My return to Earth feels even worse than the drop all over again.

Except that this time, I’m pretty badly dinged up, and my suit is basically one step away from being scrap metal.

I don’t know how long I fall or from how high, but it feels like forever.

I slam into something solid—a tree trunk, probably, though at this point it could be anything.

The impact drives what little air remains from my lungs.

My partially dissolved armor crumples like wet cardboard.

I feel at least three ribs crack.

[Impact Analysis]

Skeletal Damage: Severe

Internal Bleeding: Detected

Armor Integrity: 12%

Warning: Multiple systems critical

I slide down whatever I hit, trailing blood and acid and dissolving armor. Each movement sends fresh waves of agony through what's left of my body.

I land with an impact that feels like I’m breaking half the bones in my body.

My vision blurs and I feel my mind shutting down but I force myself to stay conscious.

To stay aware.

To stay alive.

It takes a while but I finally feel able to assess my surroundings.

Once again, I’m lying on my back on the jungle floor.

Not on the back of a giant organism masquerading as the jungle floor but the actual jungle floor itself.

I’m staring up at leaves, branches, trees, sunlight glimmering through the dense canopy, dappling the area where I lie in chiaroscuro patterns.

I’m hurt badly, maybe damaged permanently.

Every breath sends shooting daggers of pain through my lungs and chest.

Yet that pain itself tells me what I wouldn’t have believed possible only minutes ago.

Somehow, impossibly, I've survived.

Again.

I feel the laugh building inside me, and will it back.

Bad idea, yaar.

You’ve got broken ribs.

At least one of them is poking into your lung.

Laughing is going to make everything hurt even worse.

But that’s not the way I’m built.

I’m a slumdog.

We live in squalor and dirt, we scrabble for survival, we endure humiliation after humiliation, abuse after abuse.

But when we score a win, we damn well celebrate it.

This counts as a definite win.

To use a cricket term, because what Mumbai slumdog doesn’t think cricket is the most glorious sport in the world, it’s a fucking six.

I hit this one out of the stadium.

The equivalent of a home run in American baseball, like hitting it out of the park.

And so I laugh.

And laugh.

I laugh like a laughing Buddha.

Like a crazy cat on an app when you tickle it.

I laugh until my lungs feel like they’re full of splintered glass and tears of agony are running down the sides of my face and into my ears.

I laugh until I can’t laugh anymore.

And goddamnit, I feel a hundred times better for having laughed.

Like the king of the world, if only for a moment.

Because like any slumdog, I know that life is fleeting and our lives are cheaper than most.

It could all end at any time.

So we carpe diem every day.

Or as Anthony, one of the older boys that I looked up to at the chawl, used to say it: Carpe Ballus.

I don’t think that’s actual Latin but according to Tony, it means Seize Life by the Balls. Before it seizes yours. Over time he shortened it to simply Squeeze the day!

That pretty much sums it up.

When I stop laughing, the cold reality starts to sink in, along with what I know is the icy freezing chill of shock from my gruesome injuries and condition.

I may have won that round.

But I’m not out of the woods yet.

I’m lying here on my back, incapacitated, my suit probably broken in ways that I can’t possibly fix.

Helpless and at the mercy of anything that happens to choose me as its next meal.

Already, I can see eyes peering down at me through the leaves in that tree above me.

Yellow, unfriendly eyes.

And there’s a whole bunch of them.

Those yellow eyes aren't going anywhere. They're patient, waiting, probably sizing me up to see if I'm worth the effort. I need to think. Need to be methodical about this. Getting emotional or panicking will just get me killed faster.

First things first: weapons. I pat myself down as best I can with arms that feel like they're made of molten lead. My primary rifle is gone—probably dissolved in the Cobradile's acid along with a good chunk of my armor. The sidearm holster at my hip is empty. Must have lost it during the fall. I still have two grenades on my belt though, assuming they weren't damaged in the acid bath or the fall.

[Equipment Status: Critical. Combat effectiveness reduced by 94%]

Great. Just great.

My fingers trace the grenade casings. One feels intact. The other has a dent that makes me nervous about trusting it. So I have exactly one weapon I can count on, and in my current condition, I'm not even sure I can throw it far enough to avoid getting caught in the blast radius.

Second problem: mobility. I try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain lances through my chest like I'm being stabbed with white-hot pokers. Yeah, those ribs are definitely broken. The acid burns covering most of my lower body aren't helping either. Every movement feels like I'm being flayed alive.

[Medical Alert: Internal bleeding detected. Estimated consciousness retention: 47 minutes at best]

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Focus. I need shelter. Somewhere defensible where I can try to patch myself up. The jungle canopy above me is thick enough that I can't see the sky, which means potential aerial predators will have trouble spotting me. But it also means I have no idea which direction might lead to safety.

