[Current Objective: Reach Meryll]

Daybreak brought with it the unforgiving clarity only the cold light of dawn can deliver—harsh but undeniably necessary. Golden rays cut through the dense canopy like an overzealous courier determined to deliver at any cost. The unsettling glow of Catseye berries was no longer my guiding light; instead, the forest around me was bathed in vibrant, natural hues. It was a scene of picturesque serenity.

I stood in the riverbed, and released a sigh that could only be classified as "deeply relieved," the tension from the night before washing away like mud in the frigid water. It felt like a good moment to pause. I hauled myself up the bank, found a cozy spot among the trees, and tended to the all-important task of drying my thoroughly soaked feet. Once that critical matter was handled, I set about building a small fire—not out of necessity, but more for the comfort of knowing I could if I wanted to.

Next came rummaging through my inventory. I unearthed a small skillet and an eclectic assortment of foraged goods from the day before. First on my agenda: brewing a Catseye Draught. It was essentially a more potent version of the berries, providing night vision without the nasty side effects—like nausea. The success of this little endeavor was thanks to the Cool Bandana of Insight, which, as the name suggests, not only looked cool but also granted enough intelligence to unlock expert-level crafting. Unfortunately, knowing how to make things didn’t mean I actually had the ingredients for most of them. Except one.

Through sheer stubbornness (and more scrounging than I’d care to admit), I’d collected five Silverleaf Shadows. With a few bits I’d "acquired" from the Crushing Fields, I could whip up something called Shadow Oil. What did it do? Allegedly, it enhanced "Darkness damage," when applied to weapons, but far more interestingly, it granted ten minutes of invisibility when applied to clothing. Given that I already had enough poisons on hand to make me a highly lethal individual. Invisibility seemed like the smarter option. Plus, the idea of vanishing from awkward situations was undeniably tempting.

After that, I busied myself with crafting a few mundane items, purely to scrape together enough experience points to push me closer to level seven. This took longer than expected, but item by item the experience bat crept closer to the the threshold. Eventually, the little blue bar tipped over to level seven and reset. By the time I was done, I realized I was sitting alone in a forest so dangerous that even Rolland would think twice before venturing in. Stocking up on power before moving forward seemed like a solid plan.

I glanced at the pile of miscellaneous junk now clogging my inventory. I’d have to trade it off in Meryll’s Citadel—assuming I could find someone willing to barter.

I opened my perk screen to a smug little notification—three perk points were available, two gathered from my wild day before and one from the crafting. Not enough to ascend to godhood, but enough to make me feel a twinge of guilt for hoarding them. I scanned the list of available perks. Most were minor conveniences, the kind of stuff that made day-to-day life a bit smoother but would be about as useful as a chocolate hammer in a fistfight. After watching Scott bend the laws of reality like they were mere suggestions, anything below level ten felt like child’s play. These now felt like perks to help people who misplace their keys, not someone on a head-on collision with a Viral Lord. If I was going to take down one of those things, I’d need more than a handful of "quality of life" buffs.

For a moment, I considered hoarding the points, greedily stockpiling them like I was counting my last few coins. Maybe if I held off until level ten, I’d unlock something game-changing. But then reality tapped me on the shoulder. I had no guarantee I’d ever reach level ten. This world was ruthless, and if I went down saving points for perks I’d never use, it would be a truly ridiculous way to die. Better to spend them while I still had the chance. After all, every perk I’d picked up so far had turned out useful in one way or another, even if they didn’t make much sense at the time.

I took a breath and reflected on how far I’d come. I wasn’t that same insecure cook who’d stumbled out into the world armed with nothing but a spatula and an intense sense of terror. The Butcher and Heartless perks had done wonders for my attack power—especially when something sharp was involved. Not that I liked getting up close and personal with enemies, but when I did, I made it count. Still, it was my crafting perks—Chef's Kiss, Connoisseur, and Wasteland Pharmacologist—that had truly made me a force to be reckoned with. Healing elixirs, poisons, concoctions that would make alchemists weep with envy—I could whip them up without breaking a sweat.

But the real surprise came from the unlikely synergy between Yellow Belly, Empathy, and Ruthless Marketer. At first glance, they seemed completely unrelated. Yet, when combined, they offered a disturbing potential—a way to not just manipulate emotions but, with enough Charisma, even sway the thoughts of those around me. It felt a bit... wrong, sure. Maybe even a little dirty. But when I remembered the note the Architect had left me, outlining the end of the world and our slim chances of survival, it became clear. Control was the key to making it through this mess. If pulling a few strings meant saving everyone, then so be it.

