Chapter 1 – "Awake on the Wrong Sky"
Heat needles my temples, boring deeper with every pulse of blood, until it feels as if some unseen medic is trying to trepan my skull with a blow-torch. Grit—powder-fine and unexpectedly cold—clings to my lips each time I gasp, and the air itself tastes scorched, metallic, faintly sweet, the way iron filings smell after a grinder kisses them. I want to keep my eyes closed forever, to float in blackness where pain can't find me.
It finds me anyway.
I groan.
The sun—an overpowered surgical lamp—vanishes behind a moving shadow, and for one giddy second I wonder if I have already died and a carrion bird has come to collect its tithe of eyeballs. Then the shadow exhales dog-hot breath that reeks delightfully of old marrowbones and charred venison jerky. Immediately afterward, a rasping tongue scrapes a line of drool from brow to cheek. The world redraws itself in the flavor of dog spit and dried blood.
"Bramble," I croak, though the name is half a cough, half a prayer.
Head's ringing like the kill-house gong—must've left my helmet two realities back.
I push onto elbows. Bad idea. The ground is more glass grit than soil, each particle eager to abrade skin. My palms roar with fresh, stinging pain. For a moment I hover, elbows locked, head hanging, and watch beads of sweat drop, shimmer, and vanish in the dust. Bramble circles me with soldierly precision: six meters out, nose high, hackles raised just enough to broadcast readiness without spooking me. His tail describes a controlled arc, half metronome, half semaphore—watching, waiting, it says.
A sudden flashback detonates behind my eyes: fuselage vibrations rattling my molars, red GO light flaring above the ramp, rotor wash slamming into bodies lined up like dominoes. I hear the clack of someone's carabiner, smell hydraulic fluid, feel Bramble's heartbeat thrumming through the harness we had strapped together so many times in rehearsal.
"Thirty-six hours, Thorn—pure survival," the jumpmaster shouted, voice swallowed by turbines.
I had grinned, slapped Bramble's harness. "See you at the ground."
Whiteout—jump light, jump, jump, jump—air screaming past like angry silk. Then blackout. Memory slams shut like a bulkhead in a storm.
I'm back under alien sun. First rule: assess yourself before you try to assess the world. I start at toes and work upward. Boots—still on, though the left lace dangles in tatters. Shins ache: bone-deep bruise, nothing worse. Thighs twitch, but every muscle responds. Waist: empty harness loops where multitool and sidearm should hang; combat vest pitted with gravel but otherwise intact, though the pouches gape like toothless mouths—no canteen, no rations, no med pack. Chest: breaths shallow but even. Neck: stiff. Face: likely sunburned already. Equipment: nonexistent. I curse, quietly, because Bramble hates loud noises when he's scanning for threats.
The big dog finishes his patrol arc and returns to nose my elbow. He's waiting for instructions, or comfort, or both. "Heel, buddy—eyes on me." I whistle two notes, snap my fingers. He sits, shoulder pressed to my knee, anchoring me to reality.
Only when my own parameters feel mapped do I risk raising my eyes fully.
The forest is a cathedral turned inside out. Trees tower in silent columns—trunks as wide as bunker doors and twice as tall as any redwood I've logged stateside. Their bark breaks off in plates of black glass, edges so sharp they glitter like obsidian knives beneath the sun. Fronds twice my height sag from mid-trunk, each vein pulsing with amber sap. Underfoot, the earth exhales a mineral steam that smells of hot iron, pine pitch, and something subtly electric—like ozone after a lightning strike.
I angle my chin upward—and keep angling—because the sky here refuses to obey geometry. Instead of infinite blue receding into zenith, it curves. A pale inner horizon arches overhead, a ghostly rim of land studded with lakes that catch the sun and fling it back in ragged mirrors. Between that inverted rim and the treetops float islands: ragged chunks of earth, root systems dangling like ship rigging, drifting as lazily as thistle seeds. Their undersides glow with a network of turquoise veins the size of rivers, pulsing light as though the islands are colossal, airborne jellyfish.
"Where in Hades did command drop us?" The words leave my mouth as a whisper because sound feels sacrilegious beneath such a sky.
Bramble offers a single whuff, head tilted. His ears flick; he never liked rhetorical questions.
I remind myself to note the miracle of shade. A fluke limb overhead must have shielded my prone form from full solar assault—otherwise I'd be a dehydrated corpse by now. I mark the tree's twisted shadow on the dust, then shuffle sideways until my footprints clearly outline the spot like crime-scene tape. Spatial reference: better to know where you started.
Next priority: expand the perimeter. I squat, trace a quick circle in the dirt with my forefinger—radius twelve meters—Phase One Sweep. Bramble waits, bright eyes locked on mine. Another whistle, different pitch: follow but stay outer ring. He trots off, weaving between fallen branches that look suspiciously like collapsed pieces of industrial rebar.
My spiral search begins. Every few steps I touch something, taste something, catalogue. Purple-edged fern leaf—tough skin, milky sap, bitter; could be edible with processing. Vine dangling in loops; when I test-pull a tendril it whips back, leaving a hair-thin cut on my thumb. Weaponized flora, noted. I lift a rock the size of my boot and discover shimmering powder beneath—reflective but cool; perhaps mineral deposits. Sample for later. My index finger is already a color wheel of potential toxins.
Halfway through the spiral I freeze. The loam ahead is stamped with paw prints—five per foot, splayed, each print wider than a dinner plate. Depth suggests serious weight, maybe three hundred kilos. No claw marks, which means the creature walks with retractable talons. My brain flips through the bestiary of Earth, comes up blank, flips again through mythology, comes up equally blank. Whatever owns those paws hunts quietly.
I pivot to call Bramble when motion flickers on my periphery. The big Shepherd mix has halted at tree line, tail horizontal, gaze pinned to shadows. A low rumble vibrates his chest—no threat detected by eye, but his nose or ears disagree. I follow his line of sight: nothing but dark corridor where trunks crowd. No time to investigate; mission parameters still say survive first, science later.
We regroup at the spiral's edge. "Good spot, bud. Let's get height." He seems to approve by wag alone; after a moment he bounds forward, staying within sightline but always five meters ahead, scout by nature.
A ridge rises to the east, its crest hidden behind tangles of underbrush. Getting there feels prudent: water sources often reveal themselves from above, and predators, if any, prefer to ambush uphill against gravity where possible. While we move, I mutter rules under my breath—(rule one: never trust quiet forests)—and Bramble, hearing the cadence, glances back occasionally, reassured by habit.
The climb proves trickier than it looked. The slope is armored with shale slabs that shear off under foot pressure, sliding in miniature avalanches. Roots snake across like exposed tripwires. I dig fingers into loamy gaps for purchase, each handful smelling gritty-sweet, as though flavored with cinnamon ash. Sun presses against my spine, relentless. Sweat migrates down neck, back, shins—each bead a stinging reminder that water is a debt my body will demand payment for, soon.
Bramble leaps ahead in bursts, pausing when my wheeze deepens. Once he trots back, nudging a chunk of marrow-white stone toward my boot as if donating treasure. The stone is feather-light, riddled with hexagonal holes, almost bone but not. I pocket it; intel is intel.
At last he reaches the ridge's crown, tail flagging triumph. I haul myself up beside him and see...forest to every horizon, a green ocean swaying in slow, soundless turbulence. No rivers. My heart sinks. Then I notice the islands again, some closer now, drifting on unseen currents. One seems to cast a faint shadow on treetops half a klick away, proving their mass is real, not mirage. Beyond them, on the inverted horizon, a smoke smudge twists skyward—charcoal gray against cobalt. Could be other jumpers establishing signal fire. Could be something devouring other jumpers.
Thunder murmurs. Not from the direction of the smoke, nor overhead, but from everywhere—an omnipresent growl rumbling the very bark. The hollow sky acts like a drum, carrying sound along its concave belly. Leaves jitter. Bramble's hackles climb his spine, tail stiff enough to slice wind.
