The shelter? Three sticks, a tarp, and a prayer. It leans like it's ashamed to be here. I don’t blame it.

  I crouch low, knees popping, and slurp a spoonful of whatever mutated veggie-mush this world considers food. Fruity undertones. Rooty aftertaste. Texture of sadness. But hey—I made it. Can’t be too hard on myself.

  It’s quiet. Too quiet. Not just the usual forest hush—this is the kind that sneaks up your spine and whispers run before your brain clocks what’s off.

  No birds. No crickets. No breeze.

  And then it shifts.

  Not the air exactly. Not the temperature. Just… everything. A silence so loud it hums in my ears.

  Rustle. Left.

  Too heavy for a rabbit. Too soft for a bear.

  Instinct kicks in. My fingers twitch, reaching for a weapon I never made. Right. Ladle in one hand. Rice pot in the other. A warrior poet.

  Damn it, Grant. Who walks into a cursed forest with cookware?

  I rise, slow. Try not to look edible. Eyes scan the trees. Movement. Then stillness. Again. Closer now.

  Then I see them—eyes. Yellow. Glowing. Not blinking. Set too low, too wide apart to be anything friendly.

  Watching.

  No system alert. No dramatic chime. No [WARNING: Boss Encounter Imminent]. Just my pulse, hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to tunnel out.

  Something breathes out there. Deep and heavy. I feel it in my chest more than I hear it.

  “Great,” I mutter, low and dry, like I’m trying to keep the sarcasm from spooking the wildlife. “Didn’t even get coffee yet.”

  The one time I manage to cook something halfway decent, the forest decides I’m on the menu.

  Figures.

  The forest parts like a curtain, and for a second—just one—I’m almost convinced I’ve had a stroke.

  Not a metaphor. Not stress. Just a full-on, brain-melting misfire.

  Because what walks out of the trees isn’t a beast or a monster. No. It’s a procession. An honest-to-god woodland parade.

  At the front? Mushrooms with spears. Tiny, round-capped, and marching in perfect sync like they’ve been trained by a drill sergeant with a fondness for compost.

  Behind them: raccoons. Five of them. Crossbows slung over their shoulders like smug little mercs. Then a badger—because of course there’s a badger—riding a deer like some kind of fuzz-covered cavalry. A troop of squirrels scampers in formation, each carrying satchels strapped with miniature scrolls. Battle scribes, maybe.

  And bringing up the rear… that damn rabbit. The same smug little furball that openly shamed me nights ago.

  I let out a long, flat, “Shit.”

  But the real kicker? Leading the whole freakin’ parade is a potato.

  Yeah.

  A potato.

  About a foot tall, wearing full armor. A golden cloak flapping behind him like he’s starring in some fast food ad campaign for "Knights of the Round Fryer." Chest puffed, eyes narrowed in righteous fury, he brandishes a ladle like it’s Excalibur dipped in gravy.

  He points it right at me.

  “Halt, knave!” the potato booms, voice loud enough to shake pollen from the leaves. “I am Sir Spudsworth, Herald of the Great Harvest, Deputy Commander of the Enchanted Forest!”

  I blink. Once. Twice. My brain stalls.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  He’s not.

  And then—just to make sure I really do lose all remaining faith in reality—the cherry tree stumbles forward.

  That cherry tree.

  The one I might’ve whacked after I tackled. In my defense, it started it. Tried to digest my flannel.

  It lurches closer, bark peeling at the edges, and shrieks like a haunted violin. Its limbs twist upward like accusing fingers.

  “That’s him!” it screams, voice high and cracked like dead branches snapping in a windstorm. “The root-violator! The bark-batterer!”

  “Oh, for the love of—”

  Spudsworth cuts me off with a pompous flourish of his ladle. “You, scoundrel, stand accused of theft, assault, abuse, battery... and groping.”

  My jaw drops. “It was a tree.”

  Sir Spudsworth adjusts his helm like a man preparing for diplomacy at the edge of a battlefield. The crimson plume twitches with every breath, a little too proud for a potato. Beside him, the cherry tree quivers—bark flexing, branches jerking in stiff, righteous spasms. It looks like it’s about five seconds from trying to root-slap me into the dirt.

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

  “A formal grievance has been filed,” Spudsworth declares, voice low and full of tragic weight. “Theft of sacred heirlooms. Specifically... the Family Jewels.”

  I blink. Slowly. “You mean... the cherries?”

  A collective gasp ripples through the crowd like a gust of wind through dry leaves. Somewhere in the back, a squirrel faints dead away. Dramatic little bastard even clutches his chest on the way down.

  “I didn’t steal them,” I say, raising my hands like some fruit-mugging outlaw caught red-juiced. “I cooked them.”

  And that hits like I just confessed to burning their temple to the ground.

  Mouths drop open. A raccoon clutches what might be a pearl necklace—or a chain of polished teeth, hard to tell. The cherry tree lets out this high-pitched screech, swaying on its roots like the memory alone might make it pass out.

  Spudsworth clears his throat, every inch the offended noble. “Cooked, you say?” His voice drops an octave. “In what manner of... savage ritual?”

  I sigh, dig into my pack, and pull out the dented tin pot. Pop the lid.

  Steam curls out in lazy spirals. “It’s stew,” I say, holding it up. “I call it... uh... T-bag’m.”

  A silence falls. Real, heavy, post-apocalyptic silence.