For the first time, I had a clear path forward. No more relying on sheer luck or stumbling into the next disaster. I knew what I had to do, even if it didn’t exactly sit right with me.

The first perk I picked was called Emotional Vampire. It let me drain the emotional state of a target—specifically, siphoning off any hostility directed at me. Perfect for turning volatile situations into awkward but manageable standoffs. It meshed beautifully with Yellow Belly and Ruthless Marketer, which had already proven their worth in keeping me alive through a mix of avoidance and opportunistic exploitation. The drawback? Emotional Vampire could only be used on one target every thirty seconds. Just enough time to wonder if I’d regret this choice when surrounded by a mob.

Luckily, the next perk I picked—Commanding Presence—came to my rescue. It increased the number of targets I could influence, expanding my reach based on my Charisma. At a solid six, my Charisma wasn’t going to win me any awards for charm, but it was better than nothing. Sure, I’d need to seriously boost that stat if I ever wanted to start swaying entire villages with a wink and a smile.

After what felt like ages of hemming and hawing, I settled on my final perk: Soul Strike. If Emotional Vampire was all about finesse, Soul Strike was the mental equivalent of tossing a grenade into a crowded room. Every minute, I could unleash a wave of psychic energy that dealt damage equal to my Intelligence stat multiplied by ten. The description casually mentioned that the effect would vary depending on my emotional state, with a 15% chance of inflicting “unfortunate status conditions”—a very polite way of saying, "You might seriously ruin someone's day." But with Luck as my second-highest stat and an inventory packed with enough healing supplies to open a medieval pharmacy, I figured it was worth the gamble. Soul Strike became my ace in the hole—a ranged attack I could throw out whether I was disarmed, distracted, or otherwise busy with the pressing business of not dying.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Feeling more confident than I had in ages, I left the cozy warmth of my campfire and made my way toward Meryll’s Citadel. As I moved through the forest, I stretched my senses, testing the limits of my perception. The wildlife, for the most part, ignored me. A few creatures watched me with vague curiosity, but once they realized I wasn’t there to pick a fight, they lost interest. Yellow Belly was working like a charm, and to my delight, I even gained some experience just for not being threatening. A win for passive-aggressiveness.

But, as they say, ignorance is bliss, and I had been blissfully unaware of just how many terrifying things had lurked on the edge of my awareness all this time. The revelation that I’d been wandering through a world full of unseen monsters capable of turning me into a smear on the ground in seconds was... sobering. My "dodging critters" strategy, which had seemed so clever, now felt more like I’d been blindly dodging bullets. Still, in a weird way, it was almost reassuring. Apocalypta wasn’t just a relentless gauntlet of doom. Not always, anyway.

That comforting thought stuck with me as I wandered along the riverbed, shadowed by the increasingly ominous forest. By the time evening showed up—uninvited and moody—I’d scraped together just enough experience to inch me seven percent closer to level eight. The trees, once welcoming in their leafy green attire, had transformed, now draped in thick webs that glistened in the fading light like some kind of sinister party decor. Ahead, the landscape took a dramatic turn, with craggy hills rising like bad special effects from a low-budget fantasy film. The riverbed, once a meandering stream, had narrowed into a six-foot-wide gulch covered in a thick layer of white silk threads that shimmered unnervingly. I had absolutely no intention of investigating.

"Yeah, there’s no way I’m going through that in the dark," I declared to the empty air, the Architect, and any unseen entity amused by my sudden outbreak of common sense.

For a moment, I half expected to hear Scott’s sarcastic quip or Rolland’s calm, gruff agreement. Maybe even Regan, with her reckless optimism, would have suggested a flamethrower—a homemade one, cobbled together from scrap metal and pure adrenaline. I chuckled at the thought, but the laugh faded quickly, as loneliness crept back in, reminding me I was, in fact, alone in a forest that had apparently gone all goth on me.

Taking a hint from my own survival instincts, I settled on the riverbank and let the night arrive at its leisure. The forest, once filled with the chittering of daytime creatures, had transformed into an insect rave. My senses were overwhelmed by the writhing, buzzing crowd of tiny, unseen beings, all far more interested in whatever they were doing than in me. Thankfully, I was way too powerful for any of them to matter now, and they scattered as soon as they wandered too close to my sphere of influence. While that gave my ego a nice little boost, the complete lack of passive experience points from scaring off bugs felt like an oversight. I’d have to figure out a workaround for that later.