I force slow breath, inventory what I do have: a functioning mind, a trained canine partner, capacity to improvise. The missing gear is a setback, not a death sentence. Goals distill themselves with military clarity:
Water—locate or fabricate within six hours.
High ground with stable shelter—this ridge is starter-height; we need better.
Identify friend-or-foe at the smoke column before nightfall, if night even exists here.
I find a flat slab of shale, scratch those objectives into the dust at my boots. Writing solidifies intent. Bramble sniffs the marks, as though reading the mission list, then gazes up into my eyes for confirmation. "Yeah," I say, ruffling the fur between his ears, "priority one—H2O."
A wind gust slithers along the ridge, sneaking cool fingers under the collar of my vest, and for a heartbeat I feel human comfort—then the wind dies, and heat slams back twice as fierce. Shade's over. I straighten, square shoulders against the unimaginable sky, and let my fists close.
Bring it.
Chapter 2 – "Stone, Sap, and Water"
Heat still throbs in the hollow sky, but thirst is the enemy chewing loudest at the edges of my skull.—I set three goals: water, height, smoke . One box remains glaringly empty. Time to fill it, or the next sunrise will find Bramble licking a corpse instead of a comrade.
I crouch at the ridge-top, tracing the land the way my instructors drilled into us back in Brecon: find the fall‐line first. Everything else—trees, paw-printed mud, even wind—will eventually bow to gravity. Below, the forest floor slopes in a broad U-shaped cradle, its center darker, damper, alive with insect murmurs. High-flying dragonflies zig-zag toward that damp trough, wings flashing emerald as they bank. Ants drag body parts of something small and white downhill like funeral pallbearers. Water pulls them, same as it will pull me.
"Trail," I whisper. Bramble's ears twitch backwards; he's listening, acknowledging. A soft chuff says he has the scent too—rich loam, vegetal rot, the promise of pools. He ranges ahead six paces, then stops on a fallen trunk two meters thick, surveying like a sentry on a wall. The pose would be comical if it weren't textbook perfect:
We move. Under each boot the scree hisses, sliding just enough to threaten a tumble. I plant the ball of my foot, test, transfer weight. Bramble threads the debris as though dancing, nails clicking on stones. The manual's voice rides in my head—"Travel downhill in switchbacks to avoid ankle breaks, and never rush the last hundred meters. Parasites live where water stagnates."
The switchbacks reveal spoor. Hoofshapes, two-toed and splayed, maybe deer-analogs. Smaller prints too—rodents or something rodent-sized. The game trail widens until ferns arch overhead like theater curtains. The air changes, heavy and cool; each breath condenses on the back of my tongue, carrying flavors of copper moss and shaded mud. Somewhere ahead, a liquid hush threads through leaf noise.
"Easy," I murmur. Bramble halts mid-step, only his tail tip twitching. I edge forward until my toes brush a damp lip of soil, darker than the rest, and sink half a centimeter. Soft ground: bank contact confirmed. I kneel, slip one forearm across the leaf litter, and part the foliage.
The stream is narrow—no more than a man's shoulder span—but swift, its surface stippling around fist-sized stones worn smooth as river pebbles. Water clarity looks good: I can count quartz grains on the bed, see silver darts of minnow-things flick and vanish. Still, the Canterbury tales of gurgling guts keep me cautious. I tear a strip off my left sleeve—clean cotton inner layer, almost white—and fold it twice. The cloth trembles as I dip it, micro-currents tugging fibers apart.
"One mouthful," I remind myself, voice low, letting the filter hang while coolness soaks through. Bramble waits, paws planted, head angled as though to ask permission? I tilt a palm. He lowers his muzzle beside me, drinks delicate as a cat—lapping, pausing, eyes always cutting sideways into brush.
I sip. Water colder than expected knifes down my throat, shocking in the heat. I wait a slow five count like the instructors demanded; no dizziness, no metallic aftertaste. Second sip, deeper. Then I wet the cloth fully, squeeze it over my hair, feel a blissful chill track my spine. Hygiene matters: nothing kills morale faster than sweat-salt eyes and grime-caked pores, even if it's the only luxury on offer.
I turn attention to the creek bed. Survival equation is cruelly simple: without modern steel, I need stone that acts like steel. Chert, flint, quartzite—anything fine-grained enough to conchoidally fracture. Luck smiles: among the drab cobbles lie knucklebones of milky rock shot through with smoky streaks. I tap two together; the answering tink rings sharp, glassy. Good.
"Strike, grind, flake," I mutter, selecting a hammer-stone—duller, heavier. Bramble circles in the shallows, splash-galloping after minnows that explode at each pounce. His play grants me the time to crouch on a dry boulder and begin. First, a broad palm-sized nucleus breaks free: three solid blows along an imagined equator, then a sharp percussion down the spine. A triangular flake curls off, edge already keen enough to shave hair. I set that aside. Next flake—narrower, fingertop long. Another. Soon I have half a dozen razor slivers glinting like ice shards fished from volcanoes.
The last product is a wedge thicker at one edge, tapering like a miniature axe. Perfect to lever bark.
Tools without bindings are as helpful as bullets without powder. I need rope. The nearby understory offers a candidate: a straight sapling whose bark peels in ribbon-wide sheets. I saw into its skin with a razor flake—feels like opening a zipper on a body bag, all quiet rasp and sap tears. Beneath, the bast layer gleams, cream colored, pliable yet strong. I slice a band waist high, then another lower, twist, and peel downward. The spiral helix of inner fiber unwinds until I stand ankle-deep in ribbons.
Thigh-rolling is hypnotic work: press two strands together between palms, roll forward, let friction twist them, then fold back on themselves. Twist the twist—sinew becomes rope. Soon a meter-long two-ply cord lies across my knee, strong enough to suspend a field kettle—if I had one. I continue until I possess four lengths and a handful of thinner "thread."
"Keep weapons simple, multipurpose, repairable." The SAS mantra echoes. I scout for ash-straight saplings the width of my thumb. One yields under the palm-axe, its downfall celebrated only by the woodscents bursting free: raw chlorophyll, hint of cinnamon, a latent pepper. I split the thicker end with a wedge flake, insert the widest razor with its edge protruding two centimeters, then lash the cleft shut with cord, cinching each wrap by levering the butt of my flake under for tension. When done, I test the point on a branch stub. It slices bark like soft cheese. Spear: check.
Next, I select a heavier branch hip-high, fire-harden its digging end. Flames are borrowed from a sunbeam and a bow-drill friction rig stolen from an hour of sweat later; ash smolders, then embers bite. Bramble sits upwind, nose wrinkling at the smoke spiral. The point browns; sap hisses, sealing wood. Digging stick: check.
The final weapon is more improvisation than textbook: a Y-shaped limb whittled for symmetry, arms balanced. Weighting the tips by carving shallow grooves lets me wrap pebbles under bark strips, turning it club-heavy. A thrown test thuds into a trunk with promising smack. Club: check.
Bramble has not abandoned his watch. Every few minutes he trots the loose 20-pace circle we practiced on ranges back home, checking scent cone and sound environment. Once his body stiffens, hackles a black tide along his spine. I freeze, spear half-raised. The undergrowth ahead rustles; a hush spreads like spilled ink. Then hoofbeats—rapid, hollow—and a quartet of deer-things, slate-grey with corkscrew antlers, leap across the trail and dissolve between trunks. Bramble snorts, tension draining. No predator smell yet, but prey this bold means something hunts them. We keep the spear handy.
Exhaustion flirts at the edge of vision, but fieldcraft says conserve tools, don't drag them everywhere if a fight forces flight. I choose a hollow, lightning-killed log whose interior is bone-dry. Spare flakes, half the cord, and a trio of fist-sized "hammer stones" go in. I mark the cache with three fist-rock cairn: left stone forward, center back, right forward—a code my old unit used for "return here, safe." I add a stick pointer aimed at today's sun angle so future-me can vector if the cairn topples.