  Then I hear it.

  Laughter. Not mortal laughter either—this is divine. High-pitched, musical, echoing through the trees like a prank pulled on the gods themselves. It tastes like vengeance and lemon zest.

  I glance at the canopy, scowling. “Damn you, Ishtar...”

  Spudsworth stumbles back, hand over his non-existent heart. The cherry tree breaks into loud, hiccupping sobs. A chipmunk near the front throws up into his own tiny hands.

  And me? I’m just standing there, holding a pot of crime stew, wondering where exactly my life derailed hard enough to get judged by a tuber in a cloak.

  Honestly, I’ve had weirder dinner parties.

  But not by much.

  I ladle a spoonful out and hold it steady like I’m diffusing a bomb. “It’s not poisoned,” I say.

  Which, judging by the way everyone flinches, was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

  The badger gasps and clutches his chest like I’ve just dishonored his ancestors. That same squirrel hits the dirt again—he’s either got a weak constitution or a flair for dramatics. Spudsworth recoils so violently his helmet shifts sideways, plume twitching like a nervous tick. And the cherry tree? It rattles like someone stuffed a thunderstorm into a maraca.

  I sigh, long and tired, sliding the stew pot back into my pack like I’m holstering a cursed weapon. “Okay, message received. Sacred fruit. Emotional trauma. I’ll cook something else. From scratch. No cherries. No offense.”

  Spudsworth inflates like he’s about to deliver an epic speech on ancestral pride or historical grievances or—hell, maybe fruit-based war crimes. The cherry tree looks like it's prepping a cease-and-desist. I brace for the incoming sermon...

  Then the rabbit steps forward.

  Lean. Gray. Sharp lines under the eyes. The kind of quiet that smells like ash and old battlefields. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

  “The mortal wishes to pay recompense,” he says. Calm. Flat. Ancient. Like his voice took a detour through time before it reached us.

  The whole clearing stills.

  Then, in perfect harmony—every voice, every species, even the damn tree:

  “Of the land, by the land, for the land.”

  And it hits me.

  That’s what Grandma used to say. Back when she still remembered my name. Back before the fire. Before the farm started falling apart like a story with no ending.

  I just stand there. Blinking. Smelling the stew steam curling around my boots. Earth, herbs, woodsmoke, and cherries. Too many memories baked into a single bite.

  The others nod—some solemn, some still side-eyeing me—and then they start lining up. For stew.

  A flicker of text dances at the corner of my vision:

  [System Notification: Vendor Skill Acquired.]

  

  [Bartering Skill Unlocked.]

  

  Well, shit.

  Guess I’m running a food truck now.

  The sound they make when they eat is... wrong.

  Wet smacks. Gurgles. Crunches I definitely didn’t build into the recipe. I watch, slack-jawed, as a raccoon deep-throats a dumpling like it’s training for competitive swallowing. A possum pops its jaw open like a haunted Pez dispenser and swallows something I don’t remember serving. Then there’s the deer. The one with too many eyes and a tongue that bends like it’s got joints. It licks the bowl clean, smiling the whole time.

  Ping!

  A system prompt flashes across my vision in cheerful, neon-blue script like it hasn’t just watched me emotionally unravel.

  [Discovery! Forest Critters Prefer Cooked Meals!]

  

  [System Update: New Trade Route Unlocked — Forest Glade Market Square]

  

  Of course there's a market square.

  Why wouldn't the local cryptid commune have a functioning economy built around stew and passive-aggressive bartering?

  I slump back against a moss-cushioned log, ribs creaking, spine screaming, the last of the food now vanished into a twitchy, satisfied mob. I feel like I just catered a post-ritual potluck for a cult that worships butter and cast iron.

  My temples throb. I rub them with gravy-stained fingers, then regret it instantly. My stomach growls, loud and bitter—like it's filing a complaint. Fitting, considering I just fed an entire woodland conference and didn’t save a bite for myself.

  Not that there's anything left. The squirrel made off with the last of the salt like it was crown jewel-level contraband. The hedgehog traded my pepper grinder for a pinecone with "great personal meaning" and at least three kinds of moss.

  This world isn’t broken in the way that matters. Not the end-times kind of broken. No, that would be merciful. This world’s broken in a way that feels intentional. Like some eldritch intern wrote the code while high on shrooms and an open Excel sheet.

  And the System? Oh, the System remembers. Every step. Every choice. Every tragic, gravy-soaked mistake.

  Above me, light filters through the canopy—thin and warm, flickering across leaf-veins like stained glass in a chapel I didn’t choose to pray in. Somewhere up there, the cherry tree hums. Soft. Off-key. Definitely high on carbs.

  There’s no coming back from this.

  Not after I watched a badger argue for seconds using interpretive dance and a cursed acorn with teeth marks shaped like ancient runes.

  This isn’t just survival anymore.

  I’ve crossed some kind of line. One stew ladle at a time, I’ve started... interacting. Making ripples. Changing things. And this world? It notices. Every action is another stone tossed into the pond—and the pond is full of hungry forest dwellers with a taste for umami and a weird sense of justice.

  I look down at my hands. Calloused. Filthy. Smelling faintly of rosemary.

  This is my life now.

  I blow out a dry, splintered breath. Then mutter under it, just low enough that the squirrel tribunal can’t hear me:

  “I hate... everything about this.”