The Incident That Happened to Rizel
It was monsoon season. Evening had settled in, and with the sun dipped beneath the horizon, darkness naturally cloaked the world. The sky was thick with black storm clouds, the shrill whistle of gusting wind echoed through the air, and a fine, steady drizzle veiled the surroundings. Roads, rooftops, everything glistened, drenched in rain.
Mr. Garnett stepped into the courtyard of a modest tin-roofed house. He took a moment to observe the tempest outside before folding his umbrella and placing it in the basket near the door. After knocking once or twice, Mrs. Garnett opened the door. Seeing her half-soaked husband, she raised her voice and called out to their only son:
"Rizel, bring the towel!"
With care, she helped Mr. Garnett remove his soaked shirt. Rizel appeared shortly with a towel in hand, and Mr. Garnett handed him a bag, saying,
"There are some knives and a cleaver inside. Clean them properly, son."
"Yes, Father," Rizel replied with quiet obedience. Like the well-trained son he was. He took the bag and made his way toward the bathroom.
Drawing a clay pitcher of water, he sat down on a plastic-covered stool and began removing the blades one by one. Each was caked with dried blood and carried a faint but pungent odor. Ignoring the stench, he carefully began cleaning the knives. This task, oddly enough, gave him a sense of joy. So much so that he began humming softly to himself.
Outside, the storm's fury only intensified. Lightning cracked in the distance. In the dimly lit bathroom, a single candle's flame danced wildly, casting flickering shadows that waltzed along the wall beside him.
At one point, Mrs. Garnett pushed the bathroom door slightly ajar and peeked in.
"How much longer?" she asked. "If it's going to take time, come eat first. Your father's already at the table."
Without looking up, Rizel replied, "Almost done, Mom. Just the machete's left. You two please start."
She nodded once and stepped away.
Rizel, now hunched over, was focused intently on cleaning the machete. The candlelight had grown dimmer, its flame now weak and trembling. Wiping the crusted blood from the blade, he began sharpening it by running it repeatedly against a flat stone. The stone gradually grew warm under the pressure. He could feel the edge grow keener with each stroke.
The pitcher now held only a small amount of water. Absentmindedly, he dipped the machete into it to rinse. In doing so, he accidentally nicked his finger. Quickly pulling his hand out, he observed the fresh cut. A few crimson drops fell into the remaining water, quietly dispersing through it like ink in still air.
Suddenly, in the faint candlelight, Rizel noticed something inexplicable. The water level inside the pitcher was steadily rising, even though the tap was off. His eyes widened with a mixture of shock and fear. He was witnessing something truly supernatural for the first time in his life.
The water continued to swell, eventually overflowing the pitcher and climbing the walls of the bathroom. Strangely, though, not a single drop spilled past the doorway into the adjacent room. It was as if the bathroom itself had transformed into a sealed, invisible reservoir.
Panicked, Rizel tried to escape. Though the physical door remained open, some transparent, intangible force kept him trapped inside. Before he could react further, the bathroom became completely submerged, and the water engulfed him, dragging him beneath its surface.
For a few seconds, all was still. Then, as swiftly as it had risen, the water receded, retreating entirely into the pitcher. The floor remained wet but undisturbed. The knives he had cleaned lay scattered across the floor, and the plastic stool sat exactly as before. Everything was in place—except Rizel, who had vanished.
Elsewhere, in a world that didn't feel quite real, Rizel crashed down from nowhere, landing flat on his back against hard, unyielding ground. His body was covered in scratches from broken branches, and the impact left him groaning in pain. Attempting to roll onto his side, he quickly became aware of the severity of his injuries.
He lay still for several moments, breathing heavily.
All around him, the night was thick with silence. Broken occasionally by the chirping of fireflies and the eerie, gleeful cries of nocturnal animals or birds. There was life here, but none he could recognize. Above him, a dense canopy of ancient trees darkened the forest further, leaving only vague traces of moonlight seeping through.
For a brief moment, it felt as though he'd awoken inside a grave.
With effort, he forced his battered body into a seated position, his breath ragged. His eyes scanned the darkness, wide with disbelief. Convinced this must be some twisted hallucination, he slapped himself hard across the cheek. The sting was real. Far too real. And yet it didn't return him home. Nothing changed.