Afternoon melts toward copper twilight. The light lenses through canopy gaps in slanted, slow-moving shafts, gilding dust motes and making every mosquito glow like stained-glass fragments. I need an update on that smoke column. One pine down-slope looks like it died desiccated, its trunk stripped of bark, branches bare as bone fingers—perfect ladder. I whistle. Bramble plants at the base, alert posture screaming overwatch.
The climb grates palms raw—bark flakes like scabs—but soon I perch twenty meters up, knees braced against twin branches. The vantage hushes my breath. Far to the south-east a dark fan of smoke billows, wide and dirty, hugging ground. Flames flicker at its root, orange tongues licking tree boles. Not columnar. Not controlled. Wildfire. I lift hand to shade eyes; the updraft reveals animal silhouettes bounding ahead of the glow—deer-things, smaller quadrupeds, even something feathered yet as big as Bramble. No human shapes, no blocky structures.
Relief wars with dread. Relief: no enemy camp. Dread: fire in a forest with glass-barked tinder trees might run until moons turn. Wind direction appears crossways to our ridge—safe for now. Night air may calm the flames; dawn winds could wake them.
Down the pine, hands smarting. Bramble greets with a single tail sweep. We retreat to a shallow ravine a hundred meters from the creek—close enough for water, low enough that wind-borne sparks should vault overhead. I sweep leaves, scatter rotten twigs into a haphazard bed the size of my torso; insulation first. A wall of uprooted root-ball gives us a backstop, its clawed tendrils perfect for weaving fern pads into a lean half-roof.
Food is still a question mark—my gut answers with a hollow drumroll—but energy for traps will wait. Water can fill hunger's seat temporarily. I refill my sleeve filter, top off internal tanks measured by the simple gauge of can I whistle a tune without my lips sticking? Yes. Grey Funnel Line issues between breaths.
Bramble curls at lean-to entrance, nose to wind. His eyes flare green-gold in fading light, canine flashlight beams set to predator detection. I settle inside, spear within arm's reach, club crosswise over my ankles.
The forest darkens. Above the canopy, floating islands glow faintly, turquoise filaments threading their bellies. They remind me of hospital ceiling lights—distant, clinical—monitoring this planet like surgeons prepping an operating theater. Who built you? The thought flickers, then fades. First Maxims of survival: ask "how" before "why"; why burns energy you can't replace.
A distant crack, like knuckles, rolls through the hollow sky—thunder again, or maybe a trunk detonating in the wildfire. Bramble's head lifts. I answer with a soft "shhh." He lays chin on paws but keeps ears pricked.
Lying on my side, I carve shapes in soft earth with an index finger: a crooked line for creek, a dot for the ridge, a smudge for wildfire. Arrows trace the hypothesized spread if wind shifts. Beside that, a small X indicates the cairn. I add a dashed arc beyond, a sweep that skirts fire's projected edge—tomorrow's route. Game trails double as exit lanes and early warning: animals galloping in my direction will mean flame behind them.
My finger stalls on the map. I draw a tiny circle over my crude lean-to. For comfort? For ownership? Maybe a reminder that a man without equipment can still build safety from mud and bark and willpower, at least one night at a time.
Bramble sighs, deep and resonant, like he's reading over my shoulder and approves. I scratch the scruff of his neck; the fur is coarse, dusty, and vital. My heartbeat slows.
Darkness thickens. Fire-light throbs on the horizon, low and intermittent. The inner horizon above—upturned land—glows faint silver where moonlight (or something moon-like) skims its lakes. Somewhere between those two alien lamps, I and a dog sit in a pocket of quiet, tools fashioned from creek stones and sapling bones. Not much, but soldiers have survived with less.
"Dawn, bud," I whisper. He answers with a soft, single thump of tail on dirt. Agreement logged.
Sleep hovers but never lands. My brain catalogues night noises: distant insect choruses, occasional tree creaks, the hush of the stream. Then a new sound—far but distinct—a rhythmic drumming, like fist on hollow wood, boom-pause-boom-boom, repeated thrice. My eyes snap open. Bramble's ears spear forward. Predator? No, cadence feels deliberate, not chase. Yet not mechanical. Could be territorial display, could be communication between beasts. Either way, another line on the mental map.
I resist the urge to investigate in darkness. Rule—(never trust quiet forests)—just drafted its corollary: never trust loud ones at night. Instead I memorize the pattern, count the interval: twenty-one seconds between sets. Enough data for analysis later.
Hours pass measured by skyglow shifts. When I finally drift, micro-dreams jitter across closed lids: the plane ramp again, the red GO light, Bramble's weight tugging harness, but when we jump this time the sky we fall through is concave and the islands drift alongside like lifeboats, whispering in static I can almost understand.
I wake once more, parched but alive. Stars—pinpricks—even here. They shimmer near the inside horizon, as though painted on. I clutch the spear's haft, find its raspy cord binding comfortingly familiar.
Shade's over, I think, echoing yesterday's vow. Then: dawn's coming, and with it a fire to outrun, water to guard, mysteries to breach. Another day in a world that shouldn't exist, survived on stone, sap, and a vigilant dog.
For now, that is enough.
Chapter 3 – "Sparks in the Green"
Dawn crawls across the concave sky in bruised peaches and old-flame violets, the colour of a slowly healing wound. When the first bar of light touches my eyelids, pain answers—dull, insistent, like a dog nudging a forgotten bruise. I roll onto one elbow, grit crackling beneath the bivy of ferns I stitched together last night. Bramble is already awake. He sits at the lean-to entrance, ears pricked toward the wildfire line, nose sampling the air the way a sommelier noses wine. No drumming this morning. Just the low, distant hiss of trees dying by inches.
My own morning assessment starts with a flex of toes, a cough, a shallow inhale that tastes of charcoal and damp moss. Everything works, but the thorn slice I earned while chopping saplings glows red on my forearm, raised and angry. I need it closed before infection sets in. Green sigils—healing energy—were rumoured, never confirmed. Time to confirm.
The creek lies a dozen paces downslope, ribboning through the forest like a length of foil thrown across dirt. As I shuffle down the bank, Bramble ghosts me, paws silent on leaf mould. Water glitters, fast and shock-cold. When I cup it, my reflection stares back—sun-chapped lips, cinder specks in hair, eyes oscillating between fatigue and feral alertness. I plunge the wounded arm. I expect numb cold; what I don't expect is the flicker—tiny, lantern-green lights peeling themselves off the submerged moss stones. They swirl, slow and deliberate, and thread into the cut. Flesh knits, blood crust dissolves. In less than a minute the gash is a pink memory.
"Not magic," I mutter, half in denial. "Call it…biological nanotech." Bramble flicks an ear. Science fiction talking to himself again, boss?
Hypothesis demands repeatability. I pull the sharpest chert flake from yesterday's knapping and draw a shallow scratch across the other wrist—just enough to bead. The dog huffs, displeased. "Control test," I reassure. Back into the creek. Again the emerald lights drift, again the wound closes. Repeatable means real. Green equals heal.
With immediate survival satisfied, hunger roars up. The belly is a tyrant, and it has been far too long since the roasted bark trick last evening. SAS doctrine: calories follow trapping before hunting—expend the least energy first. I lug spruce saplings to a game trail, carve figure-four triggers, tension them with the bast cord I rolled beside the fire. Every twist, every tightening knot sends flecks of bright yellow cascading over my forearms, like hot arrows raining through nerves. HUD shard blooms: Skill +1 Primitive Trapping. Numbers: Trap-craft 2.0. The interface mannequin that first appeared yesterday flickers above the trail, transparent but definite, tabs reading SUMMARY and SKILLS orbiting like curious satellites. I kneel, trace its layout in damp soil—torso, limbs, a faint halo. The act of drawing feels like writing a user manual for a ghost.
Late morning: Bramble erupts from brush, hackles lifting a spray of dew. Something squeals—high, terrified. A burrowing rodent, cat-sized, all fangs and bristles, rockets out of its hole straight toward me. I brace, spear forward; one smooth thrust rooted in muscle memory ends its panic mid-stride. Yellow strobe blisters my vision—Throw skill rising again. While Bramble circles, sniffing, I roll the carcass. Near the brain, embedded like a pearl in meat, lies a milky marble no bigger than a marble. It pulses faint white, each beat in time with my own heart. Core.
