Chapter 013 - We Are Not Primitives

  The heavy wooden doors of the Public Library clicked shut behind them, the sound feeling loud in the momentary quiet. Mark took a deep breath, the crisp mountain air a welcome shock to his system after the profound emptiness the Oracles had left behind in the reading room. The simple, physical sensation of the cold wind on his face reminding him that for the time being, this was reality, and he wasn't dreaming. He clutched the cloth bag containing the potential to a new life, official papers, strange licenses, a house key, and the borrowed book on Istos in the other.

  Valerie kept her pace slow and considerate, keeping a watchful eye as they walked, keenly aware of his lingering injuries. Tori walked beside him, a tense silence having fallen over their small group. They were all processing the impossible events of the last hour, and the cryptic prophecies that were given to him and the healers walking with him.

  The memory of Valerie’s statement in the library struck him again, her casual assertion was something he needed to understand, a rule he needed to quantify. He glanced from Valerie’s calm, professional stride to Tori’s still-guarded posture.

  “I need to know,” he began, his voice cutting through their shared silence. “That thing you said before… about being stronger.” He met Valerie’s gaze. “It’s true? Are you really that much stronger than me?”

  It was Tori who answered, seizing the chance to speak with authority on a subject she knew intimately. “It’s not us, it’s the magic,” she stated, a hint of her old, instructive tone returning. “It’s one of the most basic principles of the Aetheric system. When you form a Heart, your body’s potential grows with it.”

  She looked at him, her expression a clinical assessment. “Someone at Quartz can train physically to be about twice that of a mundane baseline. For Valerie and me, Garnet, the potential is at least four to six times greater. That’s why your physical condition is so important. Your body has to be able to handle the additional strain caused by using magic.”

  Valerie, sensing his shock, added context with her usual calm precision. “Tori is correct about the potential, but you should understand how that applies to society,” she said gently. “Most citizens undergo a Formation ritual after their schooling, setting them up before joining a Guild . You can assume that the average worker you see on this street possesses a Quartz-tier Heart. They are all stronger than you.”

  She let that sink in before continuing. “Reaching Garnet-tier is less common. It requires years of dedication and passing a difficult Liminal Trial. It’s the mark of a skilled professional or a dedicated warrior. Jade-tier,” she paused, her voice taking on a new level of seriousness, “is very rare. The Guildmasters, the Lord-Architect… those are the people who reach Jade. They are the pillars of the Collective, or the truly dedicated.”

  Mark fell silent, absorbing the lesson. It wasn’t just the leaders or the soldiers who were stronger. It was everyone. The baker, the carpenter, the librarian. The Oracle’s gift of reagent bag for the ritual suddenly felt less like a helpful suggestion and more like a fundamental necessity for survival. He looked up from the cobblestone street, his gaze catching a polished wooden sign at the next intersection. It read, in English, "Silver-Vein Terrace." His new, temporary home.

  The silence that followed stretched for a few paces, filled only by the sounds of the bustling town. To Mark, the revelation of his own physical weakness was just another absurdity to stack atop the pile. He adjusted the cloth bag on his shoulder, the weight of the book and his new identity feeling heavier than it should.

  Valerie, ever the pragmatist, seemed to decide that a return to normalcy was the best course of action. “The main market is just past the central plaza,” she offered, her voice pulling Mark from his thoughts. “You’ll find most of what you need there. Food, basic supplies, that sort of thing.”

  “The Drunken Drake tavern has the best stew,” Tori added, her voice quiet but clear. “If you can stand the noise from the lumberjacks.”

  It was a small, practical offering, an attempt to bridge the cosmic gap that had opened between them with the mundane topic of food. Mark just gave a grateful nod.

  They turned a final corner, following the street sign for Silver-Vein Terrace, and Mark stopped in his tracks. The sight was breathtakingly something else, set against the dark, imposing rock of the mountain was a row of stunning terrace houses, each one a masterpiece of architecture that blended elegance with the landscape. They were carved directly into the sheer face of the mountain, their foundations disappearing seamlessly into the stone.

  The walls were made of a bright, clean stone that seemed to catch the sunlight, a stark and beautiful contrast to the dark timber and grey rock of the rest of the town. Each house boasted large glass windows that promised spectacular views, and dark slate roofs angled sharply against the rock face. Intricate, dark ironwork balconies hung over the street below, offering a space to appreciate the crisp mountain air. This was clearly a wealthy, prestigious district, a world away from the functional brick of his Manchester flat. This wasn’t a temporary shelter, it was someone's statement.

