The forest was alive in a way Damian hadn't expected. Not with birds or the hum of insects, but with the quiet menace of twisted growth and gnarled roots that seemed to writhe beneath his feet. The air smelled damp, earthy, and faintly of rot, as though the land itself had been bruised and left to fester.
Damian pushed forward, gripping the strap of his bag with his right hand. His left arm was gone, leaving a ghost of balance that made every step feel precarious. The missing limb was a constant reminder of the rift's corruption and the failure of the boy who had once worn this body.
"This is insane," he muttered under his breath, weaving between towering trees whose branches clawed at the sky. "I have no clue where I'm going. No clue what I'm doing. And—great—no combat experience."
Twisted wildlife scuttled and slithered in the shadows. Eyes glimmered in the undergrowth, and for a moment Damian froze, heart hammering. He wanted to run but his legs were as untrained as his skills. His breaths came fast, shallow, and panicked.
He ran.
Falling into a shallow ditch, he scrambled up, mud coating his clothes and scraping against his skin. Every branch he caught, every root he tripped over, reminded him how unprepared he was. Fear gnawed at him like a living thing, feeding on every misstep, every imagined predator.
Hours—or maybe minutes; time had lost meaning—passed in a blur. Landmarks appeared: a bent tree that split into two trunks, a jagged rock shaped like a fallen crown, a stream that whispered as it coiled around boulders. Damian forced himself to memorize each one, repeating them silently.
"This is a mini deadland," he thought grimly, glancing over his shoulder at shadows that didn't belong. "If I make one mistake… I die. And no one finds me."
Finally, he reached the mountain ledge. The climb had left him shaking, mud and blood streaking his clothes, muscles screaming in protest. And there it was: the tree. Its bark was pale silver, its branches laden with fruit that shimmered faintly in the overcast light.
He approached cautiously. His right hand stretched out, trembling, toward the nearest fruit. It pulsed faintly, as though alive. He remembered the book—the fruit was a boon for the original MC. Something about it had broken limits, allowed faster growth, removed caps. Damian swallowed hard.
No second thoughts. He plucked the fruit.
It burned as soon as his fingers touched it. Pain seared through his arm, up his shoulder, into his chest. He fell to his knees, gasping. The fruit disintegrated in his hands with a soft pop, leaving only a faint, lingering glow in the air.
Pain tore through him in waves, every nerve alive with fire. He gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. He could feel it: his body being reforged, his muscles knitting, his limbs tightening and lengthening. His missing left arm throbbed, a phantom ache that gradually filled with substance.
"Come on… come on…" Damian wheezed, teeth clenched as the agony peaked. His body writhed, mind straining to endure the transformation. For a moment, he thought he might pass out.
Then silence.
The world steadied. Damian opened his eyes. The pain was gone. Every muscle, every joint, every breath was perfectly in control. He flexed his new left hand—fully formed, perfectly intact—and could feel raw power thrumming through him. His body was no longer weak, no longer malnourished, no longer the thirteen-year-old boy who had stumbled into the forest. He was stronger, faster, and… awakened.
His stomach growled faintly, but he barely noticed. He stood, stretching, testing the newfound fluidity of movement. Even the way he breathed felt different—deeper, controlled, more efficient.
And then he smiled. Not triumphantly, not arrogantly, but quietly. This was the start of something. A step toward survival, toward mastery. The forest didn't seem so hostile now. He could handle it.
He took one last look at the now-empty branch where the fruit had been, glowing faintly before fading completely.
"This… this was worth it," he whispered.
Stone and earth blurred around him as he blinked, the forest's dim light filtering through the canopy. His body felt… alive. Too alive. Every nerve, every muscle, every fiber thrummed with energy he hadn't known he possessed. His left arm was whole again, flexing easily, perfectly balanced against the right.
He sat up slowly, wincing as his limbs adjusted to the newfound strength. For a moment, he couldn't move fast enough to test it properly; every step felt like a revelation. His mind, too, felt clearer—sharper, more precise. Thoughts that had been muddled and panicked just hours ago now lined up in crisp, logical sequences.
Damian reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the screen lit up with a jumble of notifications, missed calls, and messages from friends and classmates long forgotten. Hours… maybe more than a day had passed. He had lost track of time entirely while the fruit did its work.
"Great," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't even know how long I was out." His eyes drifted to the mountain ledge behind him. The tree was gone, leaving only a faint shimmer in the branches. That shimmer was gone too. Whatever had just happened… it was permanent.
He stood, stretching methodically, testing his legs and arms. Every movement was effortless, controlled. He felt stronger than he had ever imagined.
There was work to do. The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, but he remembered the book—the original MC's mission had included training in combat arts and acquiring a weapon. His left arm had been restored, his body transformed, but he was still far from ready.
First: the combat art. Damian's thoughts sharpened as he considered the options. Mind's Eye, Transparent Void… No, Mind's Eye. It suited him. Perception, assimilation, concentration—everything he needed to compensate for his lack of martial experience. That would be his first step toward bridging the gap between the boy who had stumbled into the forest and the one who could survive Arcon Academy.
Second: a weapon. Something that could anchor his combat style and work seamlessly with the skill he would gain. And it had to be obtainable. He knew the general location from the novel—an abandoned training ground near the forest's edge, half-ruined, often overlooked.
He swallowed, flexing both hands, feeling the full weight of his renewed body. "No more running," he whispered to himself. "No more hiding. Time to start actually training."
Damian set off again, descending the mountain ledge carefully. Roots and rocks that had previously tripped him now felt manageable; his senses were honed enough to anticipate missteps. Every step brought him closer to where his first combat art awaited—and perhaps, a weapon to finally complete the first part of his journey.
The forest was quiet now, eerily so. He could hear the slight rustle of leaves, the distant drip of water, and the faint scurrying of creatures that didn't dare approach him anymore. The fear that had accompanied every step of the journey into the forest had dulled to something cold, distant. Damian felt it, acknowledged it, but it no longer controlled him.
For the first time since waking in this world, he felt… prepared. Not invincible. Not even particularly skilled yet. But ready to begin.
And as he moved, thoughts kept creeping back to the novel. He had read only three volumes. The story was ongoing, uncertain, and the original MC's path had been harsh and unforgiving. But Damian had changed the rules. He was no longer bound by the limitations of the boy who had died in the rift.
He smiled faintly to himself. "Let's see how far I can take this."