Reaching into the dirt, he braced himself and finally rose to his feet. There, near his feet, lay the machete he had cleaned mere moments ago. He picked it up instinctively, gripping the familiar handle tightly.
Suddenly, the underbrush rustled nearby.
Startled, Rizel's gaze snapped toward the noise. In the thick, nocturnal shadows of the forest, it was difficult to make out anything clearly, but he kept his eyes locked on the source of movement.
Then two glowing yellow eyes emerged from the darkness, glaring at him from behind the bushes.
Tensing, Rizel clenched the machete more tightly, every nerve in his body alert.
Moments later, a grotesque creature lunged out of the thicket, snarling as it attacked. It was massive, heavy, and powerful. It's feral growl muffled only by its weight as it slammed into him. They struggled fiercely—beast and boy locked in a deadly grapple. Until, with a desperate cry, Rizel managed to drive the machete deep into the creature's body.
The beast howled in pain, recoiling as blood surged from its wound. It whimpered once. Then grew still.
Seizing the moment, Rizel struck the creature's neck with a calculated blow. The beast convulsed violently in its final death throes before collapsing in lifeless silence.
Panting heavily, Rizel could feel fresh waves of pain coursing through his body. The creature's sharp, clawed paws had left numerous wounds whose extent he had yet to fully register.
Without delay, he scrambled up the nearest tree. Tall, thick-branched, and sturdy. As he ran his hands over his body, the warmth and dampness confirmed what he feared. He was bleeding from multiple gashes.
Clinging to a branch, groaning in agony, Rizel endured the first long night in this unknown forest. When dawn finally broke and light filtered through the dense canopy, he cautiously attempted to climb down. But his body, sore and battered, barely cooperated.
Once on the ground, his eyes fixated on the carcass of the creature he had slain. It was a tiger or something like one. It's coat resembled that of a leopard, and it stood nearly four feet tall. But what truly astonished him were the unusually long saber-like fangs protruding from both sides of it's jaw.
As he examined the beast more closely, he noticed fresh tears and gouges on its body. Clear signs that something else had feasted on the corpse during the night without his knowledge.
Weary and uncertain, Rizel leaned against a tree. He had somehow ended up trapped in this strange forest, with no way to understand how or why. Thirst clawed at his throat, but the air carried no sound of running water.
Overwhelmed by despair, he sat there for a while, wondering how he could possibly survive in such a place.
Eventually, snapping out of his thoughts, he used his machete to pry the two long fangs from the tiger's jaw. Each nearly a foot in length. He tucked them away with him and began walking, pushing his exhausted and injured body forward.
Then, like a blessing from nowhere, he heard it, the faint murmur of a stream. Almost delirious with relief, he followed the sound, stumbling through the brush until he found the source.
Without a second thought for consequences, Rizel cupped water in his trembling hands and drank deeply. Then he set to work cleaning the wounds across his body, wincing as cold water met raw flesh.
While tending to his injuries, his eyes caught movement. A wild foal had come to drink. The sight brought him comfort. If animals lived here, then perhaps survival was possible.
Slowly, he stood. Quietly, he crept toward the foal, hoping to get closer. But the moment the young horse spotted him, it bolted. Rizel gave brief chase but stopped abruptly.
The foal had returned to its mother. Beaten and bleeding, Rizel knew better than to approach a full-grown wild horse.
Defeated, he returned to the waterfall. As he gazed into the water, his eyes lit up with renewed hope. A flock of wild ducks was playing in the pool.
He didn't pursue them. He had no weapon suitable for hunting birds at the moment. Instead, he gathered branches and fashioned a crude trap using the tiger's fangs and some flexible wood from nearby trees, placing it strategically by the water's edge.
Afternoon had passed into early evening.
Yet, Rizel's trap had yielded no bird or beast. Frustrated, he set off to collect dry wood. As the dense forest began swallowing the daylight, dusk arrived swiftly, casting the surroundings into darkness far earlier than usual.
Upon returning to his designated spot near the waterfall, the sudden clamor of birds caught his attention. He dashed toward the trap to find two unfamiliar birds ensnared. Relieved that he wouldn't have to spend another night starving, a faint smile touched his lips.
He quickly cleared the area with his machete and began preparing a fire.
In the distance, a wolf's howl echoed through the trees. Low at first, then steadily drawing nearer. An anxious tremor coursed through Rizel. In his hurry to light the fire with unskilled hands, he even managed to injure himself. But ultimately, he succeeded.