That's when I remember the briefing just before the drop. The Mega-AI's words echo in my head: "Listen up maggots, because I'm only saying this once. There will be NO extractions. NO evacuations. You survive the full six weeks on this dirtball, or you don't survive at all. Welcome to basic training, you sorry excuses for soldiers!"

The laugh that bubbles up hurts worse than the broken ribs. Six weeks? I'll be lucky to survive another six minutes. The acid burns alone would require a full medical facility to treat properly. The internal bleeding needs immediate surgery. And that's assuming nothing else goes wrong.

[Survival Probability: Calculating... Error: Value too low to compute]

Those yellow eyes are still watching. More have joined them now, and they've started to blink in an unsettling pattern. Almost like they're communicating. Almost like they're coordinating.

I've survived being burned alive by a necro-dragon across multiple realities. Survived a combat drop that killed most of my squad. Survived being partially digested by a monster that someone decided needed to be part snake, part crocodile, and part nightmare. Survived a blast that should have turned me into confetti.

But looking up at those increasingly numerous yellow eyes, I'm starting to think my luck has finally run out.

I'm completely and utterly fucked.

And the worst part? Somewhere out there in the multiverse, millions of viewers are probably placing bets on exactly how I'm going to die.

No, wait. Even that isn’t happening. Because there are no Gnats, no holohost, nobody watching. Not even my fellow squadies. Or even the Mega-AI.

Except…that isn’t entirely true.

It can’t be.

I exert my brain and summon up a screen.

With effort, I focus my thoughts and summon up my personal stat screen:

[Status Update: Vish Naman]

Level: 0

Health: 12/100

Strength: 8/100 (Critical)

Agility: 4/100 (Critical)

Endurance: 3/100 (Critical)

Special Status: System Marked

Active Debuffs:

- Critical Internal Bleeding (-60% to all stats)

- Multiple Fractures (-45% movement)

- Acid Burns (-35% armor effectiveness)

- Chronic Malnutrition (-40% base stats)

- Recurring Malaria (-20% stamina)

- Battle Fatigue (-15% reaction)

- Unknown Effect: [PROCESSING...]

Combat Readiness: Terminal

Survival Rating: 0.001%

Hidden Potential: [CALCULATING...]

System Note: Evolution path unlocked

The fact that I can still see these floating screens tells me something crucial: the System is still active. Which means I'm not completely alone. The System is operated by the Mega-AI, that vast synthetic intelligence that spans all versions of Earth across the Alphaverse. A scientist once called it "a ring around the sun" in an interview, referencing some classic sci-fi novel I've never read.

But the Mega-AI isn't just advanced technology. It functions through sorcerience—that impossible fusion of magic and science that the Vritrans mastered eons ago. While it presents itself to us through interfaces that mimic our understanding of technology, its true nature is far stranger, far more profound.

The Vritrans are what humanity might have become if the ancient Vedic era of India had never ended—if instead of being corrupted and forgotten, that knowledge had continued to evolve and grow. On Vritra, their homeworld, they developed those ancient principles into something beyond our comprehension.

I remember the lecture at Fort Campbell, during our orientation week. A Vritran guru with flowing white hair stood before us, her face and arms (the only visible parts of her body beneath her red ochre robe) marked with ritual scars that seemed to shift and change if you looked at them too long. Her voice carried an otherworldly resonance as she explained the fundamental difference between Earth's corrupted caste system and Vritra's class structure.

"Your caste system," she had said, her accented English carrying undertones that made my teeth vibrate, "is a degraded shadow of its original purpose. It chains people to predetermined roles, crushing potential instead of nurturing it. On Vritra, our class system serves its true purpose—to connect each individual to the vast web of shared power that is their birthright."

She described how Vritran newborns choose their own class, guided by what they called Sanskriti—genetic memory coded directly into their DNA. Sanskrit, she explained, wasn't just an ancient language. It was the original binary code, designed not for silicon computers but for the quantum processor of the human brain itself.

"In the delivery room," she told us, "we place seven objects before the newborn. Each represents a different class path. The infant, barely minutes old, already knows how to interpret the floating screens, how to access the vast repository of shared knowledge. They choose based on both their genetic predisposition and their individual will. And from that moment, they can draw upon the accumulated power of every member of their chosen class throughout history."

The memory fades as another wave of pain shoots through my broken ribs, but it leaves me with a thought. The System hadn't just been measuring my abilities—it had been measuring my potential. And something about that last fight, about the way I'd interfaced with it through the pain and paralysis, had unlocked something.

A new notification flashes across my vision:

[Class Selection Available]

Requirement Met: Evolution Through Adversity

Warning: Non-standard initiation path

Note: The System adjusts to necessity

My breath catches in my throat. This shouldn't be possible. Class selection is for Vritrans, not for slumdog draft immigrants with barely enough muscle mass to fill out their armor. But the screen is still there, pulsing with possibility.

