Chapter 7: Acclimatization

  Gaia World, 1 Day After The Shattering

  A thunderous crack jolted Pawel from sleep, the sound like ancient timbers splintering under immense pressure.

  It rolled through the air, vibrating in his chest, followed by a deep, ominous rumble that shook the ground beneath his tent.

  He bolted upright, heart pounding, the fabrics of tent and clothes rustling from every contact as he scrambled for his spear.

  The morning air seeped in cool and damp, carrying the earthy tang of dew-soaked soil and the faint, resinous bite of pine from the surrounding trees.

  Outside, birds scattered with frantic chirps, their wings slicing the air.

  "What the hell?" he muttered, stepping into the crisp dawn light.

  Shadows stretched long across the clearing, the grass slick under his boots.

  He glanced toward the slope he'd descended the day before—its rise had blocked the view of the anomaly last night, but now, towering fractures pierced the sky, jagged veins of purple mist pulsing higher than before, like frozen lightning inverted.

  The air hummed faintly with their energy, a low vibration that prickled his skin and carried an unfamiliar scent, metallic and charged.

  They had expanded, new cracks spidering outward with audible snaps that echoed like breaking ice.

  Pawel winced as he flexed his right hand, the burning sensation milder than last night but far from gone.

  It had spread—a persistent itch radiating up his arm, past his shoulder, burrowing deeper than skin-deep, as if his muscles and bones simmered with low heat.

  Veins throbbed faintly under reddened flesh, and a faint, acrid smell clung to him, like singed cloth mixed with something sickly sweet.

  "Damn it," he grumbled, shaking it out. "Well, so much for wishing it all away. Anyways—no time to dwell"—he needed to move.

  He drained the last lukewarm dregs from his thermos, the bitter coffee giving him extra energy shot ,as he planned the day.

  First, climb the slope for a better look at those cracks. Then, head to the pond with his slingshot; maybe bag a duck or two amid the reeds.

  He'd spotted reedmace and calamus yesterday—nutritious roots and shoots, perfect for foraging if hunting failed or if kills vanished like the spider had.

  Luckily, spring is the perfect time to eat those, and everything points to him having landed in that season here.

  He slung his pack over his shoulder, spear in hand, and started up the slope.

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  A few steps in, a subtle warmth flushed his skin—not from exertion, but something internal, like the first stirrings of fever. He paused, wiping his forehead; it came away damp.

  "Well—this can't be good," he murmured, but pushed onward.

  Around halfway up the slope, he realized that the fever was getting worse rapidly. Chills crept in alongside the heat, his vision sharpening then blurring at the edges.

  No ignoring it now; this was bad, a high fever in the wild without meds was lethal.

  Plans shifted: from foraging and herbalism tutorials he'd watched, he knew that willow bark contains some compounds that can function like aspirin, and it could be used very simply by making a tea.

  He'd seen some willow by the pond; he hurried downhill, grabbed his hatchet, leaving his spear and backpack in the camp. The fever was getting so bad that at this point, if anything attacked, he wasn't going to fight it off anyway.

  He hurried uneasily through the bushes, each step stirring the marshy scent of mud and decaying vegetation, undercut by the fresh, green sharpness of reeds swaying in the breeze.

  The fever climbed steadily, sweat beading on his neck, his breaths growing labored as he hacked at the willow branches.

  He gathered a thick bundle of freshly grown twigs and hurried back to camp as fast as the fever allowed.

  Back at camp, shivers began to rack him, waves of heat and cold alternating like a malfunctioning thermostat.

  His vision swam slightly; movements felt sluggish, but he pressed on, gathering the last of his firewood from the pile he'd overstocked last night.

  Flames crackled to life with his lighter, the smoky aroma of burning branches filling the air, warm and acrid against his clammy skin.

  The original plan was to debark it, but with how rapidly things were progressing, there was no time.

  He chopped the twigs roughly—no energy for precise debarking—and steeped them in his metal pot over the fire.

  The brew bubbled, releasing a bitter, tannic steam that stung his nostrils.

  He gulped it down hot, the scalding liquid searing his throat but promising relief.

  Only then did the fever fully hit, weakness crashing over him like a wave. Sweat poured off him in sheets, soaking his clothes with a sour, feverish odor.

  He collapsed into the tent, breaths ragged and heavy, the nylon cool against his burning skin.

  Sleep wouldn't come; the same suffering that made him hope for sleep would not let it come.

  It wasn't just weakness from the fever itself; whatever had afflicted his hand and had spread all over now came back with force.

  His entire body pulsed with waves of burning and pain emanating from every vein at this point.

  Panic dominated his feverish, tired mind.

  What was it? Bacteria? Virus? Some spores he inhaled?

  He was fully aware that entering a new environment could end like this.

  Could aspirin from willow help at all?

  He only knew it helps lower symptoms of fever; does it even help fighting off bacteria? Or perhaps was it something else completely?

  Chemical poisoning from that purple lightning anomaly he touched so recklessly?

  He had no illusions about surviving this adventure, but he'd hoped for it to end in a fight—not like this! Eventually, not able to do anything else and seeing no point in wallowing in misery, he reached for the only tool he had for relief—meditation.

  He could not even sit up, so he did it lying back.

  Like last night, he closed his eyes, focusing inward.

  The crackle of the fire faded, replaced by vivid visions: greenish auras pulsing from the earth, emanating from every leaf and root, flowing like living rivers through the air. The scent of loamy soil intensified in his mind, mingled with the fresh vitality of growing things.

  He directed the energy mentally, willing it to combat the invasion—whatever it was—the purple anomaly's taint, the spider's mist, or just some bacteria—turning it toward healing.

  Regeneration, he visualized: the green force dismantling the burn, mending tissues, flushing the fever.

  Hours blurred—awake in agony, slipping into fever-induced dreams where the auras grew sharper, merging with the intruding energies, converting them into his own.

  At times, he glimpsed other "colors"—subtle flows from the distant cracks, alien and untouchable, swirling like distant storms.

  He couldn't grasp them, only observe.

  In the evening, strength returned enough to brew more tea.

  The fire's embers glowed orange, casting flickering shadows on the tent walls, the bitter steam rising like a potion's haze.

  He drank deeply, then sipped plain water from his bag—running low now, the cool liquid a mercy on his parched throat. Back to the cycle: meditate, absorb, drift.

  The fever eased, the burning sensation receding from his body, though it lingered faintly, like embers under ash.

  Through the night, certainty grew. These auras weren't mere fantasy. Focusing on a new, nascent sense, he "saw" them even awake—energies flowing everywhere, vivid and real.

  But he couldn't absorb or influence them anymore; the connection had faded, leaving only awareness.

  By morning, hope flickered. The fever had broken, leaving him weak but alive. The anomaly's affliction was nearly gone—just a faint warmth in his veins. He sat up slowly, the tent's fabric rustling as he moved, the air inside damp and sticky from his own sweat and morning dew.

  It seemed he had yet another day ahead of him.