  He looked from the ornate bronze key to the house, feeling more like an impostor than ever before. This was a place for a lawyer, CEO or another important person, not a displaced project manager.

  "This is probably a stupid question," he started, turning to the two healers who were looking on with a shared sense of bewildered awe. "But... isn't this a bit extravagant?"

  Valerie and Tori exchanged a look, neither able to form a coherent answer. The sheer scale of the Oracles' "small gift" was beyond their experience as well. Before they could try, Tori's inherent curiosity and impatience won out.

  "Well? Are you going to open it or not?" she prodded, stepping closer. "I want to see what it looks like from the inside!"

  Mark took a step toward the door, raising the key, when a deep voice cut through the air

  "The answer is yes."

  They turned. Leaning against the doorframe of the opposite house was a man who seemed carved from the mountain itself. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and a thick, well-kept beard a mix of greys. He wore the practical, rugged leathers, and his arms, crossed over his chest, were corded with muscle. A faint, deep-red light pulsed from a tattoo on his forearm as he pushed himself upright. He was Garnet-tier.

  "It's extravagant," the man said, his voice a low rumble. His gaze was not hostile, but direct and appraising as it settled on Mark. "And you don't belong here."

  Valerie quickly stepped forward, taking on the role of diplomat. "Lothar, please. This is a temporary arrangement. It was a gift... from the Oracle of Knowledge."

  The big man, Lothar, gave a short, dismissive grunt. "The Oracles and their games don't put roofs over our heads or timber on the wagons," he stated flatly, his words a perfect embodiment of the Collective's pragmatic spirit. "They play with our futures. We build our own."

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  He turned his full attention back to Mark, his expression softening slightly. "I hold no ill will toward you, stranger. The general population won't care where you sleep, so long as you don't cause trouble." He took a step closer, lowering his voice slightly. "But the elitists? The high-and-mighty favorites of Guildmasters, those who think they own these mountains? They will not like this. You’ve been made into a statement, apparently without your consent."

  Lothar looked from the fancy house to Mark's simple, borrowed clothes. "Be careful, the games they like to play can be... unpleasant for those who don't know the rules."

  With that, he gave a final, curt nod to the healers and disappeared back into his own house. The door closed with a solid thud, leaving the three of them standing on the doorstep. The friendly mountain air suddenly felt much colder. The key in Mark's hand now felt less like a gift and more like bait, the question was who was fishing? Years of avoiding corporate backstabbing wasn't needed to see there was a lot more at play.

  Mark took a deep breath and fitted the ornate bronze key into the lock. It turned with a smooth, satisfying click. He pushed the heavy door inward, revealing a warm, light-filled space. Before he could even step across the threshold, Tori brushed past him, her curiosity overriding any lingering tension. "Finally!" she muttered, her eyes already scanning the interior.

  Valerie, however, remained politely on the doorstep, her hands clasped behind her back. Seeing her wait, Mark felt a pull from the forgotten etiquette of his old life. He gestured inside. "Please, come in."

  She gave him a small, appreciative nod and followed him in.

  The house was stunning. The ground floor was a single, open-plan space, with walls and floors made of a pale, polished wood that made the whole room feel bright and airy. A comfortable-looking living room area with plush seating gave way to a small dining space and a compact, but impeccably fitted kitchen. What caught Mark's eye immediately were the pipes. A network of polished brass colored pipes ran stylistically along the walls and ceiling, branching off to connect to glowing light fixtures and what looked like radiators. Other pipes, however, terminated in strange, unfamiliar devices, a small crystal-laced box near the kitchen and a metal grate by the door he had no context for.

  A solid wooden staircase with a beautifully carved banister led upwards from the center of the room. Mark led the way, his footsteps soft on the polished wood. The top floor opened onto a small landing with three doors. One revealed a spacious master bedroom with a large, comfortable-looking bed and a glass door leading out onto the balcony they’d seen from the street. The other was a smaller, but still well-appointed guest room. A third door opened into a bathroom that wouldn't have been out of place in a modern luxury hotel.

  He walked over to the sink and turned one of the brass taps. Hot, steaming water instantly gushed out. The simple, familiar convenience in this utterly alien world was staggering. "I wasn't expecting hot water," he said, mostly to himself.

  Valerie, who had followed him up the stairs, gave a small, amused smile. "Of course," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "The Collective has had enchanted utilities for running water, heating, and light for centuries . We may live in the mountains, Mark, but we are not primitives."

  Mark left the modern bathroom, the simple act of washing his hands with hot water feeling like an impossible luxury. He needed to do something normal, something familiar, everything was too new, too different. It was at this point he realised how hungry he was, not able to remember what it was he ate at the infirmary, but it wasn't much.

