# Scene 1 - from Viewpoint Character: Corin Faelwyn's point of view
Corin Faelwyn regains consciousness with his cheek mashed into warm, gritty soil. The taste of copper and dust on his tongue. His mouth is a blasted wasteland, gums tacked down with dryness, lips split and crusted with something more than blood. When he blinks, twin suns hammer light through his eyelids—one white, one the color of rusted iron. His first thought: hungover. Second thought: this hangover brought friends.
A low groan leaks from his throat as he tries to move. He's sprawled in a shallow depression, limbs tangled as if some joker rearranged him while he slept. Muscles tremble with each twitch. His right shoulder is numb; his left hip screams every time he shifts. Sweat slicks his skin, but the air bites with the chill of late autumn. His brain isn't working right. The world is all wrong. None of this is his dingy apartment, his rustbucket Hyundai, his crapped-out mattress with the broken coil stabbing him in the back.
He lifts his head an inch. The light stabs deeper. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces them open again, this time squinting through the migraine-lace haze. In front of him: crimson dirt, packed hard and dry, not a trace of grass or trash. Beyond, the edge of a forest—except the trees are wrong. Thin, rubbery trunks with bark the color of old plums; leaves in dense canopies of bruised violet and indigo, veined with silver and gold. Even the shadows are split, doubling in opposite directions from the two suns.
He rolls to his back, wincing. The sky is a smudge of amber and teal, clouds slashed in sharp angles, like claw marks on a windshield. The air tastes different, too: sweet decay undercut by a tang of metal, as if someone jammed a penny up each nostril. He takes a careful breath and holds it until his chest aches.
Memory comes back in shards. Screech of tires. Blinding headlights. The flick of a windshield wiper in panic. Then nothing.
He is not on the highway. He is not even on Earth.
The realization slams into him harder than any bumper. Corin sits up fast, ignoring the way his body threatens to mutiny. "No. No, no, no," he mutters, voice raw. "This isn't the drop-off. Wrong address. Return to sender."
The world does not oblige.
He staggers upright, knees buckling as he gets his first proper look. The clearing is the size of a football field, surrounded by those impossible trees. No birds, no traffic, no familiar sounds—just a soft, endless rustle, like cloth being torn very slowly. He's wearing the same jeans and work shirt from the accident—except the shirt is ripped up one side, exposing his torso and the faint red groove where the seatbelt must have nearly sliced him in two. There's a sick ache at the back of his skull. When he probes it with shaking fingers, he finds a crusted gash, not deep, but enough to explain the ringing in his ears.
Nothing in his pockets except a battered phone, smashed to glass and plastic splinters. He squeezes it until the shards bite his palm, then hurls it as hard as he can. It arcs and lands with a soft plop in the dirt, not even worth the catharsis.
Corin scans the horizon. One sun is already dipping, the other lagging behind like a stubborn child. The temperature is dropping. His mouth is sandpaper; his tongue tastes like a dead mouse. He needs water. Shelter. Answers.
His legs threaten collapse at each step, but he staggers to the tree line. The forest is dense, the canopy blotting out much of the sickly light. He presses a palm against a trunk. The bark flexes under his touch, damp and slightly tacky, like the skin of a ripe fruit. It's cool here, darker, but every inch hums with energy—scuttling, skittering, the sense of eyes tracking him from every direction.
He whispers, "It's fine. Just a walk in the park. Postman always gets through." The joke tastes like broken teeth.
Under the trees, the dirt transitions to a spongy mat of moss and shredded leaves. The air is heavier, every breath thick with plant rot and ozone. Every sound carries farther. His footfalls are a disgrace, clumsy and loud. If anything is hunting, he's already served himself up.
He keeps moving, searching for anything resembling water. The trees crowd closer, and soon he's forced to duck and squeeze between trunks. In places the bark is mottled with glowing lichen, casting an eerie blue-white light. The ground slopes gently downward, and Corin, following a deliveryman's instinct for the path of least resistance, lets himself be drawn forward.
Time distorts. Minutes could be hours, or the other way around. He's losing track. Fatigue blurs his edges. At one point he trips, almost cracks his head on a root, and stays down for a good three minutes, shivering in the moss, too tired to even curse.
Somewhere deeper in the trees, something howls—a high, ululating shriek, echoed by smaller, nastier voices. Corin's spine locks, cold sweat popping along his back. He's heard enough animal attacks on the job—territorial dogs, angry geese, once even a feral raccoon with a grudge. But this? This is nothing from any suburb he's ever delivered to.
