As the final, defiant syllable dissipated into the heavy air, thick with the stench of blood, decay, and churned earth, a profound silence fell, broken only by the ringing in Steven Miske’s ears.

  Alright, he had to concede, the primitive battle chant these Stone Age survivors had performed possessed a raw, imposing power.

  That final roar had almost stirred something within him, a surge akin to… righteous fury?

  Then reality crashed back in: he was a contemporary weakling, unarmed, practically naked save for a few strategically failing leaves, his metaphorical stamina bar blinking red on empty.

  He remained slumped in the bloody muck, surveying the grim “scenery.”

  The shattered frames of the huts resembled the gnawed rib cages of colossal beasts.

  Crude weapons—if sharpened stones lashed to sticks even qualified—lay scattered everywhere.

  The air itself was an assault: the coppery tang of blood, the foul reek of spilled viscera, overlaid with a bizarrely pungent undertone… like reptile musk mixed with fermented tropical fruit?

  The survivors moved like ghosts amidst the carnage, their faces masks of shock, grief, and numb endurance, clinging to the artificial courage injected by that final shout.

  They were already tending wounds, or… processing the spoils of war.

  Yes, spoils of war.

  The Paoxiao carcasses—those horrors with human faces, goat bodies, and human hands—lay in grotesque repose, already being assessed as the tribe’s next few meals.

  Steven watched, stomach churning anew, as several tribal women began dismembering one with expressionless efficiency, using sharp stone flakes like practiced butchers.

  Gods, these things are nightmare fuel ripped straight from some forbidden bestiary, and this tribe treats them like walking protein rations?

  Their will to survive is terrifying.

  He noticed the one called Mason, the volatile young warrior who’d saved him earlier, was unusually quiet now.

  He squatted off to one side, meticulously scraping a rough whetstone against the edge of his gore-streaked stone axe.

  Greenish ichor (monster blood, Steven desperately hoped) still dripped from it.

  His concentration was absolute, as if performing a sacred rite.

  Nearby, the calm young man—the one who seemed to be in charge—was directing the other survivors, his voice low but carrying an undeniable authority as they dealt with the grim aftermath.

  Steven watched him move, bringing a semblance of order to the chaos. What’s this guy’s deal? he couldn’t help wondering.

  He doesn’t look much older than me, maybe early twenties? How does he command respect from brutes like Mason?

  “Here… we cannot stay,” the calm leader’s voice cut through the low sounds of grief and activity, clear and decisive.

  Cecil’s voice synthesized almost instantly in Steven’s mind—a small mercy, having his slightly faulty AI butler back online, even if it felt like relying on a dictionary with half the pages torn out.

  “Local language analysis indicates statement: ’This location is compromised; relocation is necessary.’ Environmental risk assessment: High. Significant blood scent will attract apex predators and necrophages within a short timeframe. Camp defensive integrity: Null. Decision to relocate is tactically sound.”

  “No kidding, Sherlock!” Steven retorted weakly in his thoughts. “My question is, did our ’newbie protection grace period’ just expire? Or was that never actually a thing outside of bad web novels?”

  “Cross-referencing known parameters against displacement protocols and fictional tropes…” Cecil replied with perfect seriousness.

  “Negative. No ’grace period’ or ’starter pack’ mechanism applicable to the current circumstance has been detected, Sir. Survival probability remains a function of real-time threat assessment versus individual adaptive capacity.”

  Right. Useless. Steven watched the tribe mobilize with practiced, grim efficiency.

  The wounded were carefully loaded onto makeshift stretchers woven from thick vines and enormous, platter-like leaves (God, those leaves were bigger than his college dorm air mattress!).

  Salvageable weapons and the pathetic remnants of their food stores were gathered quickly.

  He struggled painfully to his feet, every joint protesting, feeling like a poorly assembled collection of spare parts.

  No one offered help; no one even glanced his way. Expected.

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  He stumbled after the departing group, forcing his aching legs to move, trying desperately to keep the receding figures in sight.

  Becoming a conveniently packaged protein snack for whatever else lurked in this primordial hellscape was not on his agenda.

  The journey that followed shattered Steven’s previous definition of “difficult.”

  Leaving the blood-soaked clearing, they plunged into the oppressive depths of the primeval forest.

  If the area around the camp had been the “tutorial zone fringe,” this was the “uncharted territory DLC where the devs forgot to include paths.”

  There was no path. Underfoot lay a thick carpet of damp, slippery humus, accumulated over untold ages, soft and treacherous, sometimes giving way to suck at his calves.

  Massive, gnarled tree roots coiled across the ground like dormant earth pythons, perfectly placed to trip the unwary.

  The air was thick, hot, and saturated with humidity; breathing felt like inhaling warm soup.

  “These damned leaf-shoes are actively worse than going barefoot!” Steven thought furiously, dodging another thorny vine that snagged at his makeshift garment.

  “Where’s the standard transmigrator’s starter kit? Compressed rations? Multi-tool? Sat-phone? Hell, just a decent pair of boots! This map difficulty isn’t balanced; the devs either didn’t test it, or they’re sadists!”

  The flora was utterly alien and actively menacing. Tree ferns soared like prehistoric parasols, single fronds large enough to swallow him whole.

  Vines as thick as firehoses snaked between trunks, studded with wicked thorns that tore easily through hide.

