into rocky outcrops, polar forests of snowy, cotton-like trees bloom spontaneously only to give way to yawning chasms.

And beyond this chaotic domain, a towering mountain rises, majestic and commanding. Its summit gleams with snow, encircled by a grand halo—an otherworldly ring. From a fissure near the peak emanates the strange light she had noticed earlier.

Even from this distance, it’s clear the mountain is suffused with the ideas of “Snow”, “Frost”, and “Ice”. Could it be an Oasis—a stable refuge amidst the chaos? A smile lights up her face. It feels as though the massif was summoned just for her, resonating with her name like a calling. Sierra.

Closing her eyes, she inhales the crisp, dry air. The urge to climb its flanks grows irresistible. She’s found her next destination.

Suddenly, a jolt shakes her to the core. Oddball's alarm rings in her mind. Eyes snapping open, she scans her surroundings, on alert. She listens and decrypts the warning, as it comes through their bond in Morse code.

Tsunami.

Her jaw tightens, her blades scraping against stone.

Run. Now!

Sierra feels an explosion take root in front of her, like a terrible ripple shaking reality itself. From the heights of the cyclopean mountain, a shockwave pours down the slopes, lifting snow and bending vegetation. The shimmering ring, struck by the seismic swell, stretches and begins to glow with an iridescent brilliance. The wave continues to expand, a concentric surge sweeping over the tundra.

It is a wintry wave, carrying a blizzard in its wake. It freezes everything it touches, everything unlucky enough to be in its path. The snowstorm, interwoven with ice, gradually transforms upon encountering warmer currents into a roaring tidal wave. Rolling over the plains, it drags along countless ideas, tears mana from the air, and chaotically manifests these concepts into the world in a cacophony of creation.

And the frenzy shows no sign of stopping.

Sierra spins around and leaps from her vantage point, rushing down the steep slope as fast as she can. Escape, as quickly as possible. She taps frantically on her Construct, turning the ground and rocks beneath her into soft powder. Drawing on Oddball's mana, she materializes Skaði. The goddess catches her mid-air, her hair streaming in the wind, and carries her down the now-snowy foothills to the base of the slope. But the Alterer doesn’t stop there. She summons a gauntlet around her arm, equipped with a grappling hook. The device constructs itself as gears, cogs, and steel plates interlock seamlessly.

She fires toward the tank, and the metallic cord unfurls, whipping through the air. The hook latches onto a railing, securing itself firmly. She presses the button just as the tsunami crests the ridge behind her with a deafening roar. She feels a sudden pull forward as the cord tightens and retracts into the gauntlet. Propelling herself with the momentum, she lets Skaði vanish behind her in a burst of released mana.

She slams into the vehicle’s railing, pulling herself toward the entry hatch and yanking it open.

‘Brace for impact!’, she shouts into the cockpit.

Before diving in, she catches a glimpse of a tempest of water crashing toward her. It cascades down the rocky ridge, shattering and slamming into the valley below, spreading into the gorge like a bottle’s neck. As she seals the hatch, she conjures the concept of “Sealing”, channeling it into the jammer and hastily recombining her Construct.

‘Hold on tight!’

The rest of the crew straps in, grabs onto handles, or shields their heads. Sierra buckles into a seat, attempting to summon the concept of “Dampening”.

The wave slams into the tank like a giant swatting at a mouse. Roar and crash. The world spins wildly, like a rotary sieve. Devices and objects tumble violently inside the cabin.

Something strikes Sierra’s head, sending a sharp pain that blooms in her temple. Dull cracks, shouts, and piercing screeches mix into a storm of chaos. Her shoulder slams into the wall, leaving her stunned.

The armor plating buckles with each impact. Screens dislodge, and sparks shower across the cockpit. All around, parasitic ideas begin to manifest. Diaphanous thorns sprout from the navigation bay; frost coats the radio station before morphing into peacock feathers.

Noise and fury. A flask transforms into a trout, and the ladder adopts the concept of "Flexibility”, twisting and swaying like tangled spaghetti. Madness. Cyclone. Vertigo.

Then, nothing but blackness.

Sierra jolts awake, coughing violently as acrid smoke fills the vehicle, obscuring her vision. She tries to move, only for an overwhelming pain to erupt through her body. Disoriented, she feels the pounding of blood in her skull. She hangs upside down, strapped into her seat. Bruised and battered, she hastily checks herself. A few bruises and cuts, perhaps some broken ribs…

She unfastens herself and crashes onto the ceiling, shaking her head. Outside, the chaos seems to have subsided. She hears a groan and moves toward the injured crew member, unbuckling their harness and lowering them as gently as possible. The co-pilot is unconscious but alive—nothing too serious.

‘Want to hear a construction joke?’, the radio officer blurts out suddenly.

‘Huh?’, she responds, bewildered by the inappropriateness of the comment.

‘Never mind, I’m still working on it’, he chuckles uncontrollably.

But as she looks closer, she sees fear in his eyes. He doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening either.

‘What does the moon do when you’re tired of it?’

The concept of "Humor" has latched onto him.

‘It phases out, haha!’, he laughs through gritted teeth, wincing in pain.

Sierra sighs and turns to the hatch, brushing aside the ladder, now a mass of tangled vines. She turns the valve to unlock the mechanism, pounding on the door until it finally cracks open. A bitter cold and a rush of water flood the cabin, but it’s better than suffocating.

She grabs the emergency kit and crawls through a few inches of icy water to get outside. Standing up, shivering, she coughs and spits into the snow to clear her throat. Around her, the stagnant water is freezing before her eyes, forming fractal patterns. She climbs onto the overturned vehicle, now just a wrecked husk.

Shivering violently, she sets down the kit and fumbles to open it with trembling fingers. Pulling out the flare gun, she loads a cartridge. Teeth chattering, she raises her arm and fires.

The flare arcs into the sky, hissing as it climbs. From this distance, Akesha should see the distress signal… Fighting the urge to retreat back into the wreckage, she sends a reassuring thought toward Oddball. He, too, has survived—battered but still functional.

Sierra turns to face the mountain, surrounded by the Tumult. In this moment, the young mechanic realizes how sheltered Caer Oorun had been from its horrors. Until now, it had all been a walk in the park, relatively speaking. Before her lies the true Tumult: unrelenting, merciless. How had the Tumult Nomads survived in such conditions? What kind of torment had they endured?

Pulling her thick coat tighter around her, she prepares to climb down from the broken chassis and find shelter. But suddenly, in the distance, she sees a reversed cascade of stars rising from the ground, like a playful firework display. Only a few kilometers away, a few hours of waiting at most… Sierra exhales in relief.

Then, summoning her Construct, she calls forth the Little Match Girl to banish the cold with her warmth.