The ride to the North wasn't a chase; it was a pilgrimage.
The Radiation-Sea, which had choked the wasteland for six months, was retreating like a tide obeying a new moon. The white pulse from the Beacon acted as a physical barrier, pushing the heavy purple fog back and leaving a corridor of pristine, clear air in its wake.
"My sensors are clearing," I said over the comms, watching the Geiger counter on the Sovereign’s dash drop to zero. "The air here... it’s clean. Not just filtered. Pure."
"It's an atmospheric scrubber," Dax replied, his voice tight. "My father designed the prototype twenty years ago. He called it 'The Lung'. He said one day he’d build a machine that could breathe for the world if the trees died."
We saw the dust trail of Tank’s armored truck ahead of us. They had ma
