Victor lay sprawled on the sand, unmoving except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Days had passed, but time didn’t matter here. The sun rose, burned the sky, and fell again, but Victor didn’t track it. The noises from the jungle never ceased, crashing and shrieking in his ears even when he pressed his hands to his head. He was trapped in this terrible in-between—alive but not living, waiting for something to kill him, or for his body to give out on its own.

  Thirst came first. A clawing, insistent pain in his throat that couldn’t be ignored. It was worse than the hunger, worse than the nausea or the way his head swam. He tried to resist it, but on the third day—or was it the fourth?—he broke.

  Victor rolled onto his side, and the sand grated against his raw skin. His limbs ached as he pushed himself upright, every muscle screaming from disuse. He stayed crouched there for a moment, swaying like a broken marionette, before he reached out to steady himself against the ground.

  The instant his fingers brushed the sand, his vision exploded.

  It was like looking through a kaleidoscope—but instead of colors, it was memories. Not his own, but the sand’s. A thousand million years, flashing through his mind in a torrent of incomprehensible images. The grind of glaciers, the slow collapse of mountains, the endless crashing of waves. Each grain was a story, a fragment of time worn down to nothing, and they all screamed at him at once.

  Victor tore his hand away with a strangled cry, falling backward. His heart pounded as he stared at the sand, now just ordinary and lifeless again. He knew better. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was too full of life. Too full of meaning.

  It had been the same yesterday, when he first touched the rock at the edge of the beach. He hadn’t understood what was happening then, but he understood now. His hands—the damn things—had betrayed him. They reached into things, into places, pulling out stories and truths he didn’t want to know. It was like diving into a whirlpool with no way out, drowning in knowledge that didn’t belong to him.

  “Stop it,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Just stop.”

  But he couldn’t. Not when the thirst burned so badly.

  Victor stumbled toward the spring he’d found yesterday, his legs shaking beneath him. It wasn’t far—just past a cluster of jagged rocks—but every step felt like a mile. He kept his hands curled tightly against his chest, afraid to let them touch anything. Even brushing against the rough bark of a tree might bring on another flood, and he couldn’t take it. Not again.

  The spring came into view, a small pool of water ringed by mossy stones. It was quiet here, the jungle sounds muffled as if this place was holding its breath. The water looked clean, impossibly so—crystal-clear, reflecting the pale green of the surrounding foliage.

  Victor knelt at the edge, his knees sinking into the damp earth. His hands trembled as he reached toward the surface. Don’t touch. Don’t touch. He scooped the water up carefully, letting it flow through his cupped fingers into his cracked, parched mouth.

  It was cool and sharp, a relief so intense he nearly wept. He drank and drank until his stomach ached, and for a moment, he almost felt human again.

  Then his fingertips brushed one of the mossy rocks, and it happened again.

  The visions slammed into him like a falling boulder. The rock’s history poured into his mind—ancient and unyielding. It was part of a cliff once, standing high above a prehistoric ocean. Storms raged against it, wearing it down piece by piece. The screams of creatures echoed in the depths, something monstrous devouring smaller prey in the blackness below. He saw their bones, scattered and forgotten, buried beneath silt and time.

  Victor jerked away, retching into the grass. His stomach heaved, emptying everything he’d just drunk. His vision swam, the edges darkening, but the images stayed burned into his mind. He clawed at his temples, as if he could scrape them out, but they were lodged too deeply.

  His breaths came shallow and fast. He couldn’t keep doing this. Every touch was a new nightmare, a fresh wound carved into his brain. The world around him wasn’t just strange and hostile—it was alive in a way that mocked him. Every object, every surface, every drop of water was a story that wanted to be told, and he couldn’t escape them.

  He staggered back toward the beach, collapsing into the sand. This time, he didn’t care what his hands touched. Let the sand flood his mind again. Let it drown him. He was too tired to fight it anymore.

  Lying there, staring up at the alien sky, Victor laughed. A hollow, broken sound that turned into a choking sob.

  He wasn’t surviving. He wasn’t even trying. The jungle could have him. The sand could have him. The stories could devour him, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

  And maybe that would be better.

  Victor woke to the rough sand scraping his cheek and the sound of water hissing against the rocks. He tried to sit up, but his body didn’t respond right away. His muscles were lead, and a heavy ache pulsed in his gut. Hunger clawed at him, raw and gnawing, so sharp it felt like his insides were folding in on themselves. He groaned, rolling onto his back, blinking up at a sky that was too bright, too strange.

  Another day. Another losing fight.

  His tongue scraped the roof of his mouth like sandpaper. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drunk anything that stayed down. Every sip of water came with a risk: a vision, a flood of alien memories he couldn’t control. His power—it was a joke. A curse. He couldn’t even touch the ground without it crawling into his head, filling his mind with images that didn’t belong to him.

  Victor dragged himself upright, legs trembling. His knees buckled almost immediately, sending him crashing back down to the sand. He stayed there, panting, eyes locked on the jungle’s edge. The shadows beyond the treeline seemed deeper today, hungrier. The sounds hadn’t stopped—not once in the days since he’d arrived. Growls, shrieks, the occasional low hum of something moving, something large. He clenched his fists, dirt grinding against his palms.

