Light crept through the roof of the cave, gently dragging Marcel back to consciousness, only for him to realise that some strange, icky substance had been lathered onto his body.
Though Marcel had no idea how long he'd been out, his entire body ached with the dull throb of overused muscles that hadn't seen proper use in far too long. A familiar pins-and-needles sensation crept through his feet, the telltale sting of poor blood circulation.
When he finally mustered the will to examine his arms, he noticed the bruises he'd picked up earlier were now smeared with some kind of icky, foul-smelling goo, which smelled like dusky tree bark.
The disgusting goo had herbal anti-inflammatory properties, and whoever applied it used a generous amount, as Marcel was covered even where he wasn't bruised.
Though he was somewhat concerned about who had tended to his wounds, Marcel had a strong suspicion as to who it might have been. But that concern, while valid, took a back seat for now. There were more immediate matters at hand. Besides, if the mysterious healer had truly wanted to harm him, they'd have had every opportunity to do so while he was unconscious. In the state he'd been in, Marcel wouldn't have been able to resist even if he wanted to. The fact that he was still breathing—and patched up with care—suggested that, at the very least, their intentions weren't hostile.
Marcel's hands felt numb from overusing muscles that had long gone neglected. The soreness that spread through his body reminded him of his basic training, those gruelling endurance drills designed to forge ordinary men into soldiers worthy of serving the nation.
Compared with that, this pain felt almost mild. Bearable enough to push through and carry on with his daily routine: carving another mark into the cave wall to track the days, and fashioning a new spear from nearby materials.
Today, however, he decided to go a step further. He began crafting makeshift armour using dried leaves, weaving them together in a pattern reminiscent of reed mats. The resulting brown shell blended well with the earthy terrain, though it stood in stark contrast to his pale, anaemic skin.
For his feet, he applied a layer of wet mud, letting it dry into a crude protective coating for his soles.
Once fully geared, Marcel began stretching, working through each limb methodically until he felt satisfied. When he was done with his stretching routine, he sat and meditated next to the pond facing the entrance of the cave.
He started thinking about his experience with mana, from the fight with the beast and his failed attempt at absorbing and retaining mana.
From the novels he'd read, he was certain of one thing: if he couldn't learn to use mana, he wouldn't just return to society as an ordinary human. He might end up stuck at the very bottom of the social hierarchy.
On Earth, humans ruled over other humans. They oppressed, they dominated, and some gained power simply by virtue of birth, like nobles or royalty in the past. They classified people into slaves, serfs and commoners to those with unfortunate births.
Even in the modern world, where equality was widely preached, those with wealth and influence had employees and servants to carry out mundane tasks, while they lived lives of ease.
So, in a world where mana existed, a power far greater than money or birth, there was no doubt people would discriminate even more harshly. Those who could wield mana would rise above. Those who couldn't would be left behind.
Even if this world turned out to be an ideal place, where everyone lived in harmony, being able to control mana would still be essential. It would help him fend off wild beasts or protect himself from dangers in the forest.
Learning how to control mana had swiftly climbed to the top of Marcel's priorities. Whatever this world was, strength governed survival, and raw strength alone wouldn't be enough, especially since the beasts would be more powerful and more unique that on Earth.
'I have about a week's worth of dried mole rat meat', he thought, referring to the neatly packed meat in dried leaves and tucked away in a shaded crevice of the cave. It wasn't a feast, but it was enough to keep him alive, provided he didn't waste energy or get injured again.
But survival meant more than just food. He needed to prepare for the worst. On his mental checklist, two things were urgently circled: setting up a rudimentary alarm system; something simple that could alert him to any movement near the cave's entrance, and finding an alternate escape route. The jagged opening near the ceiling showed promise. If widened slightly and fitted with a rope or footholds, it could serve as an emergency exit if things went south.
Every moment spent resting was now also a moment spent planning. Because out here, even stillness could kill.
Marcel adjusted his posture for meditation and slowly entered a haze, trying to relive touching the hamster and feeling ethereal mana flow through him.
The feeling of absorbing the Mana, all of it, kept replaying in his mind. While he meditated, the hair on his skin stood up, but he didn't feel any energy despite sitting still and replaying his experience.
'I didn't expect progress to be instantaneous, but I also didn't expect progress to be this slow.' Marcel thought a little dejected after a few hours of meditating and reminiscing.
'Wait, something is strange, my thoughts weren't ….. aren't being transmitted into my mind' A strange realisation hit Marcel.
'I am a possessor, not a reincarnator!'