Special-forces briefings claimed cores existed: ingest, assimilate, advance. Most called it bunk. Out here, bunk is all we have. I chip off a shard with a flake and set it on my tongue. Chalk-smooth, faintly sweet, it dissolves before gag reflex can trigger. A chorus of white motes detaches from everything—air, ground, even my skin—and floods into the Summary tab. Vertigo tugs; I brace on a knee. Ten seconds later the world still holds its shape, only sharper, brighter. Numbers in SUMMARY climb by two. Advancement confirmed.
The rodent's meat goes on a spit over last night's ember bed. Fat pops, sending aromatic spirals into pine-resin air. When I bite, brown sigils seep from the meat into my torso—a warmth that banishes the ache of climbing, hunting, worrying. Three colours now tested: green heals, yellow trains, brown nourishes, white advances.
With stomach calm, I spend midday resetting snares, weaving a wider fish funnel, carving stakes. Repetition drizzles yellow, each droplet a promise of future competence. The forest hums—a subtle affirmation of incremental growth.
Then, at the crest of afternoon heat, the boom returns. Boom-pause-boom-boom. Closer. Deep enough to stir dust. I press palm to ground; vibrations answer. Something massive drums, or something many drums at once. Curiosity gnaws, but prudence snaps first. Tonight I need walls.
The barricade rises from scavenged thorn branches, each lashed tight with bast. Ground stakes angle outward, punji-style, nasty even by my standards. Bramble hauls limbs in his jaws, tail a metronome of grim purpose. As dusk melts copper into violet, I drive the final stake. HUD flashes Improvised Fortification +1. Then everything stops—sound, wind, insect chorus. Into that hush breathes a heavier noise: quadruped lungs pulling air beyond the thorns, tasting us. Bramble's growl rolls low. I notch the spear underarm, every muscle coiled like a tripwire.
Chapter 4 – "Toward Higher Ground"
The attack does not wait for sunrise. One heartbeat the forest is silent; the next it detonates in black muscle and teeth. A six-legged panther—no, lynx—no, nightmare—crashes the barricade. Its hide is matte ink, absorbing starlight; six golden eyes bloom across its skull like fungus lamps. Two hind legs rake the thorns, trying to lever them flat. Bramble launches, a streak of amber fur against night. He darts, snaps, feints left, drags the creature's attention. I rise from a crouch, white-core-juiced muscles snapping into perfect geometry, and hurl the spear.
Impact punches sound out of the clearing—a bass-note thunk that reverberates in sternum and teeth. Yellow fireworks cataract across the HUD: Throw +2. The beast screams, voice like sheet metal ripping. It wheels, hind legs buckling, and surges into shadow, crashing brush in frantic flight. Bramble yelps—claw-slash down the shoulder—then limps back. Blood ribbons his fur, shining black in predawn murk.
I pack creek moss into the wound; verdant sigils thread skin, weaving a living suture. Bramble's chest heaves, then slows. A single tail thump assures me he will live.
Adrenaline ebbs, and tactical reality asserts itself: we are boxed between a creek and advancing wildfire. One wind shift and the barricade becomes a pyre. We need a fort nature didn't build from tinder. My memory flips through a mental satellite photo captured atop yesterday's skeleton pine: basalt bluff northwest, caves like bunker embrasures, reachable by razorback path. Too steep for six-legged nightmares, perhaps.
I climb the same pine again to confirm. Smoke still mars the horizon, but in the widening light I can trace the bluff's silhouette—dark, jagged, calling. Decision locked. We break camp with assembly-line efficiency. Meat strips go on a tripod of green sticks to smoke; whatever finishes before departure is wrapped in bark, the rest cached beneath a cairn. Snares are reset—future insurance. I shape a second spear—a meter-eighty of straight sapling, split tip wedged with a fresh razor flake—then twist a sling from bast cord. HUD pings Crafting +1.
Breakfast is desperate improvisation: roasted inner bark ground with charcoal, mixed into a gritty paste. It tastes of campfire and aspirin, but brown sigils spark minimal nourishment. Enough.
We move as sun breaches the rim, painting the hollow sky in upward shadows. The boom drum rolls intermittently. Each time it does, a faint yellow tracer meanders from horizon to the VISION stat on my HUD—tracking rewarded. I triangulate by ear, map the valley off-route where the noise nests, note it for later.
Mid-march we reach a ridge dotted with standing stones older than conjecture. One monolith hums. Its face is filigreed in runes—glyphs that ripple prismatic light. As I step close, a HUD prompt hovers: Lexicon Node — Unknown Language — interact? Curiosity outvotes caution. I brush a symbol shaped like mirrored thunderbolts. HUD flashes red, fingertip stings as though slapped by nettle. Wrong. I try another symbol—nested triangles. Yellow glow floods, rune brightens. Correct. I play the guessing game: three right answers, five wrong. Partial translation anchors on two glyphs: Guard / Watch. The monolith dims, knowledge withheld behind a paywall of competence I don't yet have.
Claw troughs scar nearby bark, bigger than the six-legged cat's. Something else guards—or watches—this node. We leave, pace quickening.
The goat path appears after noon, a slate-grey ribbon stitched up the basalt. One side offers a three-hundred-meter plunge into fern-choked ravine; the other side, a knife-edge wall. I swap spear to left hand, sling rocks into right pocket, and angle ties on my boots a notch tighter. Bramble tucks behind my calves, body low, eyes locked on path. Halfway up, gravel skitters under his paw. A pebble cartwheels over the brink; we both listen for impact. None comes. The void is hungry.
At last the path broadens onto a terrace of fused volcanic glass. Caves puncture the cliff like gun-ports. I choose the lowest opening: waist-high lip, smooth floor sloping gently upward. Inside, echo hush fastens to our boots. The air smells of damp stone and iron filings, but no scat, no feathers, no stale breath—vacant. I circle the interior once, counting paces—fifteen deep, eight across. Two natural chimneys vent to daylight; perfect for smoke bleed.
From the cave mouth I take inventory. The world below looks layered: nearest, the creek corridor we abandoned; beyond, the Lexicon ridge with its lurking glyphs; farther, the wildfire line sputtering orange teeth; and, newly observed, secondary smoke wisps—thin as incense—curling from a far quadrant of forest. Either other jumpers have landed, or predators are smarter than we guessed. Bramble issues a throaty growl when I stare at those wisps, as if translating misgivings into sound.
Inside, I establish perimeter: spear rack near entrance, rock-slide trap rigged above the lip with a branch lever. Bramble chooses a vantage near the right chimney, where updraft feeds nose with full forest bouquet. I lay tinder, spark flint, coax a smokeless flame that hugs the back wall. Heat and shadow tussle; heat wins.
Evening paints the floating islands overhead in carnival pastels. Turquoise veins pulse under their bellies, matching the runes on the monolith, matching the sigils that flood our bodies, all threads in one holographic loom. I wonder—not for the first time—if some colossal intelligence watches through those islands, tallying my kills, my snares, my mistakes.
Gear check: two spears, sling with eight egg-size rocks, hunting knife of chert flake lashed to bone handle, torch stub, water skin of stitched broadleaf. Bramble's shoulder shows only scar pinkness now. He yawns wide enough to fake boredom, then resumes his sentinel posture. Outside, the boom starts again, distant, as if satisfied to know where we are.
Night descends—a carbon sheet pricked by alien stars that drift, minute by minute, not like Earth constellations but like lanterns on slow trains. I mark them mentally. Something about their pattern breathes Guard / Watch. The monolith rune again.
Sleep is reluctant. I pass first watch tracing cave shadows with spear tip. When eyelids finally betray me, Bramble's bulk is a warming furnace at my back. I dream of runes rearranging into words I almost pronounce. In that dream, an island tilts, shining a spotlight onto the basalt bluff, and a voice—genderless, timbre of static—says, "Level two unlocked." I wake to the real cave, guttering torch, and Bramble's steady breathing. No voice. Yet the HUD hovers when I blink: Overall Level: 2.
