Morning didn't arrive with the golden warmth of sunlight, but with a subtle shift in the light itself. The pale lavender sky above the forest canopy brightened imperceptibly, making the long shadows beneath the trees feel a little less menacing. Devon woke not to the light, but to a familiar and dreadful sensation: movement. Something light and rhythmic was pressing against his stomach, shifting with a living warmth.
No. Not again.
A cold wave of pure terror, a residue of the memory of the disgusting giant leeches, coursed through him. For a moment, he was paralyzed, his eyes squeezed shut, bracing himself for another revolting battle. He could feel his heart hammering against his bruised ribs. But there was no sensation of cold suction on his skin. No putrid stench. Only a gentle warmth and a faint vibration, like a purr.
Summoning a forced courage, Devon opened his eyes. What he saw made him gasp. Sitting comfortably on his stomach was a small creature, no bigger than his two hands clasped together. It resembled a rabbit, but with the distinct strangeness of this world. Its fur wasn't brown or white, but a deep mossy green, making it almost blend seamlessly with the forest floor. It had four long ears that twitched independently, two pointing forward and two back, constantly scanning for sound. Its eyes were large, round, and the color of liquid honey. The creature was contentedly chewing on a blade of grass, its nose twitching rapidly, utterly oblivious to the terror it had just inspired.
Devon simply stared, a bizarre mixture of relief and wonder paralyzing his adrenaline. This wasn't a monster. It wasn't a threat. It was just… an animal. A peaceful little animal in a world that had shown him the definition of cruelty. With a slow movement, he raised his hand. The honey-eyed rabbit stopped chewing, all four ears swiveling to focus on him. Devon gently nudged the creature off his stomach. The rabbit hopped down nimbly, regarded him for a moment with quiet curiosity, then darted away into the undergrowth, disappearing without a sound.
"You almost gave me a heart attack, little guy," Devon whispered to himself, his voice raspy from sleep and disuse. He pushed himself into a sitting position, and his entire body immediately protested with a symphony of sharp and dull aches. His ribs throbbed, the muscles in his legs and back were stiff and inflamed, and his head still felt like there was a drum being pounded inside it. He glanced down at the circular wound on his chest. The leech bite was swollen and a purplish-red around the edges, an ugly badge of his brutal initiation into this world.
His campfire had burned down to a pile of embers glowing faintly beneath a layer of white ash. First priority. With a motion that was now feeling a little more familiar, he added a few dry twigs and coaxed the embers back to life, nursing the small flame until it grew into a steady, crackling fire. Its warmth felt like an unimaginable luxury.
While he waited for his body to thaw, he limped over to the stream. The clear, cold water felt invigorating on his grimy face and hands. He drank deeply, feeling the water clear some of the fog from his mind. He saw his reflection in the still surface of the water: a stranger with matted, dark hair caked with blood and mud, hollow eyes ringed with dark circles, and an expression that was older and harder than he remembered. The ordinary teenage face had been eroded, replaced by the face of a survivor.
He knew he couldn't stay here. This small meadow, though peaceful, was too exposed. Too vulnerable. He needed shelter. A place where his back wasn't exposed to the shadows, where he could rest without being jolted awake by every rustle. After finishing the remains of last night's fish—it tasted cold and oily, but it was fuel—he made his decision.
Carefully, he extinguished the fire, dousing it with water from the stream and stirring the ashes until they were cold. He would leave no trace. That was another lesson from this world: never assume you are alone. He stowed the precious flint and steel in his pocket, making sure they were dry. He gripped his makeshift spear, the wooden shaft feeling solid and reassuring in his hand. The weapon was crude, but it was his. It was a symbol of this new chapter in his life.
He began to walk, leaving the small meadow behind and venturing deeper into the forest, which now seemed less forbidding. He had no set destination, no map to follow. His only guide was a newfound instinct: seek high ground, seek rock. A place where nature had provided protection.