He stumbles to his feet and runs. He's not fast, but fear kicks up enough adrenaline to keep his limbs moving. He claws through a curtain of hanging lichen and bursts into another clearing.
This one is smaller, the center dominated by a jagged pile of gray stone. At first, he thinks it's a natural outcrop, but the shapes are too regular. Ruins. The remains of a low wall, half-buried in red soil. Something once built by hands—or claws, or tentacles, he doesn't want to consider the options.
He circles the ruin, searching. There's a depression behind the stones, and when he approaches, he finds a pool. Not water, exactly—something more viscous, tinged violet, with a faint oily sheen. He cups his hands and dips them in. The stuff clings to his skin, slick and cold. He hesitates, then brings it to his lips, desperate.
The flavor is impossible: like chewing on sugar and tinfoil, with a smoky aftertaste that coats his tongue. He spits, but the urge to drink overrides caution. Three handfuls go down before his stomach clenches and rebels. He drops to his knees, retching, but nothing comes up. The stuff burns going down, but the dizziness clears a little. His limbs tremble less.
He sits back, panting. "Hydration achieved," he croaks. "Now, about that shelter."
He looks at the ruin. The stones are rough, but there's a partial overhang, and the pit behind is deep enough to conceal a crouching body. Not much, but better than freezing to death on open ground.
Corin crawls in, tucks his back against the cold stone, and tries to collect his thoughts. He runs a mental checklist: body mostly intact, minor head wound, no major bleeding. He's lost, alone, and probably not even human anymore, for all he knows. Or maybe everything around him is alien and he's the only thing still from home.
The sky outside is shading darker. The dual shadows stretch, bleed into each other. Stars are appearing, but not in any constellation he recognizes.
He closes his eyes and inhales the weird, electric air. Every bone in his body aches, but it's a clean, honest pain—proof that he's not dead. Not yet.
Corin opens his eyes and surveys the clearing, alert for any movement. If anything wants him, it'll have to come through this mess of broken stone and bad attitude. He rests his head back against the rock and lets the exhaustion take him.
This delivery came with death, and I missed the invoice. Typical.
He's already dreaming of headlamps and asphalt when the darkness thickens, and the night truly begins.
# Scene 2 - from Viewpoint Character: Corin Faelwyn's point of view
He's jerked awake by a noise—a pulse, almost like a klaxon, but quieter, more insistent. A blue-white flash burns through his eyelids. For a second, he thinks he's back on the highway, a cop's lights spinning in his rearview, but when he snaps upright, he's still in the ruin, still caked with red dirt, still drenched in cold sweat.
Except now the air in front of his face is filled with letters.
At first, he flinches, blinking and squinting, but the letters are still there. Rows of them, suspended and slightly translucent, jittering at the edge of his vision no matter where he looks.
[SUPREME CELESTIAL REINCARNATION SYSTEM INITIALIZING.]
[Host: Corin Faelwyn.]
[Race: Human.]
[Class: None.]
[Level: 1.]
[Attributes: Strength 3, Agility 4, Intelligence 6, Wisdom 3, Charisma 2.]
[Please await full configuration.]
A groan rattles in his throat. He rubs his eyes hard. When he opens them, the text is undiminished, now shifting through a sequence of intrusive prompts.
[Welcome, New Host. Please remain calm.]
[System Diagnostics: Complete.]
[Congratulations! You have been reborn in the Realm of Astrayis.]
[Primary Quest: SURVIVE THE NIGHT.]
He glares at the glowing interface. "You've gotta be kidding me."
The text responds as if it can hear him:
[Your skepticism is understandable.]
[However, your current predicament is neither hallucination nor digital artifact.]
[You are currently in the Kheltan Wilds. Hostile entities detected.]
[Probability of Death before dawn: 83%.]
Corin stares, waiting for the words to flicker out. When they don't, he scrapes a palm down his face and leans back against the stones. Maybe he really did bash his skull in. Maybe this is just what dying brains do—dream up video game tutorials as you bleed out in a ditch.
He closes his eyes and waits for the text to fade. It doesn't.
"You got a manual?" he mutters. "Or am I supposed to survive by reading the fine print?"
[Please consult the System Menu for guidance.]
[Warning: Inactivity may result in fatal consequences.]
[Nearby Threat: LEVEL 2.9 Predatory Class – Howler Hounds.]
A low, predatory howl breaks the air, distant but moving closer. Corin's heart jumps into overdrive.
