The absence of dreams was a luxury Devon hadn't realized until now. He awoke not to a jolt of terror or a sudden stab of pain, but to a subtle shift in the quality of the silence within his cave. The fire from the night before had become a cold, silvery heap of ash, and the only light was the pale lavender glow of dawn filtering through the curtain of blue vines at the entrance. For the first time, he woke up in a place he could call his own—a sturdy fortress of stone. This fragile sense of security felt more real than the warmth of any mana fire.
He sat up, and his body immediately protested with a groan of stiff muscles and ribs that still felt like shattered glass. But the pain felt different now. No longer an unrelenting assault, but a familiar background hum, a constant reminder of the price he had paid for this new day. He stared at the circular wound on his chest. The swelling had subsided slightly, but the edges were an ugly, deep purple. It was his map now, the first mark on the alien territory of his own body.
His first routine was water. He limped to the back of the cave, to the seep that dripped with a soothing rhythm. He cupped his hands and drank deeply, the cold, clean water tasting like a sacrament. He splashed his face, feeling the gritty sensation of dirt and dried blood washing away. In the small pool on the cave floor, he saw the reflection of a stranger staring back at him: watchful eyes, a more determined jawline, and a mess of black hair that looked more like a bird's nest than a teenager's. The face was that of a survivor, and Devon was beginning to accept it as his own.
Having completed his morning rituals, a sharp hunger began to gnaw at his stomach. The leftover fish from the night before wouldn't be enough. He needed to hunt. Gripping his makeshift spear—a crude combination of straight wood and rusted steel—he stepped out of the safety of his cave. The morning air was crisp and clean, filled with the scent of steel pine and damp earth. The forest, with its shimmering silver birch trees and rust-colored moss, felt almost welcoming in the morning light. But Devon was no longer fooled by its beauty. He knew that behind every tree could lurk teeth and claws.
He moved with forced silence, trying to mimic the way the creatures of the forest he'd seen moved. He placed his feet carefully, avoiding dry twigs, his eyes constantly scanning, his ears catching every rustle of leaves. He was an observer learning to apply his knowledge.
And then he saw it. In a small clearing, a creature similar to the honey-eyed rabbit from the day before was grazing. But this one was different. From its forehead sprouted two small horns that curved like silver birch branches, and its fur had patches of blue amidst the mossy green. "Horned rabbit," Devon whispered to himself. Food.
A cold, sharp adrenaline flooded him. This wasn't the blind panic of being chased; this was the focus of a hunter. He crouched behind a bush, his heart pounding. He remembered all the films and documentaries he had ever watched. Move against the wind, move when the prey isn't looking, strike quickly and decisively.
He began to creep forward, his body low to the ground. Ten meters. Eight. The rabbit raised its head, its four ears twitching in all directions. Devon froze, his breath caught in his throat. The rabbit resumed grazing. Five meters. He could see the small muscles moving beneath its skin. He raised his spear slowly, the steel tip glinting faintly. Now.
He lunged forward, an awkward burst of energy. The spear flew from his hand. But he had miscalculated. He had been too focused on the creature and had forgotten the ground beneath him. His foot caught on a hidden root, sending him stumbling forward. The spear missed by a full meter, hitting the ground with a dull thud. The rabbit, in the blink of an eye, darted into the woods with impossible speed, disappearing like a ghost of green and blue.
Devon stood there, panting, staring at the ground where his prey had just been. A hot frustration burned in his chest. "Useless," he growled, kicking the tree root that had tripped him. He was useless at this. In his old world, his biggest challenges had been algebra problems or history essays. Here, his failure meant an empty stomach. He picked up his spear, the cold feel of the metal a mockery in his hand.
As he stood there in defeat, his gaze inadvertently lifted upward. Among the canopy of the strange trees, his attention was drawn to one tree in particular. It wasn't particularly tall, its trunk was a smooth, dark gray, and its branches were laden with round fruits about the size of his fist. The fruits had a deep, wine-red skin, and from a distance, looked remarkably like apples.
A new hope, more cautious this time, flickered to life. If he couldn't catch his food, maybe he could pick it. He approached the tree warily, examining the fruits closely. There were no signs of insect bites or birds pecking. Was that a good sign or a bad one?
