The fourth day in this strange world came and went with no sun to mark its passage, only the slow shifting of the fungal glow outside Harold's window.
The hours bled together as he worked, sweat and blood mingling on his rough stone desk.
The capybara-beast lay still beneath his hands, its chest rising and falling with a strained rhythm.
Harold had repaired it once.
Then undone his own work.
Then repaired it again.
Then undone it once more.
Over and over, until his fingers cramped and his eyes blurred.
He tested every tool the system offered, fumbling with thread and cloth until his hands no longer trembled at the motions.
Each time he sutured, a quiet chime rang in his ears.
Each time he bandaged, another spark of progress ticked upward.
And when the poor beast finally gave up its life, too drained of strength to endure another trial, Harold knew it hadn't been for nothing.
The glowing interface appeared, sharp and undeniable:
Skill Leveled Up: Suturing → Level 1.
Skill Leveled Up: Bandaging → Level 1.
Harold slumped back onto the stool, every muscle screaming.
His breath came ragged, but his lips curled into a weary smile.
"I did it," he whispered. "Not perfect—but I did it."
For a moment, he simply stared at the creature's lifeless body.
Its sacrifice pressed heavy on his conscience.
He hadn't wanted to kill again.
And yet, he had.
The truth of this system was cruel: growth demanded blood.
Still, the reward was real.
"Status," Harold said, the word coming out hoarse.
At once, a window unfurled in his vision, translucent but steady.
[Skill Progression Window]
Diagnosis: Lv. 0 (3.7 / 10)
Debridement: Lv. 0 (1.5 / 10)
Splinting: Lv. 0 (0.8 / 10)
Suturing: Lv. 1 (0.1 / 100)
Bandaging: Lv. 1 (0.1 / 100)
Harold blinked.
His brows knit together.
"Wait—ten times?"
It was there in plain sight.
Suturing and Bandaging had reached their first milestone, but now the requirements had multiplied.
One hundred points each for the next level, and worse yet the experience he gained towards the end... was the value he'd gain if he'd been working on a corpse instead.
He let out a humorless laugh.
"So that's the game, huh? The more I learn, the harder you push me."
He rubbed his temples, exhaustion crashing into him.
Then his gaze flicked back to the glowing window.
Both leveled skills carried a faint symbol beside their names—a small, silver notch like the first rung of a ladder.
Curious, Harold summoned the suturing needle again.
It shimmered into his palm.
And for the first time, it wasn't the bent, rust-eaten tool he'd struggled with before.
The curve was smoother, the metal dull but uncorroded.
The thread wasn't pristine, but it no longer frayed at a touch.
His eyes widened.
The bandages, too, appeared slightly changed.
Instead of reeking strips of stained cloth, they were rough but clean, smelling faintly of earth instead of mold, as if they had been used previously but at least washed roughly.
"Better tools," Harold murmured. "Every level makes the tools better."
He turned the needle between his fingers, wonder and relief warring in his chest.
The difference wasn't dramatic—he wasn't holding stainless steel or hospital-grade gauze—but it was enough.
The system had rewarded him with more than numbers.
It had given him the means to practice better, to harm less.
For a fleeting moment, Harold felt something he hadn't since arriving here.
Hope.
He leaned back on the stool, staring up at the cracked stone ceiling.
Memories of St. Mary's drifted unbidden into his mind: doctors with shining scalpels, nurses with crisp gloves, sutures that slid like silk through flesh.
He would never match them, not here, not with phantom tools conjured from a world he barely understood.
But maybe… maybe he could become something different.
Something this world needed.
The system's demands were steep.
But in return, it was building him.
Shaping him.
He let his hand fall on the beast's cooling flank.
"Thank you," he whispered. "I'll carry this forward."
He stood, groaning as his knees cracked, and dragged the body outside.
The fungal glow bathed him as he dug another shallow grave, hands blistering against the stone-hard soil.
When the beast was covered, he marked the mound with a rock and carved a single line into it:
Patient Two
He stepped back, brushing dirt from his hands.
Each grave was another weight on his conscience, but also another milestone.
A reminder of the oath he had forged here.
"I won't waste this," Harold said softly.
Back inside, he sat before the floating desk, tools fading back into ether.
His stomach growled he had hardly realized thanks to his excitement but days now had already passed and he'd yet to eat or drink anything at all.
If he wasnt careful his new life in this alien world would come to an end.
So deciding he'd done enough for now, he decided to leave his refuge behind, at least in search of water, food he could live without for a week or two longer, based on survival knowledge but water, that was crucial.
~
The fungal forest loomed as Harold stepped beyond the lip of his cave.
The air damp and heavy in the morning air, thick with the scent of moss and rotting meat.
Strange spores drived lazily through the sky the source no doubt those mountainous mushrooms off in the distance, with a shudder visible in the air pushing these spores on like a heartbeat.
His throat burned.
The dryness of days without water scraped at him with every swallow.
He could ignore hunger a while longer, but thirst—it gnawed at him mercilessly.
"Water first," he muttered, steadying himself against a stone. "One step at a time."
The faint trickle of sound guided him.
Somewhere distant, a stream burbled.
His ears strained, and he stumbled forward, weaving between fungus-thick roots.
But the forest was not quiet.
Insects the size of sparrows buzzed overhead, their wings clicking like bone chimes.
Somewhere deeper, a guttural roar echoed, low and hungry.
Harold froze, the sound thrumming through his chest.
That wasn't the squeak of rats or the squeals of pig-beasts.
It was something larger.
He crouched low, creeping closer.
And then he saw it.
Two creatures—giants—taller than full grown men, were locked in brutal combat across a clearing.
The first was a nightmare of muscle and fang, a lizard-like beast as tall as a horse, its scales jagged like broken glass, tail thrashing with every movement.
Its maw dripped with saliva, snapping at anything within reach.
The second was no less terrifying: a hulking insectoid monstrosity, its carapace gleaming with fungal light, its mantis-like claws slicing the air in arcs that could shear stone. It hissed, the sound like steam escaping from a kettle, and lunged.
The clash shook the earth.
Claws scraped scales, sending sparks into the fungal gloom.
The lizard's tail slammed into the insect's flank with a bone-crunching crack, toppling mushrooms the size of trees.
The insect shrieked and drove both forelimbs into the reptile's chest, green ichor spraying across the ground.
Harold's stomach clenched.
He wanted to look away, but he couldn't.