Gods. Again?
My stomach growls—low and mean, like it's got a grudge. Loud enough to wake the dead, and personal enough to feel like an insult. I slap a hand over it, like that’ll shut it up. Doesn’t. It just snarls louder, pissed off I skipped breakfast before wandering into a forest that smells like something died and forgot to stay buried.
Smart. Real tactical.
I keep moving. One boot sinks, slurps, drags free. Mud clings like it’s trying to make a point. The ground’s never dry here—just wet, cold, and full of regrets. Trees are packed in shoulder-to-shoulder, knotted limbs curling like they’ve got arthritis and an attitude. Moss sweats down the bark like the whole place is breathing heavy. Above me, the canopy chokes out the sun. Below it? Just shadows and the stink of rotting leaves.
No wind. No birds. Not even bugs. The kind of silence that doesn’t just settle—it hunts. I can hear everything. My breathing. The squeak of my gear. The forest’s complete disinterest in my survival.
And of course—my stomach. Growling like a damn warhorn. Real subtle.
Perfect. Just perfect. Like ringing the dinner bell in the middle of a monster buffet. Any second now, I’m half-expecting something with too many legs and not enough chill to come crawling out and take a bite.
But nothing comes.
Maybe even monsters know better than to eat something this stressed out.
I run a hand through my hair. It's damp with sweat, gritty with dirt, starting to mat down. I’m parched—lips cracked, tongue like sandpaper. Swallowing hurts. Water sounds like a religious experience. I’d drink from a cursed well right now. Lick condensation off a cursed statue. Doesn’t matter. There’s nothing.
No stream. No puddle. Not even a dirty trickle running between roots. Just more damn trees, all watching me like they know I don’t belong.
Which—fair.
This is all my fault anyway. Because, yeah. Taunting the demon girl with a temper and a god-tier fireball arm? Genius move. Told her we were playing hide and seek. She even humored me—eyes closed, counting out loud by a tree like some eldritch kindergartener.
So I ran.
Didn’t stop till the air turned to soup and the trees started whispering. And now I’m lost. Hungry. Thirsty. Maybe hallucinating. Probably all three.
Whatever Ish did to this body, it’s pulling overtime. I’ve been hiking through this nightmare jungle for hours—maybe longer—and I’m still upright. No cramps. No fatigue. Muscles feel strong, lungs steady. Almost like I could keep going.
Almost.
Thirst and hunger are getting louder now. Tag-teaming my brain. Screaming over each other. Reminding me I’m still human, still stupid, and still without a plan.
If I don’t find food or water soon, I’m not going to break down in some cinematic, slow-motion, scream-at-the-sky kind of way. Nah. I’ll just lose it like a tired man yelling at a vending machine that ate his last dollar.
Gods, I miss vending machines.
Oh, great. Another glowing teal notification box, blinking into existence like it’s got something urgent to say. Bright enough to sear my retinas, pulsing like it’s proud of itself.
I squint at it. “Really? Now?”
It hovers mid-air, smug as sin, blocking my damn mini-map like a bored cat on a laptop.
I swat at it. Nothing. Doesn’t budge.
Figures.
It twinkles, then drifts lazily into the bottom-left corner of my vision—right over my compass. Parked there like it’s paid rent.
“Wrong side, jackass,” I mutter, trying to nudge it with a thought.
It flickers, pauses… and lands in the exact same spot. Again.
Cool. I guess the user interface has a personality. And it's a troll. Probably designed by some divine intern who got high off mana fumes and thought, You know what this guy needs? Inconvenience.
I sigh and glance past it, locking back onto the map. Not that the thing’s real—just a flickering grid that tracks with my eyes like a paranoid drone. Doesn’t weigh a thing. Doesn’t cast a shadow. Still feels burned into my vision like an afterimage from staring at the sun too long.
I mentally drag it to the upper-right corner—out of sight, out of mind. But the compass? Nah. That one’s glued center-frame, pulsing like it owns the place.
If this were Earth, I’d have driven my truck into a ditch by now. Backroads of Georgia. Rain hammering the windshield. GPS screaming “Recalculating” like a divorce attorney. And now this? Just another distraction waiting to get me killed.
I stop walking. The thought sneaks up on me like a bad memory.
"Real life?"
Yeah. That’s the kicker, isn’t it?
This is real now.
No pause screen. No do-overs. Just endless forest, glowing pop-ups, and gods with a mean sense of humor.
My vambrace lights up. Not just buzzing—ringing. Like an actual landline from the ‘90s.
I look around, expecting maybe a glowing phone booth to pop out from behind a tree or something. Nope. Just moss, twisted roots, and the lingering stink of wet bark. Forest still feels like it’s watching. Like it’s waiting.
I smack the vambrace.
It lights up like Vegas. And of course—it’s her.
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Ishtar’s voice drips through my head, syrupy and smug, like she’s lounging on a couch somewhere with a cocktail in hand and zero interest in helping.
“Hello? Darling? Can you hear me?”
“Ish? HEY—where the hell am I?!”
“No idea! But love, you really should get moving on those tutorial quests. Wouldn’t want you keeling over from hunger or anything. Though—”
she giggles
“—I’d probably get a kick out of that.”