With my perception dialed up to the max and nothing immediate to worry about, I decided to kill some time fiddling with my menu screens. Checking the map, I got a pleasant surprise—my Cool Bandana of Insight, which doubled my Intelligence, had also expanded my observable radius. Where before I could see about a hundred feet, now I had a full two hundred feet of visibility. Apparently, doubling my IQ meant doubling my hindsight too, as the map retroactively filled in details around places I’d wandered with Scott. The world was suddenly twice as detailed, and while that was neat, it also confirmed a grim truth: Spider Gulch was, in fact, the official name of the area directly ahead of me.

I allowed myself a moment of smug satisfaction. Was it my increased Intelligence, or just the game’s lazy naming conventions? Either way, I wasn’t going to waste time philosophizing. What mattered was that I wasn’t about to head straight into a place called Spider Gulch without thinking things through.

It became glaringly obvious why Scott had insisted I stick to the riverbed. Though the water didn’t exactly race northward—more of a lazy tilt to the northeast—it was the most direct route to Meryll’s Citadel. More importantly, it carved a path through the forest, bypassing lurking dangers that undoubtedly boasted an alarming number of teeth and claws. "Safe" in this world meant "less likely to die screaming," and I was still getting used to that translation.

As I contemplated my surroundings, a noise broke the stillness—the skittering sound that signals something large and decidedly angry is barreling toward you. My curiosity morphed into alarm as I barely managed to close the map before a spider the size of a small horse exploded from the treeline.

It was unnaturally fast—too fast for something that resembled a grotesque hybrid of a creature and a nightmare. Eight legs moved with lethal precision, and fangs the size of my leg dripped with venom, radiating a menace that could make the bravest warrior rethink their life choices. The creature’s piercing shriek cut through the night, sending a jolt of adrenaline through my veins. Fleeing into Spider Gulch seemed rational—until the thought of an entire nest waiting for me made my blood run cold. No way.

Instinct kicked in, and I activated my Emotional Vampire ability. For a fleeting second, I wondered if this monstrous creature even had feelings to drain. Turns out, it did. I felt its insatiable hunger siphon into me, a chilling breeze of ravenous emptiness that filled my mind and landed in my inventory as a Drop of Hunger. A bonus I hadn’t anticipated but would take nonetheless.

Then the spider’s behavior shifted. Its furious sprint slowed to a leisurely crawl, as if it had just lost interest in the whole “kill the human” plan. It stared at me with the kind of indifference you’d expect from a particularly annoyed mule.

Uncertain how long this bizarre calm would last, I pointed down the riverbed and said, “Shoo.”

To my surprise, the six-foot arachnid tilted its body in confusion, then ambled off as if it were on a casual stroll instead of retreating from danger. Before long, it disappeared from my line of sight.

As night deepened, more Shriekers - the name I had given to the spiders - charged at me, and I sent them scurrying back into whatever hell they crawled from. Part of me craved to test the limits of my new power, but even I knew better than to poke a sleeping bear—especially one lurking in the dense treeline, full of potential horrors just waiting for a misstep.

I also wanted to gauge whether the Catseye Elixir was truly necessary. After the effects of my first bottle faded just ten minutes in, I chose to forgo the second. Instead, I sharpened my perception, tuning into the background noise for any signs of threats. Luckily, Shriekers didn’t disappoint, their banshee-like wails giving away their positions as they hurled themselves into the night. By midnight, I’d amassed seven Drops of Hunger without even breaking a sweat.

I could have continued my little farming experiment, but my plans were abruptly interrupted by what could only be described as a mountain sprouting legs. A spider—if you could still call it that—towered from the forest floor like a nightmare made manifest. It was colossal, its body stretching nearly a third of a mile, with legs as thick as small buildings. Backlit by the moon, it loomed over the landscape, an unyielding titan crushing everything in its path with each ponderous step.

I felt its gaze sweep across the forest, and I silently prayed it wouldn’t fixate on me. What could a creature like that possibly eat? Then it hit me: food wasn’t a necessity in this world. It was likely some secret endgame boss, introduced to remind players that they were mere mortals, easily squashed beneath its immense weight.

But for me, this wasn’t just a thrilling narrative twist; this was an encounter with a walking Spider-God. The riverbed, once a sanctuary, now felt like an open invitation to be crushed under one of those titanic legs. There was nowhere in the forest that seemed safe from its indifferent, lumbering destruction.

Not eager to test the limits of my luck, I chugged another bottle of Catseye Elixir, its glow sharpening the darkness around me. With a quiet desperation, I slipped into Spider Gulch, hoping I wouldn’t have to discover just how unforgiving the Megarachnid’s gaze truly was.