Tomorrow we find out indeed.
Chapter Five – Clay, Fire, and Feathers
I wake to dawn light filtering into our cave and Bramble's wet nose nudging my ear. Every muscle protests as I push myself upright; I ache all over from yesterday's trials. Bramble whines softly in sympathy, and I scratch his ears. Outside, the alien wilderness stirs with morning life: distant whoops of creatures echo through the trees, peppery crushed ferns scenting a cool breeze from the forest.
By the time I step out into the pale sunlight, I've stretched most of the stiffness away. Bramble pads at my side, alert and tail swishing low. The plateau atop the bluff gives us a sweeping view of endless emerald forest below. I inhale deeply; the air is dry and carries a metallic tang. Water will be our first priority today.
Our canteens are simply hollowed gourds from yesterday's forage, nearly empty now. "Let's refill and see what we can craft, huh?" I say. Bramble cocks his head, one ear perking at my tone. He doesn't understand the words, but he recognizes my determination. A low bark – he's ready.
We descend a winding goat path from the cave down toward the treeline. I tread carefully on the basalt gravel, each step crunching. Bramble ranges ahead a few paces, nose twitching as he scents the morning air for danger. The memory of last night's six-legged panther-beast still weighs on me; the gash it gave Bramble is healed thanks to the moss's green sigils, but the psychological scars linger. I keep a new fire-hardened spear in hand and a stone knife at my belt. Every rustle in the underbrush puts me on edge.
At the foot of the bluff, the forest welcomes us with damp coolness. The ground slopes downward, and soon I hear the soft burble of the creek that saved us on our first day. We push through dew-laden fronds and find the water trickling through black rocks. Kneeling, I cup my hands and drink deeply. The water is crisp and bracing, carrying faint metallic notes. Bramble wades in without hesitation, lapping thirstily. I refill our gourds and splash water over my face, savoring the relief.
As I shake off droplets, my eyes drift to a vein of muddy orange clay exposed in the creek's eroded bank. It stands out against the dark soil. I press a finger in – it's sticky and malleable. Immediately an idea sparks. We lack so many basic utensils: bowls, pots, containers better than gourds and leaves. Here lies an opportunity. "Looks like craft time, Bramble," I announce, excitement creeping into my voice. Bramble sneezes at the clay, shaking mud from his nose. I chuckle, scooping a double handful of the cool clay. It squelches between my fingers, rich with moisture.
I set to work with primitive fervor. Using a flat piece of bark as a shovel, I dig into the bank, peeling away slabs of the reddish clay. Clumps plop at my feet. The sun climbs higher and sweat beads on my neck as I labor – yet I revel in this simple, productive task. The smell of wet earth and the rhythmic scoop-and-scrape become a meditation. Bramble stands guard nearby, ears pricked and swiveling at forest sounds. Occasionally he wanders off to sniff a bush or scratch at the ground, but he always returns to check on me, his panting breaths a steady reassurance.
Soon I've gathered a sizeable mound of clay on a broad flat stone near the stream. I knead it with water, pounding it to an even consistency. Each strike of my fist into the damp clay sends up the scent of fresh mud. As I wedge and work the clay, faint motes of yellow energy flicker around my hands – the system acknowledging a new skill in progress. Pottery, maybe. I grin and keep at it, falling into a focused rhythm: knead, fold, shape.
"Alright, let's see some artistry," I mutter. With careful fingers, I pinch off a lump and form a small bowl. The clay yields under my touch. I smooth the sides, pinch a little lip. It's crude, lopsided, but serviceable. Next I attempt a larger pot, coil-building it from ropes of clay. My hands move surely – muscle memory from long-forgotten childhood crafts, or perhaps a gentle nudge from the interface guiding me. A soft ping at the edge of my vision confirms Primitive Pottery +1, yellow sigils dancing briefly around my forearms. Encouraged, I fashion more: a shallow dish, a couple of basic cups, and a wide-mouthed jar that might hold water or stew.
By the time I finish, I've lined up an array of misshapen but functional clay vessels on a sun-warmed rock. They'll need to dry before firing. I arch my back, cracking stiff vertebrae, and wipe my brow, leaving a streak of ochre across my skin. Bramble trots over to inspect my handiwork. He sniffs one bowl and promptly tries to lick it. "Hey now," I laugh, gently shooing him, "clay isn't for eating." He tilts his head, tongue lolling – clearly not convinced these strange objects are useful yet.
A sudden raucous screech splits the tranquil morning, setting my nerves on edge. Bramble's hackles shoot up as he spins toward the treeline, a deep growl rumbling in his chest. I snatch up my spear, heart thudding. The cry was alien yet oddly bird-like. We stand frozen, listening. For a heartbeat there's only the babble of the creek and the wind in the canopy. Then, with a thunder of wings, it bursts forth: a huge avian creature hurtling from the upper branches into our clearing.
It's unlike any bird I've seen – a razor-beaked predator, black plumage spiked and iridescent in the sun. It dives straight for Bramble, talons extended. "Bramble, down!" I shout, lunging. My loyal dog instantly drops flat, yelping as the air above him whooshes with the bird's missed strike. Claws rake empty air an inch from his flank, gouging furrows in the dirt. A blink later and the beast wheels around for another pass.
I plant myself over Bramble, spear raised. Adrenaline hits like ice in my veins, sharpening every sense – the stink of the creature's feathers, like sulfur and rot, floods my nostrils as it swoops low. It screeches again, a bone-chilling sound that reverberates in my chest. I brace and at the last second, swing the spear upward with all my might. Impact – the flint tip clips the bird's side as it veers, slicing through feathers. It shrieks in anger and banks clumsily, flight pattern stuttering.
Seeing an opening, Bramble explodes from under me with a ferocious snarl. He charges the flailing bird as it lands awkwardly near the stream. Before it can launch again, Bramble pounces, surprising even me with his aggression. He clamps onto one of its hind legs with bared teeth. The bird screams, flapping madly. I'm already sprinting forward, spear poised. The creature drags Bramble a few feet, powerful wings beating the air, but he holds on grimly, growling through clenched jaws.
I thrust my spear at its chest. The tip punches through scaly hide just above where I guess its heart is. Hot blood sprays my hand. The beast thrashes, nearly wrenching the shaft from my grip. It twists toward me with wild eyes. One talon lashes out, catching my thigh – I hiss as pain blooms, but adrenaline keeps me moving. Snarling, I twist the embedded spear, eliciting a wet gurgle from the bird's throat. Bramble yelps as a flailing wing buffets him, knocking him loose. In that instant the creature tries to lurch skyward to flee, but I rip my spear free and stab again, driving the flint deep under its ribcage.
The bird collapses in the mud with a final keening wail. Its wings spasm, then fall still. Silence crashes down on the clearing save for our heaving breaths. My thigh burns where it clawed me; warm blood trickles down to my knee. Bramble limps to my side, panting, his muzzle splattered with the creature's dark blood. I drop to a knee and hug him roughly, relief and fierce pride flooding through me. "Good boy," I whisper, voice shaking. He whines softly and licks my cheek, tail wagging despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. I let out a shaky laugh – we survived. Again.
As I catch my breath, a glimmer draws my eye – a faint white glow emanating from the fallen bird's skull. I gently push Bramble back and approach the carcass, wary. Just as with the burrowing rodent yesterday, something remains. Embedded in the creature's forehead, half-hidden under matted feather and bone, is a small white core, pulsing softly with inner light. My pulse quickens. Carefully, I pry it free with my knife until the crystalline sphere pops out. It's the size of a walnut, warm in my palm. White motes swirl inside.
Bramble sniffs at the core and sneezes. I hold it up between us. "Another one," I murmur. We have a growing collection of these strange orbs – proof that every monster here carries power. The rodent's core gave me a boost; what might this one do? My wounds ache, and fatigue creeps in now that the danger is over. Perhaps increased vitality or sharper sight – birds have keen vision, after all. But I won't gamble by consuming it now. I tuck it safely into my pouch with the other shards.
