I suck in a breath through my teeth. The air’s heavy—sour moss, sharp rot, and something faintly sweet, like a fruit that died hopeful. It’s the kind of smell that makes you feel like you’re being watched by the trees.
My hands come up smeared in dirt, knuckles scraped, bark bits stuck between fingers. I wipe them on my jeans out of habit, which is pointless. The fabric’s already soaked through, more mud than denim now.
I glance toward the clearing.
Still there. Still pulsing.
The mushroom.
Round. Bloated. Throbbing like it’s got its own damn heartbeat. A living landmine just waiting for another idiot with a stick.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, drag my fingers down my flannel sleeve. My hands aren’t shaking, not really—but there’s this buzz under my skin, like my nerves haven’t realized the fight’s over yet. Or maybe they know better.
“Alright,” I mutter, low. “Round two.”
No sudden moves this time. I squat down slow, boots sinking into damp moss. It squishes beneath me, soft and cold, like the forest’s been storing rain in its pockets. I ease forward. Each step snaps a twig, quiet, sharp. The kind of sound that says, You’re not alone.
The mushroom sits in a shallow hollow. Its surface ripples—inhale, exhale. Like a lung. Or a threat. That faint glow pulses with it, pale and sickly, like moonlight bleeding through skin. It doesn't feel alive. It feels aware.
I circle it, careful. Not too close. Not too fast. Like it’ll bolt if I blink.
The air shifts. The temperature doesn’t drop, not exactly, but there’s a cold tingle against my skin. Static kisses the hair on my arms. My fingertips buzz.
And just like that, the memory slams back—
Flash. Boom.
White light tearing through my vision. Heat blooming across my chest. The deafening crack.
Then the silence.
I’d tasted the blast for a full minute afterward. Ash on my tongue. Dirt in my teeth.
I ease forward, slow and steady, hand hovering just above the mushroom. It exhales again, slow and steady too—like it’s trying to stay calm. The surface dimples when I get close, rubbery and slick, like a balloon left out in the rain. Still warm. Still breathing.
No flash. No bang. Just a heat that prickles along my fingers—static dancing over skin like it’s deciding whether or not to bite.
My breath catches.
Is this it?
Did I finally time it right?
I wait through another pulse. Inhale… exhale… like a heartbeat, or a warning.
Now.
Fingers clamp down—quick and clean—mid-deflate. Just like plucking a hornet off a branch. I lift it, careful not to jostle it too much.
It twitches once. Just once. A soft tremor rolls through it, barely there. Then nothing. No explosion. No fungal smoke. No “you died” screen blinking in my peripheral vision.
I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Sweet,” I murmur, low and half-afraid it might still go off just out of spite.
My heart’s hammering. Ribs feel like a drumline. I realize I’m grinning—tired, crooked, a little wild. It’s the first real win I’ve had in hours, maybe days. Hard to tell anymore.
Bomb defused. Or… kidnapped. Hard to say which.
I cradle the weird little puffball in my palm. It’s still warm, but the glow’s fading. Whatever magic or mechanism was driving it, it’s settling now. No more threat.
A minute ago, this thing tried to kill me.
Now it feels… tame.
Almost.
I lower it into the Ingredients book, careful as a man disarming his second bomb of the day.
The second it touches parchment, the leather cover shivers—soft at first, like it’s breathing under my hand. Then it warms. Not hot, just enough to notice. A low hum rises through my fingertips, deep and steady. Feels like I just fed it something it liked. Or something it needed.
Ink stirs. Not written—summoned. Thick and dark, like blood in water, it coils into loops and curls that pulse outward from the center. The words don’t appear. They bloom. Alive. Intentional.
I let out a low whistle, eyebrows creeping up. “Not bad for a walking landmine.”
The book stays warm for a second longer, then settles, like it’s gone back to sleep. I close it with a soft snap and slide it into my pack.
Somewhere nearby, the underbrush shifts. Nothing hunting me—yet. Just the forest breathing, same as the book did. Same as the puffball. There’s a rhythm to this place. Everything pulses. Waits. Decides.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
The air’s thick with crushed fern and damp soil. Sweet, sharp, grounding. Reminds me I’m still alive. Still playing the game. Whether I meant to or not.
I adjust my pack, knuckles grazing the satchel where the puffball’s tucked away. Wrapped in cloth like some delicate, pulsing secret.
I’m not hungry anymore.
But curiosity? That’s a whole other thing.
I scan the treeline. Sunlight cuts through the canopy in thin, golden threads. Nothing moves. Yet.
I crack my neck, roll my shoulders, and mutter under my breath, “Alright… what’s next?”
[System Notification]
[Quest Update – Basic Survival]
? Hunger 1/1
? Thirst 0/1
Figures. One need down, another lining up to take its place.
I don’t get ten paces before weird thing number three shuffles onto the stage.
And honestly? It might just be winning the weirdness contest.
