Location: Village of Branhal Time: Morning
There was a heaviness in his limbs that didn't belong to injury. Alec opened his eyes slowly, surfacing from darkness like a diver breaking through water. His muscles ached—not sharp pain, but a dull, persistent weight, as if gravity had increased or his body had fought something greater than itself.
He remained still for a moment, breathing.
The air smelled of damp earth, boiled herbs, and old wood. Beneath him was a cot—stiff, straw-filled. The blanket that covered him was coarse wool, patched in places and smelling faintly of smoke.
He was not in a hospital. Not in a medbay. Not even in any known shelter structure. This place was primitive.
His eyes drifted to the ceiling: thick wooden beams, hand-cut, with no sign of synthetic reinforcement. Spiderwebs in the corners. The walls were wattle and daub, the plaster cracking where it met the rough wooden floor. Through a narrow window, sunlight spilled in, golden and undisturbed.
Birds chirped.
Beyond the house, he could hear low voices—unfamiliar accents but recognizable cadence. Human. Male. Older. Someone coughed. The squeal of a cart wheel turned in the distance.
Alec let the sounds settle. Information. Environment. Context.
Rural. Pre-industrial. Agricultural economy. No ambient technology detected.
The memory of the rupture flooded back. The singularity chamber—unstable, glowing. Pressure collapsing space into a vertical tunnel of screaming light. Heat and gravity bending into a vortex that felt like death. The last thing he'd seen was the containment ring fracturing.
Now, he was here. Wherever here was.
He blinked again, sharper this time, forcing clarity into his vision. His body was recovering faster than it should be. Two cracked ribs, blunt head trauma, dehydration… no way an ordinary man would be sitting up now.
But he wasn't ordinary.
Designation: A13C. Genetically optimized through germline correction and neural augmentation. Designed for cognitive excellence, memory fidelity, high adaptability, and physical survivability. Not cybernetic. Just... perfected.
He sat up with a grunt, pain lancing through his ribs. A bandage had been wrapped around his torso, rudimentary but tightly done. Whoever had treated him had a healer's touch, even if the tools were archaic.
He heard footsteps.
He didn't flinch. He turned.
The woman entered carrying a steaming bowl, a cloth over her shoulder. Slender, copper-haired, early twenties. Brown eyes sharp and observant, not frightened. Practical hands.
She froze when she saw him upright.
"Oh," she said, surprised but not frightened. "You're up."
He didn't answer. Not yet.
She set the basin down and knelt beside the bed. "You were half-dead when we brought you in. Do you understand me?"
He gave a slow nod.
He studied her. Her speech was archaic but decipherable. It was a mix of old-Earth languages German,Prussian and Icelandic—old, strange, but familiar enough that his genetically-enhanced cognition could latch on and start adapting. His memory began running through syntax, tone, phonetic shifts.
He opened his mouth. His voice was rough, hoarse.
"...Where... is this?"
"Branhal," she said, brow furrowing. "The village. You fell from the sky yesterday evening. There was... light. And fire."
"Branhal." He repeated it, quietly. The name meant nothing. A local designation.
She set the bowl on the small wooden table beside the bed and knelt to check the bandage.
"How's your head?"
"Sore. Nothing spinning."
"Any black spots in your vision?"
He paused. "None."
She nodded, satisfied. "My name's Mira. I'm the village healer, Sort of." She smiled cautiously. You were found in the forest"
"You were hurt bad. Head wound, some cracked ribs. You're lucky. Another inch and it'd have split your skull." she continued.
"How long?"
"Since you arrived? A full day and a night. You were unconscious. Fevered. Mumbled things in your sleep."
He didn't respond to that.
"What's your name?" she asked, rising.
He hesitated for just a second. The name the lab gave him wasn't a name. It was an asset tag. A13C. Experimental Subject Class A, Series 13. Codename: Catalyst.
"I go by Alec," he said finally.
Mira tilted her head. "Unusual name. Northern?"
"Distant," he said. "Very distant."
She didn't push, but her eyes lingered on him with quiet calculation. "Well, Alec, you should lie back. Even if you heal fast, you're still in recovery."