My stomach growls loud enough to echo. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“You’re starving, sugar. Dehydrated too. Hence the survival prompts. You have seen them, right?”
I open my mouth to argue, maybe unleash a string of cuss words that’d peel paint off a truck. But before I can even land one, the vambrace hums again.
Two books appear in the air—hovering, glowing, floating just out of arm’s reach like magical Kindle editions.
Recipe Book.
Ingredient Guide.
Okay. That’s something.
I snatch the Recipe Book first, flip it open like I might find salvation inside—
Blank.
Every page. Empty.
I flip through the ingredient book, slower. Blank. No diagrams. No instructions. Not even a passive-aggressive tip.
“What the actual hell, Ish?” My voice comes out rough, cracked. I sound like sandpaper being dragged across pavement. “They’re blank. They’re both blank.”
“Yeeeah... about that. So, Mom’s still kinda mad at me and Zen. She’s making things a li’l… challenging.”
I shut the book—slowly. Like I’m afraid I might snap it in half if I move too fast. My jaw tightens, works side to side like I’m chewing rage.
“I know, Darling. It sucks. But hey, what are you gonna do?”
Oh, I don’t know.
Scream.
Cry.
Throw the book into another dimension and hope it hits something important.
“Alrighty then. Good luck~!”
Her voice cuts out with a little flourish—like she just dropped the mic after ruining my day.
“Unbelievable.”
And—of course—right on cue…
Another teal box pops up.
Dead center.
Blinking.
Like it’s proud of itself.
Oh good. Another pop-up.
Like a cosmic vending machine just spat out a middle finger.
No instructions. No food. No water. Just a friendly little UI box blinking like it’s proud of itself.
I let out the kind of sigh that feels like it should come with subtitles. Long. Loud. Theatrical.
“Perfect. Just freakin’ perfect.”
Boots crunch dry leaves as I veer off the trail and into the underbrush. Every step snaps a twig. Every breath draws in dust and pine sap. The sun’s high—too high—blazing through slits in the canopy, already dragging sweat down my back like it’s trying to melt me out of my shirt.
Feels like nature's giving me the slow roast.
For some reason, I expect a picnic basket to appear behind the next tree. Something smug. Something ironic.
Nope. Just dirt. And more dirt. And that one weird leaf that keeps following me.
Then—because apparently my brain is also done coping—my mouth opens.
I freeze mid-step. “Really, Grant?”
Stranded. Forty-two. Possibly cursed. Singing Willie Nelson like I’m five minutes away from a gas station burrito.
Either I’m adapting... or I’ve cracked.
Grandma always said the land provides—if you’re kind to it. Honor it, respect it, yada yada spiritual feng shui.
Grandpa had a different take: If it looks weird, don’t eat it. If it moves first, kill it.
Right now? I’m hoping at least one of them was right.
I crouch by a bush bursting with berries. Glowing berries. Purple and pulsing like they’ve got a heartbeat. Not metaphorically. Actually. Freakin’. Beating.
They look less like food and more like biological hazard roulette. My stomach growls anyway—loud enough to scare the birds.
“Alright, weirdos,” I mutter. “Let’s see what kind of mistake you are.”
Stick out. Rule #1 of wilderness survival: Always poke first. If it explodes or cries, you leave.
I jab the biggest one. It jiggles. Doesn't hiss. Doesn’t burst. Just... sits there.
Ballsy.
I pluck one. Soft skin. Cold. Damp like morning fog. I hesitate. Then—against better judgment and every survival instinct I allegedly have—I pop it into my mouth.
It’s sweet. Ridiculously sweet. Like cotton candy crash-landed into a fruit roll-up and mutated.
[You have eaten an Aether Berry]
I blink. Still breathing. Not hallucinating.
Small wins.
“Alright,” I mutter. “Guess we’re doing this.”
I reach for the ingredient book... and swipe air. Of course. I grumble. Then—poof—it just appears in my hand, all casual-like.
“Right. That’s normal now.”
I flip it open. Blank. Again.
Figures.
Ping!
A new window appears—animated, poorly. A stiff little dude drops fruit onto paper like he’s pitching snack-based salvation. I sigh, copy the move, and let a berry roll onto the book’s page.
The parchment drinks it like it's been waiting. Ink swirls. Shapes form.
I snort. “Who writes this crap?”
A new icon appears in the corner of my vision—a glowing berry and a timer ticking down.
“Well... that’s new.”
I keep walking. Brush tugs at my sleeves. Bugs hum like little broken motors in the trees. Then I spot something.
A mushroom.
Squat. Gray. Sitting under a tree root like it’s waiting for something. But this one’s breathing. Expanding. Contracting. Real slow. Real deliberate.
Like it knows I’m watching.
“Yeah. That’s not sketchy at all.”
Stick out. Poke test.
Next thing I know, I’m on my back. Teeth clack together. No real pain, but everything feels off. Like someone yanked the gravity setting and hit "spin cycle." My ears are ringing. My vision’s swimming. Stick’s gone. Probably vaporized.
I groan. “Okay... maybe not the smartest move.”
I just lie there for a moment, staring up through the branches. Breathing. Thinking. Regretting.
Somewhere in the trees, a bird laughs.
I close my eyes and mutter to no one.
“Great. Landmine mushrooms. That’s where we’re at now.”