The forest stretched before me like a canvas of a demented artist.
Twisted trees coiled upward, bark spiraling like frozen whirlpools, their limbs arching in crooked angles to form a tight canopy overhead. The sky, that endless swirl of shadows and drifting mana, was now filtered through strange, translucent leaves—purple-veined and glossy—casting a cool green and gold shade over everything like a living blanket.
It would've been peaceful if not for the noise.
The underbrush rustled with soft, wet crunches—leaves moving, not in rhythm with the wind, but in sudden jerks. I paused, squinting into the bramble.
There—movement.
A pale head peeked up from behind a thicket of roots. It had the general shape of a deer, but wrong in the details. Its skin was soft and fleshy, almost translucent in the light, and it had no eyes—just two long ears that twitched with almost mechanical precision. They turned, listening to me.
And then the creature vanished in a blur of white and shadow, melting into the foliage.
"Cool," I whispered. "The forest's haunted."
I started walking again, pushing through a cluster of oddly squishy ferns. There was no path, just dense thickets and thorns growing in unnatural patterns. One tree—something resembling a mutated pine—had dark green needles twisted into long spirals, like barbed wire.
I brushed too close.
"Shit—"
A sharp thorn sliced across my calf, stinging as it left a thin line of blood behind. The thorn itself was like black glass, curling up the trunk in a helix pattern.
"Really wish I had pants," I muttered, flicking a small broken piece off my leg.
My shorts—if you could even call them that anymore—were practically hanging by threads. They stopped just above my knees, loose and baggy, faded navy with worn hems. Not exactly apocalypse-proof. My old boss used to hate them. Said they were too long, "weirdly tacky," and definitely not part of the issued uniform. But I wore them anyway. He'd roll his eyes every time I walked into the lab, muttering something about "professional standards."
It didn't matter now.
My shirt didn't fare much better. The once-white fabric was ripped across the shoulder and frayed at the collar, but it clung to me—unlike the stiff white lab coat I used to drown in. Now, there was nothing to hide behind. The fabric pressed against my skin, damp with sweat and forest moisture, tracing the curve of my body with every breath I took. I'd always been a little tall for my age—slim, long-limbed, with sharp elbows and collarbones that jutted just a little too much when I forgot to eat. Which was often. Not by design. Just… how things were.
The white of my shirt made my skin look even paler than usual—porcelain touched with rose, the kind of light complexion that bruised too easily and sunburned faster than it tanned. My hair, medium-length and thick with black curls, clung to my face in damp ringlets, the ends matted with debris and dried blood. Some curls had sprung free, framing my jaw like ink on paper.
I probably looked like I'd crawled out of a grave.
My expression didn't help.
People used to say I always looked sad. Not in the tragic, cinematic way—more like a low-level melancholy that settled into your face and just… stayed. The kind of gloom that turned permanent when you stared at lab data for twelve hours a day and slept maybe four. The kind that no one ever asked about directly.
Even my eyes looked tired. Hazel, with flecks of green that used to seem bright when I was younger, now dulled by exhaustion. Heavy-lidded. Shadowed. The bags beneath them had softened a little after 3.4 years of whatever that was—sleep? stasis? coma?—but the wear still clung to my face like an old scarf. Familiar. Inescapable.
I ran a hand through my curls, shaking off a leaf.
Attractive, I guess, if you ignored the blood, the bruises, the survival trauma, and the whole… mutant cockroach meal situation. Not that it mattered. No one was left to care about appearances in this godforsaken world.
Just me, my bloody knee, and a forest full of sentient thorns.
As I stepped deeper into the woods, the NeoLink softly pulsed inside my skull, humming in tune with the ambient mana. The deeper I went, the louder the forest seemed to grow. Branches creaked above like old bones. The scent of sweet rot and distant pollen thickened the air.
Then I spotted it—shrubbery, thick and thorny, nestled at the base of a twisted oak. Glossy fruit clung to the stems, like dark red raspberries swollen with dew.
NeoLink Notification
Unknown flora detected. Analyze?
"Yes," I whispered, crouching down.
The moment I gave permission, that same heavy, instinctual craving from before slammed into me—like the roach, like hunger and obsession crammed into my bones.
I lunged for the berries and devoured them without thinking—sweet, tart, and slightly bitter. Juice ran down my chin. My mind screamed stop but my body didn't listen.
NeoLink Notification
Wild Variant Detected: Evolved Bramblefruit
This fruit is a mutated relative of the Rubus genus (raspberries). Over generations of environmental pressure, it has evolved into a new subspecies.
New Items Acquired
+3 Bramblefruit Seeds
I blinked. "Seeds?"
I'd eaten them whole—no chewing, no spitting anything out.
"How did I collect seeds?" I muttered aloud.
System Response
Seeds have been stored in the user's Storage.
Access at will.
I raised a brow, focused inward—and suddenly, a transparent interface flared open in front of me. It hovered silently at chest height.
Inside it were two boxes.
One showed a glowing red fruit icon labeled Bramblefruit (3 Seeds). The other was empty, with a faint message beneath: Slot Available.
"Okay… weird," I mumbled. "It works like some kind of RPG inventory system."
System Response
Correct. The NeoLink has reviewed your memory data and adapted its user interface to match previously encountered game formats. Humans respond best to systems they understand.
My blood chilled.
"You watched my memories and redesigned yourself based on them?"
System Response
Affirmative.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. "That's creepy as hell."
No response.
Then—a sudden snap from the trees behind me.
Thwip!
An arrow whizzed past my thigh, slicing the air like a whisper.
Pain bloomed instantly—hot, sharp. Blood spilled from a new wound just above my knee. I staggered backward, eyes wide.
"What the—?!"
I spun, heart pounding, scanning the trees, the brush—anything.
But I saw no one.
Only leaves. Only shadows.
Only silence.
And the sound of someone—or something—drawing another bowstring.