I have been wandering for ages now, aimless. Drifting through the fog, following the vague direction marked by the compass. Pine forests gave way to deciduous forests and then to pine forests again. The gorges never end. There is always another wall to climb. There is always another pass to cross under the drizzling rain that permeates your clothes. That even my fancy cloak can not keep out. The rubber of my soles is falling apart, slowly eroded, sliced to pieces by the sharp stones I stumble upon. Too much grip, designed for climbing, not for running through the wilderness day and night. Once they give up, what will I do? I do not know. Continue barefoot?

I have not crossed any big predators again. I just heard some wolves howl in the distance a few nights back. Maybe they are trying to leave the area too, spooked by all the people crawling around like ants.

I wander.

I wander and wander, changing direction each time I hear voices in the distance. I only stop when it gets too dark to continue. Seeking refuge in more caves or high up in the tree crowns, advancing my cultivation until I fall asleep, exhausted. I am really close to copper grade now. Maybe a day left from reaching it.

I am munching on some wild carrots I found to stave off the hunger, trying to suck out the slightly bitter and spicy earthiness out of the pesky fibers that stick everywhere. I have been eating wild carrots, onions, and bitter acorns since I ran out of jerky and apple ages ago.

I tried to hunt another goat. But before I can get close enough to shoot them, the skittish buggers run away. They skip and jump all over the canyon walls, mocking my slowness.

I had to stop because I was running out of bolts.

I have whittled myself a staff out of the sturdy branch of an ash tree I found floating in the river. It is reassuring to have a weapon with a bit more reach than my dagger. To help me keep my distance. The serpents sunbathing everywhere close to the river do not seem so menacing anymore.

A bit uphill, there is a fig tree. A lonely fruit hangs halfway up his branches. The sweet honey-like smell invites me to come closer.

Come and be nourished.

It still hangs there, calling my name, promising to relieve the pain in my stomach. The forest fades away. There is only the fruit left. A red fist-sized fruit buzzing with mana. My mouth is moist with saliva.

The smell is everything I can dream of. Nutty and earthy. Spilled milk over freshly cut grass.

Come and be nourished.

My fate has turned, finally. I will never be hungry again. It is so sad that I am still alone.

Come and be nourished. Become part of us, become part of the cycle.

Yes. I am not alone, am I? There are other trees out there, animals, moss, and mushrooms. Everything is connected. Everything takes care of each other. Germinate, absorb, grow, die, decompose, and germinate again, the cycle of life.

Come and be nourished. Come and be nourishment.

Be what? I feel a sharp sting stabbing deep into one of my calves. Movement, like angry hornets. I try to stand up, but something pulls on my leg. When did I even sit down? I lose sight of the fruit and stumble. The big leaves of the fig tree are right before my nose. When did I come so close? I gasp when I see my legs. Dark green creeping and thorny vines are coiling all around them. They bite into my skin, tearing ribbons of flesh and leaving crimson streaks behind. They coil around, growing tighter, trying to grasp my thighs. I gasp. What is this?

Come and be nourishment.

The fig tree is starting to glow with a sickly green hue. The vines come from there. They are growing from his roots. Bones are crunching under my feet with each step I take. I can see them now. Big femurs, a broken pelvis, the elongated skull of some canid.

Come and be nourishment.

There is a voice in my head, commanding, trying to guide my unconscious steps into oblivion.

Come and be nourishment.

“Fuck you!” It has no grip on me now, has it? Not anymore. I am aware of it. I force myself still, breathing in deeply and observing. The vines still creep closer, but they are slow. They need me to hold still and let myself be engulfed. My pulse is pounding in my ears. I need to be faster. I begin to untangle myself with trembling hands, ripping each torn-free section into pieces when I get a hold of them. The broken vines release a dense, acrid sap that burns a rash onto my skin wherever it touches it. Little by little, I outpace the vines and break free. I dodge a last whipping branch and bolt away.

I pause, out of breath. There are only oaks, maples, and chestnut trees around me now. There is no fig tree anywhere. I sit down on the wet grass until my heart calms. Trying to ignore the irritated skin of my legs. It is a bit warmer now. But the crowns of the trees still hide the timid sun rays that are trying to disperse the fog.

