*I'll show him "Bedpan-Man"…* Harlan fumed.

  He started getting up when the old man wasn't looking: stood, made it to the wall, tried to take as many steps along it as he could.

  It usually ended the same. After a few steps, he slid down to the floor, limp. Then he crawled back to the bed on his hands, caught his breath, and somehow hauled himself onto the cot again. A handful of steps. That was all.

  He lay there, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, refusing to fall. *What if it doesn’t work? What if I never walk again?*

  But progress was obvious from the outside. A week ago he could barely reach the wall. A week before that he couldn’t stand at all.

  The old man noticed it too.

  One day he paused at the crack of the door before opening it fully. He said nothing. Then he stomped exaggeratedly in the hallway, and entered as if nothing happened.

  Harlan was already back on the cot.

  “Come on, come on, useless prospector. Time to walk and run.”

  He worked his healing magic again until his old face went gray and his beard soaked through with sweat.

  ?

  On normal days, the mage used his flying stick again. Sometimes it just nudged Harlan between the shoulder blades. Sometimes it slammed into his shoulder hard enough to sting.

  “Stop it, you old bastard,” Harlan snapped one day. “Can’t you see I’m already giving it everything I’ve got?”

  “Who’s the bastard here, Bedpan-Man?” the old man shot back. “Come on. Make it to a real pot first.”

  Harlan growled, fists clenched, and forced out a few more steps.

  After that, he set a new goal: reach the door and figure out how to get out of here fast. He had no intention of enduring endless mockery.

  He trained twice as hard, every day taking one step—half a step—more than yesterday.

  It paid off.

  A month in, he got close to escape. Fingers touched the door handle. He smirked. *And now—we’re out.*

  Carefully, quietly, he eased the door open. It gave way without a sound.

  Harlan peeked into the hallway, looked left—the way was clear.

  Footsteps sounded.

  *The old man?*

  Harlan flicked his eyes right into the dim corridor. Nobody. He looked left again. Nobody.

  Footsteps grew louder. Several sets.

  He dropped his gaze to the floor and—jerked back into the room. Slammed the door shut, heart punching his ribs.

  Familiar black eyes flashed in the hallway’s half-light. Two rows of sharp teeth. A massive tail—exactly like the one that had torn into Kel’s leg.

  “SHIT! A CROC!” he screamed, pure panic.

  Noise erupted in the corridor. The door shuddered. Something scratched at it from the other side.

  The host’s gruff voice carried from deeper in the house:

  “What’s all that noise?”

  “Old man! Watch out—monster!” Harlan yelled through the door.

  Footsteps came closer.

  Scratching stopped. Heavy patter moved away.

  *He didn’t hear me?* Harlan squeezed his eyes shut. Then he opened them and lifted his shirt to look at the scar on his stomach. *Damn it.*

  He inhaled, exhaled, then cracked the door open to a tiny slit and screamed at the top of his lungs:

  “Old man, run! Monster! It’s venomous!”

  He slammed the door and braced it with his back.

  “Pinky, sunshine, did this barbarian offend you?” a familiar voice drawled from the hallway.

  Harlan froze. *What is happening?*

  A minute later someone tried the door from the outside. Harlan threw everything he had into holding it shut, forgetting he was injured and barely walking.

  “Hey, useless prospector. Let me in. Looks like you’re faking and dodging work.”

  Harlan understood nothing. The world narrowed to the door. Under no circumstances could he open it.

  “Usele... Harlan,” the old man said. First time he’d used his name. “Step away. The crocodile isn’t dangerous.”

  A minute passed.

  “If you don't open it, I'll kick it in. Guess who'll be fixing it?”

  Harlan came out of the trance and backed toward the bed. He climbed onto it, pulled the blanket over himself. Whether that protected him from a croc was a rhetorical question.

  He went still. Muttered, barely audible, “Open it yourself.”

  The door swung wide.

