Nfirea's hand emitted a soft glow as he passed it over the man's side.
"It'll take a long time for this one to heal." He held his hand over a large gash on the man's side.
"What do you think caused it?" Enri leaned over to get a close look at the wound. It was a large gash that cut deep into the left side of his waist. Pustules and discolorations gripped the walls of the exposed flesh.
"The only thing that could've caused this is an acid spell. A powerful one. Even my 「Acid Arrow」 wouldn't have been able to completely destroy the flesh like this. It must have been caused by a powerful magic caster."
They both looked at the sleeping man's wolfish face, wondering about exactly what kind of journey he must have had, and the horrors he must have endured. They took note of his prematurely graying hair. "Luckily for him, the acid cauterized the wound and he hasn't gotten infected. He'll have a large scar here for the rest of his life, but other than that, he should make a complete recovery with time."
Enri watched as Nfirea began to bandage the man back up. "He'll still have all those other scars too though, won't he?" She looked at the myriad scars littered across his body like the scratches on an abused vinyl record.
He stopped his bandaging for a moment and then continued, "Yes, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about it though."
Enri thought about the maid that the great Ainz Ooal Gown had sent them to help their village, surely healing some scars would be no trouble at all for someone like her. But simply just the thought of Lupusregina made her shudder.
Nfirea interrupted her thinking as if he had read her thoughts. "As great a person Ainz-sama is, I don't want to have to keep relying on him and his maid."
He tried his best to impress the girl behind him by puffing out his chest. "I'm a man after all."
Enri thought it was adorable seeing Nfirea puff out his chest and call himself a man. But she did indeed agree with his sentiment.
Suddenly they both looked at the man's twitching face. He had broken his rhythmic breathing and began to stir.
"He's waking up." Nfirea quickly finished wrapping up his bandages and began casting a healing spell.
Stockwell's eyes opened to an unfamiliar ceiling. He sat up and began wondering why he wasn't in his hotel room in Japan. He turned his head and looked confusedly at the two strangers standing at his bedside, who were also looking back at him with questioning looks. He looked down at Nfirea's magically glowing hands.
His eyes grew wide. It was like a switch had been flipped in his head. All the memories from the months prior flooded his mind all at once.
He shouted at the top of his lungs. "M-Magician!"
His hand immediately found his dagger resting on the end table beside him. He sprang from his recline and stood on the bed. His eyes locked on Nfirea's glowing hands. "G-Get back!"
"No, Look it's okay see." Nfirea stopped his spell and his hands went dark. He took a step forward.
"I said get back!" Stockwell lashed out with the dagger. It was a sloppy, frantic slash that left a deep cut in Nfirea's left palm.
Nfirea winced in pain and clutched his bleeding hand.
"Enfi!" Enri rushed to Nfirea's side and tried to examine his hands.
"Never mind me, look."
Stockwell was standing on the bed and clutching his head in between his hands, dagger still in hand. His eyes were filled with madness.
He sprang from the bed and shot directly for the door, ignoring the two strangers who were currently crouched on the ground.
"Hey, is everyone alright in there?" A goblin appeared in the doorway.
"Get out of my way!" Stockwell ran towards him while frantically slashing his dagger in the air.
"What the-!?" the surprised goblin narrowly avoided the slashes as Stockwell charged past him and out the doorway.
The goblin looked at Enri's and Nfirea's crouching forms and he realized Nfirea was injured.
"Why I oughta..." He grabbed the hilt of his sword and turned to pursue the madman.
"Wait! Jugem-san, let him go." She turned back to Nfirea who was still clutching his hand. She softened her tone. "Let him go. It's not important right now. Enfi is more important."
Jugem lost whatever will he had to pursue the madman when he saw the concerned look in Enri's eyes. He leaned out the doorway and saw the madman running towards the village gate while swinging the dagger randomly through the air. The guards on the wall were already training their bows on him.
They saw Jugem from the doorway and he signaled to them to let the man be. They obeyed and opened the wooden gate.
