Oh no.
No no no no no.
I am now completely convinced somebody on this island is attempting to drive me insane deliberately.
This must be psychological warfare.
Subtle expulsion through emotional destabilization.
Did I offend someone?
Was I impolite?
Do I look too ambitious?
Did they realize I keep mentally calculating trade routes every time somebody opens a storage room?
Or perhaps I am simply too intellectually disappointing to tolerate.
This has to be a prank.
A coordinated prank.
Blackmail perhaps.
There is absolutely no possibility that the individual whose name I refuse to write in this journal is actually here.
No.
Impossible.
We arrived by caravel.
Fine.
Perhaps theoretically he could have hidden aboard the ship somehow.
But afterward we transferred directly onto the Leviathan Fleet.
The Royal Fleet.
There is no possible way he infiltrated that vessel.
And even if he somehow managed it—
Even if by some demonic engineering miracle he arrived safely on Isla de la Luna—
There is absolutely no chance he would survive here mentally.
I am barely surviving myself.
And yet this morning…
I discovered a second paper.
Placed conveniently beside the garden table where Miss DeLuna and I had lunch.
Almost as if someone wanted me specifically to find it.
I am preserving the document below as evidence for future legal proceedings once I identify the criminal responsible.
The contents remain copied exactly.
---
I AM NOW COMPLETELY CERTAIN THIS ISLAND STOLE KNOWLEDGE FROM GODS.
Not metaphorically.
LITERALLY.
I think I accidentally wandered into the territory of Apollo.
Or several Apollos working together.
Possibly drunk.
These people predict disasters before they happen.
NO.
Correction.
They CALCULATE disasters before they happen.
THAT IS SOMEHOW WORSE.
Today the grey robe council members showed me a machine called a seismograph.
A SEISMOGRAPH.
Which means somewhere out there exists a man deranged enough to invent a device specifically designed to listen to the planet itself shaking.
Apparently earthquakes create vibrations through the ground.
Which already sounds rude frankly.
Then these lunatics bury a device underground containing something called a seismometer.
INSIDE THE DEVICE THERE IS A WEIGHT.
THE WEIGHT REFUSES TO MOVE OUT OF PURE PHYSICS SPITE.
Meanwhile the planet wiggles around it.
Then somehow the machine converts the movement difference into visual information.
VISUAL INFORMATION.
THE EARTH WRITES A LETTER SAYING: “Hello. I am about to become problematic.”
And they READ IT.
THEY READ THE ANGRY EARTH LETTER.
Apparently from this “seismogram” they can calculate:
magnitude
distance
depth
epicenter
EPICENTER.
Another terrifyingly sexy word.
The grey robes explained all this to me casually over tea.
OVER TEA.
Like discussing soup recipes.
Then they casually mentioned storm detection.
STORM DETECTION.
THEY TRACK OCEAN TANTRUMS BEFORE THEY ARRIVE.
Apparently they use floating devices called buoys.
Floating sensor platforms anchored into the ocean itself.
The sea floor systems detect pressure changes and underwater seismic activity.
Then the buoy sends information through acoustic signals.
ACOUSTIC SIGNALS.
THE OCEAN IS BASICALLY WHISPERING TO MACHINES.
Then the buoy transmits the data into something called SATELLITES.
SATELLITES.
SECOND SEXIEST WORD DISCOVERED THIS WEEK.
Apparently satellites are machines placed into ORBIT around the planet.
ORBIT.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN ORBIT.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN “AROUND THE PLANET.”
YOU ARE TELLING ME PEOPLE LOOKED AT THE SKY AND SAID: “We should put tools there.”
AND THEN THEY DID IT.
Apparently satellites are used for:
navigation
communication
weather monitoring
mapping
military observation
climate tracking
THEY CAN LOOK AT THE ENTIRE WORLD FROM SPACE.
SPACE.
OUTSIDE THE WORLD.
THERE IS AN OUTSIDE.
NOBODY TOLD ME THERE WAS AN OUTSIDE.
I asked one of the scholars if humans can actually go there.
He answered: “Yes, though not safely at first.”
AT FIRST???
WHAT DO YOU MEAN “AT FIRST.”
HOW MANY PEOPLE DID THEY THROW AT THE SKY BEFORE IT WORKED.
The more they explain things to me, the stupider I become.
And honestly?
THIS IS THE GREATEST EXPERIENCE OF MY ENTIRE LIFE.
I have reached a stage of enlightenment where every new explanation simply destroys another section of my confidence.
Yesterday I thought trains were revolutionary.
Today I learned people once put machines INTO THE VOID ABOVE THE WORLD.
Tomorrow I will probably discover they invented portable lightning or edible mathematics.
I refuse to be surprised anymore.
Actually that is a lie.
I gasped three separate times during lunch.
One of the scholars patted my shoulder sympathetically.
Like a wounded animal.
Anyway.
Important update.
The council officially issued me a return pass for the island.
Apparently if I ever “need to return home briefly for additional clothing or unfinished obligations,” I am permitted re-entry access.
Which is hilarious because they still believe I plan to leave.
I do not.
Absolutely impossible.
Tell Daddy I have become academically compromised.
Tell Ronan I now understand why military funding disappears mysteriously.
Tell Ryn the black robe council members are either geniuses or future disasters.
And tell Reine—
Actually never mind.
She already knows.
Need further testing.
---
This cannot be real.
It simply cannot.
The writing style.
The emotional instability.
The spoon obsession.
The complete absence of social dignity.
It resembles him too closely.
And yet I refuse to believe Spathian Carver Roderick successfully infiltrated the most intellectually dangerous island on the continent purely because somebody showed him advanced machinery.
No.
Absolutely not.
…
Although admittedly the phrase: “PANTOGRAPH. WHAT A SEXY WORD.”
Does feel disturbingly authentic.
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