"I can't stay still. Not when I have no idea where I am."
Mira picked up a cloth and dipped it into the bowl, wringing it out. "You're in Branhal. It's a village a day south of the Rindle River. We're under the duchy of Midgard,just outside it outskirts but you're far from any major cities."
"I've never heard of it," he said truthfully.
"I guessed." She began wiping the dried blood from his temple with gentle fingers. "Your clothes are strange. And the way you fell… you weren't riding anything."
"I don't remember," Alec lied smoothly.
"Convenient."
He smirked slightly. "You don't trust me."
"I don't trust fire falling from the sky, no. But you're here. And you're bleeding like a man. That's good enough for now."
They fell into silence.
Alec let his eyes scan the room more thoroughly. No books. No tools beyond a mortar and pestle. A few jars of dried herbs, clay pots, a fire-heated kettle. Crude but effective. This was a world that hadn't industrialized yet—maybe not even reached the Renaissance equivalent.
"I need to see more," he muttered.
Mira's hands stopped. "See what?"
"Your village. What it has. What it lacks."
She looked at him strangely. "You're not here for trade. Not dressed like a scholar. And you talk like someone who knows the answers already."
"I just want to understand," Alec said. "Where I am. What kind of people live here."
"People who don't fall from the sky."
He met her eyes.
"They do now."
Outside the Healer's Hut
Word had spread.
A small crowd had formed again, not with torches or pitchforks—but with nervous glances and hushed prayers. The stranger hadn't died. Worse: he was walking. Mira stood beside him as he stepped outside.
The light stung his eyes for only a second. Alec adjusted quickly, taking in the village.
Branhal was perhaps two hundred people strong. Dirt roads. Wooden homes with thatch roofs. No ironworking outside of a small forge. Tools were simple. Animal-powered ploughs. Barley and grain crops. Livestock pens. Primitive carts.
Not even a mill.
Everything Alec saw confirmed it: this world had not yet discovered gunpowder, physics, electricity, or even precision metallurgy. He'd landed centuries—perhaps a thousand years—behind his home time.
But the people?
They were watching him with equal parts fear and awe.
"Move along," Mira called. "He's not here to harm anyone."
Jorren the blacksmith approached—older, broad-shouldered, coal-dusted. His eyes narrowed.
"You're Alec, is that right?" he asked, blunt.
Alec nodded.
"You speak well for someone from nowhere."
"I listen fast."
Jorren grunted, not satisfied. "You fall from the sky and walk like a soldier. That makes some of us nervous."
"I don't blame you," Alec said, keeping his tone even. "I'm trying to survive, not start a war."
"I'll believe it when I see it." Jorren turned away. "If you want to earn food, you'll need to work. Nothing here's free."
"I don't intend to be a burden," Alec replied. "But I'll need tools. Clay. Wood. Iron, if possible."
"What for?" Jorren asked, frowning.
Alec looked up at the sky. "Something simple. A signal."
Jorren scoffed. "You won't get smoke high enough to reach the gods."
"I don't need the gods," Alec muttered. "I just need a spark."
Back inside the hut, Mira stood with her arms folded as Alec examined a worn piece of parchment with a charcoal sketch of a crude herbal diagram.
"You're not just a traveler," she said. "You read too fast. Ask too many strange questions."
Alec looked at her. "If I'm going to survive here, I need more than food and kindness. I need information."
"And what will you give in return?"
Alec didn't answer right away. He stepped toward the table, took a piece of charcoal, and with quick, precise movements, began drawing something onto the parchment.
She watched as unfamiliar shapes took form — not art, not writing, but a design.
A round barrel. A stock. A trigger.
She narrowed her eyes. "What is that?"
"A tool," Alec said, finishing the sketch. "One this world wouldn't have seen in a very, very long time."
She leaned in, frowning. "Is it a weapon?"
"Yes."
"Why would you draw a weapon?"
He looked her dead in the eye. "Because soon, someone is going to try to kill me. And I'd rather not let them succeed."