Chap­ter V – Gul­liv­er of Mars opens with a moment of qui­et awak­en­ing as the pro­tag­o­nist regains con­scious­ness under the unfa­mil­iar Mar­t­ian sky. He finds him­self beside An, his com­pan­ion, and the two con­tin­ue explor­ing this alien ter­rain where every­thing seems both ancient and dream­like. Not long after, they arrive at a vibrant fes­ti­val, where local Mar­tians par­tic­i­pate in games and the­atri­cal dis­plays. The air is filled with excite­ment, and though the cus­toms appear strange to his Earth­ly eyes, the pro­tag­o­nist is com­pelled to join. He demon­strates his skill in javelin-throw­ing, stun­ning onlook­ers by strik­ing down a fig­ure believed to be invin­ci­ble. The feat earns him admi­ra­tion and sets him apart in a soci­ety that rarely expe­ri­ences sur­prise.

As the fes­tiv­i­ties con­tin­ue, a sense of qui­et pride fills him. Yet there’s also iso­la­tion in stand­ing out so bold­ly in a world he bare­ly under­stands. After part­ing ways with An, he jour­neys fur­ther and begins to encounter Mar­tians in a more per­son­al light. Con­ver­sa­tions become warmer, and ges­tures of hos­pi­tal­i­ty begin to emerge. He is wel­comed into homes and treat­ed with a friend­ly curios­i­ty that soft­ens the alien nature of his sur­round­ings. The peo­ple seem gen­tle, though their habits and sym­bols remain mys­te­ri­ous. For the first time, he starts to feel not entire­ly alone.

A turn­ing point comes when he is invit­ed to attend an impor­tant cul­tur­al event—Princess Heru’s rit­u­al­is­tic read­ing of the year’s fate. Heru, already a fig­ure of grow­ing impor­tance to him, is at the cen­ter of this enig­mat­ic tra­di­tion. The cer­e­mo­ny takes place in a hall designed to chan­nel ele­gance and solem­ni­ty, reflect­ing how deeply the Mar­tians val­ue this occa­sion. Heru’s dance, slow and oth­er­world­ly, seems to draw ener­gy from the space itself. At its cli­max, a globe of water reveals swirling lights, cast­ing strange pat­terns that even­tu­al­ly bleed into an omi­nous red glow. Gasps echo through the hall. The Mar­t­ian crowd falls silent.

The red hue sig­ni­fies doom—a prophe­cy that speaks to an entire year of mis­for­tune. Heru, vis­i­bly shak­en, is over­come by fear and grief, her com­po­sure lost. The crowd remains still, par­a­lyzed by belief in the globe’s pow­er. It is here that the pro­tag­o­nist breaks form. He rush­es to her side, ignor­ing cer­e­mo­ny and cus­tom, and lifts her away from the pedestal. This is more than an act of pro­tec­tion; it’s a chal­lenge to Mar­t­ian fatal­ism. In his world, a future is shaped, not sur­ren­dered to.

Heru clings to him, find­ing solace in his refusal to accept what the Mar­tians view as des­tiny. His actions draw aston­ished glances, but no one stops him. Mar­t­ian eti­quette may demand still­ness in the face of prophe­cy, but he defies that pas­siv­i­ty. In res­cu­ing Heru, he places him­self firm­ly at odds with a soci­ety that trea­sures calm accep­tance over emo­tion­al inter­ven­tion. And yet, some­thing shifts. There’s a flick­er of admi­ra­tion in a few eyes. His defi­ance is unfa­mil­iar but not entire­ly unwel­comed.

The cer­e­mo­ny leaves Heru haunt­ed by visions she can­not explain, and in the qui­et after­ward, she speaks to him in hushed tones. Her words reveal the emo­tion­al cost of the prophe­cy, not just for her but for a peo­ple who expect no con­trol over their fates. For Gul­liv­er, it becomes clear that Mar­t­ian wis­dom may be deep, but it is also bound by super­sti­tion. He begins to ques­tion whether eter­nal youth and ele­gance are worth such spir­i­tu­al stag­na­tion. In Earth’s flawed world, there is movement—chaos, yes—but also free­dom. And now he sees how deeply he val­ues that.

This chap­ter serves as a metaphor for the ten­sion between emo­tion­al courage and cul­tur­al con­straint. His brav­ery is not root­ed in vio­lence or dom­i­nance but in care—an urge to act where oth­ers have resigned. It reveals the qui­et pow­er of empa­thy and defi­ance in a world that masks apa­thy as grace. For read­ers, it’s a reminder that the most coura­geous acts are some­times the sim­plest: offer­ing a hand when every­one else stands still. It’s this very dif­fer­ence that makes him more than a visitor—he is now a force capa­ble of reshap­ing the world around him.

Heru’s con­nec­tion with Gul­liv­er deep­ens after the cer­e­mo­ny, sub­tly shift­ing the dynam­ic between them. She begins to see in him a truth that her own peo­ple no longer embrace: the abil­i­ty to ques­tion what is sacred. Their bond is no longer one of flir­ta­tion but shared vision. Though no words declare it, the affec­tion is under­stood. Heru, once a pas­sive sym­bol of beau­ty and rit­u­al, now becomes a part­ner in uncer­tain­ty. Togeth­er, they rep­re­sent some­thing rare on Mars—unpredictability, hope, and resis­tance to despair.

By chapter’s end, Gul­liv­er is no longer only a man caught between two worlds. He is a cat­a­lyst, a reminder that tra­di­tions must some­times be ques­tioned to regain mean­ing. His res­cue of Heru isn’t just a roman­tic gesture—it’s a philo­soph­i­cal stance. Mars, with all its ele­gance and still­ness, has nev­er seen such bold sin­cer­i­ty. And in that moment, he becomes more than a guest—he becomes a sto­ry the Mar­tians will remem­ber.