So yeah. There I was.

  For the first time since getting unceremoniously dumped into this backwater of reality, I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was full, my throat wasn’t dry, and the constant, gnawing panic of immediate survival had finally eased.

  And now? I had a whole new problem.

  An overwhelming, crushing, soul-suffocating amount of work ahead.

  I still dreamt of a mud hut. A solid roof. Walls that didn’t whisper in the wind. A home, instead of just a patch of dirt I happened to exist on.

  Did I know how to make one?

  Absolutely not.

  But blind confidence and aimless wandering had gotten me this far, so maybe with enough time spent stumbling around like an idiot, inspiration would strike.

  Off I went, looting the forest like a goblin on a scavenger run.

  Branches, ferns, rocks—if it looked even mildly useful it went in the pile.

  After a while, I wasn’t even thinking. Pick up stick. Toss it onto the pile. Repeat.

  It was pure, mind-numbing drudgery.

  Not the soul-crushing corporate kind though—this wasn’t endless emails and meaningless reports.

  No, this was the ‘mindless office busywork’ kind. The kind of repetitive task that let you zone out, question your life choices, and ponder whether God made a mistake putting you on Earth.

  If my old job was ‘see paper, deny claim, move on,’ then this was ‘see stick, grab stick, move on.’

  Difference was? This time, it actually mattered.

  By late afternoon, I had amassed a truly impressive hoard of random crap.

  

  
• Sticks in every possible shape and size. Thick ones, thin ones, ones that looked like they were designed to stab someone.


  
• Most of them useless, but hey—you never know when a good rock might save your life.


  
• Some kind of palm-like frond that absolutely shouldn’t be here. (Seriously, did the gods half-ass this ecosystem? Did someone copy-paste the wrong biome?)


  

  At some point, my brain just shut off.

  My body entered full auto-pilot mode.

  Collect. Stack. Repeat.

  Time blurred.

  My shoulders ached from lugging my loot pile around, and my legs burned from crouching and standing a hundred times over. If my body had a complaints department, I was about to get a full inbox.

  But for the first time in days, survival wasn’t a desperate scramble—it was just… work.

  Then reality smacked me in the face.

  I straightened up, stretched my back, and surveyed my little empire of twigs, rocks, and leaves.

  And it hit me.

  Was I actually making progress?

  I had infinite water.

  I had food, mostly handled.

  Shelter? Ehhhhh.

  I looked around.

  The same pile of grass.

  The same cleared-out patch of dirt.

  No real shelter.

  No real tools.

  I’d spent the last few days playing survival mode.

  I needed to start playing long-term.

  My body was tired, sore, and already planning to riot. But I still had some rope left over from my net-making adventures.

  Meaning…

  It was time for tools.

  A knife, an axe, a shovel—basic caveman essentials.

  Surely, I, a modern man with an internet addiction and zero practical skills could figure this out.

  All I had to do was:

  

  
1. Put rock on stick.


  
2. Tie it down.


  
3. Glue it together with something sticky.


  


  

  Easy, right?

  Oh, so fucking wrong.

  The first attempt was an instant disaster.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  

  
• Attempt #1: Stick snapped in half the moment I tied the rock to it. I didn’t even get a chance to swing it. Amazing.


  
• Attempt #2: Rock slipped out and nearly took my eye with it. I swear I heard the gods laughing.


  
• Attempt #3: Somehow ended with less of a tool than I started with. Don’t even ask how that’s possible.


  
• Attempt #4: Actually worked. For a glorious three seconds.


  

  I swung attempt 4 at the branch, putting my full weight behind it—only for the axe head to detach mid-swing, sending me stumbling forward as it cartwheeled into the river like a traitor.

  I stood there, watching my one success sink beneath the surface.

  I sat down. Stared at the rippling water.

  This was supposed to be the easy part. I wasn’t trying to split atoms. I just wanted a stick with a rock on it.

  Why was this so difficult?!

  I exhaled, rubbing my forehead.

  It should’ve been just annoying. A minor setback. But instead, something settled in my chest.

  If I couldn’t even make a basic axe, how the hell was I supposed to build a hut?

  And if I couldn’t build a hut…

  Then what the hell was I doing?

  The cold breeze cut through the trees, raising goosebumps along my arms. It had been background noise before. Now? It felt sharper. Realer. A warning.

  I wasn’t surviving. I was stalling.

  Winter. Storms. Hell, even just a bad week.

  If I didn’t figure this out, I wouldn’t die.

  But I wouldn’t be living, either.

  That thought hit harder than expected.

  I clenched my fists.

  Fine. Fine. If the universe wanted to be difficult, then two could play that game.

