Colette

Things had settled down in me-town since a couple days ago. I suppose it makes sense for Jahar to be a bit sceptical of Ivan's existence if he's never met him. But his words continue to gnaw at me, feeding the worry twisting in my gut. I mean, it's fine that he’s off exploring like he said. But I can’t shake the worry of him installing more mods without my knowledge. What if one just crashes the whole world? Do we die? Jahar’s words had cut deeper than I’d let on: “You’ve lost control of your own project.”

I huff out a breath, pushing the thought away as I trudge back to the riverbank. I need a plan. If Ivan is really testing the limits of the game, then I can’t afford to waste any more time. I kneel down by the water, my fingers skimming the surface as I squint into the forest beyond. There has to be a way to track him down, something I’m missing.

I’d hoped to handle this alone, but the knots in my stomach tighten at the thought of asking Jahar for help. The smug look he’ll give me, the snarky comments—it’s almost unbearable. But if Ivan is out there bending the rules, then it’s not about my pride anymore. It’s about stopping this before it spirals out of control.

I stand up, brushing the dirt from my knees, and cast one last glance at the dark stretch of forest beyond the river. The longer I wait, the worse this gnawing feeling gets, like a splinter lodged under my skin. I need to move, to do something, even if it’s just chasing shadows at this point.

I make my way back to my cottage room, and grab some supplies for the road. Baked potatoes, apples, some bread. The thing I missed most about the real world was all the yummy food, packed with flavour. The meat here was unseasoned and dry. At least it didn’t go off I suppose.

I push open the door and step outside, the chill of the evening air biting at my cheeks. The sky is already fading into twilight, and I can hear the distant groan of zombies starting to spawn. Normally, I’d head back inside, wait it out until morning, but I can’t. The unease prickles at the back of my neck, refusing to be ignored.

I cut across the clearing, moving with purpose. The plan is simple: head to the river and follow the footprints until they stop. Then check around for any disturbed landscape. Follow those to Ivan. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only lead I’ve got. If I can find even the smallest sign—an altered block, another footprint trail—it’ll be enough.

But deep down, there’s a darker thought gnawing at me, one I can’t quite shake: what if I find nothing at the end of the footprint trail? What if he’s already gone farther than I can track?

The river’s dark and cold as it flows beside me, the moon casting a faint, silvery glow on the rippling surface. I hug the bank, my boots slipping slightly on the wet mud, but I don’t slow down. The zombie groans are growing louder behind me, and I don’t have the time—or the energy—to deal with them tonight. My breath puffs out in little clouds, the chill of the night air cutting through my thin shirt. I should have waited until morning, but the thought of sitting still, doing nothing, was unbearable. I catch sight of the footprints again, pressed deep into the damp soil, and my pulse quickens. “Alright, you slippery bastard,” I mutter, pushing forward.

The trees close in around me, their leaves rustling in the night breeze. Every shadow feels like it’s moving, and I can’t help the prickle of unease that races up my spine. I keep my sword drawn, the familiar weight of it comforting as I weave between the trunks, following the trail of prints.

The forest seems to stretch endlessly, and the further I go, the quieter it gets. The usual nighttime chorus—wolves whining, the occasional creeper hiss—fades away until all I can hear is the crunch of leaves under my boots and the soft hiss of the wind threading through the branches. The canopy above is thick, blocking out most of the moonlight, casting everything in murky shadows. I shiver, pulling my cloak tighter around my shoulders as I step over a cluster of gnarled roots.

I pause for a moment, crouching low to inspect a broken branch. It’s fresh, the wood still green where it’s splintered. Ivan must have passed through here recently. I glance up, squinting into the darkness, trying to catch any sign of movement, but there’s nothing. Just the stillness of the forest, like it’s holding its breath.

I push forward, the terrain growing rougher. The soft dirt gives way to patches of gravel, and I nearly lose my footing on the loose stones. I reach out, grabbing onto a nearby tree trunk to steady myself. The bark is cold and rough against my palm, bits of moss crumbling under my fingers. As I continue, the air seems to change too, growing damp and heavy, almost metallic. It smells like rain, but the sky is clear.

A light mist begins to swirl around my ankles, clinging to the ground like a thin, ghostly veil. I step through it, the moisture seeping through the thin fabric of my leggings. My leg muscles burn with the effort of trekking uphill, but I grit my teeth and keep going. It’s been at least twenty minutes since I left the river, and I can feel the exhaustion starting to set in, a familiar ache settling into my bones.

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I stumble across a small clearing, and for a moment, I stop, catching my breath. The grass here is flattened, as if something large had rested here not long ago. The remnants of a campfire are scattered across the ground—charred logs, a few half empty chests. “You were close,” I whisper, scanning my surroundings for the next set of footprints. I see none, so instead I head on in the direction I was facing upon my arrival.

The forest closes in around me once more, the trees growing thicker and more twisted, their branches knotted together like clenched fists. I duck under a low-hanging branch, the leaves brushing against my cheek, wet with dew. It feels like the forest itself is trying to slow me down, to stop me from going any further.