Stockwell charged through the gate and over the grassy crest beyond.
Jugem walked back to the two people in the room.
"Let me see."
Nfirea stuck out his hand and opened his palm. There was a large bleeding gash all the way across it.
"You'll live, kid."
Nfirea winced again as he forced a chuckle. "I could've told you that. I'm a man after all, right?"
This elicited a hearty laugh from Jugem and he wrapped his arm around his neck and noogied him. "That's the stuff!"
Enri still held a look of concern in her eyes. She pondered that maybe they should chase the man to see if they could figure out what was wrong with him, and then nurse him back to health.
But a man who frantically slashed his healer moments after returning to consciousness was not someone she would risk the safety of her people for.
...
A young child sat enthralled on the edge of the futon. His eyes were glued to the ant farm sitting on the dresser in front of him. There was a woman calling to him from the other room.
"Wesley! Wesley dear! The food is ready!"
"Hold on mom!"
He was enamored by all the little bugs roaming about and foraging for food. He didn't get to see bugs too often and it fascinated him.
There was an old 2030's television droning mindlessly on the other side of the room. On the screen was a reporter standing in front of images of fire and people rioting.
"This moment marks an unprecedented point in history. Newfoundland is now in the process of relinquishing all government control over to the people in the spirit of free and fair commerce. Once the process is completed, every country in the world will be governed under the free and fair markets act of 2062. The glorious goal started by the organizers of the revolution will finally see its completion only twenty six years later."
The screen changed from the rioting people to several charts and graphs with large green numbers splayed across them like the leaves of a synthetic tree. The reporter began gesturing at them and explaining their importance in a way that little Wesley could not understand.
"Once Newfoundland has fully transitioned, will take over resource management of the island and begin production of type II fusion reactors. Stock values are predicted to rise 13% by the end of the year…"
"Wesley! Your food is ready! Come and get it or I might just eat it for myself!"
"Okay! Coming!"
Wesley got up from the futon and made his way into the other room
"On to further news, entomologists published a study this week that says that based off of current trends, this year will be the last year you will be able to see the great monarch butterfly migration, our sponsors at FlySayf are reminding you to..."
Their apartment was a one room home separated by a plastic divider to form two different spaces: A kitchen/dining space, and a bedroom/play space. It wasn't very big or spectacular and they needed to go to the neighboring apartment to use the bathroom, but only Wesley and his mother lived there, so it wasn't too bad compared to most people. Especially when compared to the people who had no choice other than to choke to death on the streets without a supply of fresh air.
He pulled the chair out from underneath the table and jumped up onto it. He saw his mother bending down to get something out of the oven. Wesley picked up the plastic silverware on the table and licked his lips in anticipation because today was October 10th, his birthday.
She turned around to reveal a small cake. She smiled and placed it on the table in front of Wesley, it was small enough to be completely encircled in his little hands.
"I'm afraid we won't have any frosting this year... I guess you don't seem to mind."
She smiled as she watched Wesley already voraciously digging into the little cake. It was moist, sweet, and spongy. Leagues above the taste and texture of the normal neutri-flake meals. He ate the entire thing in a matter of seconds.
"Now what do we say dear?"
Wesley blushed as he wiped the crumbs from his face. "T-Thank you. Danke schön."
It was a rare treat when his mom would bake something using their compact oven. She had told him that getting fresh ingredients to cook with was a luxury to be grateful for.
"Sehr gut. Very good." She leaned over and ruffled his short brown hair.
"Do you know how old you are now?"
Wesley perked up in his chair and smiled proudly. "I'm four years old!" He held out his hand and stretched out all of his fingers except his thumb to indicate the number four.
She smiled and placed her elbow on the table. She leaned her head on it and looked out the tiny window of their apartment. "Yes, that's right, you're all grown up now, I wish your father could've been here to see us."
"But dad is working right?"
"Yes, yes he is. He's working, always working, so don't you forget that Wesley. Now go get ready for bed."