  The old man stood there. Behind him, obedient as a dog, stood the croc.

  It didn’t attack.

  “Meet your boss, Harlan,” the old man said. “Pinky.”

  Pinky thumped his tail in a friendly greeting.

  The edges of the room went dark. Harlan’s legs gave out and he hit the bed.

  ?

  To Harlan’s horror, when he came to, the furred crocodile was still very real. Not locked up. Not tethered. Wandering wherever it pleased. Sometimes it padded into the hallway, then wandered back into the room.

  “Stop shaking,” the old man said. “It only releases venom when it attacks. And Pinky’s kind. Almost like a dog. Just feed him on time.”

  Harlan swallowed hard.

  The old man turned to the table and picked up a large book.

  "Since you don't know anything, I found you a new one." He shoved a thick volume toward Harlan.

  The cover read: *Plants and Animals of Ghentuva. An Almanac.*

  “Start on page three forty-nine. Furrodyles. Or ‘furred crocodiles,’ as you people call them. And don’t believe everything in there. Most of it’s surface-level.”

  “But why?” Harlan asked, wary.

  “Well, for one thing, we’ve only been studying the planet a couple hundred years, and most of it still hasn’t been—”

  “No,” Harlan cut in. “Why is *that* here?”

  He pointed at Pinky.

  “Oh. That.” The old man sounded amused. “Part of my research. There are others. Turns out furrodyles can be trained, and I got attached.” He lifted a finger to his lips, conspiratorial. “But keep it quiet. Not published yet, so don’t go spreading it around.”

  “To who?” Harlan said flatly. “I’m stuck here with you for three years.”

  Then it hit him.

  “There are *others?*” He stared.

  “I see you’ve got your energy back.” The old man smoothly changed the subject. “How long? So you’ve been dodging work.”

  “I reached the door for the first time,” Harlan protested.

  “Fine. Make it to the toilet, Bedpan-Man. Then I’ll show you everything. And you’ll officially start your post.”

  “Huh?” The idea that he should start working already hadn’t even occurred to him.

  ?

  Once Harlan was upright, recovery accelerated. Another week after meeting his “senior management,” he could walk properly. Still limped a little and tired fast, but no reason to call him “Bedpan-Man” anymore.

  Monday morning, an obvious thought landed.

  *What’s the bastard’s name?* he wondered—then dismissed it. *Doesn’t matter. Didn’t bother introducing himself. I’ll call him Gramps. Fits his charming personality. I’m here to work, not to bow and scrape.*

  “Gramps” didn’t keep him waiting. Appeared, waving his stick as if it came from nowhere.

  “Well, useless prospector. Time to finally get some value out of you. Follow me.”

  “Yes, Gramps,” Harlan said, testing it.

  The Hermit lifted an eyebrow.

  “What?”

  “I’m coming,” Harlan said, pretending ignorance.

  “You’re coming slow.” The old man smirked. The stick whirled up and smacked Harlan’s shoulder. “Speed up.”

  “Ow—why?” Harlan squeaked.

  *Touchy old bastard…* This time he kept the thought to himself.

  They walked down a long corridor lined with doors. Soft bluish light—dim, but steady—came from lamps set into the walls: large crystals, glowing from within. No fire. Lamps shone on their own.

  The corridor opened into a large hall with armchairs and a small couch. A rug covered the floor. But what stood out was the fireplace in the wall—a real one, wood-burning, though unlit. In front of it lay a huge quilted blanket, worn thin in places.

  “Why do you need a fireplace in the age of crystal heating?” Harlan asked.

  “Cozier. I like watching fire.”

  “And the blanket?” Harlan pointed.

  “Can’t guess?” The old man answered a question with a question.

  Harlan could guess. After that answer, his shoulders twitched anyway, and his lips went pale.

  The old man continued, suddenly in a tour-guide tone.

