[Class updated]
The screens vanished.
Immediately, I felt it — a shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Something stirred within me. A presence.
Familiar. Like the same ancient force I'd felt from the Thing.
And then I noticed it.
In my hand: a chisel.
The handle was smooth wood, the blade a solid matte silver with a gentle bevel. It caught the light like a whisper. As I turned it over, something strange settled into me.
It felt like it existed — and somehow didn't.
As if it was both a tool… and a promise.
But that wasn't the only change.
Something surged inside me. Not panic — purpose.
My fingers trembled. My thoughts raced.
Not with fear… but with anticipation.
I needed to create.
My stomach growled, snapping me back. Right. Priorities.
I returned to my camp and ate the berries I'd gathered earlier. Sour, earthy — like pine sap mixed with citrus — but they didn't make me sick.
Good enough.
Now full, I turned my attention back to the chisel.
Time to work.
I picked up a thick stick, roughly forearm-length. I wanted to shape it into a tool handle — nothing complex. Just something mine.
No hammer? No problem.
I found a smaller branch and used it to gently tap the chisel.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Flakes of bark peeled away, exposing pale wood underneath.
With every cut, every chip, something inside me calmed.
The noise of the world — the confusion, the uncertainty — dulled with each movement.
For the first time since waking here… I could breathe.
As the forest around me faded into background noise, my focus narrowed.
The lines, the curves — I could see the finished handle before it existed.
I wasn't just carving wood. I was shaping possibility.
*
Finished.
I held it up toward the sun — a crude handle, uneven in places. Not impressive.
But to me, it was art. A reflection of rhythm. Of form. Of intent.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was mine.
A passing woman slowed as she walked by. Her voice was light, curious.
"Did you make that yourself?"
I looked up and smiled. "Yeah. I'm planning to turn it into a hammer — so I can make even better tools."
She gave me a nod. "Good on ya, lassie."
Then walked off, a hint of pride in her step. As if progress, no matter how small, mattered.
I watched her go, then glanced down at the handle in my hand.
Yeah. This felt right.
While working, I'd taken a few breaks. Just long enough to study the others — to count heads and watch which paths people had chosen.
Roughly 120 of us had woken up here.
About 29 were women. The rest men.
Most of the women — maybe twenty — had chosen Pathfinder or Builder. Only a few went Fighter.
The men, though…
Eighty had gone Fighter. Nine took Pathfinder.
And only two of us — including me — had chosen Builder.
I caught a glimpse of the other Builder once. He carried a different tool than I did. I didn't know what it was.
But the strangest thing was the weapons.
Despite "Fighter" being a basic class, only one person had a short sword — the standard-issue weapon from the screen.
Everyone else had something else: axes, spears, daggers, even a bow.
Which meant one of two things:
Either they had unlocked subclasses instantly…
Or some of those weapons were useless.
Only time would tell.
Night came fast.
Campfires flickered in the clearing. Some people laughed, others swapped stories.
A few already had groups forming.
But I was tired.
Satisfied.
Ready.
I curled up inside my pine-leaf tent, the handle resting near my side.
Tomorrow, I'd turn it into something more.
But for tonight…
I slept