  He had to eat.

  He remember the tree from the other day, but in hindsight didn’t think it actually sustained him, perhaps something to do with alien nutritional values.

  Crawling was all he could manage at first. His hands sank into the sand, the grit cutting into his skin, but he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. His stomach felt like a hollow pit, each cramp worse than the last.

  The jungle loomed closer with every dragging movement. It watched him. He swore it did. The air grew hotter, thicker, like he was suffocating under its gaze. But there was food in there. There had to be.

  “Don’t touch anything,” he muttered to himself, voice cracking. “Don’t—”

  His hand brushed against a vine trailing onto the sand, and the world tilted.

  The vision hit him hard, a rush of color and motion that threatened to rip his mind apart. He saw the vine grow, twisting and reaching, clinging to the bark of some ancient, massive tree. He felt the sharp tang of its sap, the rot of decaying leaves falling around it, the burn of some creature biting into its stem, writhing as the poison spread. The vine was toxic. Deadly.

  Victor yanked his hand back, gasping. His vision swam, nausea rising in his throat.

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

  “Focus,” he hissed. “Focus.”

  He forced himself to crawl forward, ignoring the sharp rocks slicing into his knees. The jungle greeted him with its overwhelming heat and the thick, choking scent of wet earth. He pushed past the low-hanging vines, avoiding anything that brushed against his skin. His power wasn’t consistent. Sometimes a touch was enough. Sometimes it took longer. But the risk was always there, lurking.

  After what felt like an eternity, he stumbled into a small clearing. A tree stood at its center, heavy with dark, bulbous fruit. His stomach twisted at the sight, both with hope and dread. Food. But what kind?

  Victor staggered forward, nearly collapsing at the tree’s base. His hands shook as he reached out to one of the fruits. He hesitated, fingers hovering just above its surface.

  This would hurt. It always hurt. But he didn’t have a choice.

  His fingertips grazed the fruit, and the vision swallowed him whole.

  The fruit grew in slow, deliberate cycles, its outer skin thickening to protect the soft flesh inside. He felt the sunlight soaking into it, the rain pooling at its base. Then came the animals—small, furred things that darted from the underbrush. They sniffed at the fallen fruit, mouths watering. Some ate. Others didn’t. The ones that did convulsed, collapsing where they stood, their bodies stiffening as their hearts slowed to a stop.

  Victor pulled his hand back with a strangled cry. He stared at the fruit, bile rising in his throat. Poison. All of it. He doubled over, dry heaving into the dirt.

  When the sickness passed, he looked back at the tree. Not all the fruit was the same. Some of it hung higher, closer to the leaves. He reached for another piece, hands trembling, and braced himself.

  The vision came again, and this time it wasn’t death he saw. The fruit ripened, falling into the hands of a scavenger, its soft flesh devoured in slow, cautious bites. The animal thrived, its body growing stronger.

  Victor didn’t think. He tore the fruit from the branch and bit into it, juice running down his chin. It was sour, almost bitter, but he didn’t care. He chewed and swallowed, barely stopping to breathe. The first bite turned into a second, then a third.

  His stomach ached, but it was different now—full instead of empty. He slumped against the tree, eyes closing as his body trembled.

  He was alive. For now.

  The realization hit him slowly, creeping in like the tide. His power wasn’t just a curse. It was a tool. He could survive here—really survive. Maybe even more.

  But it wouldn’t be easy. His legs still felt like lead, and every breath burned in his chest. The jungle didn’t care about his revelations. It would kill him the moment he let his guard down.

  Victor forced himself to his feet, wiping the juice from his mouth. His limbs were heavy, his mind foggy, but he stood. He had to keep moving. If he stayed here, the jungle would swallow him whole.

  Victor’s strength returned gradually, almost imperceptibly at first. The strange fruit he had scavenged from the tree—round, deep violet, and faintly glowing in the dim light—became a staple of his survival. Initially, he felt nothing after consuming it, save for a subtle warmth spreading through his body. Over the following days, however, he began to notice the changes. His legs no longer buckled as easily, and his hands, which had trembled from weakness, steadied. His senses sharpened; he could see further, hear clearer, and his reactions grew faster. It was as if the fruit was slowly rebuilding him from the inside out, fortifying muscles and heightening his awareness.

  Still, the jungle reminded him that he was never alone. On his third day of eating the fruit, he glimpsed a predator. It was a sleek, sinewy creature with mottled, chameleon-like skin that shifted hues to blend seamlessly with its surroundings. Its eyes, pale and reflective like moonstones, locked onto him from the underbrush. Heart racing, Victor ducked low and crept away, using the trees and foliage to obscure his movements. The beast didn’t pursue—not immediately. Over the next several days, he spotted it again, and others like it, stalking from the shadows. They didn’t attack, but their interest in him and, more specifically, the fruit he carried was undeniable.

  Fear became a constant companion. He learned to be vigilant, to always glance over his shoulder and scan the trees. Sleep was fitful, broken by the distant sounds of growls or the rustle of underbrush too close for comfort. The fruit’s gradual effects, however, gave him enough energy to endure—to keep moving, searching for a place to truly rest. He needed safety, somewhere defensible, away from the predators that seemed to covet his newfound lifeline.