  “Guest area. MY territory. Besides, you’re the one who likes crystal heating so much.” He pulled a face.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Without waiting for a reply, he headed into the next corridor. Harlan followed, hand on the wall—he hadn’t walked this long yet.

  Doors lined both sides. The old man paused at the first.

  “Storage. That’s *your* space. Brooms, rags, tools—all YOURS.”

  A few steps farther:

  “Kitchen. Also YOURS. Starting today, you cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Wash dishes too. Let’s think… yes, you prep food for the test subjects as well. Look at you. So much work.”

  “Gramps, you—”

  “What, me?” The old man cut him off. “Did you read your contract? It’s all in there. Move.”

  A few more steps.

  “My bedroom. Goes without saying—MY territory.”

  At the end of the corridor they reached a broad entry hall with more doors, coat hooks, and a wide staircase going down.

  “Hold on,” Harlan said, pointing back at the doorways they’d passed. “What’s in there?”

  “Most rooms on this floor are empty. If I didn’t name it, it doesn’t matter. Stop interrupting.”

  The stick, which had been in the old man’s hand a second ago, slammed Harlan’s shoulder again.

  “For hell’s sake—enough.”

  “And what did I do?” The old man made an exaggerated innocent face. “Magic stick. Flies on its own. Drawn to knocking stupidness out of people.”

  “There’s no such thing as a magic stick…”

  “Oh, saints above. It’s working—you got a little smarter.” The old man was enjoying himself.

  Harlan sucked in a breath, mouth hanging open.

  The old man smirked and kept going, pointing at doors.

  “Left—exit to outside. If you don’t want to get eaten, I don’t recommend it.”

  “Right—exit to the inner yard. Not for you yet.”

  “Downstairs—laboratory. Where I do interesting experiments. Idiots aren’t allowed. MY territory.”

  “Straight ahead—greenhouse. Pass through it and you’ll reach the menagerie. Come on. Let’s see how Pinky’s doing.”

  Harlan sat down on the floor.

  “Wait, Gramps. Let me catch my breath.”

  “What a weakling,” the old man scoffed.

  Deep down Harlan hoped the old man would say something like *Fine, next time.* He didn’t.

  After a few minutes the owner of the house said, “How much longer are you going to make me wait? Get up, or you’ll freeze your ass to the stone.”

  The stone floor really was cold. Harlan stood up, reluctantly.

  “Listen. This place is huge. How did you build it? Especially this deep in the Wildlands?”

  “I didn’t.” The old man sounded proud. “One of the first northern research bases. Nearly three hundred years old. I just bought it—about eighty-five years ago.”

  “How long?” Harlan gaped. “Then how old are you?”

  “One thirty. Or one thirty-two if you want to be precise. What difference does it make?”

  That answer almost made Harlan sit down again.

  “One-thirty what?” Eyes went wide. “Nobody in my village makes it past ninety!”

  The old man laughed—first time without malice, without that sarcastic edge.

  “Don’t confuse common folk with Field operators. When you understand the Field and know how to use it, life gets… longer. Two hundred is ordinary. Some make it to three, if they don’t stick their nose where they shouldn’t.”

  Harlan went speechless. Then, laughing, he bowed with theatrical flourish, palm to chest.

  “Oh, Ancient One! Do not be angry with your faithful servant!”

  “Little bastard,” the old man snapped—clearly playing it up.

  The stick whistled and thumped Harlan’s shoulder again, not as hard as usual. They both burst out laughing.

  “And by the way,” the old man added after a beat, “call me Re.”

  He nodded toward the door.

  “Now move.”

  ?

  They went straight through and entered a large extension split into two halves. A sealed door separated them. The greenhouse itself was almost entirely glass, except for the wall that joined it to the house. Through the panes Harlan could see rock and snow outside—the Wildlands, bare and white.

  Inside was warm—too warm. The air made Harlan feel a little short of breath.

  Raised about half a meter off the ground, garden beds ran in meter-wide rows from one end of the greenhouse to the other. Narrow paths cut between them.

