Chap­ter 5 – The Lost Con­ti­nent con­tin­ues with a haunt­ing yet cap­ti­vat­ing glimpse into the skele­tal remains of what was once Lon­don. The deep­er we ven­tured into this for­got­ten metrop­o­lis, the clear­er it became that nature had slow­ly reclaimed what man had aban­doned. Over­grown vines curled through win­dow frames, and moss blan­ket­ed what lit­tle was left of once-grand pub­lic halls and shat­tered spires. But it was not com­plete silence that wel­comed us. Every so often, a breeze would stir frag­ments of the past—faded fab­ric, rust­ed met­al, or brit­tle pages from for­got­ten books—reminding us that this city once lived, breathed, and thrived. Beneath the rub­ble, it still whis­pered its lega­cy.

As we fol­lowed the Thames, our pace slowed by curios­i­ty and cau­tion, the pres­ence of wildlife became hard­er to ignore. We first saw faint paw prints in the dust and claw marks gouged into stone, grow­ing fresh­er the deep­er we trav­eled. One sight in par­tic­u­lar, a majes­tic black-maned lion perched on a bro­ken bal­cony, solid­i­fied our aware­ness that we were far from alone. The creature’s calm poise was decep­tive, for its watch­ful gaze nev­er left us. Though it made no move, its pres­ence brought a chill of ancient dan­ger, like some­thing pri­mor­dial watch­ing from the veil of a dream. The city, it seemed, had not been entire­ly abandoned—just inher­it­ed by new rulers.

Dri­ven by a mix of awe and sor­row, we sought to uncov­er what remained of the Lon­don we once knew from sto­ries and maps. But lit­tle sur­vived. The Tow­er stood in frag­ments, its stonework cracked and choked by wild ivy. Of Lon­don Bridge, bare­ly a bro­ken arch remained, swal­lowed by the river’s steady cur­rent. The grandeur of West­min­ster had all but dis­solved, reduced to crum­bled walls echo­ing only with bird­song. What time had not destroyed, nature had con­cealed.

In the heart of this for­got­ten cap­i­tal, one build­ing stood apart—remarkably whole, cloaked in green­ery yet upright against the odds. It drew us in with its eerie preser­va­tion. Inside, the past lin­gered like per­fume in the air. Thick car­pets still lined the floor, their col­ors dimmed but dis­tinct. Por­traits hung with faces whose eyes seemed to fol­low us, and tapes­tries revealed a peo­ple whose inven­tions and ele­gance far sur­passed what we had imag­ined. Vic­to­ry stood entranced, her fin­gers brush­ing against the edge of a paint­ed map, her voice soft as she whis­pered that she could remain here for­ev­er, among the ghosts of great­ness.

Yet our pres­ence had not gone unno­ticed. In the depths of what appeared to be a once-roy­al hall, we dis­cov­ered not stat­ues or schol­ars, but lions. An entire pride, loung­ing where kings once sat. The shock was instant, and our retreat was des­per­ate. Upstairs, we bar­ri­cad­ed our­selves in a study, where the skele­tal remains of a uni­formed man sat slumped over a desk. He had chron­i­cled the city’s final days in fad­ing ink, ref­er­enc­ing a cat­a­clysmic event called “the Death” and a chaot­ic flight that left the island to wilder­ness. In that moment, his­to­ry came alive—not through mon­u­ments or relics, but through the qui­et tes­ta­ment of one man’s final account.

With no time to lose, we planned our escape down the building’s ivy-wrapped façade. The climb was per­ilous, but even more so was the jun­gle below. A lioness caught our scent and surged from the shad­ows. We fled, leap­ing through a ruined gar­den and plung­ing into the cool safe­ty of the Thames. The riv­er offered no peace, but it dis­tanced us from our hunters.

In the water, exhaust­ed and breath­less, I urged Vic­to­ry to swim for shore and leave me behind. She refused. Her defi­ance, so sim­ple and fierce, defied every sur­vival instinct and under­scored some­thing more pow­er­ful: loy­al­ty. When the lioness returned, eyes burn­ing and claws slic­ing the river­bank, we stood our ground. Vic­to­ry raised her knife, poised and unwa­ver­ing. But fate gave us an open­ing, and we took it—escaping not only with our lives, but with our uni­ty forged anew.

This chap­ter reveals not only the col­lapse of civ­i­liza­tion but the tenac­i­ty that still sur­vives in those who endure its after­math. The rem­nants of Lon­don speak in ruins and roars, in mem­o­ries sealed in dust and pages. But amid all that was lost, there still flick­ers the hope of what can be found: courage, resolve, and the refusal to sur­ren­der in the face of a world that has turned wild.