Chapter 65: The Old Man and the Rockdeer (3)
The old man's name was John Grid.
He was the CEO of 'Kernel Water,' a company operating in the 40s sector that specialized in drinking water.
"In the past, clean water was far more expensive than it is now. So much so that the poor couldn't even dare to buy a single sip," John said.
Even today, bottled water remained costly. A 500ml PET bottle cost around 1,000 shillings—equivalent to a full meal. This was because water sources clean enough for drinking were exceedingly rare.
Sector residents typically quenched their thirst with cheap processed beverages. Drinking clean, cool water remained a rarity outside special occasions.
"Was the Elton River unclean even back then?" Ray asked.
The 50th sector lacked elders wise enough to recount its history.
Viola, for her part, only cared about spinning fantastical—no, mystical—tales she knew.
Thus, Ray had never heard stories about the Elton River.
He’d only made vague assumptions, imagining the river might have been cleaner in the past.
But from what’s being said now, that doesn’t seem to be the case.
John’s reply came swiftly.
"The Elton River unclean back then? Correct. Its waters were murky, perpetually clogged with drifting trash—no different from today. Utterly unfit as a water source."
He added, "I’ve heard it’s been that way since my great-grandfather’s time."
"......"
How far back would one need to go to find an unpolluted Elton River?
John continued his story.
He hailed from a nomadic tribe, a vanishing way of life now scarcely seen.
"We roamed desertified wastelands, migrating to new oases when our current one dried up," he explained.
Established settlers barred them from settling in sectors.
Destined to wander the wilderness with livestock and little else, their survival hinged on finding the next oasis.
"Our hunger for property—land and water especially—burned fiercer than most. We lived entire lifetimes without owning anything," John said.
He’d endured the harsh nomadic life, clinging to the hope of someday freeing his tribe from its shackles.
"Then our settlement’s oasis dried up. My tribe had to move again," John recounted.
It was a time when relentless drought parched the land.
With grim faces, they packed their tents and loaded their livestock for another uncertain journey.
Weeks of travel yielded no trace of water. Exhaustion consumed them all.
It’s over. Mohail’s group vanished after their last migration. They died failing to find an oasis.
John’s tribe slumped in defeat.
The hope they’d carried at departure had long blackened and crumbled under the scorching sun.
Not yet. Wait. I’ll find an oasis and return.
Only John clung to hope.
This was both his duty as the tribe’s designated successor and the culmination of his lifelong dream to revive their people.
But will alone couldn’t alter reality.
Water... An oasis... Must find it. Can’t give up...
Days of solitary wandering revealed neither oasis nor moisture—only cracked earth, scattered animal bones, and blinding sunlight.
Thud!
John collapsed to his knees. His vision sank and tilted sideways.
The arid ground pressed against his cheek. His throat burned.
His body felt like a hollow shell, all moisture evaporated.
Is this where it ends?
His hazy mind lamented.
Was this always our fate—to perish without realizing our tribe’s revival?
Resentment swelled. Shame gripped him at failing his people waiting for salvation.
With great effort, he raised a fist to pound the earth in fury—but his hand fell limply instead.
Thump.
If only we’d had land to settle... Or enough wealth to live unshamed...
Meaningless wishes now.
John closed his eyes, surrendering to oblivion.
Then—a blue figure flickered in his narrowing vision.
It drew closer, stopping before him.
Shooo—
Something cold cascaded over him.
Endlessly, like a waterfall.
Instinctively, John opened his mouth to drink the pouring liquid.
Gulp. Gulp.
Water.
Purer and cooler than any he’d tasted.
His throat worked frantically as moisture flooded his body.
His parched skin plumped with life. Organs stuttering to a halt resumed their rhythm.
Haaah!
He jolted upright, coughing rough breaths.
His cleared vision took in the scene—and his mind froze.
Shooo—
A waterfall poured endlessly from empty air above, as if a tiny raincloud hovered there.
Before him stood a Rockdeer.
