Location: Unknown. Time: Evening.
The village of Branhal was unremarkable by most standards — a cluster of thatch-roofed homes scattered around a dirt square, bounded by grain fields and thick woods. Cows lowed in distant pens, children chased chickens between homes, and the blacksmith's hammer rang its steady beat. The smell of cooked barley stew hung in the air.
Evening had just crept in, and the world was at peace.
Then the sky tore open.
It began with a hum—faint at first, like wind through high branches. Then it deepened into something stranger. A resonance that buzzed inside teeth, stirred the hair on arms, and made even the livestock fall silent.
A streak of light appeared overhead, brighter than any star, trailed by fire and shimmers of violet. Thunder cracked, not above the clouds, but from inside them. The sky turned white.
People screamed.
"Sweet Saints preserve us," muttered Old Wren, the village priest, clutching his wooden icon of the Sun-Father.
Above the hills, something glowed—a sphere of unnatural light tearing open in the sky like a second sun, then collapsing inward, soundlessly at first, and then—
BOOM.
An explosion ripped through the forest a mile to the east, the earth shook. The trees beyond the village bent under a sudden gale. followed by a shockwave that slammed windows, cracked wooden fences, and sent birds fleeing in every direction. Dogs howled. Chickens scattered. And in the distance, a pillar of smoke climbed into the darkening sky.
At the Impact Site
A crater smoldered at the heart of a blasted clearing, fresh and raw like a wound on the earth. Trees surrounding it had been sheared or incinerated, their trunks blackened and split. Smoke clung to the air, thick with the scent of scorched bark and singed earth.
At its center lay a man.
He was curled on his side, half-covered in loose dirt and ash, his body twitching faintly. His breathing was ragged. His dark clothing — a form-fitting field suit made of dense woven fibers — was torn at the chest and scorched at the sleeves. His palms were bloodied, his knuckles scraped. A deep cut marred his left temple.
But he was alive.
Somewhere in the fog of his mind, the world was trying to return.
He coughed, curling into himself with a groan. Pain laced every muscle, not like a wound, but like overuse—as if every nerve had been yanked, every cell pushed beyond its limit. His heartbeat pounded like a war drum in his ears.
His lips moved.
"…not the lab… where…"
He cracked his eyes open. Orange twilight filtered through the haze, dancing through the trees above. The sky looked... wrong. There were no drones. No satellites. No familiar patterns in the high atmosphere. Just a quiet, uncaring dusk.
His hand clenched into soil — damp, real, cold.
"I made it out" he thought.
The last thing he remembered was the rupture — the quantum chamber destabilizing, the whirl of rotating dark matter rings screaming out of sync, the sound of metal groaning, and then... light.
Too much light.
Now he was lying in a forest that shouldn't exist. His genetically engineered frame had handled the transit — barely. But the pain was real. His head throbbed. His bones ached.
He tried to sit up.
The world pitched sideways.
A wave of nausea hit him, followed by darkness. He collapsed back into the crater's loose dirt with a gasp, eyes rolling back.
Branhal – Village Square
"They say it landed near the north ridge," said Mira, her apron smeared with herbs and dried poultice. "Lit the sky like a forge fire."
"'Tweren't a star," said Old Garric, the one-eyed soldier. "I've seen stars fall. That thing screamed."
The townsfolk had gathered outside the chapel, murmuring in uneasy clumps. Children clung to their mothers. The blacksmith stood with arms crossed, soot still on his cheeks. At the front, Father Wren, hunched and silver-bearded, raised his hands.
"This could be a curse," he warned, eyes scanning the faces. "A sign from the old world. Or a test from the Sun-Father. You saw the light. You felt the earth shake."
"It came from the woods," someone said. "We should check it. What if someone's hurt?"
"What if it's not someone?" a woman replied.
Jorren, the blacksmith, stepped forward. "I'll go."
Father Wren turned sharply. "No. Not without prayer. Not without signs."
"I'll take my chances," Jorren said, tightening his leather belt. "If there's a man lying in the forest and we sit on our hands praying, we're no better than cowards."
"I'm coming with you," said Mira. "If he's breathing, he'll need more than prayers."
A short group formed: Jorren, Mira, the young twin hunters Dal and Fenn, and Old Garric, whose limp did not keep him from gripping a rusted sword by the belt.
Wren said nothing as they departed, but he clutched his holy emblem tighter.
Crater – Twilight
Smoke drifted low, clinging to the ground. The crater glowed faintly under the red-gold sky, like a coal that refused to die. When the villagers reached the rim, they stopped, jaws slack.
"Saints…"
The figure in the center was still unconscious. His body lay half-sprawled, arms twisted under him, his chest rising faintly with breath. His clothes were unlike any fabric they'd seen — tight, sleek, almost like armor, but soft where it was torn.
Jorren descended into the pit without hesitation.
"Don't touch him!" Dal hissed. "What if he's cursed?"
"He's bleeding," Jorren snapped. "Curses don't bleed."
Mira knelt beside the still man, pressing fingers to his neck. "Still alive. His pulse is fast."
"Look at his build," Garric said. "Like a soldier. That's no peasant. He's made for war."
"He's burning up," Mira muttered, brushing sweat from Adrian's brow. "And this cut... too deep. He'll die out here."
"We should take him back," Jorren said.
"To the chapel?" Fenn asked, glancing toward the village. "What'll Wren say?"
"I'll say he can rot if it means saving a life," Mira said flatly.
"He might not be a man," Dal said uneasily. "What if he's something else?"
"He's bleeding red," Jorren grunted, lifting Adrian's limp form onto his shoulder. "That's man enough for me."
"Wrap him in my cloak. If he wakes, don't let him move too fast. He's gonna feel like death warmed over." Jorren continued.
And so the stranger from the stars — genetically forged, mind like a blade, heart still human — was lifted by rough hands and carried down the crater's edge, into a world untouched by science, unaware that history had just turned its first hinge.