Steven Miske's consciousness clawed its way out of an endless, icy darkness, a void punctuated by violent, jarring lurches. A deafening cacophony roared in his ears, as if the entire world were collapsing, or perhaps countless demons were howling directly into his auditory canals. His skull felt as though it had been bludgeoned by a siege ram; each faint, struggling heartbeat sent tearing bolts of agony through his temples, accompanied by nauseating dizziness and a shrill, piercing tinnitus.
Touch was the first sense to return: a bone-deep, penetrating cold that made him shiver uncontrollably, his teeth chattering like castanets. Next, smell: the overpowering, metallic tang of blood, the acrid bite of sulfur, and a putrid, gag-inducing stench of decay, all mixed with the damp, earthy odor of mud and mildew, assaulted his nostrils, nearly making him suffocate on the spot.
He fought to lift eyelids that felt as heavy as lead ingots. His vision was a blur, filled with dim, grotesque, dark-red splotches swimming and fracturing—whether they were the unholy light filtering from the distant rift or physiological phantoms born from the violent trauma to his brain, he couldn't tell.
"Sir, you have finally regained partial consciousness link." Cecil's voice, intermittent and weak, crackled in his mind, thick with static and an unprecedented feebleness. Even the signature London accent sounded distorted. "Warning! External environment extremely hazardous! High-intensity energy fluctuations detected… Spatial structure… highly unstable… Your vital signs… extremely weak… Core temperature continues to drop… accompanied by… severe hypothermia and… multiple blunt-force contusions… Neural pathways have also sustained three point seven percent irreversible physical damage…"
"Where… am I…" Steven's voice was a hoarse rasp, like sandpaper on rough wood, each word costing him all his current strength. He vaguely remembered touching that bizarre mural deep within the Sacred Cave, then… then an endless torrent of energy and soul-tearing pain, and after that, complete oblivion.
"According to final log entries… your contact with the mural triggered… an unknown energy resonance… resulting in… the formation of a large-scale spatial rift… Sir, you… you appear to have… unleashed a cataclysm of monumental proportions…" Cecil's voice was filled with a helpless resignation. It paused, then added, "Furthermore, multiple functional modules of mine were temporarily forced offline due to the preceding energy overload. Currently, I can only maintain basic communication and partial logical operations. Please… conserve usage."
Steven's heart plummeted. If even Cecil was in this state, the situation was dire beyond measure. He tried to move, only to find with despair that his limbs were tightly bound with rough, cold vines, caked with wet mud, biting deeply into his flesh, sending searing pain through him. He was trussed up like a sacrificial animal, abandoned in some cold, damp, mildew-reeking corner of a cave.
The ambient light was exceedingly dim, barely enough to discern that he was in a fairly spacious natural cavern, but definitely not the vast grotto with the murals. This place felt more primitive, and far more… oppressive.
"Sir, scan results indicate you are currently isolated and imprisoned within a… subsidiary minor cavern of the Sacred Cave. Two Wind Tribe warriors are guarding you." Cecil's voice was a fraction clearer, as if slowly recovering some functionality. "One of them, based on facial feature recognition cross-referenced with prior database entries, is confirmed as the young tribal warrior 'Mason'. His current hostility level towards you… is assessed as 'Extremely Dangerous.' Please exercise extreme caution in all interactions."
"Mason?" Steven frowned. The name conjured a vague impression of an agile, well-built youth with a notably short temper.
"Indeed, Sir. He exhibits a high degree of vigilance towards you. Additionally, regarding the tribe's recent situation: the Great Wu 'Nv Chou' perished during the invasion of the rift entities. Before her death, she left a blood-sealed prophecy, the core of which points to finding 'Sui' and the 'Crimson Flame Divine Stone'—what our database identifies as the Sui Stone Heart."
Steven's heart tightened. The Great Wu was dead? And had left clues about the Sui Stone Heart?
Cecil continued, "Xuanyuan Hao, the young chieftain, led a bloody battle during your unconsciousness and has temporarily stabilized the situation. However, the threat from the spatial rift remains, and the tribe is facing extreme food shortages. More critically, during this long, cold night, they lack a stable fire source for warmth, deterring beasts, and cooking. Disease and weakness are spreading, the shadow of death looms, and panic is breeding. Xuanyuan Hao has already dispatched a party based on Nv Chou's dying words and the ancient 'recording-knots' to search for clues about 'Sui.' Ah, those 'recording-knots' appear to be a rather inefficient yet ritually significant method of information storage."
Hearing this, Steven felt an even deeper chill of anxiety and despair. Not only was he a "disaster star," but the entire tribe was also on the brink, and here he was, bound and helpless, unable even to feel basic warmth. A potent mix of powerlessness and the will to survive surged through him. He writhed, trying to break free from the vines, simultaneously using all his strength to shout at his guards in broken tribal language, accompanied by desperate gestures, "I… not… disaster! Let go… me! Maybe… can help!"
