Karl Varn sat on a folding chair in the studio lot, the midday sun glaring off the asphalt, his half-eaten sandwich limp in his hand. Across from him, Lena, his stunt coordination partner, scrolled through her phone, her coffee cooling on the plastic table between them.
The air carried the familiar tang of dust and diesel, the backdrop to their work on low-budget action films. Karl shifted, the straps of his stunt harness biting into his shoulders and squinted at the hazy city skyline.
"Another gig lined up?" Lena asked, not looking up. Her voice was casual, but Karl caught the edge of worry. Jobs were drying up, and the industry was a mess.
He shrugged, picking at the crust of his sandwich. Another gig? Maybe. If I don't break my neck first.
"Dunno. Might take a week off. My back's screaming from that last fall." He stretched, wincing as his spine popped.
I'm 25, too young to feel this old. The thought lingered, a quiet jab at his choice to keep throwing himself off buildings for a paycheck.
Lena snorted. "You? Rest? I'll believe it when I see it."
She finally glanced up, her dark eyes narrowing. "You look like you're plotting something stupid again. Don't tell me you're gonna try that rooftop jump without a rig."
He smirked faintly, about to retort, when the ground heaved.
At first it was a low vibration, like a truck rumbling past. Then the vibration became a roar. The asphalt split, sharp cracks spiderwebbing beneath their feet. Lena's coffee cup toppled, splashing across her jeans.
"What the—" Lena grabbed the table, her phone clattering to the ground.
Karl's sandwich slid from his hand. His heart seized. Earthquake.
What the hell is happening? His mind raced, piecing together fragments of the scene. The sky outside the studio's shattered windows was wrong—too bright, streaked with veins of violet light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
His stunt-trained instincts screamed move, run—but his body froze, rooted by dread.
The sky darkened, not with clouds but with a ripple, like heat distortion over a desert road. A voice—not heard, but felt, deep in his skull—boomed through his thoughts
"You have been chosen. Awaken as a Lord."
It was cold, mechanical, yet heavy with purpose. Karl clutched his head, the words burning into his mind. What the hell is this? His vision blurred, and the world dissolved into light.
When Karl opened his eyes, he was no longer in the studio.
He stood in a clearing, surrounded by towering trees that stretched into a sky too vibrant, too green, to be Earth's. Their trunks were gnarled, some pulsing faintly with veins of light, others draped in vines that twitched like living things. The air was thick, humid, carrying scents of moss and something sharp, like ozone after a storm.
His hands trembled as he checked himself for injuries. No cuts, no bruises—just the familiar weight of his stunt harness, still clipped to his belt, and the clothes he'd been wearing: a worn jacket, jeans, and boots scuffed from years of tumbling.
He patted his pockets, half-expecting to find his phone, but instead his fingers brushed something else: a small pouch, heavy with unfamiliar weight. Inside were a desiccated seed, no bigger than a walnut, and fifteen glowing orbs, each the size of a marble, pulsing with soft green light.
What are these? They felt warm, alive, like they were humming with energy. Essence Crystals. The word came unbidden, as if planted in his mind. Harvested from the wilderness or beasts.
He stared at them, his stuntman's logic grappling with the impossible. Fuel for what? And why do I know that?
The trees loomed, their canopies blotting out the sun, casting dappled shadows that seemed to shift unnaturally. So many trees, and I don't recognize a single one.
He turned slowly, scanning the clearing. No Lena. No studio lot. No city. Just him, alone, in a place that felt alive in a way that made his skin crawl.
This is wrong. This is all wrong.
The voice returned, not in his ears but in his bones.
"You are a Lord of the Eternal Wilderness.
Plant your Territory Seed.
Build your sanctuary.
Survive the trials.
Seven days of protection remain."
He scanned the clearing again, noticing a faint shimmer in the air, like a heat haze forming a dome around him.
A timer appeared in his vision, like a heads-up display from a video game:
6 days, 23 hours, 58 minutes.
It ticked down, relentless.
A Lord? What does that even mean? I'm not a leader. I'm just a guy who jumps off buildings for a living.
He sat on a moss-covered rock, the ground cool and damp beneath him. The seed in his hand felt heavier than it should, its surface cracked and dry.
This is supposed to grow something. A sanctuary?
He pressed it against the soil, half-expecting it to sprout instantly, like the voice promised. Nothing happened. He pushed harder, grinding it into the dirt. Still nothing.
Come on, do something!
His fingers trembled as he dug a shallow hole, placing the seed inside and covering it with loose earth. He waited, staring at the spot, willing it to move, to grow, to give him some sign this wasn't a fever dream.
Minutes passed. The seed remained inert.
Why isn't it working? Did I do it wrong? He dug it back up, cradling the withered orb.
Its surface was unchanged—
no roots,
no sprouts.
No… no, no, no.
Fear surged. His chest tightened until he couldn't breathe. It's damaged. It has to be.