The scalding tears of relief slowly dried on his grimy cheeks, leaving streaks of salt over layers of dirt and dried blood. For a long time, Devon simply sat there, at the edge of the clear stream, clutching the flint and steel in his hands as if they were the very heart of his new world. They were cold, solid, and, most importantly, real. They were a promise.
With a soft groan, he forced himself to move. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, and his head still throbbed with nauseating pain. But now, the pain was no longer just suffering; it was a reminder. A reminder of what he had endured and what he had to do to avoid experiencing it again. The first step was to clean himself, a simple act of reclaiming at least a small piece of the humanity that had been stolen from him.
He stripped off the remnants of his torn jacket and filthy t-shirt, wincing as the fabric clung to his drying wounds. Carefully, he stepped into the shallow stream. The cold was so sharp it made him gasp, but the pain was welcome. It was a clean pain, not the dirty pain of a monster's teeth or the sting of giant leeches. He washed his face, arms, and chest, scrubbing away the blood and the disgusting blue fluid from his skin. He paused to examine the swollen, inflamed circular wound on his chest where the leech had been attached. The mark was a gruesome badge from his first day in this world. He cleaned it as best he could, hissing as the cold water touched the broken skin.
Emerging from the water, shivering violently from the cold and lingering shock, his next goal became crystal clear in his clearing mind: fire. Fire meant warmth, light, and protection. The lavender sky above him was beginning to dim, and the twin moons—one silver, one jade—were starting to shine brighter, their silent gaze feeling less threatening now, more like mute witnesses.
He began to gather what he needed. He found dry grasses in a small meadow, collecting them into a fragile nest. He snapped off the smallest, driest twigs he could find from the silver birch trees nearby. Finally, he located a piece of wood large enough that appeared to be weathered and dry. The process was slow and agonizing. Each time he bent over, his bruised ribs felt like they would crack.
Sitting cross-legged on the damp earth, with his meager pile of fuel, Devon began to work. He placed the nest of dry grass on a flat piece of bark. With hands still trembling from exhaustion and cold, he held the dark grey flint in one hand and the rusted piece of steel in the other. He took a deep breath, then struck the two together.
A spark. A pathetic little spark shot out and died in the damp air. He tried again. Spark. Clank. Nothing. Frustration began to creep in, cold and sharp as the night wind that was starting to blow. "Come on," he whispered hoarsely, his voice sounding foreign. He cast his mind back to the survival videos he had once watched in his old world, a casual hobby that was now his only hope. The right angle, the right force, bone-dry tinder.
He adjusted his grip, focusing every last bit of his concentration. Spark. Spark. SKRAAAT! This time, several larger sparks leapt into the nest of dry grass. A thin, hesitant wisp of smoke began to curl upwards. Devon held his breath, not daring to move. He leaned forward and blew gently, so gently, as he had seen in the videos. The smoke thickened. A tiny orange ember began to glow in the heart of the grass nest.
He blew again, harder now, channeling all his hope and desperation into a single breath. The orange ember pulsed, then suddenly, with a soft hiss, a tiny, flickering flame was born in his hands. It worked.
A ragged, almost hysterical laugh escaped his lips. He carefully transferred the newborn flame to his pile of twigs, tending it, feeding it with larger pieces of wood until it grew into a steady, crackling fire. Its golden light danced, pushing back the darkness and the sickly phosphorescence of the monster-haunted woods in the distance. For the first time, he felt safe.
It was then that his stomach growled loudly, a rude, protesting rumble that dragged him back to a more pressing reality. He hadn't eaten since... he couldn't remember. His mother's burnt toast felt like a memory from another life.
His eyes fell on the stream, shimmering in the firelight. Food. He looked around, his brain working in a new, more primal way. He needed a tool. The wooden stick he had gathered earlier. The rectangular piece of steel. Using cordage he made from tough bark fibers and some strips he tore from the bottom of his jeans, he lashed the piece of steel securely to the end of a sturdy, straight branch. The result was crude, but functional. A spear.
