Nazo’s eyes snapped open, his vision momentarily blurred by the rush of newfound vitality. The sensation was overwhelming; the absolute, cold stillness of death had been replaced by an agonizing, vibrant warmth. He pushed himself upward, his long, cyan fingers digging into a hard, grey surface—not the soft moss of Angel Island, but something synthetic, flat, and unnervingly cold.

As his vision cleared, Nazo froze. This was not the island. This was not the battlefield he remembered. Instead of trees and chaotic energy, he was surrounded by mountains of steel and glass that stabbed perpetually into a smoggy sky. The air hummed with a low, constant vibration, unlike anything he had ever felt.

"Where... is this?" he muttered, his voice a raspy, strange echo of itself. He scanned the horizon, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Huge, metal capsules moved along elevated tracks, and glowing advertisements plastered against the monoliths flickered with light. The sheer scale of the civilization was baffling, far more advanced than the world he had aimed to subjugate.