He stands, legs wobbling. The interface follows, always shifting into his line of sight. "This is not how you sell a product," he says. "You want a five-star review? Try a refund."
He paces the clearing, reading and rereading the display. The twin suns are barely above the horizon now, the larger one bleeding out red into the canopy, the smaller hissing an icy white through the trees. Every shadow has doubled, stretched out in opposite directions. Corin's own silhouette is split, torn between two versions of himself, both equally lost.
He swipes a hand through the interface, half-expecting it to disappear, but the words smear and re-form, clinging to the air like stubborn cigarette smoke.
[For further instructions, activate the SYSTEM MENU by vocal command or mental intent.]
Corin closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath, and thinks, System Menu.
[OPTIONS:]
[1. Status Screen]
[2. Quest Log]
[3. Skills]
[4. Inventory]
[5. Logout (Unavailable)]
[Please select.]
He snorts. "Figures."
He mentally selects Status Screen. A new pane pops up, overloaded with numbers and meaningless abbreviations. Every stat is pitifully low; even the charisma is insultingly honest. Under "Racial Bonuses" there's a blank space, as if the system is already disappointed in him.
He toggles to Quest Log.
[Primary Quest: SURVIVE THE NIGHT.]
[Objective: Remain alive until sunrise.]
[Reward: SYSTEM POINTS, Basic Survival Package, optional Subquests.]
He laughs, a dry and ugly sound. "Basic Survival Package. Let me guess—water bottle and a coupon for bandages."
The interface doesn't bother to reply. The next pane, Skills, is even sadder. Only one entry, [Observe], listed as "Locked: User too weak." He slaps the stone wall in frustration, leaving a smudge of dirt and blood.
A shiver lances through him as another howl echoes closer, the sound vibrating through the trunks. He peers through the shadows, half-expecting to see eyes glowing in the dark. Nothing yet, but the night has teeth.
Corin moves to the edge of the ruins, peering into the undergrowth. "So, you're a reincarnation system, huh? Anyone else get your little motivational speeches, or am I special?"
[Multiple reincarnated entities detected across Astrayis.]
[Host's system variant is Supreme Celestial Tier: Unique.]
[Most previous hosts have perished within the first night.]
[Statistical projection: Host likely to survive due to increased adaptability and situational awareness.]
[Abrupt environmental change and psychological trauma may cause continued disbelief. System recommends immediate action.]
The words sting. "So what, I'm cannon fodder with an attitude problem?"
[Correction: Host classified as high-value anomaly.]
[Potential for exponential growth, provided Host ceases self-defeating behavior.]
Corin stares at the System, weighing whether to argue. Instead, he scans the clearing, looking for anything to turn into a weapon. There's a fist-sized chunk of stone. He picks it up, tests the heft. Not much, but better than fingernails.
He slips along the side of the ruined wall, keeping low. The interface slides along with him, always clear, always taunting. In the dark, his dual shadows keep pace, split and doubled. He remembers his last day alive—sweating behind the wheel, snapping at dispatch on the Bluetooth, thinking tomorrow would be better if he could just get through today. Now there is no tomorrow unless he earns it.
He's halfway around the ruin when a branch snaps in the woods. The System flashes a warning.
[Predator detected: Range 30 meters.]
[Host should seek concealment or prepare for physical engagement.]
[Survival odds decrease with further delay.]
He ducks back behind the stone pile, clutching his rock. His hands are shaking again, but the fear sharpens everything. He waits, every breath a countdown.
A shape moves at the edge of the trees—a beast, bigger than a wolf, covered in slick fur the color of wet ash. Its eyes are wrong: six of them, layered in a triangle, all focused on him. Its teeth are long and serrated, meant for sawing through flesh, not tearing.
Corin's mind goes blank for a second, then races.
He glances at the interface. "You got any cheat codes? Or is this 'git gud' the old-fashioned way?"
[Host is encouraged to improvise.]
[Utilizing environmental advantages increases survival probability.]
[Reminder: Primary Quest is active.]
The creature snarls, pacing the perimeter, sniffing the air. Corin presses himself flat against the stone, breath locked in his chest. Every muscle twitches with the urge to bolt, but he holds, listening for a window, an opening, anything.
A gust of wind blows a curtain of lichen from the top of the stones. The beast jerks, distracted for half a heartbeat. Corin takes it, launches the stone with all the force his ruined arm can muster. It smacks the thing in the snout, not enough to hurt, but enough to startle. The creature yelps and rears back. Corin uses the moment to scramble away from the ruin, darting for the darker tangle of trees.