  It was nearly a week later when Victor stumbled upon the lake. The air here was cooler, fresher, carrying the faint metallic tang of the water. The lake stretched wide, its surface shimmering with a faint iridescence under the alien sky. Rocky outcroppings jutted up around it, forming natural cliffs and ledges, some rising dozens of feet high. The terrain was rough and uneven, but its ruggedness promised security. There were fewer trees here, meaning fewer places for predators to hide.

  Victor chose a flat plateau near the lake’s edge, surrounded on three sides by steep rock walls and with a clear view of the water. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best spot he’d found. He dropped his makeshift satchel, filled with the violet fruit and scavenged supplies, and surveyed the area. His stomach tightened with a mix of determination and dread. Building a camp would be hard. Nothing in his previous life had prepared him for this—he wasn’t a survivalist, nor particularly strong before now. But the fruit’s effects bolstered his confidence, even as doubt lingered in the back of his mind.

  Victor had never worked with his hands before—never truly labored, not like this. The closest he’d come to physical effort was the occasional half-hearted attempt at exercise back home. Now, standing before the towering alien tree, he felt utterly out of his depth. The trunk was massive, its bark glistening faintly as though wet, though it felt dry to the touch—like calloused flesh stretched tight over bone. When he placed his palm against it, his ability kicked in, flooding his mind with unsettling detail: the bark wasn’t just tough—it was a labyrinth of fibers tougher than braided steel, designed to withstand forces he couldn’t fathom. Beneath, the core pulsed faintly, radiating heat like a slumbering beast.

  His brain understood it. His body didn’t.

  He fashioned a crude axe from a sharp rock and a split branch, binding it together with trembling hands. Each swing was an exercise in frustration. The axe head glanced off the fibrous bark with a dull thunk, sending painful reverberations up his arm. Sweat poured down his back, soaking his clothes, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t strong enough for this.

  After what felt like hours, he managed to chip away a section of the bark, exposing a pale inner layer that was softer but still unyielding. His hands burned with every grip, the unaccustomed effort shredding his skin. His palms were a mess of raw blisters by the time the tree finally fell. It didn’t just collapse—it let out a sound, low and mournful, as though it had suffered. The sight of the stump oozing bright orange sap that hardened like amber only added to the eerie sense that he had killed something ancient and alive.

  He wanted to stop. But he couldn’t.

  Dragging the felled tree back to his camp was a fresh hell. His legs trembled with the strain, and his muscles screamed with every step. He stumbled more than once, scraping his knees against jagged stones. By the time he reached the rocky plateau, he could barely stand.

  Victor’s ability flared again as his hand brushed against the rocks. Their molecular structure unraveled in his mind—one was light and brittle, flecked with shimmering particles, while another thrummed faintly, its dense core absorbing vibrations. He understood what to use and why, but knowing didn’t make the work easier.

  Clearing the plateau was a fight against his own weakness. Each rock he moved felt heavier than the last, his shoulders straining as he shoved them aside. His hands were torn open, blood smearing the stone as he worked. When one particularly large boulder refused to move, he lashed out in frustration, his fist pounding the surface. His ability flickered, showing him fault lines within the rock. He struck it with his makeshift hammer, splitting it cleanly in two. For a moment, he felt like he had won—but the victory was short-lived.

  The construction of the shelter was worse. Every decision felt like a gamble, every mistake a gut punch. The wood resisted his attempts to carve it, his tools dulling against its unnatural toughness. The vines he stripped from nearby trees were slippery and brittle until he soaked them, a discovery that cost him hours of trial and error. He tried to lash beams together, only to watch them fall apart in his hands.

  When his first shelter collapsed under the howling evening wind, he screamed—a raw, frustrated sound that echoed across the barren landscape. He wanted to give up. He wanted to lie down and let the alien world swallow him whole. But something wouldn’t let him stop.

  The next attempt went slower. He scavenged adhesive resin from the wood, heating it over a fire until it became tacky enough to bind joints. He carved notches into the beams with painstaking care, locking them together like puzzle pieces. Crossbeams, stakes, supports—each addition felt like it drained the last ounce of strength from his body. His vision blurred from exhaustion, his hands trembling as he worked late into the night.

  By the time the shelter stood, it was nothing more than a crude lean-to of wood and stone. It was lopsided, uneven, and ugly. But it held.

  Victor stared at it for a long time, too tired to feel triumph. He turned his focus to fortifications, using the crystalline tree sap to create jagged barriers around his camp. He strung vines between stakes as makeshift alarms, testing each one until they snapped with a satisfying crack.

  Every task took twice as long as it should have. Every step was a reminder of how unfit he was for this life. He was clumsy, weak, and inexperienced. But he was learning.

  When it was done, Victor collapsed on the rocky ground, staring up at the twin moons that hung low over the horizon. His body ached in ways he didn’t know were possible. His hands were shredded, his muscles spent. Yet, for the first time, he felt something other than despair.

  It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t even relief. It was survival. A hard-fought, bitter thing, but his nonetheless.