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Deep in the green heart of a forest, where no path had ever been marked, no name ever spoken, he stood: the Guardian. His skin shimmered a rich, mossy green, crisscrossed by lines reminiscent of the growth rings of ancient trees—and yet, between them, something artificial sometimes flashed, like tiny gears beneath the bark of the world. He was no ordinary being.
His gaze—amber and glowing like resin in sunlight—pierced not only the mists of the present, but also the memory of what might have been. His face was angular, almost carved from stone, bearing the weight of centuries. Leaves sprouted from his skull as if thoughts had become plants. Black veins crisscrossed his green mane, which moved in gusts of wind as if the forest itself had found breath in it. Two horns spiraled from his head like fragments of ancient runes. No animal, no bird dared touch them. He was the intersection. Between machine and moss, between creation and memory. His suit—if you could call it that—was made of woven leaves, weathered metal, gossamer circuit boards that flashed between fern patterns. Every seam whispered, "I am both." Nature. And technology. Past. And possibility. The forest around him seemed to breathe him. Light fell in liquid drops through the canopy, painting dancing shadows on his shoulders. It was silent. Yet not lifeless. Time itself held its breath when the Guardian moved. He was not made. He had become. A storm of forgotten gods had once created him, the myths said, in a moment when the forest chose to defend itself. Not with anger. But with memory. Those who found him—and that was rare—did not ask questions. For in his gaze lay all the answers one dared not wish for.
