Chapter 4: The New Frontier

  Gaia World, Day of The Shattering

  Pawel had put a solid distance between himself and the anomaly, his boots kicking up puffs of dry soil that carried the faint, loamy scent of unearthed roots and warming earth. He paused on a gentle rise, turning back for one last look.

  From a distance, the anomaly that had replaced the grove looked like fractures torn into the air itself—reversed lightning frozen in time, thinning and branching the higher it climbed. Unlike lightning, however, the cracks glowed purple, bleeding an eerie violet mist that, on closer inspection, proved to be their very substance. Entire thing reached as high as thirty meters.

  The air around the anomaly hummed faintly, a low vibration he could feel in his chest.

  It was utterly surreal, a scar on the world that defied everything he knew.

  The warmth pressed in, unlike the crisp autumn chill he'd left behind in the forest.

  Pawel shrugged off his fleece jacket, the fabric whispering against his skin as he tied it around his waist and wiped off sweat beaded on his forehead.

  The landscape around screamed late spring: vibrant greens unfurled in the underbrush, wildflowers dotting the grass with pops of yellow and purple, their sweet, pollen-heavy aroma mingling with the fresh, verdant smell of new growth.

  Most plants were familiar—sturdy oaks and birches, ferns filling shady spots underneath with their greens —but others were strangers that he could not recognize: low bushes with glossy, veined leaves that shimmered oddly in the sunlight, and vines twisting up tree trunks with thorns that gleamed like polished obsidian.

  Was this a different time zone ?

  A different season?

  Or... perhaps something even more outlandish?

  Staring at the ethereal cracks, Pawel let the possibility sink in: another world. The thought sent a thrill racing through him, electric as the anomaly's hum.

  He spotted a large boulder nearby, its surface rough and sun-baked under his palms as he hoisted himself up to sit.

  The stone radiated heat through his jeans, grounding him amid the whirlwind in his mind.

  First things first—he examined his right hand, the one that had plunged into the swirling mist.

  The skin throbbed with a persistent burn, like burns from stinging nettle spread evenly all over his hand, but with no blisters, itching and swelling into a mild puffiness.

  Compared to his left, it glowed faintly reddish, veins pulsing warmer than they should.

  A faint, acrid scent clung to it, like singed hair mixed with something metallic.

  "This is probably the most pressing worry," he muttered, flexing his fingers experimentally.

  The sensation sharpened, but he could still move it .

  "But what the hell can I do about it here? Nothing, that's what."

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  Shifting his gaze outward, he took stock of his surroundings. The hill where the grove had stood rose barren behind him, save for that shattered pinnacle—devoid of any vegetation taller than knee-high herbs or grass, now covered with layer of sand and dust from explosion.

  The terrain around the hill with purple anomaly sloped more gently downward into a sparse forest.

  Trees and bushes clustered in irregular groups or standing solitary, their leaves rustling in a soft breeze that carried the clean, resinous whiff of pine mixed with unfamiliar floral notes.

  No paths cut through the undergrowth, no roads scarred the land; it was wild but navigable, the kind of place where a man could walk without hacking his way forward.

  From his perch, the view opened wide—a sweeping slope granting sightlines far into the distance, forest stretching to the horizon in all directions, unbroken by smokestacks or rooftops.

  No hum of traffic, no distant train rumbling; just the symphony of nature: birds trilling overhead, insects buzzing in lazy loops, the occasional snap of a twig under some unseen animal's paw.

  "Survival advice always boils down to finding people," Pawel thought, straining his ears.

  In his old hikes, even deep in the woods, the city's ambient drone had always leaked through—trams clanging, horns blaring.

  Here? Silence, pure and profound, broken only by the wind sighing through leaves.

  Excitement bubbled up, overriding the knot of fear in his gut.

  "Looks like I'm truly on my own. Could it be... am I really in a new world to explore?"

  He scanned the sky: a single sun hung high, no alien moons or extra stars in sight.

  Digging into his backpack—the familiar weight of it a small comfort—he pulled out his compass, its metal cool against his palm.

  He flipped it open, rotated it slowly... and the needle spun aimlessly, refusing to settle.

  No magnetic north.

  "There is no north pole here," he whispered, a grin cracking his face despite everything.

  "Well, that settles it—I'm in another world!" The words hung in the air, absurd and exhilarating.

  Gazing back at the purple fissures, he felt a spark ignite.

  "And it even looks like there might be magic here!"

  But reality crashed in as he eyed his backpack's meager contents. Excitement or not, survival loomed.

  "I'm gonna die here, aren't I?" The thought sobered him, yet the grin lingered, stubborn as the itch in his hand.

  A new world to see—his fantasies of exploration, all those games and books, surged like a storm in his

  brain, thoughts racing in frantic circles like squirrels hyped up on caffeine.

  Ideas tumbled over each other: build shelter, forage, hunt...

  He paced around the boulder for minutes, gesturing wildly to his own thoughts, until he forced himself to breathe deep, inhaling the warm, earthy air to steady his pulse.

  "Alright, even if I am to die, let's make the most out of it," he resolved, slinging the pack over his shoulders.

  He wasn't completely screwed—his gear was prepped for two days of camping, plus extras. Slingshot for target practice, cord for tying targets—those could be used to hunt small game or set traps.

  He'd never hunted for real; hurting animals just to test himself had always felt wrong and he had no real need for it. But target practice was better than nothing.

  He also had hatchet for chopping wood, sharp and reliable; water containers, lighter to easly get campfire going , glowsticks for dark nights in case he could not start a fire and a metal pot for boiling;

  bandages for wounds. No full first-aid kit—no meds—but at least he could wrap injuries.

  Clothes suited for autumn cold, which felt like overkill in this balmy air , but cold nights are bound to happen.

  Food: energy bars and snacks to solve immediate hunger.

  He needed to find drinking water first—that was the priority.

  "Convenient I'm on the edge of these hills," he mused, scanning for the lushest patch below, where greenery thickened , hinting at moisture underground. Best bet: follow the slope to the bottom, where streams might emerge on the surface.

  With a final glance at the unnatural purple cracks—still humming faintly, like high voltage cables—he set off, boots crunching over grass that released a fresh, herbal scent with each step.

  The world felt alive, full of promise and peril, and for the first time in years, Pawel felt that a true adventure awaited him.