The Obelisk of Healing Truths: When History Heals, the World

Chapter 8: A Village on the Brink

Day broke over Oakhaven not in gentle light, but the bright, unforgiving light of fever breaking. The night had been interminable and full of the sound of violent, purgative healing. The air, once thick with the stench of death, was now thick with the sharp smell of the tincture of bloodwort and the fruit of its violent labor.

Alexander strode through the huts at the first light of dawn, which sliced through the dusty windows. His body screamed for sleep, but a cold, implacable energy—a mix of adrenaline, System-driven stamina, and plain, hard willpower—kept his head from dropping. His Active Scan flickered from patient to patient, putting a new, hopeful sheen on the canvas of yesterday's despair.

Where there had been [Status: Septic Shock], now there was [Status: Post-Purgative Exhaustion]. Where there had been[Mortality Probability: 95%+], now there was [Mortality Probability: 12% and falling.]. The pathogen load in every patient he scanned was plummeting like a rock.The weed, the neglected, erased weed, had succeeded. It had been a horror, but it had busted the cholera's back.

He found Elara sleeping soundly, breathing regularly. The specter of color had come back to her cheeks. Leo was curled up on a pallet next to her pallet, finally asleep, one hand draped protectively over his sister's arm. The image was a balm to Alexander's battered conscience. He had lost the mother, but he had saved the children. The Obelisk's pitiless arithmetic had, for a time, balanced.

Going out, he saw the village slowly, painfully returning to life. Some of the healthier men and women were stirring, their action sluggish but resolute. They were scrubbing. With valuable water from the purifier, they were washing foul bedding and scrubbing the floors of the diseased huts. It was a simple, human reaction—to clean away the presence of disease, to try to wash out the memory of death.

An old woman, whose name his scanner had identified as Anya, approached him. She was gaunt and weathered, but her eyes, now clear of fever, were sharp and bright.

"The water," she said to him, her voice gritty but determined.

"Is it still good?"

Alexander nodded. "The filter is working. The water is clean."

"The… medicine. Will they need more?" She gestured toward the huts with her chin.

No, Alexander replied. "The worst has passed. They must have food now. Simple, easy food. Broth, if you can offer it. And more water. The dehydration damaged their bodies. They must be rebuilt.".

Anya nodded, taking the facts in with a practical gravity. "We have some vegetables. There are some of the chickens that survived. We can boil something." She looked at him, her eyes focusing on the exhaustion he could not hide, the Health Ministry-banter of his long-destroyed scrubs. "You are not from the Health Ministry."

It was not a question.

No, Alexander admitted. "I was at St. Brendan's. In the city. I… discovered the illness here."

It was a weak lie, but she didn't contradict him. Instead, a bitter smile skimmed her lips. "The Ministry men came. Two weeks ago. They took notes. They promised to send aid. They never came back.".

The words hung in the morning air, heavy with significance. The authorities knew. They had known and they had done nothing. The memory of Professor Hale's warning—the feeling of watching, of powers gathering—ran down Alexander's spine.

He was about to reply when a new, old tension crept into the rear of his eyes. The world didn't vanish, but the edges of his sight went dark, and the text of the Obelisk stood before him, its blue light blinding against the dawn.

[Primary Quest Revised: The First Carving - IN PROGRESS.] [Village Death Prevented: 89%.] [New Target: Ensure Long-Term Sustainability. The disease cycle must be broken, not interrupted.] [Sub-Quest: The Architect of Health.] [Target: Supervise construction of a ventilated improved pit (VIP) latrine. The location should be at least 30 meters away from the well and any water course.] [Materials: Local wood, thatch, excavated earth.] [Reward: 300 Exp - Knowledge: Basic Sanitation Engineering (Lvl. 1) - Blueprint: Simple Handwashing Station.] [Warning: Reinfection is inevitable without long-term sanitation solution.]

The Obelisk had been right. The bloodwort had cured the sick, but the source of the contamination remained. The same deadly bacteria still seeped from the ancient pollution pools into the aquifers. The next heavy rain would start the cycle all over again. His amazement would be for nothing.

He spoke to Anya. "The situation was caused by the water. The well is too close to where your people… dispose of themselves."

A look of understanding crossed her face before shame overwhelmed her. It was a personal failure, one of squalor and neglect, now laid bare by an outsider. "We always have done it like this," she confessed in a voice that rang with defensiveness.

"I know," Alexander said gently. "It isn't your fault. The perception of the danger was… lost." Erased, he thought bitterly. "But we can fix it. We can build a new kind of latrine. One that is safe. One that will keep this from ever occurring again."

He noticed the incredulity in their eyes. He was asking them to do backbreaking, physical work when they were scarcely standing. He was a city doctor speaking of digging holes.

