Kevin woke with a groan. Every muscle ached. His ribs felt like someone had stomped on them repeatedly, and his skin was a patchwork of cuts and bruises. Mud, blood, and swamp stench clung to him like a second skin.
"Fuck… fuck me," he muttered, pushing himself upright. "Last night… that was hell. And I survived. Somehow. Goddammit, I'm still alive."
The Box panel flickered. New tasks:
Build a semi-permanent shelter.
Hunt or trap food for the next two days.
Explore the swamp perimeter for resources.
Kevin stared at the glowing panel like it was a death sentence. "Oh, fuck… you've got to be kidding me. This is way worse than any fucking survival game I've played."
He scavenged for sticks, branches, vines, and mud. He remembered watching some survival streams online — barely — and tried to replicate what he'd seen.
"Okay… lean-to… branches… mud… shit, I don't even know if this'll hold…"
By nightfall, he had a crude shelter, just enough to keep him off the swamp floor and out of reach of the smaller predators. It wasn't safe. Not at all. But it was better than crawling into mud again.
Kevin had nothing to eat. Not even a proper weapon. He grabbed a sharp rock and fashioned it into a crude knife.
He spotted a small, rat-sized vermin crawling along the swamp floor. Heart pounding, he swung the knife, barely grazing it. The creature squealed and scrambled, but Kevin pinned it and ended its life.
"Fuck… okay… one down, hopefully a million more to go," he muttered, shaking.
He boiled the creature over a small fire he managed to start — smoke rising, heat searing his hands — and ate it raw after cooking for a few minutes. Hunger gnawed at him like a living thing, but the protein kept him from collapsing entirely.
The Box didn't forgive laziness. Kevin had to explore. He crawled through mud, stalked around foggy trees, and scavenged what he could: vines for rope, stones for weapons, broken branches for spikes.
Every step was life-or-death. Predators lurked behind every shadow. One misstep, and he'd be lunch.
"Fuuuuuuck! Just… just breathe, Kevin. Don't fucking die. Please…"
He managed to collect enough to start thinking strategically: traps, weapons, shelters — maybe he could make it a little less hellish. Maybe.
Night came again. The swamp seemed alive, crawling, whispering threats. Kevin retreated to his lean-to, checking his crude traps.
Two predators approached — bigger this time. Kevin fought them off with mud, fire, and sharp sticks. He wasn't killing them, but he was learning: survival is about avoiding death, not glory.
Blood, sweat, and tears mingled with mud as he fought and dodged. By dawn, he had survived again.
The Box panel glowed:
"Daily tasks complete: survival minimal. Reward: one small health potion. Prepare for next day's escalation."
Kevin collapsed in his shelter. His body trembled.
"Fuck… I actually survived two nights in a row. What the actual fuck is happening to me?"
And deep down, he realized: this wasn't a game. This wasn't practice. This was life — and death — and the Box didn't care either way.