It’s

  been one hell of a week. Not that the forest gives a damn.

  No, it’s busy staging some kind of enchanted postcard—mist

  draped over the branches like frostbitten silk, brushing my face with

  just enough chill to raise goosebumps. The air’s thick, saturated

  with the smell of wet bark and pine sap, pungent enough I can

  practically chew it. If I squeeze my eyes shut and really commit, I

  can almost convince myself I’m back on the farm. Almost.

  Back there, I didn’t have Ember chirping every other

  breath like a caffeinated canary on performance art duty.

  Oh, Daddy, look at this.

  Oh, Daddy, watch me spin like a leaf caught in a blender.

  Gods help me.

  And I sure as hell wasn’t babysitting a pack of half-beast

  tagalongs who sounded like they were running a broken record on loop—

  Is it time to eat?

  Is it time to eat?

  Is it time to—

  If anyone from back home saw this traveling freak show, they’d

  lock me up in the nearest asylum and lose the key. I'd be rooming

  with some wide-eyed squirrel hoarder named Larry, probably talking to

  spoons and preaching to his teeth. Nice padded walls. Extra

  insulation. Real cozy.

  I take a step forward.

  No rustling, no buzz, no whisper of wind threading the needles

  overhead. Just silence. Dense, waiting. The kind that presses in

  around your skull until you can hear your own heartbeat shuffle past

  like it’s wearing wet socks.

  The critters feel it too. They bolt—scrambling past me like

  someone yelled free snacks in a kindergarten lunchroom.

  Canteens slosh in their hands.

  Wait.

  One—where the hell did they get canteens?

  Two—how?

  Three—and my personal favorite—why?

  The trees creak. Not from wind—there isn’t any—but from

  something slower, deeper. Their limbs draw inward, curling like old

  knuckles around a secret they’re not ready to share. And that’s

  when I see it.

  A lake.

  Big. Still. Staring at me like it’s been expecting company.

  The surface is too calm—obsidian-flat, swallowing the light

  instead of throwing it back. No ripples, no breeze, no sound. It

  doesn’t shimmer. It watches. Like it knows what I had for breakfast

  and doesn’t approve.

  Finally. Water.

  And gods, am I thirsty.

  I’m talking desert-preacher-with-a-mouthful-of-sawdust

  thirsty. My tongue’s doing the two-step with a saltine in Death

  Valley, and I’m about five minutes away from licking sweat off a

  brass doorknob.

  Which would be easier, of course, if I had a

  doorknob.

  Honestly, I was this close to asking Mister Potato Head over there

  if he had any crunchy jícama cousins I could gnaw on. Desperation

  does that—it rewires your standards. Makes you creative in the

  worst ways.

  But the longer I stare at that lake, the more my survival

  instincts start pinging like a busted radar dish.

  It doesn’t just look deep. It looks… endless. Like it’s not

  water, but a hole punched straight through the world. If I dipped my

  hand in, I’m not convinced I’d get it back. Or if I did, it’d

  come up frostbitten and clutching something that shouldn’t exist.

  The reflections don’t help. The sky, the trees—they’re too

  perfect. So clean they feel fake. Not a reflection, but a window. And

  I’ve read enough bad endings to know how walking through strange

  windows tends to go.

  Mist drifts over the surface in slow ribbons, curling and shifting

  like it's whispering things you’re not supposed to hear. The air's

  thick with the scent of wet soil and sweet night-blooming petals—but

  buried underneath is something else.

  Something metallic. Old.

  Like rusted iron that’s forgotten what sunlight feels like. Like

  the breath of something that's been patient for far too long.

  Beneath my boots, the moss is soft and spongey, soaking into the

  soles like the earth itself wants to swallow me whole. Stones press

  cool and smooth under my fingers as I steady myself. Ancient

  stones—worn down not just by weather, but by footsteps. Countless,

  quiet, forgotten footsteps.

  Roots jut from the bank like broken limbs, twisted and gnarled,

  reaching into the black water. Pulling something out.

  Or maybe

  holding something down.

  Water lilies drift across the surface, each petal glowing with the

  faintest trace of violet—like they’re trapping starlight beneath

  their skin. Beautiful. Quiet. Too quiet.

  And every so often, the surface shifts.

  Barely.

  A ripple. Subtle as a smirk. Like something underneath just

  stretched. Just rolled over.

  Just noticed me.

  It’s stunning. I’ll give it that. The kind of beauty that

  doesn’t need to make a scene—it just watches you, cool and still,

  while it sharpens its teeth.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I swallow that unease. Bury it deep. There’s no room for fear

  when your throat’s trying to sandpaper itself from the inside out.

  I crouch at the edge, palms trembling slightly as I cup the water.

  I drink.

  Ping!

  ? 500 Gold — warm from the forge, now resting in your pouch

  

  ? 3 Recipes Unlocked — familiar scents drift to mind, waiting to be tried

  

  Well,

  how about that.

  Quest complete. Gold jingling in

  my pocket. Recipes stacked like a fast-food receipt on my lap. Skill

  Points just begging to be spent like loose change burning through

  denim.

  Not bad. Not bad at all. But

  something’s off.