He can hear the thing crash after him, jaws clicking, breath ragged. He runs, body screaming, lungs raw, but he doesn't look back.
The System's display shudders with every impact, words blurring as he barrels downhill through the forest. He dodges branches, leaps roots, nearly wipes out on a patch of slimy moss, but keeps moving, driven by blind terror.
A log blocks his path; he throws himself over it, hits the ground hard, rolls and scrambles upright. The beast is close now—he can hear it snapping at his heels. He dives for a narrow gap between two trees, hoping the monster is too big to follow.
It isn't. The thing crashes through, scraping fur and flesh, but it slows a fraction. Corin grabs a fallen branch and swings it wild. It connects with a wet thwack. The beast howls, shakes its head, and lunges.
Corin throws the stick, ducks, and sprints for a break in the trees where faint moonlight pours through. He bursts into another clearing, this one bordered by a drop-off, a shallow ravine filled with tangled underbrush.
The System flashes:
[Jump recommended. Landing risk: Moderate.]
[Predator closing. Fatal risk: Severe.]
Corin doesn't hesitate. He sprints and jumps, body stretched out and uselessly flailing. The air whips past, then the ground rushes up to meet him. He lands in a heap, rolls, and slams into a bush that breaks his fall with a thousand tiny stings. The pain is agony, but he's alive.
Above him, the beast snarls from the rim, unwilling to follow.
Corin sprawls in the undergrowth, panting, cursing, every inch of skin shredded and burning. He can't move. He doesn't want to. But the System's interface hovers overhead, faintly triumphant.
[Quest Progress: 40%]
[Survive the night: In Progress.]
He closes his eyes and lets the cold seep into his bones. The sky above is a ragged tapestry of new stars, stranger than anything he's ever known. Two shadows curl up beside him—one the man he was, one the man he's becoming.
Corin drags in a breath, still hating the System, still hating the world, but now, for the first time, he wants to see what happens next.
# Scene 3 - from Viewpoint Character: Corin Faelwyn's point of view
The cold stabs through him before the pain in his body even registers. At first, it's only a numbing haze, but as the night thickens, it grows teeth. Every inch of Corin's skin is raw, scraped open by thorns and the ragged bite of wind. The undergrowth offers no warmth, only more places for the damp to settle in. He balls himself up, hugging his knees tight, using the sharpness of his own misery to anchor himself.
The System's interface flickers overhead, blue-white and uncaring.
[WARNING: Core temperature dropping. Immediate shelter recommended.]
"Thanks for the tip," he mutters, jaw already chattering.
A hundred unfamiliar stars slice the night. None of them belong to the sky he remembers. Somewhere behind, the faint glow of the twin suns is only a memory, replaced by a darkness so total it seems to press in from every side. But the world isn't silent. The howls begin again, closer than before. This time, a second and a third voice join the first—higher, sharper, overlapping in a way that makes his guts twist.
Corin drags himself upright. Every joint resists, but terror overrides discomfort. The ravine is shallower here, but the climb up is a slog, mud sucking at his boots. When he hits the top, he's already lightheaded, but he keeps moving, using the sounds behind him as motivation. Each footstep is a silent prayer for more distance, more time.
[Predator proximity: 80 meters.]
[Predator proximity: 70 meters.]
[Predator proximity: 60 meters.]
He's not even sure if the numbers mean anything—maybe it's a game, maybe it's a final joke—but the way the System ticks them down, steady and merciless, is enough to keep him moving.
He crashes through the trees, hands out to keep from splitting his face open on the trunks. The shadows here are thicker than before, patches of deeper blackness that seem to crawl along the ground. At one point, he blunders through a nest of something, and a hundred tiny creatures skitter up his legs, biting and squealing. He kicks them off, barely registering the new scrapes, more concerned with what's closing in.
The howls break into a full-on hunting song—first one, then the others, a pack calling each other, triangulating, closing the trap.
[Predator proximity: 40 meters.]
[Predator proximity: 35 meters.]
He runs until he can't. Until his lungs are flaming and his heart is trying to punch out of his ribcage. He stumbles into a clearing, barely larger than a living room. There's a toppled tree at the center, the trunk hollowed by rot and time. Corin drops to his knees and crawls inside without thinking, dragging his battered body deep into the gap.
Inside, it stinks of fungus and something worse—old blood, maybe. He wedges himself as far in as possible, curling tight, making himself as small as he can.
He doesn't have to wait long.