The leaves above me rustle. Birds chirp, and squirrels chatter in rapid clicks and squeaks. I watch them running around between the ferns collecting acorns. Up and down they go, from the floor to the branches, to be lost in the green crowns. I have not heard any people in a while nor seen them. Did I manage to shake them off? I exhale in relief, taking in the calm stillness of the forest. I lean on my new staff, caressing the smooth wood with my calloused hands. That fig was a trap, but maybe I can indulge myself today, catch a squirrel, roast it over a fire, and sleep without this gnawing hunger.

Maybe then I could choose a river and follow it downstream until I find something. There must be a village or a city somewhere.

My eyes follow another squirrel, darting along a slender branch. I grip my staff with firm hands, crouch low, exhaling slowly, still tracking the erratic movements. It pauses, sitting on another branch, twitching its tail while nibbling on an acorn. Upwind, oblivious. This is my chance. I approach it in silence, from downwind, each step measured, avoiding each fallen twig, each rustling leaf, stepping on the moss and the damp earth. I adjust the grip on my staff and tense, holding my breath.

I lunge forward and whip out with my staff, catching the squirrel in the spine. It tumbles to the ground, crashing into the leaves. It stumbles around, dazed, chirping high in alarm. It tries to scramble away, tumbling all over the ground, unable to move its legs. Then I catch it and twist its neck to end its suffering.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

I exhale. That went better than expected. Now, how do I start a fire?

It is not raining anymore, but everything is still damp. Fallen raindrops shimmer between the green moss, the half-decayed leaves, and the barely visible spiderwebs. I wander on until I see a clearing up ahead. A fallen tree, branches flattening the bushes. I kick the bark and rotten wood off to reach the comparatively dry heartwood. Finger-wide white worms crawl away in search of a new hiding place. The heartwood should be dry enough to catch if I can kindle a flame. I only need some tinder. I turn over one stone after another, searching for something dry sheltered beneath. Finally, I find an empty fallen nest made out of leaves and feathers, lichen, and straw. I break it apart to get to the relatively dry insides. It will have to do.

I break the heartwood apart into small kindlings and arrange them into a pyramid shape, leaving enough space below for my tinder and for the air to flow through. I take out my dagger from my backpack and start to rasp it over a stone to try to create a spark, but nothing happens. Maybe the stone is too wet or not the right kind. I try another one. One I found a while ago and kept in my backpack because I liked its color. This one is absolutely dry. I rasp again. No spark, still. I try to dry my blade on the hem of my shirt and try again. Finally, a spark, but it flies off in a random direction. Another one, this time it falls onto the tinder, center on, but winks out again. Another one, the same thing happens. The next one flies off target again, the next one on the tinder, but it still doesn´t catch. This isn´t working.

I remember that someone told me how people of some tribes start fires by rubbing two sticks together at high speed. I go back to the forest to find a piece of softwood and a smaller round stick of harder wood, as dry as possible. Once back by my fireplace, I carve a small nick into the softwood with my dagger and sharpen the point of the hardwood stick. Then I press the softwood board down between my knees, press the point of the hardwood into the nick I made, and start spinning it furiously between my palms.

Slowly, the softwood gets warm, then dark and hot, but it doesn´t catch fire. There is no ember, no smoke. I continue spinning, ignoring my aching shoulders and my stinging legs. My hands start to blister, to bleed. I give up, frustrated.

I watch the arranged kindlings, feeling defeated and empty-minded. Could there be some kind of fire rune I can adapt from one of the ones in my body rune book? Worth a try.

I browse through it. There isn´t a fire rune, but there is a heat rune component used in a variety of runes. It could work. As long as the paper I draw it on gets hot enough to catch fire. A waste of a good sheet of paper, but I´m growing desperate now. I think about the rune design. What do I need? A gathering component, connectors, and the transformer. I don´t care if it overloads. I want it to catch fire anyway. I take out one of my bottles of goat blood and start to draw.

An instant after I put the final stroke to paper, it burst into flames. Violently scorching the back of my hand and my eyebrows. There are only ashes drifting in the breeze left before I can even think to get it close to the tinder. Maybe I do need a regulator.

I start again, clenching my teeth. Another precious sheet of paper is going to be wasted. I put the final stroke down with trembling fingers, almost ruining it at the end. It starts to glow softly. The sheet starts to get dark near the transforming component. Smoke begins to rise. It´s working!

I put it close to the tinder, hands still trembling. The smoke gives way to a flame. The rests of the rune go dark, but it did its job. I carefully shelter the flame from the breeze with my hands until the tinder catches fire. More flames roar up, scorching the kindling black. White smoke rises into the crowns of the trees.

