Not just survived—they had begun to live.
Their once-hastily built dome shelters were now reinforced with bark and bramble. Paths were forming between huts, worn into the grass by repeated steps. Moss peeled from trees served as bedding. Food was cooked beside firepits, guarded by small rings of stone. And though they had no formal system of governance, all eyes turned to Jiron.
He led not through commands but by example. When he bent to scoop river water with cupped hands, the others watched him. When he built tools with stone and vine, they mimicked him. When he raised one hand to the World Tree and closed his eyes, many followed suit.
Jiron did not speak much. But he acted with purpose. And that, for the Alves, was enough.
Elias watched everything from the White Room.
A wide scrying panel hovered beside him, showing the village through a gentle projection. He saw the Alves waking with the dawn, gathering in groups, carving shapes into trees. And at the center of it all, Jiron.
“They’re learning fast,” Elias said aloud.
GAIL floated at his side, her tone as crisp and clear as ever. “Adaptation through social mimicry. Their cognitive models are high-functioning. Your design emphasized learning potential.”
“I didn’t expect this much this fast.”
“You did more than seed a species. You seeded a pattern.”
Elias turned back to the other side of the White Room, where several summoned test zones still hovered. He had simulations running for terrain interaction, mana diffusion, even early disease models. But he hadn’t implemented any of the harsher realities yet.
Not really.
Not death.
Not suffering.
Not until now.
Jiron’s understanding of magic was crude but functional. His mana core was strong. He could summon small flames with focused breath and will. He didn’t teach it like a science—he taught it like a rhythm, a harmony to feel in the blood.
And the Alves responded.
Some attempted the gestures he made. Others sat and watched for hours before daring to try. One, a young woman with sharp eyes and steady hands, managed something different.
Not flame.
But light.
A soft glow from her palm as she hovered over a wounded bird. The light didn’t heal the creature completely, but its breathing steadied. The bleeding slowed.
Elias focused on her.
Subject: Female Alve Designation: [Unassigned] Core Stability: High Trait Detected: Latent Healing Affinity
“Give her a name,” Elias murmured.
Designate Name: Seliha
Done.
From that moment forward, Seliha was never alone. Alves sought her out when they were hurt, when their joints ached, when bites festered. Her hut, once just another leaf-thatched dome, became a quiet sanctuary beneath the World Tree. She filled it with smooth stones warmed by fire, bundles of fragrant herbs gathered from shaded glens, and carved symbols of health into the wood of its frame. Her mana did not perform miracles, but when she laid her hands upon a fevered brow or whispered a chant by candlelight, the pain always seemed to dull. It was not just her magic, but the steady rhythm of her being—the unshaken calm she carried, like a river that did not flood. Alves believed, even without the words for belief. They came to her not only to heal, but to feel safe. In her presence, the weight of the unknown lifted, if only slightly.
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Jiron watched her from afar. Then sat beside her. Then learned from her.
Together, they began to draw.
Symbols formed beneath the World Tree—not words, but meaning. Spirals for inner strength. Crossed lines for breath. A simple arc for pain. They carved these into bark, stone, dirt.
And magic, once a curiosity, became ritual.
+8 TP Gained: First Magical Lexicon Initiated +3 TP Gained: Healing Ritual Prototype Created
“They’re building belief,” GAIL observed.
“In what?” Elias asked.
“In themselves.”
Time passed.
The village expanded. The Alves hunted further, venturing deeper into the woods and learning to observe the habits of their prey. They noticed which animals moved at dawn and which grazed during dusk. They developed quiet signals—a snapped twig meant danger, a low whistle meant ready.
When they first returned with fresh kills, they celebrated with immediate roasting over flame, the meat eaten while still hot. But Jiron noticed how quickly the food spoiled when left unattended. A particularly hot day rendered one catch foul by nightfall, and those who consumed it grew weak for days.
Jiron, ever observant, began experimenting. He set thin slices of meat on flat rocks near the fire, turning them slowly, allowing the heat and air to dry them out. At first, they were tough and unappetizing, but they lasted longer. Seliha suggested adding crushed leaves from a bitter-smelling herb to ward off flies. The results were promising. The next batch of dried meat was edible after four days—and no one fell sick.
They built racks from split branches tied together with vine, suspending the strips of meat above the heat of the fire without direct contact. With time, they learned to smoke the meat with pungent wood, driving away insects and adding flavor. These preserved strips became vital during long hunts and colder nights.
As for plant food, certain roots—those with white flesh and a nutty taste—were found to store well once ground and dried. The Alves built small stone-lined pits beneath fallen logs, hiding food wrapped in leaves and marked with glyphs only their own understood. These were the beginnings of storage, of foresight, of preservation.
They weren’t just surviving. They were planning.
They were becoming a people.
But still, they had not yet faced the other truth of civilization:
When many live together, not all remain clean.
The first signs were subtle.
An Alve staggered near the river’s edge, holding his stomach. He vomited once, then twice. Others assumed it was spoiled meat. But then a second fell ill. Then a third.
Soon, the riverbanks were quiet.
Elias leaned forward in his chair, his knuckles tightening white on the armrests.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, his voice low, strained with unease.
His eyes locked onto the scrying field, and for the first time since becoming Administrator, he felt powerless. These were not simple missteps. This wasn't a failed simulation or a missed panel update. This was sickness. Real, festering illness. He had seen it before in documentaries, read about it in books, but watching it unfold in his own creation made it feel different—closer. He wasn’t just overseeing a world. He had birthed it. And now it was suffering.
His breath quickened.
"They don’t know what’s happening," he muttered, more to himself than to GAIL. "They can’t even guess. They’re just... getting sick, and dying, and they don’t even know why."
GAIL ran diagnostics. “Contaminated water detected. Bodily waste levels have exceeded purification tolerance.”
“They’ve been using the river for everything.”
“Drinking, bathing, and disposing.”
“They don’t know any better.”
“Not yet.”
Elias stared at the scrying field. One of the sick Alves had collapsed near the fire. Seliha was already there, kneeling by the afflicted one with trembling hands hovering just above their chest. Her brows were furrowed, lips parted as if whispering a chant, her palms glowing faintly with healing light. But the light flickered, sputtered—and faded.
She tried again. And again. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The glow returned, but it danced just beneath her skin, refusing to pass into the body below. She shifted her hands, whispered louder, even changed her focus to another symbol she had drawn in the soil beside them. But nothing changed.
The Alve groaned, curling into themselves.
Seliha’s breath caught. Her hands shook.
Why wasn’t it working?
Her magic had soothed pain before. It had closed shallow wounds, eased fevers, quieted screaming. But this—this was something else. This was rot. Something inside the body that didn’t respond to her touch. The mana recoiled from it, like flame from wet wood.
Panic set in.
She looked up, eyes wide, scanning the gathering Alves.
"Jiron!" she called, her voice cracking.
Across the village clearing, Jiron heard her. He turned, saw her desperation, and was already running. He knelt beside her, one hand on the afflicted's shoulder, the other on her arm.
He could feel the heat radiating off the sick Alve’s body.
Seliha met his eyes. "I can't fix this," she whispered. "It's inside them. I don't know what it is."
Jiron looked down, silent. His gaze lingered on the drawn symbols—so carefully etched. The lines now smudged by her trembling fingers.
He said nothing. Not because he didn’t want to.
But because he didn’t know either.
This was beyond them.
And spreading.
Status Alert: Infectious Outbreak Detected Disease Identified: Cholera-Type Contamination Infection Risk: High Fatality Risk: Moderate Magical Resistance: Low
Elias felt his stomach twist.
Then the first death came.
And everything changed.