Chapter Twenty-Seven:

"A Player’s Rest"

The brush barely stirred as Roland crouched low, his breath steady, every movement controlled. He could feel the weight of the night pressing in around him, the cool air against his skin, the scent of damp earth and old wood mixing with the distant scent of water, likely a stream deeper within the forest.

The night in Verdant Woods was alive with sound, the distant hum of insects, the rustling of unseen creatures moving through the undergrowth, the faint whisper of wind through towering branches. Yet, none of it distracted him. His focus was locked.

A single reed, no thicker than his little finger, swayed gently in the moonlight. He tested its weight between his fingers, rolling it, gauging the balance before gripping it properly. A good throw wasn't just about force, it was about precision. He reached for it, fingers moving carefully as he plucked it free. The shaft was smooth, ending in a razor-like tip, nature’s own little dart. His grip was firm but relaxed, his wrist flicking forward in one smooth motion.

The reed shot through the air, slicing cleanly through the stillness before striking true.

A sharp squeak followed, a rabbit slumped onto its side, the makeshift dart lodged clean through.

Dinner.

Roland rose, adjusting the strap of his sword across his back. The blade settled against him, its somehow familiar weight a quiet reassurance.

Even without conscious thought, he found himself stepping lightly, his movements naturally aligning with the silent rhythm the system had ingrained in him. The blade wasn’t ostentatious, nothing massive or overdesigned, just a solid, reliable weapon.

He had always preferred efficiency over spectacle.

With his kill in hand, he moved through the night, navigating the forest with ease. He wasn’t scared, he was prepared. Every rustling bush, every shifting shadow was noted, assessed, dismissed. He wasn’t the hunted. He was moving through this world, adapting, surviving.

His journey through Verdant Woods had been more of a slow march than a real challenge, though the occasional encounter kept him from slipping into complacency. Wolves with ember-colored eyes had stalked the edges of his vision, but none had dared approach.

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A group of goblin scavengers had tried to set upon him, but a well-placed ice spell had frozen two in place before his sword handled the rest.

The enemies here were low-level creatures, goblin stragglers, wandering beasts, nothing that his ice magic and basic sword skills couldn’t handle.

The system was incredible, seamlessly guiding his body into the grace of combat. It wasn’t like learning; it was like unlocking something that had always been there, waiting to be used.

He had followed a single pyre fly, veering off the main path and toward what his map had told him was a dead end. But dead ends in games were often anything but, and the gamble had paid off.

A lone treasure chest had been waiting, untouched, unguarded. Inside, he had found exactly what he needed.

The Campfire.

It was a simple enough item, a minor enchantment, yet priceless in a world like this. Once placed, its light would ward off creatures for the night, granting a moment of true rest.

Roland had set it up in a small clearing, just at the edge where Verdant Woods bled into Emberwood Forest.

Now, as he approached, the warm glow of the Campfire pulsed gently against the surrounding trees, its light standing defiant against the deep dark beyond. The smell of burning wood mixed with the crisp air, carrying the faintest promise of safety.

Roland knelt beside the fire, setting the rabbit onto a makeshift spit. As the meat cooked, he leaned back, eyes drifting to the sky.

Two moons hung above, one red, one blue, caught in a measured orbit around each other. By morning, they would likely have switched places, a celestial rhythm unfolding above. He let himself take it in, just for a moment, this world, this impossible Realm that had become his new reality.

He had chosen this.

And despite everything, despite the danger, despite the uncertainty of what lay ahead, he loved it.

Somewhere out there, beyond the trees and the distant hum of the wild, there was another soul, and beyond that one he could feel countless others, as it they were calling out to him. They had survived their Insertion. He could feel it. But what made them different?

He wondered if their journey had been as smooth as his, or if they had been thrown into chaos from the start. Whatever the case, the answer lay ahead, in Emberwood Village.

This was a world where every action had weight, where survival was earned, and where, for the first time in a long while, he felt like himself again.

He had no regrets.

His Map told him that Emberwood Village was still half a day’s journey ahead. That was assuming he didn’t run into anything particularly nasty on the way.

But that was a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, he would rest. A full stomach, a safe fire, and a sky that felt like it had been waiting for him to finally look up and see it. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, for this moment, he was here, and that was enough.

He couldn’t remember the last time something had felt this close to peace.

Just beyond the Campfire’s light, movement stirred.

A shape, tall, hooded, stood at the edges of the dark, silent and watching. Not an animal. Not a wandering creature. Gameweaver. She did not speak, did not announce herself, but Roland could feel her there. Observing. Measuring. Waiting.

Let her.