His sudden struggles and shouts, though his pronunciation was garbled, clearly conveyed his urgency and unwillingness to accept his fate.
The two warriors guarding him immediately approached, alert. One was indeed Mason, as Cecil had identified. He looked younger and leaner than the other warrior, but fiercer, gripping a newly sharpened stone spear, its tip glinting coldly. His eyes, fixed on Steven, were filled with undisguised fury and suspicion, as if Steven were the sole culprit responsible for plunging his tribe into this desperate plight.
"Silence! Monster!" Mason snarled in harsh, guttural tribal language, and without hesitation, jabbed the blunt butt-end of his stone spear hard into Steven's outer thigh—not to pierce, but a punitive, bruising blow.
"Ugh!" Agony exploded through Steven. He blacked out for a second from the pain, cold sweat instantly drenching him. Though not a penetrating wound, the sheer impact felt like his bone was about to snap, new pain cruelly intermingling with old.
"Danger! Mason's physiological indicators show a state of high stress and aggression! Sir, avoid direct eye contact, and do not make any further sounds that could be interpreted as provocation!" Cecil's warning trilled urgently in his mind, now tinged with a distinct crackle of static.
Seeing Steven curl up in pain, Mason showed no pity. He stepped forward, pressing the spear's sharp tip against Steven's throat. The cold, hard pressure sent shivers down Steven's spine. Mason's voice was distorted with rage, "If it weren't for you, you unhallowed thing, the rift wouldn't have widened! The Wu wouldn't have died! Our children and elders wouldn't be struggling in cold and hunger!" His eyes were bloodshot, clearly a man pushed to the edge by extreme grief and exhaustion.
The other, slightly older warrior, seeing this, placed a hand on Mason's shoulder, his voice a low dissuasion, "Mason, enough. The Chieftain gave orders before he left. Keep him alive until his return. The tribe… too many have died already. Don't… resort to violence so easily." When he said "too many have died," his voice choked with grief.
Mason's chest heaved. He shot Steven another venomous glare, his eyes, besides fury, now also showing a flicker of pain triggered by his comrade's sorrowful words. Only then did he reluctantly step back half a pace, though his grip on the spear remained tense. "Hmph, you got lucky, monster!" he spat, then turned to the older warrior, his voice tight with suppressed emotion, "A'Hao and the others… any news?"
The older warrior shook his head, his expression grim.
Steven could feel it: this young man named Mason would likely be his most immediate threat here, but his anger, it seemed, was not without reason.
Steven gasped for air, fighting the searing pain in his leg and the bone-deep chill. He understood that any move he made now could be fatally misinterpreted.
Just as despair threatened to engulf him, a small, thin figure, wrapped in a meager hide, appeared timidly, yet with a touch of defiance, in his line of sight.
It was Tina.
She seemed to have seized a moment when Mason and the other warrior were briefly distracted by their grim, low-voiced discussion of the tribe's plight. She'd peered around the cave entrance for a long moment, confirming Mason's back was turned, before darting forward like a startled fawn, treading with incredibly light steps along the shadows of the cave wall, until she reached Steven. She clutched a small bundle wrapped in a large leaf, her face etched with anxiety and… an unmistakable, poignant sympathy.
She quickly knelt before Steven, placing the leaf bundle on the ground and unfolding it. Inside were a few dark-colored, earthy-smelling, hard plant tubers, and a crudely made, broken earthenware bowl containing a little murky fresh water.
"Eat… water…" Tina whispered, her clear eyes reflecting Steven's pale, wretched face, filled with a pure, unadulterated concern. She seemed to want to say more but, fearing discovery, simply pointed quickly at the food and water, then at Steven's mouth, urging him to eat. Not daring to linger, she cast one last deep look at Steven—a look that held, besides worry, a flicker of encouragement—then, like a startled rabbit, she darted away.
Steven stared at the incredibly meager offering, then thought of Mason's bloodshot eyes and the tribe's fallen members. An indescribable bitterness welled up in his heart. Tina's kindness was the only light in this endless darkness. He laboriously chewed the hard, earthy tubers, struggling to draw life-sustaining energy from them, a deeper understanding of this world's cruelty, and his own utter powerlessness, settling into his soul.
"Sir," Cecil's voice chimed in opportunely, still staticky but with a new note of analytical calmness. "Based on non-contact scan of tuber sample residue (energy constraints limit accuracy), primary components are unidentified polysaccharide compounds and crude fiber. Provides basic caloric intake but lacks multiple essential amino acids and vitamins. Long-term singular consumption will lead to severe nutritional imbalance. Furthermore, multiple unknown microbial contaminants detected, posing a potential risk of intestinal infection."