First, I need to address my bleeding thigh. The slashes are shallow but sting fiercely. I kneel by the creek to wash them. The cold water makes me gasp, but it cleans the wounds – and green healing sigils shimmer to life where it touches my skin, knitting the cuts closed within a minute.
With the immediate crisis handled, I turn back to the fallen bird. It's massive up close, nearly as big as Bramble. Not much meat on it – lean muscle and hollow bones – but perhaps the feathers or beak could be useful. Its beak is sharp as a chisel; I consider taking it as a tool. But a more practical thought arises: bait. The commotion and blood might draw other predators if we leave the carcass here. Better to use it on our terms. I drag the body closer to the stream, straining with effort as its wings snag on roots and rocks. Bramble helps, tugging at a leg and nearly tearing it off in his eagerness. "Easy, boy," I pant, managing a breathless chuckle.
I butcher the bird quickly with my flint knife, slicing away a few strips of lean breast meat for us. The rest – entrails, head, and offal – I heave into a thorny thicket a good stone's throw away. If scavengers come sniffing, they'll find that offering away from our cave. With luck, it will keep them off our backs tonight.
Sunlight has shifted to late-morning gold by the time I finish cleaning up. My clay pots and bowls, half-dried, still sit on the rock where I left them. None broke in the fray – small miracles. I carefully move them under an overhang, out of direct sun so they dry slowly and avoid cracking. They should be ready to fire by evening. To harden them, I'll need a hot, steady flame and a way to bake the clay thoroughly. Perhaps a makeshift kiln in a pit with coals piled over it. I file the idea away for now.
We make our way back up toward the cave with our spoils: a few strips of bird meat wrapped in a broad leaf, full gourds of water, and a freshly earned core. Bramble trots beside me, his earlier limp gone. I rest a hand on his back as we walk. "You did good today," I tell him softly. He looks up with bright eyes and gives a short woof, as if to say of course. I smile; we understand each other more each day.
Inside the cave once more, I set down our supplies and sink against the cool stone wall. Mentally, I catalog our gains: clay for pottery, a new core from a fallen beast, and more proof that this world's system rewards creativity and courage.
As I lay out tinder in a clay bowl for a small cookfire, a familiar chime pings at the edge of my vision. The HUD displays Survival Crafting +1 in swirling yellow sigils. I huff a quiet laugh. Better late than never. Bramble tilts his head at my sudden amusement, but seeing my grin, he thumps his tail against the ground.
Outside, a distant rumble suddenly rolls across the sky – not thunder, but that same rhythmic boom…boom…boom we heard in the night. It vibrates the basalt under my feet, a giant's heartbeat in the distance. My breath catches. I scramble to the cave mouth and peer out over the sun-dappled forest, heart quickening. Far beyond the treetops on the hazy horizon, one of the smoke plumes coils anew into the sky. Then the booming stops, leaving an uneasy silence.
My gut twists – that's no coincidence. Something out there, something huge, is on the move again. Watching? Hunting? I don't know. Not yet.
I duck back inside, tightening my grip on the spear. One threat at a time, I remind myself, drawing a steadying breath. Today we survived the sky's fury; tonight we'll fortify, craft, and prepare. Whatever's making those distant booms – whenever it comes – we'll be ready.
Chapter Six – Venom in the Veins
Night falls with oppressive quiet. By the time the last light drained from the sky, Bramble and I had barricaded the cave mouth with a lattice of thorny branches gathered from below the bluff. Now I sit just inside our dim shelter, spear across my lap, feeding our small fire with bits of dry scrub. The firelight dances over basalt walls, painting flickering shadows. Outside, the forest is impenetrably dark. My ears strain to pick up any hint of that distant booming or, worse, the padding footfalls of predators drawn by the day's bloodshed. But the only sounds are the crackle of embers and Bramble's steady breathing beside me.
I reach down and scratch behind Bramble's ears. He's curled up against my thigh, chin on paws, eyes open and fixed on the cave entrance. I don't think anything took the bait we left (the bird's remains) yet, but both of us are on edge. Bramble's ears twitch at every distant creak and hoot outside.
A low wind picks up, rustling leaves and carrying a faint whiff of distant smoke. It might mask smaller noises, which worries me. I lean forward, listening harder. And then I hear it – a faint scraping, like scales over stone. My heart skips. Bramble stiffens, a muted growl bubbling in his throat. The sound is coming from somewhere above the cave entrance, along the rock face. It's subtle, easily mistaken for wind-tossed branches… but it's moving. Slithering.
I slowly rise to a crouch, motioning Bramble to stay. My grip tightens around the spear. The fire at my back feels suddenly too bright, potentially silhouetting me, so I shuffle sideways out of its direct glow. Dry mouth, racing pulse – I peer up at the cave ceiling near the entrance. The scraping stops. Seconds drag out. Did we imagine it?
Without warning, something drops through a gap in the thorn lattice – a sinuous shape plummeting onto our cave floor with a soft thud. I jolt back, biting down a shout. Bramble leaps to his feet, barking furiously.
In the firelight I see it clearly: a snake, long and thick as my forearm, its scales a mottled gray that blends with the stone. It rears back, hooded head flaring in threat. Twin fangs glisten with oily venom. The air fills with a musky, reptilian stink that sends my stomach lurching.
"Back, Bramble!" I command, fearing my dog will lunge and get bitten. He halts, hackles raised and lips pulled back in a snarl, but obeys my tone – holding position a few feet from the serpent. The snake's eyes fix on him, then on me. It hisses, a dry rattling sound echoing off the cave walls.
My mind races – a bite from that thing could be lethal without immediate treatment. We have moss for healing, but I doubt it counteracts venom. We need to kill it without getting bit. The snake begins to coil, preparing to strike. I inch to the side, trying to draw its focus. "Steady," I murmur, both to Bramble and myself.
The creature strikes – a blur of scaled aggression. I react on instinct honed by countless drills: pivoting aside, I swing the spear in a downward arc. The spear's stone tip smashes the serpent's triangular head against the cave floor with a sickening crack. Its body thrashes, long tail whipping wildly and knocking embers from the fire. Sparks swirl around us. The snake's death throes are violent; I yank Bramble back to avoid the flailing coils. In a few heartbeats it lies still, a gory smear of black blood beneath my spear point.
I realize I've been holding my breath. With a shaky exhale, I nudge the serpent's body to ensure it's truly dead. The skull is crushed. Yellow sigils wink at the edges of my vision – perhaps an alert for some feat or skill, but I pay them little mind right now. Bramble is by my side, tense and silent, staring at the snake with ears pinned. I gently lay a hand on him. "I'm okay," I assure softly. His rapid panting slows a notch, and he presses against my leg.
The sharp tang of snake venom mixes with the smoky cave air. Already I see a viscous greenish liquid oozing from the creature's ruined jaws. Venom. In this world, that means opportunity as much as danger. I retrieve a curved piece of bark and carefully wipe the fangs, collecting some of the dripping toxin. The bark darkens with the oily substance. Kneeling by the firelight, I examine the dead snake. It has a sizable venom sac bulging just behind its jaw.
An idea glints in my mind – one born of desperation and my scant field medical training: I can harvest this venom. Coat our weapons, set traps… turn this killer into a defense. "Let's put this to use," I whisper. Bramble watches intently as I take out my stone knife. Using the tip, I gingerly open the snake's skull just above the jaw hinge. A foul, chemical bitterness wafts out. I cut free the small sac, translucent and filled with deadly fluid, and drop it into a clay cup we fired this morning. My hands tremble; one slip could dose me with enough venom to end it all. But I manage.
With the venom sac secured in the cup, I squeeze it using a flat stone as a press. Pale green liquid pools at the bottom. I scrape every last drop I can. It yields only a few thimblefuls of poison, but potent stuff. The snake's fangs, long and curved, also go into the cup after I rinse them; perhaps I can fashion arrowheads or punji stakes with those later.
