The word Control was a lifeline. It was the only thing that kept the sheer, impossible terror of his situation from overwhelming Elias. He was in a world of cubes, a world that defied every law of physics he had ever studied, yet his architect's mind instinctively sought the governing principle.
He was standing in the Cherry Grove Biome, a place of gentle, sloping hills and trees that looked like they were perpetually blooming. The air was thick with the scent of sweet blossoms, a stark contrast to the stale, dusty air of his apartment. He was no longer cold; the sun, a massive, square orb high above, radiated a pleasant warmth.
He forced himself to apply the Block Weaver's Sense—the strange, innate knowledge that had flooded his mind during the transition.
Rule One: Everything is a block.
He crouched, running his hand over the grass. It was a perfect, seamless texture, yet he knew, with absolute certainty, that it was composed of countless individual, cubic units. He looked at his own hand, then at the trunk of the nearest cherry tree. The trunk was a stack of dark wood blocks, each one a perfect meter on a side.
Rule Two: Resources are finite, but repeatable.
He needed a tool. He needed shelter. He needed to prove this wasn't a hallucination.
He walked up to the tree and, remembering the countless hours he'd spent in front of a screen, he focused his will. He didn't just punch the tree; he applied pressure at a specific point, using the strength of his desperation.
The first impact was a dull, heavy thud that jarred his shoulder. The wood was impossibly hard. He pulled back, his knuckles stinging. This isn't a game mechanic; this is a physical reality.
He tried again, and again, channeling his frustration and fear into a focused, rhythmic assault. He was no longer punching wood; he was attacking the structure of his own failure. He was breaking down the problem into its smallest, most manageable unit.
Finally, on the twentieth strike, a crack appeared. The wood at the point of impact began to shimmer, to pixelate, until with a sharp, pop that sounded like a vacuum sealing, the bottom block of the trunk vanished. It didn't fall to the ground. Instead, a cubic icon of dark wood zipped through the air and settled with a faint, mental click into his awareness.
One Cherry Log.
He stared at his hand. The wood was gone, yet the resource was there. He had literally created something from nothing. The thrill of mastery was immediate and intoxicating. This world respected his effort. This world gave him control.
He spent the next hour working with a focused intensity he hadn't felt since before the collapse. He harvested three more logs, watching the rest of the tree dissolve into a shower of pink leaves and a few saplings. Using the Block Weaver's Sense, he quickly converted the logs into planks, the planks into a crafting table, and the table into a permanent fixture.
The sight of the finished Crafting Table—a complex, perfectly formed object created from raw materials in seconds—was the most beautiful piece of architecture he had ever seen. It was the antithesis of the Aethelred Tower; it was instant, perfect, and utterly reliable.
He fashioned a wooden pickaxe, then a wooden sword. He was now armed. He was now prepared.
Rule Three: The Transition.
He needed to get back. The sun, a massive square orb, was beginning its slow descent. The light was turning from gold to an ominous orange. Night was coming, and with it, the mobs he knew would appear.
He needed to test the most critical rule: World-Hopping.
He closed his eyes and focused on his apartment. The cold. The smell of dust. The chair.
Nothing.
He focused on the blinding white light of the transition. The crystalline hum.
Nothing.
He worked himself into a frenzy, pacing the small clearing, the fear of being trapped here, of being killed by a creature he knew only as a line of code, becoming unbearable.
Clara. I need to get back for Clara.
He stopped. The thought was a sudden, sharp clarity in the chaos. He wasn't focusing on the place or the mechanism. He was focusing on the Anchor—the desperate, overwhelming need to return to his responsibility.
He focused on the Music Box. The simple, wooden box on his bedside table, the one that played the waltz he could no longer fully remember. The physical manifestation of his guilt and his love.
The cold returned.
It was the cold of the void, the cold of pure data. The crystalline hum started low, a deep, resonant frequency that vibrated in his teeth. The air around him began to shimmer, the perfect geometry of the Cherry Grove blurring at the edges.
He didn't fight it. He let the force pull him. The pain was immediate and absolute, a blinding flash of white that lasted an eternity and a fraction of a second.
He gasped, stumbling backward and collapsing onto the floor of his apartment. The cold linoleum was a welcome shock. The clock on his monitor read 2:18 AM. One minute had passed.
He was back. He was whole.
He looked down at his hand. Clutched tightly in his fist was the small, square Cherry Log he had harvested. It was real. The power was real.
A terrifying, triumphant smile stretched across Elias's face. He had found the trigger: The Transition was not an escape, but an act of desperate return to his real-world responsibility.
He looked at the log, then at the monitor. He had a resource. He had a way to get money. He had a way to save Clara.
But as the initial rush of victory faded, a sharp, cold emptiness settled in his mind. He felt a sudden, profound confusion. He tried to recall the name of the doctor who had first treated Clara after the collapse. The kind, older man with the thick glasses and the calming voice.
The name was gone.
Not just forgotten, but erased. A blank, echoing space where a critical piece of information should have been. He could remember the doctor's glasses, his voice, the color of his tie, but the name—the specific, unique identifier—was simply not there.
The Memory Entropy.
The power was not free. The Exchange had begun.
He had traded a piece of his sister's memory for a single block of wood. Elias Vance, the architect, knew he had just signed a contract with the devil. He had found control, but at the cost of the one thing he was fighting to preserve.
End of Chapter 2
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