The wide dirt road, several meters across, had turned to mud after last night's torrential rain.
Half-naked men, caked in grime from head to toe, chanted work songs as they strained against a heavy wagon stuck in the middle of the track. Their muscles bulged, slick with sweat and rainwater.
"Heave... HEAVE! Put your backs into it!"
"Yo-heave-ho! Yo-heave-ho! Yo-heave-ho..."
With a great creaking and groaning of wood, the grain-laden wagon gradually lurched free from the pit that had brought the entire caravan to a standstill.
Off to the side, several riders sat on their horses, talking in low voices.
"Captain, that kid in the carriage—is he really that powerful?" One of them raised a fist, flexing his bicep. "Looks to me like he's still wet behind the ears..."
The kind of joke men share. The others grinned knowingly.
CRACK!
A whip lashed out, catching the speaker across his bald head. A deep red welt rose instantly.
"You want to die? Then I'll dig a hole right now and bury you myself!" Haig's voice trembled with fury—and fear. He raised the whip again, striking hard, not holding back.
The smile died on every face. Haig's expression was no joke. His face had gone pale.
"Last warning," he snarled, low and vicious. "Anyone caught gossiping about the Wizard in that carriage again? Cut your own throat. Don't drag this whole caravan down with you."
The bald man had fallen from his horse. Blood trickled down his scalp, but he didn't dare wipe it. A flicker of defiance crossed his face.
Haig's eyes narrowed to slits, boring into him. The man's neck shrank into his shoulders. He looked away, sullen.
"Uncle Haig," the young attendant at his side spoke up, curiosity getting the better of him, "is that Wizard really that powerful?"
Haig's pupils contracted. He glanced toward the rear of the caravan—toward the luxurious carriage standing several hundred meters away. Fear flickered across his face.
He hesitated, then spoke quietly. "Not just powerful. More powerful than you can imagine. The badge he wears? Higher rank than the old monster of Black River Valley."
Gasps.
Haig shook his head, then rode with his attendant toward the middle of the column. After learning that Raymond had taken breakfast in his carriage and hadn't emerged since, he repeated his instructions to the guards stationed nearby: attentive service, absolute discretion, no disturbances. Only then did he ride toward the rear.
Inside the carriage, Raymond watched through the fogged window as Haig disappeared. A wry smile touched his lips.
Yesterday, when he'd asked to travel with them, the caravan had practically rolled out the red carpet. He'd become their most honored guest. The finest carriage—luxurious, spacious, comfortable—had been emptied and handed over as his private quarters.
That night, Haig had even sent two serving girls to his door—young, slender, blushing—to attend to his needs. Raymond had politely declined.
What struck him as strange was the attitude. Everyone treated him with a deference so profound it bordered on terror. Wherever he walked, people bowed. The common cart drivers couldn't even meet his eyes—they'd drop their gaze, bend at the waist, and only straighten once he'd passed.
After a day of observation, Raymond noticed a difference: the guards looked at him with fear, yes. But the workers? They looked at him with sheer, naked terror.
He didn't understand it, and he couldn't exactly ask. So he'd taken to staying in his carriage, emerging only when necessary, spending most of his time studying the mysterious book.
Nine pages. That was all it held. And it had become his obsession.
The white glow he'd seen that first time? Never reappeared. But the book was far from ordinary.
Every time he opened it, strange symbols emerged on the cover—raised, tangible, textured under his fingers. And while he studied, while he memorized, the whole volume radiated a gentle heat.
The first nine symbols had been simple enough. By his second day with the caravan, he'd made the fourth page reveal its final symbol.
Then came the tenth.
That was ten days ago. And he was still stuck.
The complexity had spiked without warning. The first nine symbols had each been formed from a dozen or so lines, intertwining in patterns he could trace. The tenth used more than double that. His mind struggled to hold them.
And the chip? Useless.
He could see the symbols clearly. His eyes registered every line. But the chip recorded nothing—blank pages, empty space, as if the book were nothing but dead parchment. Even the raised symbols on the cover, tangible under his fingers, left no trace in the chip's memory.
Raymond had thought about this. Had the chip analyze it logically. The conclusion: the symbols weren't physically on the page. They existed only in his perception. A hallucination. A trick of the mind.
The gene-chip was powerful. It could observe cells, analyze molecular structures, track micro changes in his body. But hallucinations? Optical illusions? That fell outside its scope.
Still, something real happened while he studied. The chip detected trace active substances in the air—complex compounds it couldn't fully identify. While Raymond memorized, his body absorbed them. They strengthened him. Subtly, but measurably.
The chip's verdict on those substances was cautious. In large quantities, they'd be harmful—even lethal. But at these trace levels, they seemed beneficial. Every day, Raymond needed less sleep. Every day, he felt sharper, stronger.
Of course, the red fruit had also changed him. The chip could track those modifications precisely. So which was responsible—the fruit, or the air? Even the chip couldn't say.
Raymond stared at the tenth symbol on the page before him. It wavered, shimmered, refusing to resolve into clarity.
He sighed.
Guess the gene-chip isn't everything, he thought.