  He walked over to the kitchen area and began to explore. A large wooden cabinet opened to reveal a well-stocked pantry. Another door, cool to the touch, revealed what he assumed was their version of a refrigerator, magically chilled with a few glowing runes. Inside were some fresh vegetables, some of which were vaguely familiar, some cuts of meat wrapped in waxy paper, and a collection of fragrant green herbs he couldn't identify.

  There was no bread, but enough to at least give another attempt at what he was teaching himself back home. He found flour and eggs and began the familiar, methodical process of making fresh pasta, improvising with the strange vegetables for a simple sauce. The cooker was a challenge. The hob was a single, smooth slate of dark stone with a few runes etched into the surface. After moments of confused prodding, he found that pressing a specific rune caused it to glow with a soft, adjustable heat. Proud of himself he didn't have to ask for help.

  As the comforting smells of his cooking began to fill the room, he noticed Valerie and Tori had settled at the small dining table, poring over the official documents the Oracle had provided.

  "There is a lot here…," Valerie murmured, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked up towards Mark. "According to this, you've been granted citizenship in the Collective. Your Guild status is listed as 'Pending', and your official role is 'Civic Consultant'."

  "A consultant?" Tori interjected, looking up from a different document. "That means any Guild can hire you for your expertise, but you belong to none. It's an odd position, but will allow you to select the guild that best fits later."

  "Your medical records are clean," Valerie continued, "You have a vaccination record for things I’ve never seen... it's all upto date."

  Mark brought three plates to the table. The pasta was simply dressed with the sautéed vegetables, meat, and herbs. Tori eyed the dish, a critical look on her face. "This is... sparse."

  Valerie picked up her fork, more curious than critical. After a moment's hesitation, they both took a bite. Their reactions were immediate.

  Valerie's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "The flavor is different…," she said, genuinely impressed. "It's... actually enjoyable."

  Tori, for her part, simply kept eating for a moment before swallowing. "It’s not bad," she conceded, which he accepted as the highest form of praise considering her personality so far.

  Mark felt a sense of control, fragile, but since he arrived this was something he could do and knew. He wasn't just a patient or a cosmic anomaly, for the moment he was normal flexing a hobby from his "dead world." As they ate in a comfortable silence, they felt less like medics and their charge, and more like three people sharing a meal at the end of a very, very long day.

  The comfortable silence held for a few moments as they finished the meal. It was a simple, shared experience that felt worlds away from the cosmic chaos of the library and the raw conflict of the dreamscape.

  "It's a simple recipe from... where I'm from," Mark said, breaking the quiet. "I was teaching myself for a while, aiming to eat better."

  "It's very different," Valerie noted, placing her fork down with a thoughtful expression. "Our cuisine tends to be much heavier. Our farming community focuses on hearty, high-energy crops suited for the mountain climate."

  She then shifted in her seat, her demeanor turning back to one of professional planning. "Mark, since you're recovering well, we need to discuss the next steps. The reagents the Oracle provided are for a Formation ritual, but as we mentioned, a better level of personal fitness is a prerequisite. You will need to set up a routine for that."

  Mark nodded, remembering their earlier conversation about his "soft middle" and their vastly stronger baseline.

  "We'll arrange for Sam from the garrison to come by tomorrow morning," Valerie continued. "They'll assess your current condition and set you up with a basic physical training plan. One of us will also check in on you after our shift."

  "Don't expect it to be easy," Tori added, though her tone lacked its earlier bite. "I really don’t mean to offend, but you look like all you did prior was sit down." There was a level of irony that he chose not to share, not at this time.

  With the plan for the next day settled, they stood to leave.

  "Get some rest," Valerie said with a kind, professional smile. "You've had an overwhelming day, we all have"

  Tori gave a hesitant nod from the doorway. "Try not to break anything before your training starts." It was her version of a friendly warning.

  Mark walked them to the door. "Thank you," he said, and he meant it, for the food, the answers, and for still being alive. He watched them depart down the stone-paved street before closing the heavy wooden door with a deep sigh.

  The lock clicked shut, and he was alone. The house was silent, filled with the lingering, pleasant aroma of his cooking. He looked around at the beautiful, light-filled room, a gift from a being that embodied knowledge itself. Tomorrow, his training would begin. He had a choice to make, he could choose to be a victim of circumstance, or choose to at least try pushing forwards in this strange place.

  For the first time, alongside the dread, he felt a flicker of determined resolve. The start of a plan and formed, and now the focus on making it to the goal.