The forest was a terrifying marvel. Silver birch trees towered overhead, their bark shimmering like metal in the lavender light. Conifers with steel-blue needles released a sharp, clean scent of pine into the air. The forest floor was carpeted with a thick layer of rust-colored moss that felt springy beneath his tattered shoes. Occasionally, he heard strange sounds—melodic whistles unlike any bird he'd ever heard, or rhythmic clicking noises in the distance that made him freeze in place, spear at the ready, until the sounds faded away.
He moved with the wariness of prey. Every step was deliberate. His eyes were constantly scanning his surroundings, from the shadows between the trees to the branches overhead. He was an observer, but his focus had shifted from the pages of books to the vital details of survival. He noted the types of berries—the bright red ones he avoided, the deep purple ones looked more promising, but he didn't dare risk it. He saw strange tracks in the damp earth—some large and heavy, others small and cloven-hoofed.
His thoughts were his only companions. Okay, Devon, what's the plan? he asked himself, his voice only audible inside his head. Find a cave. Or at least a niche in a cliff face. Something to protect you from the wind and whatever hunts at night. Has to be near water, but not too close. It felt like playing the most realistic, most deadly MMORPG in the world, where there was no respawn button.
For hours he walked. The pain in his body became a constant hum in the background of his consciousness. Hunger began to gnaw at his stomach again. Despair, his old nemesis, began to whisper in his mind. This is pointless. You're just walking in circles. You'll exhaust yourself, and something will find you while you sleep.
He stopped, leaning against a silver birch, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He almost succumbed to the whisper. But then he remembered the fire he had created with his own hands. He remembered the triumph when his spear had struck the fish. He remembered the ashes of the photo he had burned—a promise to himself. He wouldn't die here.
"Shut up," he muttered softly, startling himself with the vehemence in his voice.
With renewed determination, he pressed on. And that's when he saw it. Through a break in the trees, something that wasn't a tree. Something gray and solid. A wall of rock. Hope, so intense it felt almost painful, surged through him. He quickened his pace, ignoring the protests of his weary muscles.
It was a low rock ridge, maybe ten meters high, jutting out of the forest floor like the earth's spine. He followed it, his keen eyes scanning every crack and crevice. Most were too small or too exposed. But then, hidden behind a curtain of vines with deep blue, heart-shaped leaves, he found it. A dark opening in the rock face, just wide enough for him to enter. A cave.
His heart pounded, this time not with fear, but with anticipation. He listened at the entrance, holding his breath. There was only the sound of dripping water from within. He picked up a rock the size of his fist and tossed it into the darkness. The rock thudded, then silence. No growls, no sounds of startled movement.
Holding his spear out in front of him, he stepped inside. The air inside was cool and smelled of damp stone and earth. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The cave wasn't deep, maybe only five meters. The floor was relatively flat, and the ceiling was high enough for him to stand upright. At the back, a slow seep of water dripped from the rock ceiling, forming a small, clear pool on the floor. Clean water.
It was perfect. More than perfect. It was a palace.
He walked back to the entrance and looked out. From here, he had a good view of the forest below, while he himself was almost completely concealed. This was a fortress. A sanctuary. Home.
The exhaustion he had been fighting for hours finally overwhelmed him. His legs gave out, and he slumped to the cold stone floor, leaning against the wall. He laid his spear down beside him. He was safe. For now.
He sat there for a long time, just staring out at the strange, beautiful, and deadly forest. He had walked through hell and come out on the other side. He had found fire, food, water, and now, shelter. He had met the most basic requirements for survival. The prologue had been written in blood and terror, but here, in the mouth of his silent cave, he felt a quiet certainty. His first chapter, the chapter of survival, had truly begun.
Night began to fall once more, and the twin moons—silver and jade—began to appear between the branches of the trees. Devon didn't feel the same terror as the night before. He knew the wolf packs and other horrors were still out there. But tonight, he wouldn't be sleeping in the open. Tonight, he had a wall of rock at his back.
He gazed into the darkness of his cave. Tomorrow, he would make a fire in here. He would gather more wood. He would hunt again. He would explore the surrounding area. He would make this place his own. The story he craved had found him, and it was far harsher and more painful than he had ever imagined. But as he sat there, in the silence of his new home, Devon realized something startling. Amidst the fear and the pain, there was a flicker of another emotion taking root: he had never felt more alive.