Chap­ter XIV begins with a tran­quil moment of com­pan­ion­ship as the pro­tag­o­nist, weary from his trav­els, accepts the hos­pi­tal­i­ty of a Mar­t­ian wood­man whose sim­ple gen­eros­i­ty offers a wel­come reprieve. The set­ting, a mod­est cab­in near a qui­et lagoon, is both alien and famil­iar, evok­ing the charm of a back­woods retreat with its fra­grant tan­nin-rich air and rus­tic calm. As they sit down to a shared meal of toast­ed fruit and fish-sea­soned bread, fol­lowed by pun­gent local ale, a bond is forged through con­ver­sa­tion and shared human­i­ty, even across the stars. Laugh­ter echoes with­in the wood­en walls, eas­ing the bur­dens of an oth­er­wise haz­ardous jour­ney. These brief com­forts, though alien in tex­ture and taste, remind him of Earth­ly kin­ship found in sim­ple rit­u­als. The woodman’s easy man­ner belies a cau­tion­ary tone, how­ev­er, as he recounts eerie tales of cursed lands, his weath­ered voice drop­ping when he warns against wan­der­ing paths tied to ancient sor­row.

Morn­ing finds the pro­tag­o­nist deter­mined yet dis­tract­ed, a resolve dulled by curios­i­ty and per­haps pride. Though he was urged to avoid a cer­tain direc­tion, the shim­mer of a dis­tant trail tempts him into ignor­ing those warn­ings. Drawn by instinct more than log­ic, he turns toward it, con­vinced that it might offer a faster route to Ar-hap’s domain. As he walks, the woods grow denser and the air heav­ier, with each step mut­ing the cheer­ful clar­i­ty of the pre­vi­ous night. Strange sym­bols carved into tree bark begin to appear, and the usu­al bird­song is replaced by a low, ambi­ent hum that seems to fol­low his move­ment. Time dis­torts in the gloom; what felt like min­utes stretch­es into hours, and soon land­marks repeat in dis­ori­ent­ing pat­terns. By the time he notices the fog creep­ing through the under­growth, his path has ful­ly van­ished behind him, leav­ing only silence and a lin­ger­ing chill.

Even­tu­al­ly, he stum­bles upon a small clear­ing where a lone fig­ure, a stone crafts­man, sits among a scat­ter­ing of prim­i­tive tools and fine­ly shaped weapon frag­ments. The man, wary yet civ­il, enter­tains the vis­i­tor’s ques­tions but keeps a sus­pi­cious eye fixed on him through­out their exchange. Their dia­logue reveals that Mars, like Earth, has grown its knowl­edge from the seeds of survival—each blade shaped not for art, but to pro­tect or dom­i­nate. Fas­ci­nat­ed by this craftsman’s silent mas­tery, the pro­tag­o­nist lingers too long, and ten­sion ris­es. A casu­al com­ment is mis­in­ter­pret­ed, and a quar­rel near­ly erupts, halt­ed only by a ges­ture of peace and retreat. The encounter leaves a sharp impression—on Mars, even the calmest sur­face can hide volatile emo­tion just beneath.

As he press­es onward, the envi­ron­ment shifts again—less organ­ic, more fore­bod­ing. The trees thin, and an unnat­ur­al mist hangs low over cracked stone paths lead­ing to what appears to be ruins cloaked in gloom. A dis­tant sound—soft, sor­row­ful, like chil­dren sobbing—floats across the still­ness, grow­ing loud­er as he walks. He recalls the woodman’s sto­ries with a stab of regret, real­iz­ing too late that he has arrived at the haunt­ed city ruled by the ghost of Queen Yang. Columns loom like pet­ri­fied sen­tinels, and crum­bled facades echo the weight of for­got­ten tragedy. Though noth­ing moves, the pro­tag­o­nist feels watched, as though unseen eyes track his every breath. He debates turn­ing back, but some­thing deeper—perhaps human arro­gance, or irre­sistible wonder—pulls him for­ward.

The city reveals no signs of life, only sym­bols etched in walls, shat­tered stat­ues, and whis­pers that rise from nowhere. Yet there is beau­ty here too—faded mosaics of stars and moons, frac­tured sto­ries of a king­dom long con­sumed by its own pow­er. His heart pounds, not with fear alone but with the thrill of prox­im­i­ty to some­thing ancient, some­thing Mars itself wish­es to hide. As dusk dims the sky, he final­ly sees it: a mur­al depict­ing a radi­ant queen with eyes of fire and hands that hold both life and death. The silence feels heav­ier now, as if wait­ing for a voice to awak­en the city once more. But none comes. He backs away care­ful­ly, unsure if what he’s tres­passed will let him leave as eas­i­ly as he entered.

This chap­ter reflects more than a phys­i­cal journey—it under­scores the per­il of dis­re­gard­ing cul­tur­al knowl­edge, the fragili­ty of trust in unfa­mil­iar lands, and the allure of the for­bid­den. In his quest to reach Heru, the pro­tag­o­nist con­tin­ues to chase progress at the cost of wis­dom, plung­ing deep­er into Mar­t­ian truths not found in maps or guides. Through this, read­ers are remind­ed that adven­ture is not always glory-bound—it often walks hand in hand with humil­i­ty and con­se­quences.