No words were spoken. No songs were sung. The body was not burned nor buried. Instead, it was laid beneath the World Tree’s outer roots, cradled in thick vines as if the earth itself was trying to reclaim what it had lent. Seliha arranged small stones around the form, each inscribed with a healing rune, while Jiron silently wove leaves into wreaths and placed them over the still form's chest.
The Alves stood in a wide circle, their heads bowed, their hands at their sides. Even the wind seemed to hush, rustling only the highest branches, as if trying not to intrude. It was then that Jiron, his voice soft yet steady, spoke for the first time in hours.
"When one returns to the roots," he said, gesturing gently to the nest of vine and soil, "they answer Nature's Calling."
The Alves looked to him, then to the resting form.
"This," he continued, "is how we remember. The tree that gave us life will hold us again when life fades."
From that moment on, the act of laying the dead within the World Tree’s roots became sacred—a ritual born not from command, but from grief shared in stillness. It was as if the Alves had always known that this tree, this towering elder at the heart of their world, was meant to cradle the fallen. The vines wrapped gently around the lifeless as though remembering them, reclaiming them, promising a return to wholeness.
No drums were sounded. No chants passed their lips. The only music was the wind moving through leaves and the sound of soft hands folding leaves over still chests. Jiron would place a wreath woven of forest branches above each form, while Seliha traced her healing runes around their resting place—symbols of care, not cure, drawn as farewell. It was a ceremony shaped by instinct, and somehow, that made it more profound.
The Alves began to understand: this wasn’t the end of life. It was its quiet turning.
This rite would come to be known as Nature’s Calling—not through decree, but through repetition, through whispered remembrance. And in that name, there was comfort. In that act, there was meaning. For what greater mercy could there be than to return to the tree that had first shaded their birth?
Henceforth, the Alves would call it Nature’s Calling.
It was a name that brought comfort.
A name that made death feel like a return rather than an ending.
Jiron did not move from his place near the body. His face, so often calm and focused, was unreadable. Seliha knelt beside him, still, her hands pressed to her lap, stained with soil and sweat.
Elias stood in the White Room, watching it all in cold silence.
He felt it—grief, fear, guilt—pressing at the edge of his mind. He had crafted this world. Given it beauty, life, and promise. But he had also failed to think through the smallest, simplest necessity: hygiene.
“GAIL,” he said quietly. “What can I do?”
“Direct intervention would be costly,” she replied. “Healing one by one would drain TP. But if you wish to guide them, the path of knowledge is the most efficient. Influence their understanding. Nudge discovery.”
She paused briefly, her glow dimming for a flicker of a second. “Also, at some point, you will need to consider installing a rebirth system. It’s not urgent now, but it will become relevant as civilizations grow and evolve. We will discuss it in detail when you’re ready.”
“I need them to survive.”
“Then teach them to prevent. Not just to cure.”
That night, Jiron sat alone.
He stared at the fire, letting the flames dance in his eyes, his mind filled with questions he had no words for. The other Alves had withdrawn, murmuring among themselves, glancing at the river with unease.
Seliha approached slowly, her shadow stretching beside his. She carried with her a bowl of heated water, infused with crushed herbs. She didn’t speak as she sat beside him, but the steam curled around them gently, bringing a calm to the air.
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“I failed,” she said eventually. “He died, and I couldn’t stop it.”
Jiron turned to her, then down at his hands.
He lifted one slowly, summoned a flicker of flame between his fingers. It wavered, like his thoughts.
Then, softly, he let it vanish.
The next morning, the second death came.
It was not quiet. It was not peaceful.
This time, the cries rang out at dawn. A sharp, sudden wail tore through the village—not from grief, but from confusion, from fear. An Alve clutched the body of one of their own, whose skin had gone pale and lips blue. The others gathered slowly, eyes wide, uncertain how to react.
They didn't understand the finality of death yet, not in this form. There had been injuries, recoveries. Sleep, and waking. But now, there was stillness with no return.
Jiron arrived moments later. His heart pounded in his chest as he knelt beside the lifeless form. There was no wound. No sign of trauma. Just the quiet, irreversible absence of breath. He placed a hand over the chest, hoping—foolishly—for the faintest rise. There was none.