  I wasn’t about to get outsmarted by a rock.

  I needed a new plan.

  I needed glue.

  I needed mud.

  I grabbed a stick, dug a little hole in the riverbank, and added water.

  And shockingly, I made mud.

  Progress.

  I scooped up a handful and kneaded it like bread dough, adding more dirt until it felt right.

  (Whatever “felt right” meant. It was mud. I had no clue what I was doing.)

  But hey, I had a plan.

  Now, time to make it work.

  I slapped a generous chunk of my homemade mud-glue onto Axe 3.0, pressing it into the grooves of the stick like some kind of primitive arts and crafts project.

  It held.

  …For about two seconds.

  Then, with a sad little plop, the axe head slid right off and landed in the dirt.

  I blinked.

  Do I not even know how dirt works?!

  I picked up the crumbling, useless mess and glared at it, as if sheer hatred could hold it together.

  Nope. Still garbage.

  I sighed and rubbed my forehead.

  I needed something that would actually hold.

  That’s when it hit me—a memory from childhood.

  The only time I’d ever willingly touched mud was as a kid, playing outside.

  I remembered pressing my hands into the dirt, shaping little mud balls… and then coming back hours later to find them hard as rocks.

  Didn’t they bake bricks or something?

  That gave me an idea.

  I got a fire going (finally, something I was good at) and started experimenting.

  First up: Ash.

  

  
• I grabbed a fresh batch of mud and sprinkled in a good amount of fire ash.


  
• My reasoning? Ash is powdery. Maybe it would help solidify things.


  
• What actually happened?


  

  Immediate disaster.

  The mud turned into wet cement, and when I tried to mix it, it coated my hands in thick, sticky sludge.

  I lifted my fingers, watching gray goop drip off like some eldritch horror.

  “Congrats, dumbass. You just made worse mud.”

  I flung the useless mess away before it could consume my soul.

  Next up: Shredded palm leaves.

  

  
• My reasoning? They looked fibrous—maybe they’d help hold the mud together.


  
• My process? Tearing them apart with my bare hands and mixing them into another batch of mud.


  
• The result? A slightly less useless pile of crap.


  

  It was closer.

  Too bad closer wasn’t the same as functional.

  I grabbed the failed mix, stood up, and hurled it into the woods.

  Somewhere, a bird screamed in protest.

  I sat down, frustrated, and stared at the piles of grass scattered around my camp.

  That’s when it clicked.

  Grass.

  Grass had never let me down.

  I used it for rope.

  I used it for nets.

  Why not mud?

  I grabbed a fresh handful of dirt, threw in a generous helping of dried grass, and kneaded it together with determination.

  The texture felt different. Stronger.

  I packed it onto Axe 4.0, smoothing it into place, and carefully set it over the fire to dry.

  The fire cracked and spit embers as I sat cross-legged, watching my mud experiment like a medieval alchemist. Smoke stung my eyes. My stomach growled. My patience wore thin. If this failed, I was going to start taking it personally.

  But this time?

  It held.

  I grabbed a small branch for the test swing.

  My fingers curled around the handle, my heartbeat picking up. I refused to get my hopes up.

  I could already see it in my head: the axe flying off, the stick snapping, some cosmic force ensuring my failure.

  But if this worked—

  Took a breath.

  Swung.

  THUNK.

  I blinked.

  I looked at the stick.

  A jagged cut, right through the wood.

  Holy shit. It actually worked.

  I had a survival tool.

  Not a great one.

  But something.

  And something was infinitely better than nothing.

  Then I noticed the sun sinking.

  The cold crept in, sharp and uninvited. The warmth from my fire felt suddenly pitiful, barely enough to push back the creeping chill.

  Tools were great. But I still had nowhere to sleep.

  I shivered, remembering how bitterly cold the plains got at night.

  If I had to go through another freezing night with nothing but hope and a pile of grass, I was going to lose my mind.

  I quickly tossed some rocks into the fire (primitive heating pads, right?), gathered a sad little pile of grass for a bed, and tried to convince myself I wouldn’t freeze to death.

  …Probably.

  Which, really, given my track record, wasn’t the reassurance I was hoping for.

  But now?

  I had a tool.

  I had a plan.

  And, most importantly? I had a chance.

  For the first time since getting thrown into this mess, I wasn’t just reacting. I was moving forward. Even if I had no clue what I was doing.

  But that was tomorrowa€?s problem.

  Tonight? My only mission was simple: stay alive.

  No freezing to death. No becoming some creature’s midnight snack.

  Just one night of sleep.

  And maybe, if I was lucky, I’d wake up to a calm, easy day for once.

  …Yeah. Like that would ever happen.