The Earth-34189 was no longer the world it once was. The solar flood had made the waters rise and fall again, reshaping the landscape into barren salt flats, abandoned rainforests, and collapsed cities. Humanity—or what remained of it—lived in the shadows, hidden in underground structures, while nature reclaimed the surface with relentless precision.
When the first Devana statues were discovered, there was still hope. The first discovery, in the deserted salt flats of Europe, seemed like a coincidence. A female form, woven from a network of roots, as if nature itself had tried to hold onto something or someone. The hollow space in its core suggested that something—or someone—had once been inside, a remnant of a lost soul or a body swallowed by the hungry earth.
The discovery of a second statue in the dense rainforests of Africa and a third in the heart of a collapsed shopping mall in Bangkok confirmed an undeniable truth: these figures were not a coincidence. They were a message. But from whom? And for whom?
In the traditions of my homeworld, Earth-14519, we knew her as Artemis, goddess of the hunt, protector of the wild, and a symbol of both fertility and death. Here on Earth-34189, she had taken a different name: the Devana statues. No human worship or mythic poetry had created her. This was the language of nature itself.
The question remained: was the Earth trying to tell us something? Were these figures warnings, memories, or invitations? In the last records of the old world, there was nothing about the origin of Misses Devana. Only a chilling message, repeated in dozens of languages on weathered walls and forgotten digital archives: