The forest didn't care about Einz. Not at first.
He sat where he'd hidden, shaking, trying to force his lungs to obey, trying to convince himself he was still in one piece. His hands were streaked with dirt, his clothes torn, his mind spinning. The first monster had passed, but the echo of it lingered. Every shadow seemed thicker, every sound sharper.
Einz didn't move far that day. Just a few steps from where he'd appeared, testing the ash beneath his sandals, feeling the strange weight of the air. Being alive meant he had to survive. That was all he could focus on.
Then time passed.
Months, maybe years—he had no way to count. This place didn't follow the rules of clocks or calendars. Days and nights blurred. Hunger was constant, but he adapted. He remembered to drink when he could, to taste roots, to chew on leaves that didn't immediately try to kill him. His hands grew calloused. His knees scraped and healed again, over and over, like the forest itself was testing his persistence.
He learned to move without being seen. Not consciously. His body did it. Space itself seemed to fold him into the world, dulling his presence, muting the sound of his breathing. He didn't question it. In a place like this, asking why was a waste of energy. Survival was instinct, and instinct was enough.
Einz didn't wander much. Not in the sense of exploration. He measured his range in steps, in shallow circles, testing which areas were safe, which were silent, which could hold him without drawing attention. Most things didn't see him. He didn't see most things. And that was how he survived.
Sometimes, Einz thought of the city he'd left behind. The streets he'd walked, the smells of fresh bread and smoke, the voices he'd recognized since childhood. The Hole had swallowed everything—family, friends, buildings—and left him. He remembered being torn apart in that void and stitched back together by something he didn't understand. That memory was still clear too.
Some days were monotonous. He traced the slow drip of condensation from the twisted trees into his hands, counting droplets for no reason. He picked through ash for roots, tested which leaves were bitter but edible, which soil held moisture, which shadows were safe to rest in. Every tiny action was a calculation of life versus death.
Other days, this hell reminded him it had a mind of its own. A branch snapped when nothing was there. A shadow flickered just outside his vision. The mist thickened suddenly, cold and heavy, pressing against his skin. The air seemed to whisper. He never understood the whispers. He never tried. He just moved faster, smaller, quieter.
Einz had countless brushes with death, though he never kept track. Sharp claws that clicked too close behind him, unseen mouths snapping in the dark, air that shifted like it wanted to crush him—all of it became routine. He couldn't name the things he escaped. He didn't try. Every narrow escape was a quiet reminder: this place didn't forgive mistakes.
Time blurred further. Weeks, months, maybe years. He survived because he learned the rhythm: eat, rest, observe, avoid. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat again.
Einz stopped wondering if he would ever leave. This world didn't belong to him. He belonged to it. Shadows, ash, mist, silence—that was his world now.
Then, one day, the impossible appeared again.
The Hole.
But unlike the last one, it wasn't roaring. It didn't rip the air. It didn't pull the sky or tear the earth. It just… existed. A perfect circle etched into the ash, subtle, unnerving, like it had been waiting for him all this time.
Einz froze. Every instinct screamed to run. Every nerve in his body screamed to flee. His gut twisted. His fingers itched to turn and run. But he had nowhere else to go. Nothing left to do but take the risk.
The surface rippled faintly as he stared at it. Silent. Still. Terrible in its promise.
He took a step closer. Then another. His heart hammered. His chest burned. The faint hum in his bones whispered to him, urging him forward.
Einz didn't know what awaited him on the other side. He didn't know if he'd return to his world, or to another world entirely, or if he'd be torn apart like before.
But everything he'd survived—the months, the years, the silence, the hunger, the fear—led to this.
He swallowed the hesitation.
And dived in.