Bramble sniffs at the cup and immediately recoils, sneezing. I can't blame him – even diluted, the venom's acrid odor burns the nose. "Nasty, huh?" I mutter. With great care, I pull a scrap of cloth from my pack (one of my torn sleeves) and fashion a cover over the cup, tying it with a thin strip of bark. The last thing we need is to accidentally spill or step in this poison.
A familiar soft chime pings. The HUD flickers: New Skill: Toxic Handling (Basic). Yellow glyphs spiral around me, then fade. I blink in surprise. "Toxic Handling," I breathe. It seems carefully collecting venom has earned me formal recognition from the system – and likely some experience to boot. Bramble tilts his head at my sudden smile, and I can't help but reach over to give him a proud rub on the side. We're getting somewhere, buddy. He thumps his tail appreciatively.
I set the cup of venom high on a rocky shelf at the back of the cave, well out of reach. Then I drag the snake's carcass out of the cave with the spear tip, flinging it down the slope into the darkness. Maybe some scavenger will find it and have a free meal, but at least it's away from us – I don't want its scent attracting something bigger.
Our barricade is a bit disrupted from the snake's entry, so I spend a few minutes rearranging the thorn branches, lashing a couple together with spare vine for extra security. Bramble helps in his own way – picking up a stray branch in his mouth and adding it to the pile. I chuckle quietly at his help and add the branch to our barricade. Bramble gives a soft woof and sits back down, tongue lolling. Despite the adrenaline still coursing in me, I feel a swell of affection – this dog's proving to be a clever partner.
Finally, I settle down again by the fading fire. My hands still shake a little, but we prevailed – and gained a new edge for future fights. Outside, the wind has died, leaving the night eerily still. I add one more twig to the coals, just enough to keep a faint glow.
As I lean back against the cool stone, Bramble presses close, warm fur against my side. Tonight, danger literally dropped in on us, but we turned it into another tool for survival. I stroke his back slowly. "We'll be ready for whatever comes next," I murmur. He sighs contentedly and lays his head on my lap.
In the silence, a new sound begins to rise – distant at first, then unmistakable: a heavy, rhythmic breathing somewhere down in the forest gloom. My body goes rigid, every sense on high alert. Thump…hiss…thump… It's the same pattern that visited our camp two nights ago – the one that preceded the panther-beast's attack. Only now, it sounds closer. Much closer.
Bramble's ears perk straight up. A soft whine escapes him as the breathing turns into a low, guttural growl that echoes through the trees. My heart pounds. I tighten my grip on the spear and feel a bead of sweat trickle down my temple despite the night's chill. The venom we secured tonight might soon find its purpose.
I position myself between Bramble and the cave entrance, staring out into the pitch-black wilderness beyond our thorn barricade. The growl fades into another round of labored breathing, as if some massive creature is sniffing, searching. It doesn't charge yet, but I sense it out there – circling. Testing us.
My knuckles whiten around the spear haft. Bramble stays silent now, tense at my heel. "Easy…" I whisper, though my own heart is jackhammering. I know this much: we won't be caught off-guard.
The night stretches taut around us. For long minutes, the heavy breathing continues, moving to and fro among the trees. Then, as suddenly as it arrived, it slips away, swallowed by the deeper forest. I exhale – I hadn't realized I was holding my breath. Bramble nudges my hand, and I realize I'm trembling slightly.
Whatever was out there decided to hold off – for now. But come dawn, I'm certain we'll find tracks. And we'll have to decide whether to stand our ground here again or make a preemptive move.
I rub a hand over Bramble's ruff, trying to calm myself as much as him. "We'll face it tomorrow," I whisper, half a promise, half a prayer. He lets out a low whuff, as if in agreement, then lies back down, head on his paws but eyes still trained on the dark outside.
I keep the rest of the night watch in silence, thoughts churning. Our world has become tooth and claw, poison and patience. If a beast thinks to make us prey by night, we'll be ready with traps, venom, and sharpened steel when dawn breaks. In the embers' faint glow, I tighten my jaw and firm my resolve. Surviving isn't enough – we have to get ahead of the threats, learn their patterns, use the system's gifts. Only then will the two of us truly be safe in this wild place.
Some time before sunrise, a gentle ping disrupts my vigil. Blinking, I see a dreamlike interface banner: Overall Level 3 Achieved. A soft warmth floods through my limbs as if to confirm it. I allow myself a small, weary smile. We are growing stronger. Step by step, bite by bite, we're turning this dangerous world to our advantage.
Bramble lifts his head at my movement, and I pat him gently. "Level 3, pal," I whisper with a grin. "We're tougher than we look." He snorts as if amused (or maybe just sleepy). I lean back against the wall, spear across my lap, and keep my eyes on the jungle night beyond. Tomorrow is a new day – and it's coming fast.
Chapter Seven – Guardian at the Gate
Dawn's first light finds me kneeling at the cave entrance, anxiety twisting in my gut. In the gray pre-sunrise glow, I examine deep gouges in the soil just beyond our thorn barricade – fresh claw marks, each one as long as my hand. My suspicions from last night are confirmed: the creature that stalked us in the dark was huge, and it came right up to our doorstep. Bramble stands beside me, nose low to the ground as he sniffs one of the prints. He lets out a soft whine; even he can tell these tracks don't belong to any small predator.
"It'll be back," I murmur. The thought sends a chill through me despite the sticky warmth of the dawn air. Whatever this thing is, it was testing us. Next time, it won't just breathe and leave. I glance at Bramble and find him watching me, head tilted as if awaiting my plan. The memory of last night's snake venom and our hasty skill gain flickers through my mind. We do have one surprise ready.
Without wasting time, I set to fortifying our position. First, I retrieve the cup of snake venom from its high shelf and, using a strip of rag, carefully smear a thin layer of the glossy toxin onto a wooden spear shaft. I had sharpened and fire-hardened this extra spear yesterday – now it will serve as a hidden fang for whatever monster comes sniffing. Working quickly, I wedge the spear at an angle between two rocks in the cave floor, just behind the entrance. Its point juts outward through a gap in the thorn barrier like a scorpion's stinger, glistening with deadly venom. Bramble watches my actions with a solemn intensity.
With that trap set, we spend the rest of the early morning gathering a few more thick branches and reinforcing the barricade around the venom-laced spear, leaving just enough of an opening for a big creature to squeeze through – and get skewered in the attempt. My heart thrums steadily as we work, anticipation and dread mingling with each twist of vine I add to secure the branches. Bramble occasionally raises his head to sniff the breeze, as if sensing how close danger looms.
By afternoon, the jungle is oppressively still. Even the insects hush, as though the smaller creatures know a top predator is near. I force myself to chew some smoked bird meat for strength and urge Bramble to eat and drink as well. We'll need our energy. I check my weapons: my primary flint-tipped spear (distinct from the trap spear) is within arm's reach, and my stone hand-axe hangs at my side. I've also laid out a few fist-sized rocks near the cave mouth to use with my sling if needed. It's a small arsenal, but it will have to do.
The sun sets with agonizing slowness. Shadows lengthen, and my nerves tighten with each passing minute. As dusk falls, we take our positions. I crouch behind a boulder just a stride back from the entrance, spear in one hand, sling in the other. Bramble sits pressed against my hip, silent and focused. My heart is hammering. We've done all we can. Now we wait.
The jungle's din fades to nighttime hush. In the darkness, every sound is magnified. A distant shriek of a bird makes me flinch, grip tightening on my spear. Bramble's ears prick up. Then it comes: a familiar heavy huff…huff…snarl from beyond the tree line. A low, rumbling growl follows, the same pattern we heard last night, only now it's closing in fast. I swallow, tightening sweaty fingers around my spear. Stay calm. Lure it in.
Branches crack and foliage rustles just outside. I glimpse a massive dark shape moving between the tree trunks. Two amber eyes catch the flicker of our low fire and reflect with an eerie glow. The creature lets out a roar that rattles in my chest – a challenge and a promise of violence. Bramble issues a ferocious bark in return, but I snap my fingers softly and he falls quiet, remembering our plan.
