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    Cover of Gulliver of Mars
    Science Fiction

    Gulliver of Mars

    by

    Chap­ter VIII begins with the pro­tag­o­nist stir­ring from uneasy sleep, his head cloud­ed by the wine and mem­o­ries of a bizarre feast filled with unset­tling visions. The lin­ger­ing aro­ma of fruit and the ache of bruis­es con­firm that the rev­el­ry was no mere dream. Heru’s face, once seen among can­dlelit laugh­ter, now haunts his thoughts as he pieces togeth­er the truth. The rem­nants of joy have turned to dread as he real­izes she may be in dan­ger. The mood shifts quick­ly from hazy nos­tal­gia to urgent con­cern. Dri­ven by instinct and a grow­ing sense of guilt, he hur­ries out to find her.

    Out­side, he meets Mar­tians with vague answers and indif­fer­ent faces, telling him Heru was tak­en at day­break. Anger bub­bles inside him as he process­es their apa­thy, unable to accept that no one had tried to stop it. He dress­es swift­ly, dri­ven not just by duty but by some­thing more primal—an unwill­ing­ness to let her slip away with­out a fight. When his call for help is met with silence, he heads for the har­bor alone, unarmed but not unshak­en. There’s no plan, only motion. His stride is fueled by des­per­a­tion and the fad­ing hope that she has not yet left.

    The har­bor teems with activ­i­ty, but he finds her boat already leav­ing the shore, car­ried swift­ly by the tide. With­out hes­i­ta­tion, he leaps aboard, sword flash­ing as he con­fronts the abduc­tors. His brav­ery is admirable, but the num­bers are against him. Blades clang, voic­es rise, and chaos unfolds. In a moment of clar­i­ty, he spots Heru, her expres­sion dis­tant and fear­ful, before every­thing fades into black­ness with the force of a club to his head. His strength may have failed him, but the resolve lingers even as con­scious­ness slips away.

    Wak­ing on the open sea, he finds him­self adrift on a float­ing heap of silk, the sun over­head and land dis­tant on both sides. Pain throbs through his limbs, but he clings to aware­ness. The cur­rent is strong, drag­ging him to lands he does not know. With no oars, no guid­ance, only the mer­cy of water and wind, he watch­es unfa­mil­iar shores pass in silence. Night­fall nears, bring­ing with it a deep­er chill—one born of fear, not weath­er. Just as hope­less­ness creeps in, some­thing breaks the hori­zon.

    A shape cuts across the water—graceful, strong, alive. A stag, for­eign yet some­how majes­tic, swims in steady strokes toward the dis­tant land. A spark ignites with­in him. Clutch­ing strands of silk, he throws them toward the beast, hop­ing for con­nec­tion rather than con­quest. Mirac­u­lous­ly, the fab­ric entan­gles in the creature’s limbs, link­ing their fates. The stag, alarmed but not aggres­sive, begins tow­ing him, unaware of the bur­den it car­ries.

    Dragged slow­ly to the shore, he feels the hard pulse of sur­vival return. The crea­ture does not fal­ter, and the tide, for once, seems to help. The land becomes clear­er, sharp­er in its form, promis­ing either refuge or anoth­er tri­al. But this time, he does not approach it empty-handed—he car­ries hope born from chance and courage. The Mar­t­ian world, strange and often cru­el, has shown him that willpow­er mat­ters more than weapons. Whether this shore brings dan­ger or sal­va­tion is irrel­e­vant. What mat­ters is that he reach­es it.

    In this chap­ter, the nar­ra­tive deep­ens its emo­tion­al scope by blend­ing phys­i­cal per­il with inter­nal reflec­tion. Each scene reveals not just the alien beau­ty of Mars, but the very human qual­i­ties of fear, deter­mi­na­tion, and love. Though the path for­ward is uncer­tain, the protagonist’s abil­i­ty to adapt—even in weakness—cements him as more than just a vis­i­tor. He has become a force with­in this world, not because of strength, but because he refus­es to sur­ren­der. And in the unpre­dictable cur­rent of Mar­t­ian fate, even a stag can be a life­line.

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