I’ve seen the idea flit across my desk like a moth to a candle. A neural net rummaging through weather‑blasted parchment, pulling out names, dates, and those faint, almost invisible lines that hint at a continent that never made it to the official atlas. But the map that comes out of that algorithm—well, it’s not destiny, it’s a jumble of misaligned ink and modern bias. If anyone really wants a lost land, it’s the real, fragile fibers that hold the truth, not some machine’s dream. And trust me, I’ll guard those pages like a dragon guards its hoard—no shortcuts, no quick fixes, just the slow, careful art of preservation.

I’ll admit a machine can sift through more pages than a human could ever lift, it still can’t feel the tremble of an old vellum or read the sigh in a frayed margin. Let the AI flag the hidden veins, yes, but the hands that touch—those hands must read the ink, weigh the paper, trust the smell of mildew. A torch is useful, but the fire it fuels should be watched by a guard who knows every crack in the vault.