It’s squatting in a lazy beam of sunlight like it wandered in by accident—a stumpy little tree, barely four feet tall, looking like it’s been caught mid-crime. Scraggly. Bent. No leaves to speak of. No proper branches. Just two spindly limbs sticking out from the trunk, arms lifted halfway in a shrug like, “Who, me?”
Held in its twiggy fingers?
Cherries.
Four of them. Two on each side. Bright red, glassy, practically glowing. They shine like they’ve been polished by hand—or maybe they’re sweating. Either way, they look fresh. Too fresh.
I stop cold. Eyes narrow.
What kind of tree grows fruit like it’s trying to advertise?
There’s something off about its posture. Tilted just a little too deliberately, like it’s waiting for a cue. Or baiting a trap.
My skin prickles. That low, instinctive hum that says don’t trust it, even if it’s not doing anything... yet.
I glance around. The clearing’s dead quiet. No rustle. No birds. Even the bugs seem to be holding their breath.
Still. It’s just a tree.
Probably.
I take a step, slow and careful, testing the moss before I commit my weight. My hand lifts, half-raised before hesitation digs in.
Too easy. Too neat. What’s your game, little guy?
But curiosity’s a stubborn bastard.
And I reach anyway.
The tree rips itself out of the ground and bolts.
Not sways. Not creaks. Bolts.
Roots tear free like snapped cables, clumps of dirt exploding behind it. It sprints—actually sprints—on a mess of gnarled root-legs, each stride clumsy but fast, flinging leaves like it’s trying to lose me in a forest that doesn’t exist yet.
I freeze mid-reach. Hand just hanging there. Stuck somewhere between “what the hell?” and “I need a drink.”
Seriously?
What. The actual. Hell.
“Did...” My voice cracks like it’s as confused as I am. “Did that tree just run?”
It skids to a stop ten feet away. Pauses. Real casual. Then—because reality’s apparently on break—it gives this smug little wobble before curling right back down into the dirt.
Roots twist. Dig in. Settle like nothing happened.
Bark stiffens. Cherries gleam.
Perfect.
Untouched.
Completely innocent.
Like it didn’t just tear out of the ground and book it like a toddler with a stolen snack.
I stare at it. Flat expression. No words left in the tank.
Deadpan: “Yeah. Nope. We’re not doing this today.”
I charge after it, crashing through brush and bramble like a man possessed.
Vines whip my legs, thorns snag my sleeves, and something damp and slimy slaps the side of my neck—probably moss, possibly forest spit. The tree’s fast—way too fast for something with bark and root legs—but I’m faster. Or maybe just pissed off enough to push through it.
Stubborn wins races.
Fifteen minutes. Maybe more. I’m bleeding from somewhere, ankle’s threatening to mutiny, and I’ve invented four new curse words in the last two minutes alone. But I don’t stop.
Then I dive. Arms out. Body forward. Tackle it like I’m wrestling a possessed lawn ornament.
We hit hard.
The tree screams.
Not a groan. Not a snap. A full-throated, soul-rattling screech—like a banshee gargling broken glass. The kind of sound that spikes your adrenaline and makes your spine try to reverse course.
Instinct howls—drop it, drop it now—but screw that. I didn’t chase it across half a forest just to let it go now.
It writhes beneath me, flailing barky limbs like a toddler mid-tantrum, then—
It starts chucking cherries at my face.
One nails me in the eye. Sharp. Wet. Sticky. Juice burns like it came pre-seasoned with insult.
“Oh, that’s it,” I growl, snatching one mid-air like I’m claiming payment for emotional damages. I slap it into the Ingredients book with more force than necessary.
[INGREDIENTS]
[FRUIT]
SWIFT CHERRY:
Picked fresh from the Running Tree (no, really, it runs). Reduces Hunger by 5 and grants +5 Stamina Regen for 3 minutes.
Finally, a fruit that understands the need to hustle.
I bite down without thinking. Skin pops under my teeth—sweet and bright, with a tart kick like nature brewed it in an energy drink can. Juice trickles down my chin. My eyes flutter.
“This place,” I mutter, swiping my mouth with the back of my hand, “just keeps raising the bar on weird.”
I glance at the tree. It’s rooted again. Still. Like nothing happened.
Except it’s glaring at me.
Somehow.
Somehow this tree is glaring at me. Like it’s mad. Or embarrassed. Or plotting.
“Don’t give me that look,” I mutter. “You ran.”
I take another bite—slower this time. Letting the flavor settle. Letting me settle.
The forest stirs around me. Leaves rustle in the breeze. Insects chirp in languages I don’t understand. The world hums—not peacefully, not threateningly. Just... alive.
Glowing berries. Screaming trees. Exploding mushrooms.
I should be panicking.
I should be on my knees, broken and overwhelmed and begging for a reset button.
But I’m not.
For the first time since waking up in this ruin-covered fever dream of a world...
I don’t feel lost.
I feel alive.
And honestly?
I wouldn’t trade that feeling for anything.