By human standards, it resembled a youth his own age.
Gruuuu—
Behind it, thousands of Rockdeer migrated in a herd.
Yet John’s attention remained fixed on the creature before him.
You...
A blue gem embedded in its forehead blazed with light.
Its body rippled like liquid water.
What is this? Is this real?
John reached out with a pounding heart.
The waterfall ceased. The Rockdeer stepped back.
......
Silence hung between them.
Then it leaned its gemmed forehead against John’s palm before darting into the herd.
Gruuuu—
John only regained his senses long after the Rockdeer vanished.
He rose dazedly and stumbled in their direction.
This...
His eyes widened.
A sprawling oasis teemed with wasteland animals drinking from multiple lush pools.
"I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was nothing short of a miracle," John said.
The rest unfolded simply.
With countless permanent oases now available, John’s long-deferred ambition resurfaced.
He launched a water business using these abundant resources. Over decades, Kernel Water dominated the 40s sector.
"I strove to keep prices affordable. No one understands the agony of water scarcity better than I," John stated.
He listed charitable deeds—donations, relief events—while his young guard’s face shone with reverence.
But Kernel Water’s glory wasn’t eternal.
The seemingly endless oases eventually dried with time. Competitors flooded the market.
"Nothing’s like before," John murmured distantly.
He called it an inevitable tide—no water source, however vast, lasts forever. Like aging bodies and minds.
Without new reservoirs, the business couldn’t continue.
"But all viable lands are already developed. The industry’s crowded now—no untapped frontiers remain."
John’s gaze fell on a small PET bottle in the corner.
Its label bore Kernel Water’s logo: a stylized Rockdeer.
......
Why did I only realize now?
This was the same brand that had vanished from stores during his childhood.
"Shrinking production reduced our retail presence," John explained.
Internal troubles compounded financial woes—tribal infighting and power struggles crippled operations.
"Money does this. Even blood relatives turn on each other," he said bitterly.
Sensing his exit, John dissolved the company and returned to Sector 48.
To reunite with the gem-bearing Rockdeer that changed his life.
"I refuse to believe that encounter was a dream. The chill of that water still lingers on my skin."
John’s voice trembled with undimmed fervor.
"I’ve invested fortunes and years searching. All for nothing. Perhaps part of me always knew."
He steadied his breath.
"Finding it in this vast wasteland is impossible. Just a futile comfort for hollow hopes."
Yet he couldn’t quit.
To meet it again—to thank it for saving his life—that was John’s final wish before death.
"I must see it once more."
Throughout his tale, a single emotion churned unmistakably in John’s vessel—vivid and intense, a hue Ray had recently seen often.
Other emotions swirled chaotically, letting Ray easily verify the story’s truth.
Not a fabrication.
John truly saw a gem-clad Rockdeer.
Exceeding expectations—Ray had doubted the client’s tale until climbing the hotel stairs.
Yet here they were.
While John’s vision couldn’t be entirely ruled out as a hallucination, his conviction suggested otherwise.
The corner of Ray’s mouth twitched—a subtle but definite flicker of joy.
"Well? An engaging tale for our young lady and gentleman, I trust. Now, may we know your true identities?"
Ray paused before answering.
The blue gem and Rockdeer story held truth. But objectively, the creature’s survival odds here were...
Extremely low.
Rockdeers typically lived 15 years. Veronica had said so.
Even if mystical forces sustained it, migration seemed likely.
Yet this clue couldn’t be ignored.
We’ll split teams.
Some would search for the blue Rockdeer. Others would gather sector intel.
This way, failure in one area wouldn’t waste all their time.
Veronica and Phillip for inquiries.
Himself for the Rockdeer hunt.
Leaving the duo in the safer sector made sense, given wasteland risks.
But—
We need a Rockdeer expert.
Tracking herds alone had limits. They required a guide seasoned through direct experience.
Someone like...
The answer came easily—just as a knock echoed from the entrance.
Knock knock.