The beast surges forward, coming into full view as it reaches our cave threshold. It's a bear-like monster, even larger than I envisioned: easily four meters tall when it rears onto hind legs, shoulders broad enough to brush the cave walls. Its fur is midnight black and matted with mud, and its maw gapes open to reveal a forest of dagger-long teeth, each one dripping saliva. I catch a glint of something white embedded in its hide – perhaps scars or spines, I'm not sure, and have no time to wonder.
It doesn't hesitate. With a guttural snarl, the giant bear lunges into the cave, crashing against our thorn barricade. The whole lattice of branches shudders violently. Thorns scrape across the beast's hide to little effect, but as it forces itself through, its front paw slams down right onto the angled spear we planted. There's a wet, meaty thunk. The creature lets out an ear-splitting roar of pain and rage as the poisoned tip punches into its foreleg. In its fury, it swipes blindly at the obstacle impaling it. Wood snaps like twigs – I hear our spear break under the onslaught, splinters clattering across the cave floor.
The bear barrels fully inside, knocking aside the remaining barricade with a single sweep of its massive arms. I dart backward, Bramble at my heels, drawing it in deeper. Even in the dim light, I see dark blood oozing from the puncture in its foreleg. Please let the venom work fast…
Enraged and wild-eyed, the beast swings its head side to side to locate us. Up close, it's even more terrifying: it has six limbs – four powerful legs and two quasi-arms tipped with oversized, hooked claws. And those claws… they're faintly glowing an unnatural electric blue. My mind barely has time to register that detail before the creature attacks.
It lunges forward and rears onto its hind legs mere meters from me, forced to hunch under the cave's ceiling – an opening I seize. I lunge in and thrust my spear with all my might into the creature's exposed underbelly. The flint tip punches deep. The beast howls as an eerie spray of blue sparks erupts from the wound instead of blood. I wrench the spear back, momentarily stunned by the crackling blue static dancing across its hide.
Angrier than ever, the bear-monster slams a clawed paw toward me. "Gah!" I throw myself aside, but not fast enough. A flash of blue arcs from its claws, like a crescent of crackling light. It slices through the space I occupied a heartbeat ago – and catches the trailing end of my left arm. White-hot pain blooms from shoulder to wrist. I bite back a scream as I tumble behind a rock outcrop, my stone axe falling from numb fingers. In the dim firelight, I see a long gash open along my forearm, blood streaming down to my palm. The axe's handle lies in two pieces; the creature's energy swipe sheared clean through it – and nearly through me.
Bramble barks furiously and lunges to draw the beast's attention, snapping at its flank. "Bramble, back!" I shout hoarsely, cradling my injured arm. He retreats just as the monster twists, swiping those lethal claws where my dog's head had been a split-second prior. That was too close.
The beast staggers suddenly, a weird hitch in its movement. It shakes its head, blinking its glowing eyes as if disoriented. Yes. The venom is coursing through it; I can see foam beginning to fleck its snarling mouth. It tries to roar but it comes out an odd, choked grunt. The massive creature sways, then drops to all six limbs, claws scrabbling at the cave floor.
This is our chance. With a desperate yell, I snatch up my broken axe head – essentially a sharp stone now – and lunge forward, aiming for its throat. Before I strike, the creature lets out one last furious bellow and swings a heavy paw at me. I throw myself flat, and the claws whoosh overhead, carving gouges into the stone wall. As I scramble up, I see the monster's eyes roll back, its massive body shuddering. The venom has done its work. With a thunderous crash, the great bear collapses onto its side, making the ground tremble. A series of violent spasms rack its body, foam bubbling from its jaws. Bramble and I retreat to a safe distance as the mighty creature gives a final, gurgling groan—and then lies still.
For a long moment, the only sound is my ragged breathing and the crackle of a few scattered twigs of our crushed fire. I realize I'm shaking from head to toe. "We… we did it," I whisper, hardly believing it. The venom, the trap – it actually worked. Bramble edges forward and sniffs at the carcass, then turns to me and gives a tentative wag of his tail.
A broken laugh bubbles out of my throat, half sob and half cheer. "You beautiful, resourceful mutt," I gasp, reaching for Bramble with my good arm. He bounds to me and I wrap him in an embrace, heedless of the blood on my hand or the tears I suddenly feel on my cheeks. Bramble licks my face enthusiastically, whining with relief. We hold each other amid the wreckage of our defense, a man and his dog triumphant over the impossible.
It's several minutes before I can compose myself. At last I pull away and ruffle Bramble's fur. He lets out a soft "woof," tail thumping against my knee. The cave is a mess of broken branches and churned dirt, smelling strongly of ozone, blood, and wet fur – but we are alive.
Pain flares along my left arm, reminding me of the wound. The cut is deep and still bleeding freely, my skin slick with red from elbow to wrist. I've lost a lot of blood. Grimacing, I stagger to the cave wall and quickly rinse the gash with water, then pack it with green cave moss. Green luminescence seeps from the moss as the healing sigils knit the tissue. The bleeding slows considerably, and I sag back, breathing hard. Not fully healed, but out of immediate danger.
Bramble noses my injured arm gently, sniffing the moss and the now faintly glowing wound. Then he turns and pads a few steps away, returning a moment later with something in his mouth. It's one of the shredded pieces of my shirt – likely torn in the melee. Good boy, he seems to say as he drops the cloth for me. I laugh weakly. "We'll bandage with that in a minute." He settles down next to me while I catch my breath.
My eyes drift to the fallen behemoth that nearly ended us. In the gloom, I notice its hulking frame has stopped twitching entirely. I cautiously retrieve a torch branch and light it from an ember, stepping closer. The bear's mouth hangs open, tongue lolling; its glassy eyes stare at nothing. Definitely dead.
Then I notice something faint beneath its charred, patchy fur – a subtle white glow. My heart skips. I lean in, holding the torch near. There, embedded just below the thick hide, is a large, irregular white stone, pulsing with inner light. Tiny white motes drift from it, dissolving into the air. My hands tremble again, but this time in sheer awe. This core likely holds enough advancement energy to… who knows? Increase our overall level, strengthen us significantly.
Carefully, I carve around the light with my knife. After some effort, I pry the core free – it's as big as my fist and laced with cracks that leak soft radiance. My head swims at the sight. Bramble nudges my leg, eyes fixed on the core as well. "Looks like our prize," I whisper. With my hands still shaking, I wrap the hefty core in a scrap of cloth and tuck it securely in my pack. We'll analyze and use it soon, but not while I'm half-delirious and the cave is a wreck.
As the adrenaline ebbs, a wave of fatigue nearly knocks me over. Dawn light creeps into the cave – we fought through the entire night into daybreak. No wonder every limb feels like lead.
I slump down next to Bramble, leaning against his solid warmth. He pants softly, eyes never leaving me. I rest a hand on his head. "We did it," I whisper, voice raw. One less monster to worry about. He gently nudges his snout under my chin in the closest thing to a hug a dog can give, and I can't help but smile as I scratch behind his ears.
The cave is a wreck – splintered wood, scorch marks, and pools of dark blood surrounding the enormous carcass. The stench of death already thickens the air. We can't rest long – there will be a mess to clean and likely more dangers soon. But for a moment, I allow myself to savor the victory.
Through the cave mouth, beyond the torn-up thorns, I catch a glimpse of the jungle canopy bathed in golden light – and on a far ridge beyond the trees, a thin column of smoke rising into the sky. My heart lurches. Could that be a signal from another human? Or just the tail end of a wildfire? I don't know. But seeing that wisp against the brightening sky reminds me that this world is bigger than our little cave.
Bramble follows my gaze, then looks back at me. I push myself upright, wincing at the ache in my arm (the moss did its work, but I'll need another round of healing soon). "We'll check that out someday," I promise softly, eyeing the distant smoke. "For now, let's just get through today." He tilts his head in agreement.
The monstrous guardian of this bluff is dead – and we're still here, tired, bloodied, but alive. Whatever new challenges await out there, we'll face them as we always do: together.