Chapter 8: Foundations

  Gaia World, 2 Days After The Shattering

  Pawel emerged from his tent, skin slick with dried sweat and head swimming with wooziness. Every step felt uncertain and weak; he sank onto the grass, inhaling the crisp, dew-laden air outside the nylon flap.

  The morning breeze carried the faint, earthy scent of damp soil and pine resin, a welcome contrast to the stale, feverish odor clinging to his clothes.

  "Is the sickness gone completely? Will I be alright now?"

  He contemplated the unpleasantness from last night and day. Naturally, his thoughts steered towards the weird flows of colors and auras he had experienced in his meditations.

  He decided these were legitimate visions, or a new sight, but it was still hard to come to terms with something like this even after getting transported to another world.

  An entire life of conditioning to dismiss any stories about such visions as fake or the results of drug-induced hallucinations had its effects.

  "Well, fever-induced visions are a thing too," he commented out loud on his own thoughts.

  Pawel closed his eyes, cleared his mind of any thoughts, and took in his surroundings.

  He could really feel or see something, although it was neither a sense of touch nor eyesight.

  It was such a weird thing to "see colors and movement" without using his eyes, so that even doing it now, Pawel was still not sure it wasn't just imagination.

  He sighed, bringing his focus back to immediate health problems.

  The faint hum of insects in the grass and the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze grounded him, their sounds a subtle reminder that the world persisted, indifferent to his inner turmoil.

  He instinctively looked at his hand to check on the reddish swelling of his skin, and froze momentarily.

  Oh, the irritation was gone, but that wasn't what had shocked him so much.

  Whenever he looked at his hand, his sight had inevitably always fallen on an old scar from his childhood, a reminder of the time a shard of glass had lodged under his skin at some point.

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  He had stopped consciously paying attention to it long ago, but it had always been there.

  He could not see it now.

  "Was I just not paying attention to it for so long that it somehow disappeared over the years?" he mused.

  He quickly reached up to his eyebrow and touched the old scar just above his nose. It had been practically invisible, but often itchy, and he could always feel the uneven skin under his touch.

  It was gone.

  His heart raced.

  "Okay—this is definitely not my imagination!"

  He started pacing nervously around the tent, thinking about the implications; then, he energetically sat on the grass, closed his eyes, and attempted to get into a trance. Minutes passed, but his racing mind would not allow for meditation.

  Eventually, Pawel gave up on those attempts.

  "Right, this is all great, but magic or not, I have no water to drink. That is more important, and I might get the fever again—I don't know what it was."

  "Better get to it—but how?" he mused.

  The grass prickled against his palms, cool and slightly damp, carrying the faint, herbal scent of crushed blades as he shifted his weight, his mind whirling like leaves caught in a sudden gust.

  He had two empty plastic bottles, each 1.5 liters in volume, a 1-liter thermos, and a pot for boiling.

  That was enough for a 2-day camping trip, when one knew he could always go back home and the containers were already filled with safe water, but it was a lot more problematic in the wild, when traveling and not knowing when you'd find another water source.

  And there was also the matter of safety to drink.

  Stale water from the pond was a definite no-no. God only knew what nastiness lived in it.

  Even boiling couldn't kill everything.

  Pawel knew that streams arising from under slopes of hills like the one he had found were the perfect source for drinking water. It was filtered, seeping through many layers of sand, and after finally flowing on the surface—not recontaminated again.

  Ideally, he would still want to boil it to be safe, but could he really do it?

  He couldn't pour very hot water into plastic bottles, and the boiling pot was only 1 liter.

  He couldn't use both plastic bottles to bring unboiled water to his camp, or they'd be contaminated.

  So, not only could he bring only 1 bottle of fresh water to his camp, but he also needed to boil 1 liter of it, wait for it to cool down, and then boil another portion.

  He could maybe do it here, sitting near the water source, but if he ventured out—is it possible to do with the added time of looking for water?

  "Oh well—no better way than to test it," he proclaimed.

  He used the casing for the tent as a handy bag—even with attached straps—for carrying the bottles and slingshot—perhaps there'd be an opportunity to hunt something by the pond—and set off to carry out his task.

  With his first batch, he decided to make a thermos of coffee, using his meager stock.

  Now sitting by the campfire, looking at the boiling water, he contemplated how he'd even manage without coffee in the morning.

  "Magic!" he yelled out.

  "How could I even forget that? Perhaps I can get the coffee effect with my ability?"

  He closed his eyes and this time managed to clear his mind enough to enter a meditative state.

  He could see the auras flowing around him, but any attempts at reaching for them or trying to influence anything in any way failed.

  He directed his new senses inwards to try managing the energy from the spider and the anomaly, but instantly realized there was none left to even manipulate.

  That pushed him out of the meditative state.

  "Yes, that would make perfect sense," he said out loud.

  With accepting that magic was real, accepting game logic came rather naturally.

  "The mist from that spider was probably some kind of reward I can use for my own abilities."

  "But does my mana—or whatever it is—regenerate naturally?"

  The fire crackled softly, sending sparks upward into the air with a sharp, woody scent, while the steam from the pot rose in lazy curls, carrying the bitter aroma of brewing coffee that momentarily steadied his thoughts.

  His musings were interrupted by the coffee being ready, then drinking it.

  After that, he made several more trips to the pond and stream, gathering water and edible plants.

  He also washed himself and his clothes, his skin feeling so icky from sweat that he could not bear it anymore.

  This meant that any potential prey animals were gone.

  He tried meditation and affecting the mana several times more, but other than observing it, he could not do anything at all.

  Pawel also gathered a surplus of wood for the fire and scouted a little, but other than his chores, the day passed without any more drastic events.

  As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows through the trees with a golden hue, the air cooled slightly, carrying the fresh, loamy scent of evening soil, marking the quiet end to his recovery.