Standing at the edge of the stream once more, his makeshift spear in hand, Devon felt like a ridiculous caricature of a prehistoric hunter. His aching body screamed in protest as he stepped into the icy water again. He stood still, his eyes narrowed, trying to see through the rippling surface. He could see them—small, silver fish, darting like flashes of light.
His first attempt was a miserable failure. He lunged awkwardly, and his spear only struck the gravel on the stream bed with a thud, sending the fish scattering in all directions. He tried again, and again. Each time, he was too slow, too clumsy. The gnawing hunger and the pain in his body fueled his frustration. He almost gave up, almost retreated back to the warmth of his fire with an empty stomach.
But then he remembered those glowing red eyes, their low growls, and the certainty of impending death. Failure here didn't mean a bad grade. Failure here meant starvation, weakness, and ultimately, death. With renewed determination, he forced himself to calm down. He slowed his breathing, ignored the cold and the pain. He became an observer once more, but this time, his prey wasn't words on a page, but the life that moved within the water.
He spotted a fish that was slightly larger, slightly slower, hiding in the shadow of a rock. He didn't aim for the fish itself. He aimed for the spot beneath it, compensating for the refraction of the water—another scientific fact dredged up from the darkest corner of his mind. He held his breath and lunged in one swift, desperate motion.
There was a vibration along the length of the wooden shaft. He had it. With a choked cry of triumph, he raised his spear. A silver fish wriggled on the end, its scales glittering like jewels in the light of the twin moons.
Sitting before his fire a short while later, he roasted his catch over the embers. The smell of cooking fish filled the air, the most delicious aroma he had ever smelled in his life. When it was cooked through, he devoured it greedily, straight from the wooden skewer, not caring about the tiny bones or the slightly strange taste, a little sweeter than any fish he had ever known. It was food. It was strength. It was victory.
With his stomach full for the first time and the warmth of the fire enveloping him, overwhelming exhaustion began to creep in. Yet, before he allowed himself to rest, there was one more thing. His trembling hand reached into the back pocket of his still-damp jeans. Carefully, he pulled out the only object that remained from his world: a slightly crumpled and water-stained photograph.
He gently dried it near the fire. The faces emerged from the glossy paper. Kaito, his arm slung around Devon's shoulder, grinning his usual wide grin. Rina, standing slightly to the side, offering a rare, small smile, her glasses perched slightly crooked on her nose. The photo had been taken just weeks ago at a school festival. A world of laughter, exams, and ordinary promises.
The longing hit him like a physical wave, so intense it made him gasp. He missed his mother, missed the smell of her hastily made instant coffee. He missed his father. He missed his family. He missed his friends with an ache so acute it felt like a fresh wound. He hated this place. He hated the giant trees, the lavender sky, and the monsters that lurked in the shadows. He wanted to go home.
Tears began to flow again, this time tears of pure, unadulterated grief. He clutched the photo, sobs wracking his tired body. He wanted to go back. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare. But deep down, he knew the truth. He had fallen. He had crossed the interdimensional veil. There was no going back.
He stared at the photo for a long time, letting the grief wash over him, cleanse him. Sorrow wouldn't solve anything. Clinging to the ghosts of a lost life would only keep him weak, keep him a victim. The story he yearned for had found him, and to survive, he couldn't be a character from an old book.
With a steady hand, he reached out the photo towards the fire. He hesitated for a moment, his thumb caressing Rina's smiling face. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
He let it go.
The paper curled in the heat, then the edges blackened before bursting into bright orange flame. The faces of his friends distorted, then vanished into ash. Devon wiped away his tears for the last time. He wasn't burning the memories. He was burning the anchor that held him back.
He stared into the fire, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. The pain was still there. The fear hadn't vanished, only been pushed into a deeper corner. But now, there was something else inside him. Something as hard and cold as the steel on the end of his spear, and as hot as the fire he had created with his own hands.