  I feel it before I see it—that

  prickling itch just below the skin, like the world’s grinning at me

  with too many teeth and no lips. The kind of feeling that says: Don’t

  trust this victory. It came gift-wrapped in teeth marks.

  I frown, thumb flicking open the

  system window with the muscle memory of a man who's done this too

  many times today—and not once for fun.

  The interface unfurls in clean panes

  and tidy columns, all dressed up like it wants to be helpful. Numbers

  gleam. Panels hum. Everything looks normal—until it doesn’t.

  No XP.

  Not

  even a fraction. No tickers. No celebratory +50 floating into view

  like a goldfish in a cheap arcade game. Just static emptiness where a

  dopamine bar should be.

  Great.

  I stare at it a moment longer, gears

  turning without urgency. No XP… so no leveling? Or maybe this whole

  cursed system runs on vibes and bureaucracy.

  Could be worse.

  Could be NFTs.

  I tap the window. Nothing happens. No

  pop-ups. No tooltips. Just smug silence.

  Figures. Helpful as a

  broken vending machine in a snowstorm.

  My gaze drifts to the one number

  that has

  changed: Skill

  Points: 3 Available.

  So that's the trick, huh? No

  monster-slaying grind. No numbers ticking higher just because I

  stomped enough goblins into paste.

  Just clean, transactional

  upgrades—dispensed when I check off the right boxes.

  Tasks, not kills.

  Milestones, not

  murder.

  A system that demands proof, not

  blood.

  Charming.

  I rub at my jaw, fingers scraping

  through stubble that’s halfway to becoming a beard. I smell like

  three days of bad decisions—sweat, smoke, and something I’m

  hoping was monster guts, not me slowly rotting from the inside

  out.

  Hard to say. My nose gave up caring an hour ago.

  Whatever. The XP mystery can wait.

  Right now?

  I need a bath. Desperately. Preferably

  with hot water. Definitely with soap. Maybe something strong enough

  to dissolve a few layers of regret while it’s at it.

  I slog out of the lake, slick muck

  clinging to my fingers like guilt with a grudge. It’s cold—real

  cold. Not just skin-deep, but creeping, gnawing, trying to crawl

  right into my bones like the water wants to move in and redecorate.

  Ember’s parked on the shoreline,

  eyes wide like I just dragged a kraken’s corpse out with me. Her

  head cocks sharp to the side, ears twitching—part curious, part

  calculating. Like she’s still not sure whether I’m feral or just

  incredibly bad at bathing.

  I give her a grin. It’s more edge

  than humor. “You ever take a bath, Ember?” My voice comes out

  rough, cracked—like it hasn't forgiven me for the whole ‘drowning

  myself in mystery fog-lake’ thing.

  She shakes her head so hard her hair

  whips out around her like she just stuck her head in a thundercloud

  and liked the result.

  “Well, you should.” I flick water

  off my fingers. It spatters the dirt in little silver bursts,

  vanishing fast. “Nothin’ like scrubbin’ the filth off. Makes

  you feel brand new.”

  That’s a lie.

  I feel heavier

  now. Like I left something in that water—something that doesn’t

  wanna stay gone.

  One of the raccoons tosses Ember a

  towel. It’s the saddest excuse for cloth I’ve ever seen—patchy,

  worn to threads, probably older than me.

  Note to self:

  Ask these trash goblins where they keep sourcing their

  post-apocalyptic linen collection.

  She blinks at it like they just handed

  her roadkill, then shrugs. “Guess I’ll try.”

  Behind her, her little beast parade

  trails along—four raccoons, two squirrels, and one... thing. Round,

  waddling, lumpy. Kinda looks like a potato grew legs and regretted

  it.

  They move in a crooked line,

  chittering softly. It’s not loud, but it’s sharp. Like they’re

  laughing at some inside joke I wasn’t invited to.

  I pull my soaked shirt over my head.

  It clings like bad decisions—cold, clingy, and not planning to let

  go anytime soon. That’s when it hits.

  System overload.

  My vision lights up—bright flashes

  like a rave going off in a mine shaft. Notifications scatter across

  my sight like glass shards flung from a busted screen.

  But even while my brain's trying to

  catalog the explosion of data, my eyes slide sideways. Back to the

  lake.

  Still there. Quiet. Watching.

  And that... that’s what worms under

  my skin. Because something about it itches. The shape. The stillness.

  That too-perfect reflection that doesn’t reflect right.

  Feels like déjà vu with teeth.

  But then the mist shifts. Slow.

  Deliberate. Like it’s thinking about me.

  It curls along the edge of the water

  like fingers dragging themselves across the surface—and that

  flicker of familiarity? Gone. Just a ghost of a memory I never had.

  Nope. Not the same. Not home.

  Just my head trying to shove comfort

  into a space that doesn’t have room for it.

  The fog thickens—wraps itself

  around the air, a damp, suffocating hush that eats sound and warmth

  alike. My skin crawls. Instinct mutters low and steady in the back of

  my skull:

  Don't

  get closer.

  I roll my shoulders. Try to shake it

  off.

  Later,

  I tell myself. I’ll

  dig into that hornet’s nest later.

  Right now?

  I've got pop-ups to deal with.