"Okay…" Wesley drooped his head and made his way back into the other room.
She watched his little back exit the room. Her gaze shifted to the picture of her husband hanging on the wall. In it was a man with sharp, wolfish features, and a head of magnificent umber hair.
Next to the picture was an urn sitting on the edge of the counter. It was labeled "Samuel H. Stockwell"
She heard Wesley's cute grunting as he busily got changed in the other room.
"I wish you could've been here to see him. He'll be old enough to understand soon. I'll tell him then."
Her stomach rumbled since she hadn't had anything to eat that day.
...
A professor with a white lab coat sat at his desk reading a letter. He had frizzy white hair and a thick pair of glasses, he had a look of concern on his face. Standing in front of him was a young adult with a head of magnificent umber hair.
"Wesley, my boy. Why are you dropping out? You're so... so talented. And you still have that innocent curiosity that so many of us have lost. I'm sure that if you just stuck it out a few more years, got your degree, there would be loads of companies competing to hire you."
Wesley looked down and shook his head. "I just can't pay the tuition anymore. There are just some things that are more important."
"I'm sure there are scholarships out there if you-"
"I'm sorry doc., I've already looked into it and I'm already too busy at work. I just don't have the time anymore."
Indeed, the system was rigged. That much was obvious to Wesley. The people who owned the schools were the same people who also owned everything else in society. By making it impossible for people with no money to pursue education, they ensured the lack of social mobility, while an uneducated populace reamined complicit.
There had been movements in the past to combat this, such as the Donteggi socialist uprising and the eco-terrorism sects of the mid 21st century. And there were probably far more movements like them than what the history books taught. But the planet was too tired to do anything about it anymore. Humanity has lost the battle against itself and was on pace to reach its final equilibrium.
Wesley was content to just carve out a comfortable life for him and his mom.
The professor stood up and took off his glasses, "I see."
He shakily outstretched his hand. "Then, I wish you luck, Mr. Stockwell."
Stockwell shook his hand firmly. "Thank you for everything you've done for me, I won't forget what you've taught me."
After saying his final goodbyes, Stockwell exited the university and drove home. The skies of 2095 were already filling with smog and forming their iconic gray, of which they would remain that color for a very long time.
He exited his car and went up to his apartment. It was the same apartment he had been living in with his mother for over 21 years. He unlocked the door and walked in.
"Mom! I'm home early!"
He found his mom lying face-first on the table. She was incredibly skinny and her skin was sickly pale. Far more than usual.
"Mom!"
He ran up to her and lifted her head. "Mom! What's wrong?"
Her voice was incredibly quiet, "Oh, Wesley, you're home early, don't you have school today?"
Wesley was getting panicked by his mother's weak appearance. "N-No, I dropped out so I could-"
"Can you speak louder dear? I'm having trouble hearing you, I had a long night last night so I'm a little bit tired."
"Wait, no mom, you don't understand, I told you didn't have to work anymore, I've been working on the side so-"
"Look dear, I even managed to save enough for your next semester." She forced her hand up, it was nearly just skin and bone. She pointed to the sealed envelope on the table.
"College is important dear. You're so smart. I know you're going to get hired by some big company and make lots of money, I know your father would've been proud-"
"Mom!" Stockwell was fighting back tears.
"Mom, I dropped out so you wouldn't have to work anymore. Mom, you're going to die if you keep working like this, your body is too weak."
"I know your father would've been proud..."
She began to slowly close her eyes.
"Mom! Mom! No! Open your eyes!"
"I'm just going to take a little nap dear…"
"No! Mom! Don't! You have to keep your eyes open!"
She was happy that at least she had been of some use to her son.
...
Stockwell had converted the dining space of his apartment into a laboratory. His hands moved with ferocity as he mixed various chemicals in flasks. This was an experiment that always existed at the back of his mind since he started his college studies. A beautiful exploitation of the current method of fusion energy.
He had only his mother's pitiful life insurance to fund the things he needed. If this experiment was a success, he would have the power to take revenge. If it didn't work, he would be homeless and surely die. But that was of no consequence.
