6 new home and discoveries

And indeed, four days after arriving in this world, I had grasped the basics of its language—enough to convey simple thoughts and understand rudimentary conversations. Compared to Earth, my home before I was pulled into the void, my proficiency would be that of a five-year-old child.

Even I, who had transcended my previous universe in understanding and knowledge, found mastering this language difficult. The structure was unfamiliar, the phonetics unnatural. It was a system built not on logic but on history, culture, and emotion—things I had yet to fully dissect.

"Scire, boy! Come here, let's eat!"

A gentle, feminine voice pulled me from my thoughts.

Scire. That was the name they had given me upon discovering I had none. It meant one who seeks to know. They chose it because of how eagerly I had absorbed their words, how intently I had studied their speech.

"oKaY… tyEvi, I— I'm cOmiNg," I responded, my pronunciation still unnatural, my speech fragmented.

She chuckled softly. "Silly boy, I told you to call me 'Mama.'"

I hesitated. The word felt foreign, weighted with meaning I had yet to grasp. But adaptation was necessary.

"mEAma," I attempted, the syllables clumsy on my tongue.

Tyevi's expression softened. "What a good boy you are."

She ruffled my hair, an act I recognized as affection—a variable I had yet to quantify, but one I would not reject.

Tyevi, a widowed woman, had taken me in. Through careful observation, I discovered that they were not evacuating from danger, as I had initially assumed, but were simply nomads—people who traveled from one place to another in search of better conditions. This time, their destination was a place called Calorium, a settlement near a lake.

After a week, I had fully integrated into their way of life. Their routines, their habits, their unspoken rules—I had analyzed and adapted to them all. More importantly, I had completely mastered their language.

Yet, I deliberately maintained an awkward manner of speaking.

It would be too unnatural, too suspicious, for a child to achieve linguistic fluency in just seven days. And so, I stumbled over words, hesitated at the right moments, and mimicked the learning curve of a slightly above-average child.

But my curiosity remained unrestrained.

"MaMa, wh-why CaLoRiOm? Not… OTher plAcE?" I asked, my forced awkwardness making the question sound more childlike than it truly was.

Tyevi turned to me, her eyes soft with warmth. But before she could answer, another voice cut in.

"Scire, woah! You're really good at speaking already," Veyla, one of the older children, said with wide eyes. "You're a genius, my boy!"

Tyevi laughed, shaking her head. "Don't flatter him too much, Veyla. He's just trying his best." Then, she ruffled my hair. "But you are learning fast, Scire. I'm proud of you."

I simply smiled at her, keeping my expression innocent. My act was working.

But I wasn't done.

"Mama… why Caloriom?" I repeated, my tone more insistent.

Tyevi's expression grew thoughtful, and she gestured for me to walk beside her. "Because, Scire, Caloriom is safe. The lake there never freezes, even in the harshest winters. The land is warm, the fish are plenty, and the snow doesn't linger long. It's where our people go when the cold months arrive."

I nodded, storing that information away. A place that defied the winter… That meant either a natural geothermal phenomenon, an unusual atmospheric condition, or something else entirely.

Something worth investigating.

***********************************************

We had traveled for two months, and in that time, I was far from idle.

The first anomaly I noticed was the length of the day and night. Each lasted approximately 18 hours, making a full cycle 36 hours long. By tracking the movement of the stars, I was able to deduce that this planet's rotational speed was approximately 6,667 km/h. From this, I calculated that its circumference was roughly 240,000 km—six times larger than Earth.

I verified my calculations multiple times, using the shifting shadows of the towering trees as crude sundials. Every measurement confirmed my conclusion. This world was immense.

And yet, despite what should have been an overwhelming gravitational force, humans had still managed to evolve here. Not just survive—but thrive.

They weren't the same as the humans of Earth. Evolution had shaped them differently, molding their bodies to withstand the crushing pull of this world. Their bones were denser, their muscles more compact and powerful, allowing them to move with ease in an environment that should have rendered them sluggish. Their stamina was remarkable—where an Earth-born human would tire, these people endured, staying active for the full length of the planet's extended days.

Perhaps the most telling adaptation lay in their digestion. I had observed them consuming foods that would be near-indigestible for normal humans—fibrous plants, raw roots, even bamboo. And yet, their bodies processed them efficiently, extracting every possible calorie. It was as if nature itself had designed them to survive the immense demands of this world.

I committed these observations to memory. There were more pressing mysteries to unravel.

As we neared our destination, the land began to change. The biting winds softened, the barren ground gave way to rolling hills, and soon, the first hints of green appeared—at first sparse, then growing into an unbroken expanse of grass and towering trees. The air carried a different scent, rich with the aroma of damp earth and freshwater.

And then, at last, we arrived.

It was a place comparable to paradise—a pristine lake stretched out before us, its surface reflecting the endless sky. Schools of fish darted beneath the water, their scales glinting in the light. The land was lush and vibrant, untouched by the harsh winter we had left behind. The cold held no dominion here. Instead, warmth clung to the air, an invisible boundary against the creeping frost of the outside world.

I had expected celebration.

I had expected children to race toward the lake, shrieking with joy as they splashed in its waters. I had expected the elders to move with relieved urgency, setting up tents and securing food with the ease of long-practiced survival.

But instead, an eerie silence fell over the group.

The children, once full of restless energy, stood still. The adults moved with quiet reverence, their expressions solemn. Then, as if guided by an unseen force, they all bowed deeply—hands pressed together, foreheads nearly touching the ground.

I opened my mouth to ask Tyevi what was happening.

"Mam—"

Before I could finish, a voice rang out.

"Deity who guards the valley and protects the lake," the elder called, his voice trembling with reverence. "I humbly ask for your permission to let us temporarily reside in your haven. May you take pity on us mortals once again, as you have in the past."

The air felt heavier, charged with an unseen force. The stillness deepened, pressing against my skin like the weight of an unspoken law.

Then, a voice answered.

It was not loud, yet it carried an unnatural weight, as though the world itself had spoken. The sound resonated from the cavern nestled deep within the valley, yet it reached us effortlessly, bypassing distance as though it had never mattered.

"Do as you please. But once the cold outsider has receded, you will leave this place. Do not disturb my peace."

The words held no malice—only the quiet certainty of an absolute decree.

The people bowed even lower, their relief tempered by careful restraint. No one spoke. No one dared to.

I remained still, watching. Calculating.

A deity?

Or something else entirely?