  Some trees possessed an unsettling metallic sheen, their bark etched with intricate patterns resembling organic circuit boards, emitting a faint, sharp scent… ozone?

  “Cecil, seriously, did we phase into Pandora? Or maybe just some random alien biosphere? Are these plants even carbon-based? They look like they photosynthesize… and maybe run on internal batteries with a side of electrolysis!”

  “Performing spectral and morphological analysis of surrounding flora… Database match negative. Multiple plant structures exhibit significant deviation from known Terran biological classifications. Detecting weak bio-electric fields and anomalous volatile organic compounds emanating from several specimens. Composition unknown. Recommend avoiding direct physical contact.”

  “Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious!” Steven gingerly skirted a patch of low-growing weeds sprouting unsettling purple, pulsating nodes.

  Just looking at them made his scalp crawl.

  And the “fauna”… Fist-sized beetles, carapace shimmering with impossible neon colors, droned past his head.

  Dragonfly-like insects (?) with crystalline wings and alarmingly long, needle-sharp ovipositors hovered mid-air, their compound eyes glittering with cold indifference.

  Sharp hisses occasionally echoed from the canopy above; glancing up, he’d catch glimpses of vividly colored snakes adorned with feathered crests, slithering with unnatural speed through the branches.

  Once, a vast shadow swept across a break in the canopy far overhead – its wingspan immense, feathers catching the filtered light with a metallic glint as it soared in utter silence.

  It brought to mind fragmented, terrifying descriptions of a great bird called ’Chī’ from his corrupted database, making him instinctively duck.

  “Okay, final verdict: definitely not Avatar. This is Jurassic Park meets Alien meets some bootleg R-rated version of the Classic of Mountains and Seas, cranked up to nightmare difficulty! My SAN points are taking a nosedive!”

  The tribespeople, however, moved through this hazardous wonderland with an ingrained familiarity, their senses on high alert.

  The calm young leader navigated point, pausing frequently to read unseen signs in the crushed leaves or listen to sounds Steven couldn’t decipher, guiding the group with economical hand signals.

  Mason, ever the bull, flanked the group, hefting his stone axe and the haunch of Paoxiao meat, his eyes constantly scanning, occasionally letting out a low growl to deter some buzzing annoyance.

  Steven noticed their trajectory seemed fixed. On the hazy, distant horizon, partially veiled by clouds clinging to its peaks, rose a vast, imposing mountain range.

  Its slopes were a deep, ancient green-blue. Even from this distance, the range radiated an almost palpable aura of immense age, power, and sacred stillness.

  “What… what mountain range is that?” Steven panted, directing the thought at Cecil.

  “Analyzing topographical data relative to inferred position… Attempting correlation with fragmented linguistic markers referencing ’great mountain’ overheard in tribal utterances… Preliminary hypothesis suggests target destination may be geographically analogous to the ’Kunlun Mountains’ entity prominent within the Huaxia mythological framework. Multiple ancient Terran texts describe Kunlun as the ’Abode of a Hundred Gods’ and the ’Lower Capital of the Celestial Emperor,’ signifying paramount mythological importance. This remains speculative, based on incomplete data.”

  Kunlun Mountains?! Steven nearly choked. “Are you freaking kidding me?! Kunlun?! The legendary mountain range from the myths? Home of immortals, magic peaches, the Queen Mother of the West, the whole nine yards?!”

  His internal worldview felt like it was being sandblasted. “Are we going there for a divine meet-and-greet? Or are we the damn takeout order?! This plot just went from ’survival horror’ to ’high-level mystical bullshit’…”

  This new, terrifying speculation occupied his mind for the rest of the journey, partially distracting him from the burning ache in his feet and the exhaustion threatening to pull him under.

  They scrambled over hills slick with primeval moss, carefully forded streams that bubbled sluggishly and stank of sulfur (Steven rigidly avoided contact), and traversed a silent, eerie forest where the trees themselves seemed carved from luminous white jade… Day bled into night and back into a gloomy twilight beneath the canopy;

  he lost all track of time.

  Finally, just as Steven was seriously contemplating attempting photosynthesis to generate some energy, the group halted.

  They stood at the base of a cliff face far taller and steeper than any he had ever seen.

  It soared upwards into the swirling mists, its peak invisible, a sheer wall of desolate, blue-black rock that looked as if a god’s axe had cleaved the world in two.

  Thick tapestries of dark green moss clung to its surface, and immense, gnarled vines, thicker than pythons, snaked down from unseen heights.

  And set into the lower third of this colossal cliff was a cave entrance of truly epic proportions.

  Less a cave, more a natural, awe-inspiring portal carved into the mountainside.

  It arched dozens of meters high and stretched nearly a hundred wide, its edges jagged and irregular, hinting at formation through unimaginable natural forces or perhaps a single, catastrophic act of mythical power.

  The opening itself was a void of absolute darkness, radiating a palpable chill and an unsettling aura that seemed to swallow the light.

  Flanking this gateway stood several titanic, twisted pillars of stone, vaguely resembling coiled, ancient dragons, their surfaces covered in faint, almost obliterated carvings, worn smooth by millennia of wind and rain.

  “Whoa…” Steven breathed, craning his neck back, feeling utterly insignificant.

  “Okay, is this actually a cave people live in? Or did we just stumble upon the entrance to Moria? Or maybe… just a one-way ticket straight down to whatever passes for hell in this dimension?”