The world of 2095 was a piece of shit. He knew it was a piece of shit and everyone else knew it was a piece of shit too. Society was practically arranged into a caste system — no, not practically literally, he reasoned. The wealthy on the top and everyone else suffering on the bottom.
There was also the possibility that this experiment could cause a small fusion explosion and take out several city blocks. But that too was of no consequence. Anyone living in this area of Los Angeles surely wanted to die anyways, he reasoned.
It's all their fault.
Hanging on the wall behind him was a picture of his father and a picture of his mother. Next to them were a pair of urns labeled "Samuel H. Stockwell" and "Elizabeth J. Stockwell".
Hanging on the wall in front of him was a poster with several faces on it. There was a red circle around each face. These were the faces of the board of directors of his mother's company.
Had they not been so greedy, had they not been so stingy with wages, had they not been so negligent on the health of their employees, his mother would have never had suffered and died as she did.
He siphoned a sticky black liquid out of one of his flasks into a test tube. He opened a hatch on a small black box sitting on his workbench and placed the test tube inside. The box was labeled, "Fusion Reactor type III beta".
His face turned into a demented grin, one that suggested that he was going insane. The box made a soft ding and he opened the hatch.
All he needed was the power. He needed wealth, and he needed it in abundance.
Patent laws were about the only thing left that allowed people to rise in the caste system. He would do this himself with just the money from his mother's life insurance, that way the rights to the patent would be entirely his. He could then sell it and use the money to fund the true next invention he wished to pull off.
He felt his senses dull as his amphetamines began wearing off. It had become a bad habit, but they sharpened the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind so that he could focus on what needed to be done.
...
A congregation of people stood clustered around the door of a large building. Many of them were holding microphones and news cameras. Everyone who did not have synthetic lungs had gas masks on due to the air quality. That had been the norm for a very long time now.
A newscaster stood near the center. "I'm here outside the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences in Stockholm, where inventor and entrepreneur Wesley A. Stockwell has just been awarded the Nobel Prize in chemistry for his work with Asimovium. For all of you viewers at home who are unaware, Asimovium is the element that all of your type IV fusion reactors are made from, and is the only super heavy element that is known to be stable."
The crowd broke into applause as the door to the building opened. Stepping out was a man with sharp facial features and graying hair, he was wearing an expensive-looking suit and shoes and walked with an unreal elegance, he was flanked by a pair of bodyguards.
"And speak of the devil, here he is now, let's see if we can get a few words with him."
The reporter ran up to the man and her cameraman ran after her. She pushed her way through the crowd and made it to the walkway.
"Mr. Stockwell! Mr. Stockwell! Can we get a few words with you?"
One of the bodyguards put his hands up and pushed her back, "That's close enough-"
"I have time to answer a few questions." Stockwell's face was the perfect image of an elegant businessman. He was handsome and his tone was calm. No hint of anything malicious underneath.
"Understood sir."
The guard let the reporter and cameraman pass.
"Thank you Mr. Stockwell."
"Ask away."
"The value of Asimovium continues to grow, and it's estimated that your net worth is approaching the $6 trillion mark, and Elizabeth Fusion continues to get more and more successful under the new American conglomerate. So many of the viewers at home are wondering, just what is it that you plan to do from here?"
"I plan to kill off my competitors."
"Can you elaborate?"
Stockwell regained the perfect facade of the businessman. "Pardon me, allow me to rephrase that statement. I plan to buy out many of the businesses currently left in America's energy sector. As I'm sure you're aware, Elizabeth Fusion is currently acquiring . as we speak."
Normally, declaring such an aggressive business proposal would be frowned upon in society, but such sentiments had become normalized under the corporatocracy of 2129, with no small amount of help from massive propaganda campaigns waged in decades prior by the mega corporations. The reporter nodded and moved on to the next question.