And then Leo emerged from the hut, wiping sleep from his eyes. He had heard. "I will help dig," the boy announced, his voice still rough but with fierce commitment. "I am strong."

His words opened the floodgates. The other villagers, those able to do so, came around. They were weak, malnourished, and traumatized but alive. And Alexander had given them that. He had purchased a currency greater than money: trust.

With a stick, Alexander drew the plan in the dirt—a deep hole, a platform, a privacy structure, and most crucially, a ventilation pipe to draw flies down and dissipate odor. The data flowed out of him, short and precise, an Obelisk gift. He explained how the vent would draw flies down and trap them there, how the deep hole would isolate the waste.

It was low-tech, brilliant, and totally forgotten.

The work began. It was agonizingly slow. Men and women took turns with the one shovel and a pickaxe, breaking into the stubborn earth. Others gathered materials. Coughing and heaving were supplanted by gasping for air and the sound of metal on stone.

Alexander worked along with them, his city-siliconed fingers blistering, his back complaining. He was not just monitoring; he was commanding. He was apportioning their work, and in doing so, he was healing more than their bodies. He was resurrecting their independence. They were not victims to be saved; they were healers of themselves.

His Active Scan swept the workers constantly, alerting him to any overexertion. He demanded breaks, rationed the remaining clean water, and used his new Healing Hands skill subtly, a laying hand on a sore back or knotted leg, the gentle buzz of energy sapping their ache just enough to continue. The skill did not cure them, but removed the bite, a small kindness he could now afford.

As he helped two men propping up a heavy timber beam to establish the latrine's foundation, a new message appeared, one that pulsed with a gentle, golden light.

[Skill Raised: Healing Hands is now at Level 2.] [Efficiency boosted. Simple musculoskeletal exhaustion can now be healed.]

He hadn't even known the skill could level. It was learning from him, molding itself to his application.

Hours slid into the afternoon. The pit deepened. The building developed. It was clumsy, irregular, but it did the job. It was proof of survival.

Then Leo, who had been keeping watch from a little knoll at the edge of the road, raced back through the village, his face pale.

"Doctor! A truck! A white truck with a red symbol on the side! It is approaching from the city road!"

The work came to a sudden stop. Heads turned to the north road in unison. A united, frightened hush fell over the village.

Anya's face turned stern. "The Ministry," she whispered. "They've come back."

Alexander's heart thudded against his ribcage. This was it. The opposition Hale had warned him about. They hadn't hurried to help when the village had been on its deathbed. They were hurrying now, when the crisis had passed. Why?

His mind was racing. What would they find? A village that should be a graveyard, brought to life through some miracle. An interesting sand filter. A recently built, professional latrine. And a city doctor, dirty, who had no right to be here.

He looked at the villagers' faces—afraid, cautious, expecting him to tell them what to do. He had brought them back from the dead, and now he might have brought them another source of trouble.

The roar of an engine was louder. A cloud of dust rose on the horizon.

"Everyone," Alexander instructed, his voice quiet and urgent. "Return to your homes. Be weak. Be ill. Don't tell them about the medicine. Don't tell them about the latrine. If they inquire about me, you never met me.

He grabbed the bowl of leftover bloodwort tincture and flung it onto the fire, where it spat and fizzed and incinerated the proof. He backed away into the darkness of the toolshed, closing the door almost all the way, leaving an opening to look through.

He watched as an unblemished, white truck with the unmistakable logo of the City Health Ministry—a stylized caduceus over a skyline—skidded to a stop in the middle of the village green. The doors flung open.

Two men appeared. They were not physicians. They wore inexpensive, pin-like suits beneath too-clean, too-new white doctor coats. They regarded the village with cold, bureaucratic contempt. One carried a tablet, the other a clipboard.

The Clipboard Man bellowed, his voice greasy and loud. "By order of the City Ministry of Health, we have come to conduct a disease survey! You will come out and present yourselves for the examination!"

There was no one who emerged. The village took a deep breath.

The two men exchanged glances. This wasn't the reception they'd expected.

The man with the slate approached the well, then the still-smoldering fire, to push the pot with his foot. He frowned. His fellow partner peered into an adjacent hut, where the feeble coughs were now being performed with Oscar-esque flair.

"They're not all dead," said the clipboard man, a note of astonishment in his voice. "The estimate was 97% kill-off. The supplier will be dismayed."

The words, carelessly spoken, hit Alexander like a blow. The supplier will be dismayed.

This was not a rescue operation. It was a body count. They had been here to confirm the die-off. And someone, a supplier, had an interest in it.

The village was no longer standing on the brink of extinction. It was standing on the brink of something else entirely—a confrontation with the cold, calculating machinery that had intended to kill it off. And Alexander Carter was right in the middle of it.