There was no way to know without trying. Taking risks was the new currency in this world. He slung his spear across his back and began to climb. The smooth bark made it difficult to get a foothold, and each time he pulled himself up, his bruised ribs sent a jolt of sharp pain through him. He gritted his teeth and kept climbing, focusing on the prize above.
He reached the first branch and pulled himself up. He sat there for a moment, catching his breath, then reached out and plucked one of the fruits. The skin felt smooth and slightly waxy in his hand. He turned it over, looking for any blemishes. With a pounding heart, he raised it to his nose. It smelled faint, slightly sweet with a strange, tangy undertone, unlike anything he had ever smelled before.
"Alright... here goes," he whispered. He steeled himself and took a bite.
The flavor that exploded in his mouth was startling. Not sweet like an apple, nor tart. It tasted… green. Like the essence of freshly cut grass and rain, with a hint of sweetness at the end. The flesh was crisp and incredibly juicy, instantly quenching a thirst he hadn't realized he had. "Not bad," he said after swallowing the first bite. It was strange, but it was food. It was a victory.
He settled onto the sturdy branch, leaning against the trunk, and casually ate the fruit, letting the juice drip down his chin. For a moment, just a moment, he felt at peace. The warm lavender sun on his skin, his stomach filling, and the relative safety of the treetop. He felt like he could rest.
It was then that a loud rustling from the bushes below sent every muscle in his body tensing. It wasn't the rustling of a small creature. It was heavy. Powerful. Devon froze, the half-eaten fruit still in his hand. He pressed himself against the trunk, trying to make himself as small as possible.
From behind a massive thicket of copper-colored leaves, a creature stepped out, and Devon's breath hitched in his throat. It was a bear. But like all things in this world, it had a horrifying twist. It was the size of a small car, with muscles that rippled beneath its thick, matted black fur. Its back was covered in a layer of the same glowing moss that infested the monster woods, making it look like a living, walking mound of earth. Its eyes were small, black, and glinted with a cold, ancient intelligence.
But it wasn't the bear itself that chilled Devon's blood. It was what it was dragging in its massive jaws. Hanging limp and broken, was the body of a wolf—the exact same kind of wolf that had hunted him. The dull black fur, the strange extra joints in its legs, and even from this distance, Devon could see the obsidian shard teeth now rendered helpless. The monster from his worst nightmares, the apex predator that had sent him running for his life, was now nothing more than a dead piece of meat in the mouth of something bigger and stronger.
The bear paid Devon no attention whatsoever. It dragged the wolf carcass into the small clearing, and with a wet, sickening tearing sound, began to feed. Devon could only watch, paralyzed by a strange mixture of terror and enlightenment. He would have been dead if he was down there. One swipe of those massive claws, and his story would have ended.
He looked at the bear, a creature of undeniable raw power, and he looked at the dead wolf, a creature that relied on speed and pack tactics. And then he looked at himself—a scrawny teenager who had survived by luck and desperate wit.
A cold, clear realization washed over him, extinguishing the last embers of contentment from the fruit he had just eaten. Determination alone wasn't enough. The will to survive wouldn't stop claws or fangs. He had survived the wolves because he had run into the river. He had survived the leeches because he had woken up in time. He had found food today not because of skill, but because he had happened to look up after failing miserably as a hunter. Luck. It had all been luck. And luck, he knew, eventually ran out.
This world wasn't a story where the weak hero won with pure cleverness. This world was a brutal ecosystem. The bear wasn't evil. It was just strong. The wolf wasn't evil. It was just less strong. It was the simplest and most important lesson he had ever learned.
He had to change. Not just his mindset. He had to fundamentally change himself.
"I have to learn," he whispered, the words like a vow in the still air. "I have to practice."
The thoughts began to form, no longer as vague hopes, but as concrete plans. He needed to practice with his spear every day, not just throwing it at rabbits, but thrusting, slashing, making it an extension of his arm. He needed to train his body, pushing it past the pain, building strength in his arms and legs, not to run marathons, but to climb faster, move quieter, and fight if he had to. He needed to become a student of this forest, learning every fruit, every track, every sound, until he could read it like the pages of his favorite fantasy books.
He could no longer just be a victim hiding. He couldn't forever be the prey running away. If he wanted to truly survive in this world, he had to become something more. He looked at the bear below, the undeniable predator. He didn't want to be a monster. But he had to become a predator in his own right.
He stayed in the tree until the bear had finished eating and lumbered back into the woods, leaving behind the gruesome remains of the wolf.