The first of the beasts arrives minutes later, silent as smoke. It circles the log, claws ticking against the wood. Through a ragged knot in the trunk, Corin gets a look: like a wolf if you fed it poison and bad dreams, a snout packed with teeth too long for its mouth, six black eyes set in a ring, each one blinking out of sync. Its fur is patchy, slick with some kind of dark fluid. The eyes find him instantly, all six focusing on the knot-hole.
He clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming.
The second beast joins the first. They snarl at each other, then both turn to the trunk, sniffing, pawing, testing the weight. The wood cracks and shudders, but the log holds. For now.
Corin's breath comes in tiny, desperate pulls. The world telescopes down to the tunnel of his own fear. He glances at the System's display, which has shrunk into a small corner of his vision.
[Predator proximity: 3 meters.]
[Predator proximity: 2 meters.]
[Predator proximity: 1 meter.]
He tries to think, but his brain is a whirlpool. The only thing that cuts through is the System, calm and patient and completely unphased by imminent death.
[Skill Unlock Available: BASIC PERCEPTION.]
[Would you like to activate?]
He doesn't hesitate. YES.
[Skill: BASIC PERCEPTION activated.]
[Effect: Heightened awareness of immediate threats and environmental cues.]
Instantly, the world shifts. Sounds become hyperreal—the scrape of claws on bark, the wet panting of jaws, the soft crunch of moss under shifting weight. He can feel the vibrations through the wood, sense the rhythm of the predators' movements as they circle, probing for weakness.
He closes his eyes, breathing through the terror, letting the information settle into a pattern. One beast is heavier, slower, more confident. The other is nervous, darting, eager to impress or prove itself. They take turns pawing at the log, sometimes testing from opposite sides. Corin senses the moment when one decides to attack in earnest; the sudden shift in posture, the gathering of muscles, the intake of breath.
He braces himself against the inside of the trunk, pushing with all his strength as the beast crashes into the wood. The log rolls, only a little, but enough to throw the creature off balance. It yelps, recovers, tries again. This time, the impact splinters the bark, but not all the way through. The second beast howls, frustrated, and Corin gets the sense they're communicating.
The log is failing. He can feel it in the fibers.
He looks around the interior, desperate for a plan. The only objects are chunks of old wood, spongy and slick, and handfuls of rotted leaves. Not enough for a weapon. Not enough for a distraction. He's trapped.
Unless—
The inside wall of the trunk is thinner on one side. With the enhanced awareness still blazing, Corin remembers how dry rot works, how pressure from the inside can pop bark like a can of Pillsbury dough. He shifts his position, draws his knees up, and kicks with everything he has.
The wood gives, but not enough.
He tries again. The System is counting down in his head, the proximity warnings now replaced by a single, urgent bar that flashes red.
He kicks a third time, and the wall bursts outward, showering the night with flakes of mold and splinters. Corin scrambles through the hole as the beasts slam into the trunk from behind, their heads too big to follow.
He's back in the open, but the creatures are right behind, bounding over the fallen tree. He doesn't have speed, but he has distance, and with the System feeding him real-time data—angles, vectors, the tiniest shifts in the ground—he manages to stay a step ahead, weaving between obstacles, using every trick from a lifetime of city alleys and last-second shortcuts.
He can hear their rage, the frustration in their snarls. He uses it, drawing them into a narrow gully where the footing is bad and the walls are steep.
He turns at the last second, feints right, then dives left. The lead beast follows too fast, hits a patch of slick moss, and tumbles down the slope, taking its companion with it. Corin doesn't stop to watch—he runs until his legs buckle, then crawls, then finally collapses in a mess of mud and leaves.
The night is quiet again, but the adrenaline won't let him rest.
The System's interface floats overhead, smug in its completion.
[Primary Quest: SURVIVE THE NIGHT – COMPLETE.]
[Reward: 20 SYSTEM POINTS, Basic Survival Package Unlocked.]
[Optional Subquest: Evade Predatory Threats – COMPLETE.]
[Reward: Skill Upgrade Option Available.]
Corin lies there, shaking and panting, arms wrapped around his chest as if to keep his guts from spilling out. Every nerve is on fire, but he's alive.
Alive in a world that wants him dead. Alive, with nothing but a sarcastic AI and his own stubbornness.
He rolls onto his back, stares up at the new sky, and laughs until the sound hurts.
"Well," he says to the void, "at least the customer feedback is prompt."
The System doesn't answer, but the stars seem to flicker in reply.
He's not going back. Not ever. Might as well start living like it.