You trek through the forest, past grasslands and rivers. Elderly locals look on at you with slight disgust as you walk through their ferns. You can tell they don't like city folks. You finally come upon the center of the radio signals, which seems to be at the edges of a beautiful river of crystal-clear water. You don't see any soldiers or goons of any kind standing around here, but you do see someone else: On a wet rock upon the shore, a young man sits and types away furiously at a literature tablet, too focused on his work to notice you. That's gotta be Dodling.