Chap­ter XXVI opens with a shift in tone as the nar­ra­tor, once filled with awe, now feels an unset­tling gloom that shad­ows every thought. His recent inter­ac­tion with Zee has left him deeply reflec­tive, not about romance, but about sur­vival. Though the Vril-ya live in a realm of remark­able beau­ty and tran­quil­i­ty, their pow­er hangs above him like a qui­et threat. They do not intend cru­el­ty, yet their abil­i­ties make resis­tance irrel­e­vant. He real­izes that kind­ness does not guar­an­tee safe­ty when author­i­ty comes with­out lim­its. The peace around him feels imposed, not cho­sen.

His admi­ra­tion for their soci­ety grad­u­al­ly gives way to a yearn­ing for his own imper­fect world. On the sur­face, war, inequal­i­ty, and suf­fer­ing per­sist, but at least they offer emo­tion­al depth and shared strug­gle. In con­trast, the Vril-ya live in a ster­il­ized utopia that has removed not just pain, but pas­sion. Every task is per­formed by machines, every need pre-cal­cu­lat­ed and met. There is no dis­con­tent, but also no sur­prise. What once seemed ide­al now feels inhu­man. The nar­ra­tor begins to ques­tion whether per­fec­tion, when forced, can ever feel like free­dom.

There is no work­ing class among them, nor is there rebel­lion. Labor has been replaced with qui­et effi­cien­cy. Their tech­no­log­i­cal progress has elim­i­nat­ed toil but also removed the ener­gy of ambi­tion. No one strives, because there is no need to. This cre­ates a soci­ety of com­fort but also of emo­tion­al still­ness. With health sus­tained and dis­ease for­got­ten, even mor­tal­i­ty los­es mean­ing. Longevi­ty is com­mon, but vibran­cy is rare. The peo­ple do not strug­gle, and in that absence, some­thing vital seems lost. The nar­ra­tor mourns what he can­not find—a raw, imper­fect sense of life.

The role of women among the Vril-ya fur­ther deep­ens his sense of cul­tur­al dis­ori­en­ta­tion. Their phys­i­cal strength, intel­lec­tu­al dom­i­nance, and mas­tery of Vril make them more com­mand­ing than their male coun­ter­parts. Rather than being sub­dued or sub­mis­sive, they are the ones who choose part­ners and decide the course of rela­tion­ships. This rever­sal chal­lenges every­thing the nar­ra­tor has known. Yet, strange­ly, it does not breed con­flict. Once bond­ed, these women become nur­tur­ing and devot­ed com­pan­ions. It is not sub­mis­sion, but a cho­sen soft­ness that fol­lows their ini­tial strength. The nar­ra­tor finds this dynam­ic alien, yet odd­ly touch­ing.

Reli­gion in this world lacks the divi­sions that define his own. The Vril-ya believe in one benev­o­lent pow­er and an endur­ing soul beyond death. Their faith is not bound by rit­u­als or dog­ma, but by uni­ty. They do not argue over sacred texts or splin­ter into sects. Instead, belief is shared qui­et­ly, almost sci­en­tif­i­cal­ly. This spir­i­tu­al sim­plic­i­ty serves as a glue to their com­mu­ni­ty. With­out con­flict over doc­trine, they pre­serve peace. The nar­ra­tor envies this har­mo­ny but won­ders if such belief, stripped of mys­tery and metaphor, can still inspire.

He then con­sid­ers whether such a soci­ety could accept out­siders. The idea seems laugh­able. Humans from the sur­face, bred in com­pe­ti­tion, desire, and divi­sion, would not blend smooth­ly with the Vril-ya’s calm. Achieve­ment means lit­tle here. Indi­vid­u­al­ism is sub­dued in favor of bal­ance. The very ambi­tion that fuels sur­face civ­i­liza­tion would appear chaot­ic, even dan­ger­ous, in this world. A peace­ful merg­ing seems impossible—not out of mal­ice, but from sheer incom­pat­i­bil­i­ty. The thought depress­es him.

Final­ly, he reflects on a dark­er possibility—the Vril-ya might one day emerge. Should they choose to ascend, their impact would be imme­di­ate and like­ly irre­versible. With their supe­ri­or knowl­edge and pow­er, they would not need to con­quer vio­lent­ly. Resis­tance would be brief. Entire soci­eties could be reshaped or erased. His­to­ry has shown how advanced civ­i­liza­tions treat those they deem less­er. The nar­ra­tor draws chill­ing com­par­isons to colo­nial expan­sions of the past. In such a sce­nario, human­i­ty might not be enslaved—but sim­ply removed.

His imag­i­na­tion con­jures no hope­ful out­come. Inter­mar­riage and shared gov­er­nance seem naive fan­tasies. The bal­ance would always tilt toward the Vril-ya. They might not want war, but nei­ther would they tol­er­ate dis­or­der. The sur­face world, built on messy free­doms and loud desires, would be too much for them to endure. And so, the nar­ra­tor con­cludes, it may be best that the two civ­i­liza­tions remain apart. The seal that sep­a­rates them now may be the final mer­cy we are grant­ed.

Even in its most benev­o­lent form, pow­er cre­ates dis­tance. The Vril-ya, by elim­i­nat­ing weak­ness, have also made empa­thy dif­fi­cult. Their world is beau­ti­ful, but cold. The nar­ra­tor sees that what defines human­i­ty may not be progress, but the will­ing­ness to live through strug­gle. Per­fec­tion can numb where imper­fec­tion teach­es. As he sits once more in silence, he no longer wish­es to belong to their world. He only hopes to return to his own.