[120 years later]
His eyes slowly opened, revealing puffiness and a steady stream of tears. He paused before making any drastic movements.
"That dream again," he muttered.
He got out of bed, which creaked gently beneath him as if relieved of his weight. He walked over to the mirror in the corner of his small room.
His eyes glowed violet despite his limited vision. With a brief glance at the small bucket of water beside the mirror, he waved his hand. The water rose, defying the very laws of nature, and floated toward his face. It embraced him, washing away sweat and tears, leaving him feeling more refreshed than ever. The water then dropped unceremoniously into a wooden basin, draining into a pipe below.
He took the moment to examine himself. His face was well-structured—handsome, but not overly so. His hair had grown into a shaggy afro. He made a mental note to have it plaited. His eyes glowed a deep purple for a moment before fading back to their normal red hue. He stepped back to view himself fully. His torso was lean and athletic, his six-pack abs and well-defined muscles a testament to years of maintenance. He knew the same was true for his legs.
But what struck him now was how unkempt he appeared. Dirt clung to his skin and hair, and his overall appearance showed neglect. He sighed in disappointment and walked out of his small room—and effectively, his house.
The sun greeted him, its rays hitting him at an angle that pierced his eyes. He squinted and raised a hand to block the glare. He turned left and began walking, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light.
He strolled through his small garden, filled with various indigenous herbs—though ironically, none were edible. His house, perched on top of a remote hill, was five kilometers from the nearest village and surrounded by land devoid of animals to hunt. One might assume someone living so far from civilization would grow staple crops for sustenance. A reasonable person would think so. But Ragnar was no ordinary man.
He reached the well and gripped the rope. Pulling steadily, he brought up a bucket twice the size of a normal one. He set it on the ground. This water would suffice for both cleansing and irrigation.
"Nealc," he muttered.
The water rose again, defying gravity. Some of it transformed into a white, frothy substance that clung to the dirt on his skin and removed it more efficiently than plain water ever could. The water snaked through his shorts and over his legs, yet left no trace of moisture. Some of it traveled up into his hair, cleansing it thoroughly. Once its task was complete, the water plopped onto the soil, as though its life force had faded. The thirsty ground absorbed it greedily, leaving only a trace of mud.
Ragnar stretched, then lifted the partially filled bucket and walked back to his garden. With skilled precision, he watered the plants manually. Once finished, he returned the bucket to the well and picked up a basket woven from papyrus reeds. He harvested a handful of matured herbs—some bearing purple flowers, others blue.
At the entrance of his home, a hook and rope system was fixed to the wall. He hung the blue flowers there, where they would be exposed to sunlight and gradually wither. As for the purple ones, he walked to the right side of the house. There, on a crude wooden table and chair setup, lay an assortment of medieval tools: a pot, a mortar and pestle, and multiple transparent jars.
As Ragnar sat, the chair glowed faintly. A mystical golden aura enveloped him briefly before fading. He began his work, carefully crushing and grinding the purple flowers. A powerful, pungent odor rose from the pulp, drifting toward the grass a few meters away. The grass reacted violently. As it absorbed the scent, it turned yellow in real time and wilted, its life force snuffed out.
Ragnar didn't flinch. He continued grinding. After three minutes of meticulous work, he poured the essence into a transparent glass. He then placed the remaining flower matter into a medium-sized pot.
Work done, he stood and carried the jar back into his house. He placed it in a cupboard beside several others containing similar liquids.
Just as he reached for a sack of seeds stored near the cupboard, his senses shifted.
He sighed.
Ragnar grabbed his shirt and stepped out of his home, heading east. About 150 meters away, he spotted a man sprinting toward him . His speed was superhuman , about 70km/hr , almost twice as fast as the fastest man before the first epoch
The man skidded to a halt in front of him. Bald, broad-shouldered, with arms like battering rams and black eyes that burned with urgency.
"HEY! You , do you know where the hell Ragnar Olsen is?" the man barked.
Ragnar blinked once, unfazed. "Yes. May I ask why you're looking for him?"
"A girl's dying, that's why!" the man snapped. "Stop wasting my time and just tell me where he is!"
Ragnar's expression didn't change. "What are her symptoms?"
"What?" the man took a threatening step forward. "Are you deaf? I said she's dying!"
Ragnar didn't flinch. "And I asked what her symptoms are."
The man growled. "You some kind of idiot? I don't have time for this cryptic bullshit!" His fist now threatening to beat Ragnar
"I am Ragnar Olsen," Ragnar said simply.
Ryken froze for a beat, thrown off by how casual the man was. "You're Ragnar?"
"Yes."
"…You don't look like a damn healer."
Ragnar sighed. " What I look like is not of importance but rather what I deliver "
The man clenched his fists. "Fine. The girl's burning up , her skin is fire, sweating like mad, not to mention those purple veins that look like they could pop on her any minute. Her skin's falling off and she can't go in the sun. A saint as we speak is trying her best to heal her but I feel like its just making things worse . Happy now?"
Ragnar's face grew serious, and he fell into thought for a long moment.
"You're not from the village, are you?" he asked.
The man exhaled hard, fists still tight. "No. I just got here. "
Ragnar looked at the man . " What's her name , I need to know where I'll be heading to "
The man's fist tightened as his mind rushed into wrong conclusions.
" Just come and do your damn job "
" .... " Ragnar just stared at the man
" Her name , I don't know it. Her brother's name is Toby." The man finally relented .
Ragnar gave a short nod. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
The man's eyes bulged. "Ten minutes?! The girl could be dead by then!"
"I need to prepare supplies," Ragnar said as he turned away. "I can't help her empty-handed."
"Bullshit," the man spat. "Tell me what to carry , I'll do it. Hell, I'll carry you if that gets us there faster!"
Ragnar turned back, his voice firmer now. "You step inside my house, you'll die. I'm not being dramatic. There are wards even I barely control."
Ryken hesitated. Something in Ragnar's tone made him listen ,even if his fists still twitched.
" Listen , I understand you fear for the girl . That shows how kind you are but rushing will do more harm than good. You came here because someone told you about me , that person trusts me and I hope that you can trust me too "
"Go back," Ragnar said. "Tell the saint to stop casting. Her spells are making things worse."
Ryken scoffed but didn't argue. He stared at Ragnar, seething.
"You better show up," he muttered, then vanished in a blur of movement.
Ragnar watched him go, the dust swirling behind. He turned back to his house.
He turned and walked back toward his home. The man watched him go, fury building in his chest. What kind of healer took his sweet time while a child suffered?
But he could do nothing.
He turned and vanished in a burst of speed.
"Adventus' Disease," Ragnar muttered with a frown.
He opened his cupboard and selected one of the old jars filled with purple essence. Then he took a pouch of yellow dust and several sunflower-like flowers. As he packed them into a small sack, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow.
' A shame such a nice beautiful child was born to this horrible world ' he thought.