Survival tool in hand. Fire crackling, Bugs crawling all over me like I was hosting VIP bottle service for the insect elite.
Another night on the plains.
Honestly? It should have sucked.
Sleeping outside.
Getting eaten alive.
Rolling over onto a rock at least three times in my sleep.
But compared to my first night here?
This was luxury.
I had food in my stomach.
I had a fire keeping me warm.
And, for the first time since arriving, I actually had a plan.
A plan that didn’t involving panicking, eating random mushrooms, or almost dying.
Progress!
The sun creeping over the horizon was my alarm clock.
No blaring beeps.
No commute.
No corporate overlords looming over my shoulder, demanding I ‘circle back’ to the same useless conversation for the third time this week.
Just golden light spilling over the grasslands, painting the world in warm red hues.
It was almost peaceful.
Almost.
Five blissful seconds of peace.
Then the sun stabbed me directly in the eyes like a divine executioner.
“Ugh—”
I groaned, rolled onto my side, only to—
Thunk.
Rock.
Right to the ribs.
I yelped, flailed, and somehow managed to knee myself in the face.
A truly inspiring start to the day.
I bit my tongue, hissing through my teeth as I rubbed my sore spine.
Nature was beautiful. Nature was also a dick.
I sat there for a moment, letting my joints creak their way into functionality.
Everything ached.
The constant labour, the awkward sleeping position, the fact that I still didn’t have an actual bed— all of it was taking its toll.
But compared to the corpse-level exhaustion of my first night here?
This was manageable.
I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and stretched, cracking my neck like an old glowstick.
Alright. Today’s main mission: Build a house.
Not a dirt hovel.
Not a glorified lean-to.
My very own fantasy-world dream home.
Funny how fast perspectives change.
Day one? I’d laughed at the idea of a mud hut.
Now?
Mud hut was the dream.
A palace.
A monument to survival.
A big fuck you to the HR Goddess and her corporate cronies that had dumped me here with nothing but the clothes on my back.
But, uh… first things first.
Breakfast.
I pulled my makeshift leaf-wrapper from beside the fire and unwrapped my leftover fish from yesterday.
The smell hit me immediately—smoky, slightly charred, but still miles better than eating bugs.
It wasn’t as fresh as yesterday, but edible.
I took a bite, chewing slowly.
A little dry. A little salty.
But real food.
Hard-earned food.
And damn if that didn’t make it taste ten times better.
I took another bite, chewing with grim satisfaction.
Survival was starting to feel… real.
I grabbed an energy-boosting leaf from my stash and popped it into my mouth.
Still dangerous.
Still probably addictive.
Still didn’t care.
The moment I started chewing a sharp tingle zapped through my jaw, followed by a rush of clarity.
My body still ached. My joints still protested. But my brain?
Wide awake.
I sighed, shaking my head. Wiped my hands on my pants.
Time to work.
Today, I build a house.
With food in my belly and my brain running normally (thanks to magical energy leaves) I took stock of my precious materials.
- Rocks
Basically, caveman Home Depot.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
And just like Home Depot, I had no idea what the hell I was doing.
Alright. Step one: Frame.
Houses had frames.
Right?
Wooden beams. Structural support. Things that kept them from collapsing like my will to live.
I couldn’t just stack mud and pray for the best.
So, I grabbed the tallest sticks from my pile—ones that were about my height—and drove the first one into the ground.
WHUMP.
It fell over immediately.
I frowned.
Narrowed my eyes.
Tried again.
Shoved it deeper. Patted the dirt around it.
WHUMP.
Still fell over.
Annoying.
I gritted my teeth and grabbed my axe, flipping it around to use the handle as a hammer.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The stick sank a little deeper.
Then… WHUMP.
The universe was laughing at me.
I was losing a battle against a stick.
I ran a hand down my face, inhaled through my nose, and took a longer, harder chew on my magic leaf.
Okay. Think.
Mud worked for tools.
Could it work here?
I’d seen construction sites before—real buildings had concrete foundations.
And if concrete was good enough for skyscrapers, then damn it, prehistoric concrete was good enough for me.
Maybe if I dug deeper holes, filled them with mud, and then set the sticks, they’d actually stay upright.
…Worth a shot.
I grabbed my axe and got to work.
Chopping.
Hacking.
Digging.
Every swing sent dirt flying.
My arms burned. My back ached. Sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging like hell.
“Why—” THUNK.
“Won’t—you—” THUNK.
“Cooperate?!” THUNK.
“Listen, you stubborn piece of crap, I am trying to respect you as a geological entity here.”
THUNK.
“But if you don’t start behaving, I swear to whatever gods are listening, I will personally dig you up, stomp on you, and yeet you into the stratosphere.”
THUNK.
“Yeah? You like that? That’s what I thought.”
The dirt didn’t respond.
Because it was dirt.
After what felt like a lifetime in the ninth circle of digging hell, I finally had four uneven, lopsided pits.
Zero will to live.
But progress is progress.
I wiped my forehead, breathing hard. My fingers trembled.
Now, for the moment of truth.
I grabbed my precious mud—the upgraded “fancy mud” I’d figured out before—and slathered it into the holes.
The texture was… questionable.