As the flames danced higher, he slumped against a tree, and a long sigh escaped him.
Present Time
Miram was not surprised by Rizel's story.
In fact, she had half-expected something otherworldly. She didn't offer any commentary or judgment. Just sat beside him quietly, her expression thoughtful and shadowed by concern.
Rizel, now experienced in such matters, expertly skinned the deer and carefully laid out the hide on the ground to prevent dust and debris from soiling the meat.
From Rizel's description of the beast he had encountered, Miram recognized the creature. It matched the profile of a Smilodon, more commonly known as the saber-toothed tiger.
These apex predators were abundant during the Pleistocene epoch, and paleontologists believe they existed in three major types. The largest and most powerful among them was Smilodon fatalis. And Rizel's account aligned precisely with it.
Breaking the silence, Miram finally spoke,
"You'll be surprised to know the creature you killed was most likely a Smilodon fatalis. Also known as the Saber-Toothed Tiger."
Rizel paused his work for a moment and turned to look at her, curiosity sharpening his voice,
"Saber-Toothed Tiger?"
Miram nodded.
"Saber refers to a curved cavalry sword. The tiger's long, protruding fangs resembled those swords. Hence, the name."
After a brief pause, she added,
"You're incredibly brave and strong, Rizel. For someone from our modern era to defeat and kill a Smilodon… that's no ordinary feat. Only a true warrior could manage that."
A trace of pride flickered across Rizel's face, and he smiled faintly at the compliment. Shifting the subject, he said,
"There's a small spring of water just behind the shelter. If you'd like, you can wash up there."
Miram tilted her head toward the back and caught the faint sound of falling water.
"Is the water safe for bathing and drinking?"
"It's safe for bathing. But if you boil it before drinking, there's no room for doubt,"
Rizel said, handing Miram a sharp, pointed weapon, fashioned from animal bone. Cearly intended for self-defense. She understood his silent message.
After sitting quietly for another minute beside him, she rose. Before heading toward the fount, she grabbed the two water bottles from her own and Moran's bags.
When she returned, she saw the rest of her companions stirring awake, their eyes still heavy with sleep. Upon hearing about the fount, they went together to freshen up.
While roasting the deer meat, Rizel's gaze momentarily settled on Miram's bare feet, dotted with tiny wounds. Small wild insects hovered over and perched upon the irritated skin. Saying nothing, Rizel left the meat over the fire and walked into the jungle.
Miram didn't question him. Instead, she retrieved her bag from inside the shelter, took out her diary, jotted down the estimated date, and began recording the summary of recent events.
A sudden stab of pain from one of her foot wounds caused her to pause, eyes momentarily shut. Just then, she heard a voice,
"There's a risk of infection. This paste from the leaves should help the wound heal quickly."
She opened her eyes to find Rizel offering her a handful of crushed green leaves.
"If your friends are injured, apply it on them as well," he added.
Miram nodded, replying softly,
"Thank you, Rizel."
The way she spoke his name sounded oddly melodic to him, but he paid it no mind. Instead, he furrowed his brow and returned to his task.
After breakfast, Rizel disappeared into the forest. The five others sat idly, melancholy hanging over them. The thought of returning home haunted each of them.
Suddenly, Moran broke the silence, her voice heavy with fear,
"What if we don't make it out alive?"
Vivian looked at her and replied calmly,
"Think positively, Moran. Misfortune rarely befalls those who carry hope."
Fornax let out a long sigh. His eyes momentarily drifted toward Miram, seated at a distance, then looked away.
Roughly three hours later, Rizel returned, dragging something hefty behind him bound with thick, fibrous vines. As he drew closer, they recognized it; the remains of the serpent they had encountered the night before.
Unable to contain his curiosity, Christoph blurted,
"What are you going to do with the snake's body?"
Rizel gave a faint smile but offered no immediate reply. Instead, he began skillfully skinning the serpent, separating its flesh from the thick bones. Holding one up, he finally said,
"These will make excellent weapons when ground against stone."
Vivian and Fornax stepped forward and joined him, eager to help. They were determined to learn how to craft such weapons, for by now, they had accepted a grim truth.
Returning to their own world would not be an easy task.
And to survive in this one, they would need to master the art of endurance and combat.
Rizel, having lived through it all, was the perfect mentor.