"Shut up, Cecil!" Steven roared silently in his mind, utterly spent. "Do I have a choice right now? Or would you prefer I stage a 'hunger strike protest' and achieve a glorious starvation in this prehistoric prison?!"
Meanwhile, in a hidden mountain hollow several tens of li from the Wind Tribe's Sacred Cave.
A powerfully built warrior, who should have radiated an aura of immense power, was currently crouched in an exceedingly undignified posture behind a black rock slick with slippery moss. His face was pale, his forehead beaded with large drops of cold sweat. The heavy suit of armor he wore, intricately woven from countless fine runic metal plates, now hung somewhat loosely due to its owner's debilitated state, no longer shimmering with intimidating magical light, but instead stained with mud and… certain unmentionable traces of filth.
This was one of the three Protectors dispatched from the future by the secret society: Rune Warrior Rowan von Adlerfels.
"Gurrgllle… Phbbrrrt—!!" An indelicate sound, like a bellows deflating, emanated from his abdomen, followed immediately by Rowan's suppressed groan of pain as he slumped further. His once sharp-featured, classically Germanic and resolute face was now gaunt and hollowed from days of severe diarrhea and malnutrition. His eye sockets were deep and shadowed, his lips cracked and dry. His gaze, once sharp as a hawk's, had become somewhat unfocused, filled with a deep resentment for this primitive world.
"Damned… primitive… world… Not even a single piece of… damned… cooked food…" Rowan hissed the words through clenched teeth, each syllable an effort that tugged at his churning guts, forcing another series of pained moans from him.
As one of the secret society's top Rune Warriors, Rowan had undergone the most brutal combat training. His body, enhanced by runic thaumaturgy, could withstand a direct hit from a small-caliber mana cannon. His runic battle-axe, once activated, could cleave dragon scales with ease. In his own world, he was a dreaded "war machine."
Yet, all that power had become a cosmic joke after his arrival in this godforsaken place devoid of fire, cooked food, or even clean drinking water. Due to that accursed "spatio-temporal turbulence," he had arrived an unknown period earlier than scheduled, and his landing coordinates were severely off, dropping him directly into a stinking swamp where he'd nearly become an appetizer for several prehistoric crocodilians. He'd barely managed to crawl out, most of his portable nutrient synthesizer and energy blocks damaged or lost.
The killer was: this world… had no fire! All food was raw! Cold! Reeking of blood and earth! The first day, he'd tried to eat a creature resembling a wild hare raw, only to suffer violent vomiting and diarrhea that same night. He'd even tried ingesting a brightly colored mushroom, which resulted in even more severe diarrhea plus a half-day's hallucinatory experience. He swore he'd seen flying pink elephants and a troupe of T-Rexes in tutus.
"I, Rowan von Adlerfels! Scion of the Eagle's Rock, my ancestors commanders of the Runic Knight Orders that rode with the Holy Germanic Emperor on his Eastern Crusade! Our family castle has stood atop the Black Forest for centuries, overlooking the Rhine's glory! And I, 'Ironwall' Rowan, heir to our line's strongest runic talent, am reduced to… to this… squatting in an open-air 'latrine' where even the leaves chafe my arse! And fighting off fist-sized mosquitoes and unknown worms!"
The more he thought, the angrier and more aggrieved he became. Another rumble from his stomach made his face turn a shade whiter. He clutched his belly again, cold sweat pouring down. "Find… that 'Shi'-named one… or similar pronunciation… kill them all… prevent… Azure Dragon… awakening…" Rowan muttered, fighting waves of intestinal cramping, his thoughts muddled by weakness, though his "simple mind, strong limbs" operational logic remained stubbornly intact.
"If those bastards back in the Order, especially that effeminate Alchemist, knew of my current pathetic state, they'd probably mock me into the next millennium!" Rowan thought with bitter fury. "Find the target… complete the mission… and then, I swear, I will wipe this damned primitive planet clean from the star charts!"
Just as Rowan von Adlerfels was lost in these furious and aggrieved thoughts, his keen ears caught some extremely faint sounds from a distance, sounds not of the natural world. Like… human activity?
His spirits lifted slightly. A flicker of hope (and a desperate craving for clean water and perhaps some soft grass) lit his eyes. Suppressing a fresh wave of discomfort from his rebellious stomach, he cautiously began to move towards the source of the sound. "Hope… this time… my guts don't decide to… at a critical moment…" he prayed, parting the ferns before him, stealthily advancing towards the sounds. His imposing figure moved with a somewhat comically clumsy gait through the dense jungle, forced to unnaturally clench his thighs every few steps, terrified that any sudden movement might trigger a "mountain torrent."