"Earlier this week, it was confirmed that Calahan Clarke of Rama Enterprises passed away from a drug overdose. It's understood that he was a good friend and mentor of yours before you took charge of his business. What are your thoughts on this?"
Stockwell maintained his perfect facade, even though he smirked internally. He had already heard the news several times, but it still didn't fail to make him rejoice hearing it on someone else's lips. "It truly is a shame to see someone who was born into great wealth and power die in such an undignified way. My heart goes out to his remaining family members."
The reporter nodded and continued. "There was a rumor going around recently concerning the death of your mother-
"I'm going to have to stop you there ma'am, that's all the time I have for today if you'll excuse me."
"Of course."
The reporter got out of his way and Stockwell continued down the walkway.
...
Stockwell dragged himself through the lobby of the Neo Kyoto hotel. His mind was wandering. He hadn't had any amphetamine yet that day.
He was greeted by his secretary. "Good evening Wesley sir, normally this is where I would tease you about having a thousand missed calls, but it seems that the phone has been mostly quiet after the Korea deal."
Stockwell yawned as he made his way to the elevator. He talked in a tired and unconcerned voice, "That's great. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to sleep for the next hundred years, so don't wake me up unless it's an emergency. Oh, and thanks for your hard work, remind me to give you a raise when I wake up."
The secretary giggled as she saw her boss disappear behind the elevator. "I'll be dead by then, silly."
Stockwell nodded off as he watched the little light on the elevator climb up the diagram of the tower.
The door opened and he stumbled out into his suite. He dragged himself into his tastelessly opulent bed and turned to look at the calendar.
2138, huh. Time really does fly. Now that Herbert Industrial is no more, my revenge is complete. All of the original members of the American conglomerate are gone… Strangely, I thought I would feel a bit happier.
He turned the lights off and snuggled underneath the covers. Maybe I'll announce my retirement in the morning and travel the world, or what's left of it that is.
His company controlled over 70% of all of the world's energy. Fusion power was relatively clean and did not pollute nearly as much as the alternatives, but yet, the skies remained gray.
He was the second most powerful individual in the world, but even then, he could not change the world. There were far too many people that profited off keeping the people of Earth miserable, ill, and uninformed.
He had learned long ago when he tried to allow unionization in his company that if he broke rank with the ruling class he now found himself in, there would be little he could do to stop his downfall.
He was ashamed; of himself and of the human race. But he was tired. A small part of him wanted to nuke the entire world just to reset everything. Constructing a device that could send the planet into an extinction level nuclear winter would not be too difficult with 2138 technology, he mused.
He was a bitter, 64 year old man whose mind and body was still only 40 due to modern epigenetic therapy and bioengineering. He wanted to rest and be left alone with his little research projects and his drugs.
He opted not to get the depression chip installed in his frontal cortex either. These bitter feelings were well deserved, he reasoned, and should be shouldered by every man, woman, child, and unborn fetus, since they were a depolrable spieces that fucked themselves into an ireedemable oblivion. Running away from these depressive thoughts or trying to pretend they didn't exist would be a disgusting act of cowardice that only the other members of the ruling class would have stooped to.
It took him several hours to fall asleep completely.
During the night, a strange psychic presence seemed to rip something from him and drag it to another reality.
...
Stockwell didn't know how long he had been running for. He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't care. He had long since forgotten what it meant to have a goal in life.
His bandages were covered in dirt and his dagger bounced loosely in the loop of his torn pants. He had already reached the limits of his body hours ago.
He finally collapsed to the ground, exhausted.
He laid there on his side, staring at the surface of the dirt road underneath his cheek. Insects busily foraged for food beneath his gaze.
A familiar feeling warmed him while he eavesdropped on the microcosm before him, and once again he mused, How busy they are, never a day off. Don't you guys know that working like that will kill you?
He relished in the melancholy feeling one gets when neurons untouched for 60 years fire up.
After a long time, he lazily closed his eyes and organized his thoughts.