A gust blows the flame out. The tinder is burned to ashes. There is only smoking kindling remaining. I blow on it softly. I blow on it more forcefully, but the flames don´t reappear. There is no ember, only drenched wood. I kick over the kindling and start crying.

Tears flow down my cheeks, hot and unbidden, carving streaks down my ice-cold face. I fall back onto my heels, staring at the useless pile of damp and rotten wood and scorched bark. Why? Why did everything go so wrong? Why in the seven hells did I think that jumping through an unknown portal was the best idea? Was there another way? Why won´t those bastards leave me in peace? Fucking Crow! He should have warned me that this stupid compass was dangerous to hold on to. I would have kept a tighter leash on Dante and Dogface. There was no need for this to happen.

The ambient mana presses heavily on me. The sky is about to come down and bury me under its immensity. I feel so small and insignificant. They all abandoned me here, alone for myself. Nobody here cares about what happens to me. The trees tower, dark and indifferent to my struggles. The goats mock me every time our steps cross, waiting for me to fail. I sob and wail, letting the tears flow free until I´m wrung out and dry. I sob until there is nothing left.

I look up, feeling somewhat relieved. Still alone, empty, but relieved. Because it can´t get any worse, can it?

The mana is still pressing heavily on me. I feel something inside me press back. My core, laden to the brim, is about to overflow. Am I about to grade up? Why now? I can´t botch this. I need to focus. I sit down, leaning my back against a thick oak trunk. Breath. The mana inside me presses into the boundaries of my core. I press back, trying to get a firm grip. My mana vortex continues to suck in more and more mana from the air I breathe in. The pressure mounts, threatening to explode, but I hold it back, determined. The longer you can hold it in, the better your core evolution is going to be, or so they tell you. The pressure continues mounting with each breath, with each revolution of my vortex, with each cycle. I hold on with gritted teeth. Another revolution, everything else fades away. There is only myself left, myself and my pulsing core. The tide grows, and the dams are barely holding on. But they do. There is still room left for another wave and another. The waters buzz and hum. They rise and rise again, and I push them back with every ounce of willpower I have left. They fall back to rise again with renewed force, filling everything until there is no space left. Everything is full to the brim. The dam bends and groans, stretching and stretching, like a rubber band, still holding the tide back. It stretches until it seems impossible for it to stretch more, but it still does, burning hot. It remains still, leaving no space for the water to continue rising, leaving it no choice but to increase its density. The water falls back, qualitatively changed, and then it rises again, unstoppable this time. The walls stretch again to where they reached before and more. There is a snap, and they explode. Water…, mana rushes everywhere, flooding every cell of my body, washing out death cells, the toxins I accumulated during my childhood in the slums, inefficiencies, impurities. Until they finally flood back and condense into a new dam around my core. Stronger, and wider than ever.

I am. I am more now. I can feel it in my bones, my revitalized muscles. There is no sting in my legs anymore. My skin is smooth and unblemished. I am stronger, faster, and more agile than ever before. My mana reserves must have at least been duplicated. I feel more connected to it. It´s more responsive than ever. I can let it flow in and out of my skin without it ceasing to be mine. A smile crosses my face. I am copper-grade now. I can start using body runes.

A sudden stench assaults the increased sensitivity of my nose. Rotten eggs mingled with burnt metal and stagnant water, pungent and disgusting.

I open my eyes and find my whole body covered in sticky black sludge, clinging to the inside of my shirt and pants.

“Shit!”

I stand up and stumble down the valley towards the rushing waters of the river.

The sludge is stubborn. It wants to cling on, refusing to be washed away in the cold waters. But finally, after a lot of prodding and rubbing my skin until it is red, it gives away, leaving me relatively clean. At least the stench is bearable now. Getting my shirt and pants clean seems even harder. I let them soak and wring them out again and again. I bash them vigorously over the boulders until the seams are about to come apart, only to soak them again and repeat the process.

After almost an hour, they are mostly clean but a shade darker than before. They still slightly smell of sewers, but I´m familiar with that from the slums. It will fade away with time. There is something else. A whiff of smoke. Smoke? Why does it smell of smoke? I look up and turn around. The wind turns. Another whiff of smoke reaches my nostrils. I may not be alone out here. It seems to come from upstream.

There must be people up there. Maybe someone friendly. I need to check out.