But I push on, determination flaring hot in my chest. I need to find him. The path becomes even rougher, patches of jagged rocks jutting out from the ground, and I have to focus on each step to avoid tripping.

Then I notice it—a splash of colour on the ground, stark against the dark earth. I kneel down, squinting in the low light. It’s a poppy, uprooted and trampled. I pick it up, turning it over in my fingers. Ivan must have passed through here, but why would he leave something like this behind? It feels deliberate, almost like a breadcrumb.

I pocket the flower and push forward, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me to turn back. The air grows colder still, and a thin fog begins to creep in, wrapping around the base of the trees like tendrils. My boots crunch on the gravel, echoing louder than they should in the stillness.

I round a bend in the path, ducking under another low branch, when I feel it—a sharp, stinging pain shooting through my thigh. I gasp, stumbling back as the impact throws me off balance. I look down and see it, the glint of an arrowhead lodged in my leg, the fletching quivering slightly. The blood wells up immediately, soaking through the fabric of my pants, and I hiss out a curse through gritted teeth.

“Fuck,” I mutter, grabbing the shaft of the arrow. It’s a skeleton arrow. I yank it out with a sharp, painful tug, the sting of it bringing tears to my eyes. The blood runs freely now, hot and slick against my skin, and I press my hand against the wound, trying to stem the flow.

The mist thickens, swirling around my legs, and the world blurs for a moment, a wave of dizziness threatening to take me under. I stumble, bracing myself against a nearby tree, the rough bark biting into my palm. I can’t stop now. I force myself to take a deep breath, blinking away the spots dancing in my vision.

I have to keep moving. I limp forward, biting down hard on my lip. The trail twists and turns, leading me deeper into the trees until the forest suddenly thins out, the shadows giving way to an open clearing. I pause, blinking in confusion as I recognise the area. The familiar path leading towards… us?

My chest tightens with a wave of frustration. I’ve been following these tracks for almost an hour, and they’ve just led me in a circle. A goddamn loop, right back to where I started. The ache in my leg pulses in time with my racing heartbeat, and I feel a wave of dizziness wash over me. It’s bad—worse than I thought.

“Great. Just great,” I mutter, limping towards the edge of the clearing. It’s a shortcut back to the town, but it means passing through Jahar’s little camp first. The thought of running into him like this—bloodied, limping, and defeated—makes my stomach twist. He’ll never let me hear the end of it.

But I can’t make it back on my own, not like this. While I survived the last arrow ordeal, it felt worse this time somehow. Come to think of it, all the damage I’ve been taking recently has felt worse than when I was first in the game weeks ago. I grit my teeth, trying to force myself to keep moving, but the world blurs at the edges, and I feel the familiar pull of exhaustion dragging me down.

As I break through the last line of trees, I catch sight of his campfire, a small flickering light in the dark. The silhouette of Jahar’s hut looms nearby, and I can just make out his figure, crouched low, tinkering with something. The parrot’s perched on his shoulder, head tilted like it’s listening intently to whatever nonsense he’s mumbling to himself.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself against the dizziness threatening to knock me out cold. “Jahar!” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady despite the pain lacing through it. He doesn’t turn around. Typical. “Jahar, it’s me,” I say again, louder this time. “Don’t turn around and slam me to the ground, please.”

He freezes, the parrot letting out a squawk as it flaps its wings. He straightens up slowly, and I can already see the smirk forming on his lips even before he turns to face me. “Well, well,” he drawls, taking his sweet time as he swivels around. “Look who’s crawling back? Did you—”

His words cut off abruptly as his eyes land on my leg, the blood-soaked fabric sticking to the wound. For a second, there’s something like concern flashing across his face, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced with that familiar, infuriating smirk.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough night,” he says, voice light but edged with something I can’t quite place.

I limp closer, swallowing down the taste of blood and bitterness. “Yeah, well,” I grit out, “it’s about to get worse if you don’t help me.”

He’s already moving towards me before I finish speaking, pulling a potion from his inventory. “Sit down,” he mutters, the cocky tone dropping as he crouches beside me. I collapse onto the ground, letting out a shaky breath as he splashes the healing potion over the wound. The relief is immediate, the throbbing pain fading to a dull ache.

“For the record,” he says, glancing up at me with a smirk that’s almost gentle, “I wasn’t going to slam you to the ground this time.”

I huff out a laugh, the tension in my chest easing just a fraction. “Good. Because I don’t think I could take another hit like that.”

Jahar leans back on his heels, studying me for a moment. “What were you doing out there anyway? Thought you were tough enough to handle things on your own.”

I meet his gaze, the weight of my failure settling heavy on my shoulders. “I was following a trail,” I admit quietly, almost to myself. “Thought it would lead me to Ivan. But it just... led me back here.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable in the dim firelight. Then he reaches out, offering me a hand. “Looks like you need a new plan,” he says simply, pulling me up to my feet.