Sticky. Thick. A little too reminiscent of corporate cafeteria mystery meals.
…But if it worked, I wasn’t gonna complain.
I took the first stick, jammed it in, and pushed down with all my weight.
At first? Nothing.
Then, slowly, it sank into place.
I stared at it.
It wasn’t falling.
It wasn’t moving.
It was standing.
HAH.
I did the same for the other three.
Mud. Stick. Press. Success.
Finally.
Four vertical beams.
The start of an actual structure.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Sweat dripped down my spine. My muscles ached. My blisters had blisters.
But I grinned like an idiot.
It had taken way too much trial and error, but the basic skeleton of my house was finally standing.
And yeah, okay—
It was lopsided as hell.
One of the poles was leaning like it had pre-gamed too hard before a party.
But it was mine.
I took a slow step back, rubbing the sore spot on my shoulder.
It looked like a house.
Well. Sort of.
Like the world’s most pathetic skeleton of a house.
…But it was progress.
I swiped at the sweat on my forehead, taking a moment to admire my handiwork.
Alright. Time to build the roof.
I grabbed some sturdier sticks, cut them to roughly the same length, and tied them into triangles.
Boom. Structure.
Easy.
…At least, in theory.
In reality?
Absolute fucking disaster.
But for the first ten minutes? I was living the dream.
I even started whistling—off-tempo, off-pitch, but who was gonna judge me?
The HR Goddess? Screw her.
I was happy.
Until I wasn’t.
I tried tying the first triangle onto my frame.
It wobbled.
Then twisted.
Then collapsed directly onto my head.
THUNK.
Everything went dark.
For a second, I was pretty sure I’d died again.
When I woke up, I was flat on my back, staring up at the half-finished skeleton of my disaster hut.
Either no time had passed, or I’d been unconscious for a solid ten minutes.
Hard to tell.
All I knew was my head hurt, and I was now lying in a pile of broken sticks, shattered triangles, and crushed dreams.
I groaned, rubbing the sore spot.
“…Okay. That didn’t work.”
The air smelled different. Crisp. Damp.
Did I have a concussion?
Did concussions do that?
Maybe I was imagining it.
So. Triangles were a no-go.
Would squares work?
I wasn’t an architect, but hey—
Couldn’t be worse than getting smacked in the skull again.
I gathered the wreckage of my failed triangles, squinting at the splintered remains like some kind of primitive engineer.
Step one: Stack.
Step two: …Pray?
I lashed the broken pieces together, reinforcing the joints with mud and rope like the world’s most questionable craftsman.
It actually looked decent.
Solid. Sturdy. Promising.
I grinned, feeling that rush of success. Maybe this would work.
First square? Up on the frame. Tied down.
Second? Easy.
Third? No problem.
Fourth? Chef’s kiss.
I stepped back, hands on my hips, admiring my handiwork.
It was looking stable.
It was looking…
I squinted. I’d done something wrong. I could feel it.
But what?
The squares had worked. The frame was solid. Everything was—
I blinked.
Oh.
I hadn’t built a roof.
I’d just given my house a taller ceiling.
Which was great! If I was starting a medieval cathedral.
For the local birds.
Just, uh…
Not what I was going for.
“…Shit.”
I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temples.
I had just invented fantasy-world vaulted ceilings. A true Renaissance architect. Da Vinci would weep.
Now if only I had literally any walls, a functioning roof, or basic human dignity.
Alright. Plan C.
I grabbed the last of my sturdy sticks and went full caveman mode.
No more geometry.
No fancy beams, no perfect angles, no bullshit engineering.
Just sticks, rope, and prayer.
I laid them flat across the top, tying them down with as much force as my aching fingers could manage.
Then, I jammed clumps of grass and mud into the gaps, pressing everything tight together like some crappy, organic roofing insulation.
Was it ugly?
Yes.
Was it structurally sound?
Absolutely not.
Was it better than nothing?
…Barely.
I stepped back, wiping sweat off my forehead.
I had a roof.
Sure, it was lopsided as hell.
Sure, I had zero confidence it would hold up against a strong breeze.
Sure, it was probably a lawsuit waiting to happen.
But progress was progress.
Mud. My saviour.
- Tools? Mud.
- Shelter? Mud.
- Keeping my sanity in tact? …Eh, jury’s out.
I stepped back, wiping sweat off my forehead.
I was admiring the day’s work when…
…A cold gust of wind slapped me across the face.
I blinked.
The breeze had been gentle all morning. But this? This had bite.
I looked up.
And immediately regretted it.
The sky had changed.
The soft, lazy clouds from earlier? Gone.
In their place—thick, dark masses rolling in.
The wind whistled through the grass, stronger than before.
The air smelled…wrong.
A storm.
My half-finished walls.
My not-so-waterproof roof.
Shit.
I’d been building at my own pace.
Figuring things out slowly.
Now?
I had to move.
Fast.
Because if that storm hit before my hut was finished…
…I might not make it through the night.
- Walls? Sort of.
- Roof? Questionable.
- Structural integrity? Absolutely not.
- Dignity? Gone.
Because of course.
Because this world hates me.
- Would YOU survive with only sticks, mud, and vibes?
- Ever had a DIY project go horribly, HORRIBLY wrong?