  “This half is mostly cultivated vegetables—what we eat—and a couple plants from the equator.” Re spoke briskly. “I only planted half for food, but now there’s a second mouth. You’ll be getting your hands dirty here. In every sense. There’s an automated watering system too, but it’s always breaking. Fix it or haul water in buckets. I don’t care.”

  Harlan scanned bed after bed.

  *Sixteen-hour workdays? He already loaded me with twenty, and we’re not even done.*

  They followed the path to the far end and passed through a hermetically sealed door into the other section.

  Cold hit Harlan like a slap. Felt like stepping outside. Warmth vanished; he started to shiver. Re didn’t seem to notice.

  “It’s freezing,” Harlan muttered. “Old Man, you could’ve warned me. I’d have brought a jacket.”

  “Re,” the owner corrected. “This side is mostly test plants from the Wildlands. Space is enclosed, but we keep the temperature. Next time bring clothes. Or get used to it.”

  The place was packed with life. Harlan recognized a few plants, but most were new to him. Each grew in its own square plot, fenced off with a low barrier. Plots were spaced apart.

  *Like pens…* he thought.

  In the corner stood a table cluttered with instruments, scattered sheets of paper, and a pencil case.

  Re gestured at the table. “We’ll record daily readings there. I’ll show you later. Now—menagerie.”

  Another door stood in the far corner of the cold greenhouse. Or rather, two: beyond the first was a heavy metal gate that had to be opened as well.

  When Harlan stepped in after Re, he stopped cold.

  Cages—at least forty of them—filled the space. Monsters inside. Some cages were small, others huge. And some creatures looked worse than Pinky.

  A guttural roar rose from multiple directions. Harlan reflexively backed up until he hit the wall.

  Pinky was here too. Despite the roaring, the furrodyle barreled toward Re, tail wagging like a dog’s.

  “Oh, there you are,” Re said, unbothered. “Missed me?”

  He patted Pinky’s head, then raised his hand. A strip of dried meat was pinched between his fingers.

  Pinky opened his huge jaws and even rose onto his hind legs. Re released the meat; it dropped neatly into the waiting mouth. Pinky crunched happily.

  In the cage to the left, something started slamming itself into the wall.

  Harlan slid down the wall, slow, until he was half sitting. Legs didn’t hold. Hands trembled.

  He swallowed. “What is this place, Re? Who are you? What’s the point of all this?”

  Re didn’t answer at first. He was busy scratching Pinky like a pet.

  When he finally looked up, it was clear he’d heard every word.

  “As you should’ve guessed by now,” he said, “I’m a scientist. And this is all part of my research.”

  “But why? All these animals and plants.”

  “In short, I study how Field force changes them. Mutations.” Re nodded toward one cage. “See that furry thing? In the wild, it’s blind. But here, where the Field is stronger, it began to see after twenty years. Not as we see. In a different way. That alone is an incredible finding for the species. But it points to something larger.”

  A spark lit in Re’s eyes.

  “Wait,” Harlan said, curiosity pushing through fear. “Are you saying all animals change under the Field?”

  Re gave a short, pleased laugh. “Interesting. You got there fast. Broadly—yes. Some change for the better. Some turn more bloodthirsty. Some aren’t affected at all. I still can’t derive the pattern.”

  He spoke like it was a minor inconvenience.

  “I’ve been studying it for eighty years.”

  “So long,” Harlan said, exhausted. “But why?”

  “Because nobody else wants to.” Re shrugged. “And I want to understand it before we stop being human and become something else.” His gaze sharpened. “Now it’s your work too.”

  Before he finished, one of the beasts threw itself at its cage again—metal shrieked, bars rattled, and the whole pen shuddered as if it might tear apart.

  2–3 chapters per week. This adjustment is necessary to maintain a stable pace and ensure that Book Two is completed without interruptions or drops in release consistency.