Seliha appeared beside him, her face drained and lips trembling. She tried again to channel mana, pushing her hands down with growing desperation. The glow sparked, flickered—and vanished.
The other Alves stared. Whispers began to stir. Confusion. Alarm. A gnawing sense that something was wrong with the river, the air, with the very blood in their veins.
Jiron did not speak.
Because he had no answer.
And silence was all he had to offer.
Elias watched helplessly as more Alves fell ill.
He leaned forward in the White Room, gripping the edge of the scrying panel as if he could reach through it, pull them to safety. His chest was tight, his mouth dry. The image of the dead child didn’t leave his mind. It burned into his thoughts like a cruel reminder that creation was not enough.
The river—once a place of peace—was now a source of fear. The sick drank from it, washed in it, bled into it. And each day, the number of the unwell grew. Elias felt panic rise in his throat. His people—no, his children—were dying. And he couldn’t save them with a wave of his hand.
He cursed under his breath, voice breaking. “Not like this. Not now.”
“Too fast,” Elias whispered. “It’s spreading too fast.”
He opened the Tower Panel’s Civilization Tracker, still limited in scope but now active due to the rise of sapience. A new sub-window appeared:
Public Health Awareness: 0% Sanitation Practices: Primitive Risk of Epidemic Expansion: Critical
He swiped into the “Influence Protocol” tool. It allowed for small nudges: dreams, symbols, emotional pushes. Nothing overt. Nothing divine.
Elias hovered over “Symbolic Guidance.”
He thought of fire. Of ash. Of hands unclean.
And then he selected Jiron.
He sent a vision.
That night, Jiron dreamed.
He stood by the river, his reflection staring back at him. But it was not just his face—it was all the Alves. A crowd of mirrored gazes, hollow-eyed and stricken. Their eyes dimmed with fever, their mouths open in silent agony. Jiron stepped forward, and the water's surface rippled.
He leaned closer.
A shimmer moved across the river, showing not his skin but decay—blotches of disease crawling over his limbs. He tried to step back, but his feet were rooted. He reached out reflexively, desperate to understand, and as his fingers broke the surface, the river turned black, ink-like tendrils spiraling around his hand.
Then the water reached up.
A hand—his hand, but discolored, sick, covered in lesions and rot—emerged from the river. It gripped his forearm and yanked him downward. As he fell beneath the surface, he glimpsed dozens of other figures beneath the waves. The dead. Floating, unmoving, their skin pale, their eyes open and unseeing.
And above them, drifting just out of reach, something shimmered—a light. It pulsed slowly, like breath. It took the shape of hands. Clean hands. Washing under water. Rubbing together with urgency.
The vision held. Repeated. The movement again and again: the act of cleansing. It was not spoken aloud. But the rhythm of it carved itself into his mind.
He awoke gasping, the phantom sensation of the water still clinging to his skin.
Seliha was there, alarmed. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stood. And began digging.
By morning, Jiron had carved a pit near the edge of the village, far from the river. Others watched as he filled it with ash and lined it with bark. Then he gestured—firmly—for them to follow.
He brought waste from the huts. Piled it there. Burned it.
The Alves didn’t understand why. But they obeyed.
Later, he pulled Seliha aside. He motioned toward the river, then toward the sick, then mimed washing one’s hands—and shook his head.
Then he pointed to the herb water she used.
She understood. Together, they boiled a pot of it. Let it steam. Shared it with the others.
It wasn’t magic.
But it was knowledge.
+6 TP Gained: Public Sanitation Concept Initiated +4 TP Gained: Hygienic Practice Ritual Formed
Elias exhaled slowly.
“They’re figuring it out,” he said.
“Because you nudged,” GAIL replied.
“No. Because they learned.”
The deaths slowed.
Not because they found a cure.
But because they stopped making the river worse.
They burned waste. Boiled water. Seliha used mana not to cleanse, but to stabilize. Fever, vomiting, cramps—she eased them where she could.
And then, one evening, a child who had been unconscious for two days opened their eyes.
Seliha cried.
Jiron smiled.
And under the light of the World Tree, the Alves sang their first wordless song.