Chapter 1: The Lost Legacy of Atlantis

The high priest’s hand traced the symbols etched into the basalt stele. Beneath his touch, the stone stirred to life. Quartz veins flared with a cerulean glow, unveiling celestial maps, stellar alignments, and temporal cycles etched into the rock like the secret pulse of time.

Within the Awakening Hall, carved into the heart of the sacred mountain, every wall bore the imprint of ancient wisdom. There, the priests of the Naacal school, under the guidance of Chiquitet Arelis Vomalites, nurtured minds with the patience of the wind sculpting peaks.

From the diligent observation of the heavens, a science of cosmic cycles emerged—a knowledge that, across generations, learned to read the breath of the stars like one deciphers a heartbeat. This science possessed a life of its own: it breathed, moved, and harmonized with the world. Each formula, each symbol, each alignment trace hummed like a nerve in the body of a cosmic entity.

The columns, carved at precise, sacred angles, captured a subtle resonance—the very pulse of the world itself. Above, crystal lamps suspended from the vaults cast a rhythmic light, as if pulsing in time with the Earth.

Beneath these basalt vaults echoed a vibratory memory, a forgotten technology rooted in the secret unity of matter and spirit.

Then, the sky rent asunder.

A profound rumbling surged from the Earth’s depths, as deep as the world’s breath. The crystal lamps swayed, casting dancing shadows, as if the walls themselves sought escape. Then came the wind—a wild, unbridled force that tore stones from roofs like autumn leaves.

The eldest, those who had charted the cycles of the great return, gazed upon the constellations. Their expressions betrayed neither fear nor surprise. They knew.

For this was not the first time.

Great catastrophes recur at regular intervals, like the tides of cosmic time. Each era bears within it the seeds of its demise, and each fall heralds the promise of renewal. Their archives spoke of worlds swallowed before them, of older civilizations, and of those preceding them. The entire Earth had already been submerged, reshaped, forgotten.

And now, the cycle was closing.

The sea surged.

It was no mere wave, but a titanic wall of water, as high as ten mountains, devouring piers, temples, and low-lying quarters in a deafening roar. The granite dikes, built to withstand the fiercest storms, crumbled like sand. The proudest towers buckled and shattered, their immense blocks reduced to pebbles in the ocean’s maw.

Outside, it was the end of a world. Ships were hurled like twigs, only to be dashed against the cliffs. Centenarian trees, uprooted, whirled in vortices of foam. The water rose, relentlessly swallowing the last hills where entire families had sought refuge. Their cries were swallowed by the wind’s howl.

Yet, amidst the chaos, the arches endured.

Crafted according to sacred geometry, they deflected the waves’ fury like a rock diverts a current. Their rounded forms absorbed the impacts, their internal structures channeling the telluric forces. These refuges were energetic matrices, survival capsules designed to traverse the ages, to bear their memory.

In the Council Chamber, the black marble maps cracked. Chiquitet Arelis Vomalites raised his eyes to the vault where droplets began to form between the stone joints. A young apprentice trembled until a steady hand rested on his shoulder.

“Behold,” the old master whispered.

“Remember.”