His memories played out in his mind like a roll of film. He remembered how he had been summoned into a magical fantasy world, how he had been brutally tortured for information he didn't have, and how he had killed the cultists using chlorine gas. He remembered Vera's face. He remembered Aamon and how he had gotten his revenge. And finally, he remembered the night sky he had seen after finally escaping the crypt.
After an even longer time, he rolled on his back and opened his eyes. He gazed at the alien blue sky above him. The air was clean. The sun was unobstructed and he guessed that the clouds he saw were made of water vapor with a neutral pH.
He sighed an incredibly long sigh.
It was filled with an impossibly profound tiredness, a kind of tiredness that only came after one had realized that they had done all they could and that there was nothing left for them to do.
He let clarity wash over him as he felt the unfamiliar warmth of the sun on his skin and listened to the unfamiliar sound of wind blowing through fields of grass. What's more, his mind felt surprisingly sharp.
It would have been hard to notice a change in cognitive health having been trapped in a stone box and tortured by necromancers for any peridod of time, but he had been clean off psychoactive drugs for a year.
Supine on the dirt road and awash with indifference, he no longer felt any drive to anything at all. He simply waited for whatever it was that the universe would decide to throw at him, be it a long and agonizing death by starvation or a short and merciful one by predation.
Instead, it seemed that someone had decided to throw him a rope...
"Hey! Are you alright, mister?"
A young boy was leaning over him and blocking his view of the sky.
He looked to be no older than 17. He had curly black hair and apple-green eyes. His skin was dark and it had been tanned to the point where it was obvious he had spent a lot of his life working under the sun. His unspectacular clothes showed that he was just a simple village boy with a dirty white bandana tied around his neck.
His eyes were filled with child-like curiosity. "Hey! Mister! Can you hear me? You're lying in the middle of the road. Are you okay? Do you need a ride?"
Stockwell ignored the boy's words and simply looked into his eyes. After many moments, he began to laugh with a profound sense of defeat. "Give me a break…"
It seemed to him that fate was mocking him once more by sending him another chance at life.
And not only did he laugh with defeat because of the boy's arrival, but also because he could see his own reflection in the boy's eyes. He stared at his own face, It was the first time he had seen it in over a year. It was beaten and bruised, but it was still unmistakably his.
There wasn't a soul on earth who wouldn't have recognized it. It was the face of Wesley Asimov Stockwell, Chief Executive of Elizabeth Fusion and two-time Nobel Laureate.
He continued to laugh at the absurdity of it all. How Wesley Asimov Stockwell had ended it up in such a pathetic state. He shook his head grandly as if shaking off all the terrors of his past, deciding it was time to move on.
He would assuredly need to do some more research as to what this world was and how he came to be here. But at least for the time being, he had found some clarity.
He smiled as a peculiar and fanciful idea came over him. "...Seeing as I haven't the faintest clue on how to get back..."
"Are you okay mister?"
"...And from what I learned from Vera, this world is in dire need of education…" He paused in deep thought before suddenly replying to the boy. "You asked if I needed a ride, boy?"
The sudden reply startled the boy, "Y-Yes."
The boy gestured to the horse-drawn wagon behind him. It looked to be filled with foodstuffs and supplies. "I've got room in the back if you-"
"Very well then. Thank you for your kindness. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't come along."
The boy stood stupefied as Stockwell suddenly sprang to his feet and started walking towards the cart. It was like he was staring at the back of a completely different man than the one he had just seen laying on the ground.
"O-Of course… go right ahead."
As the boy turned to follow the stranger, he stopped and his eyes grew wide. The stranger's back had transformed into that of a mighty king's. His bandages had morphed into regal flowing robes and his limp had transformed into a gallant stride.
The boy realized he was staring. He shook the image out of his head and chased after him. "W-Wait, you didn't even ask where we were going."
"The destination hardly matters, now hurry it up my boy, I've been running for a very long time and my legs are killing me. Also, do you have anything to eat?"
"Y-Yes, sir!"
Stockwell got into the back of the wagon and the boy clambered onto the driver's seat after him.