And those yellow eyes are still watching from above, waiting to see what I'll do next.

Seven glowing icons materialize in the air before me, each pulsing with its own unique energy signature. Even through my pain-hazed vision, I can read their Sanskrit labels. My eyes fix on one in particular: वैद्य (Vaidya). Healer.

[Class Selection Menu]

Choose Wisely:

- Path selection is typically permanent

- Emergency temporary selection available

- Warning: Reduced effectiveness

- Note: Temporary selection limited to Level 4

I don't hesitate. "Temporary selection: Vaid, Level 4," I rasp through blood-flecked lips. The icon flares bright as sunlight, then sinks into my chest. Knowledge floods my consciousness—ancient healing arts, energy manipulation techniques, the fundamentals of life force transference.

Immediately, I feel the change. My awareness of my own body expands exponentially. I can sense every torn vessel, every fractured bone, every acid-burned nerve ending. More importantly, I can feel the flow of healing energy—what the Vritrans call prana—beginning to move through my ravaged system.

I direct the energy to the most critical injuries first: the internal bleeding, the punctured lung, the damaged organs. The sensation is bizarre—like having warm honey poured into my veins, but honey made of light and life itself. I watch in fascination as ruptured blood vessels seal themselves, as torn tissue knits back together.

But there's a problem. A big one.

[Mana Status: Critical]

Current Level: 12/100

Healing Cost: 8 mana/second

Warning: Reserve depleted

Recommendation: Seek energy source

The healing stutters to a halt. I'm completely drained—or as my old pal Tony would say, "extrahausted," his made-up word for being so depleted you've gone beyond regular exhaustion into some new territory of empty.

That's when they descend.

The yellow-eyed creatures flow down the tree trunks like liquid shadow. They drop from branches with a grace that seems to ignore gravity. Within moments, I'm surrounded by a crowd of... what the actual fuck?

They look like monkeys, sort of. Basic simian body plan—arms, legs, tails, fur. But their faces... their faces look like they've escaped from a cartoon. Not just any cartoon. They look exactly like characters from The Samsons, that long-running American animated series about the dysfunctional family that's supposedly human but looks weirdly apelike.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. The one nearest to me is a dead ringer for Humor Samson, complete with the permanent five o'clock shadow and receding hairline. There's a Molly Samson with the towering blue hair-thing. A sullen-looking Bert. A Leah-analog with the spiky star pattern in her fur. Even a baby Meg.

The rest are variations on these five templates, like someone copied and pasted cartoon characters into reality and hit "multiply".

They start poking at me with disturbingly human-like hands, testing my responses. I try to move, to fight back, but I'm running on empty. The healing took everything I had left.

[Combat Status: Helpless]

Strength: 2/100

Resistance: Failed

Warning: Predator response imminent

The testing turns aggressive. Sharp claws nick my skin. Teeth designed for cracking bones nip at my extremities. They're coordinating, working together to get holds on my arms and legs. I realize what's happening—they're going to carry me up into the trees.

I have no strength left to resist. I let them drag me upward, trying to think through my options. But my mind feels as empty as my mana reserves.

They arrange me carefully on a broad branch junction, high above the forest floor. The care they take in positioning me is almost worse than if they'd just started tearing me apart. They're setting up a dinner table.

Humor—I can't help thinking of him by that name—leans in close, probably going for my throat. That's when I make my move. With the last of my strength, I surge upward and sink my teeth into his neck. The taste is bizarre—like biting into a cartoon made flesh. But the effect is very real. Hot blood sprays as I tear out his throat.

[Mana Transfer Initiated]

Converting biological energy...

Mana +15

Warning: Hostile response detected

The rush of absorbed mana is instant and intoxicating. I direct it immediately into healing, feeling torn muscles knit and broken bones start to fuse.

The other cartoon-monkeys shriek in rage and attack. I manage to grab another one—a Margary clone—and tear into her with desperate strength. More mana floods my system.

It becomes a frenzied race. They're ripping into me with claws and teeth, but every kill gives me more energy to heal. I'm losing blood but gaining mana. Torn flesh but renewed strength. Each death fills my reserves a little more.

[Combat Status: Escalating]

Damage Taken: Severe

Mana Gained: +47

Healing Rate: Accelerating

Note: Evolution through consumption

Through the haze of blood and healing energy, I realize I'm laughing. Here I am, having a life-or-death struggle with cartoon characters come to life, healing myself by eating their mana, playing a deadly game of "who can tear apart whom the fastest?"

If I survive this, I'm never going to be able to watch The Samsons again without getting hungry.

But am I going to survive this?