Jimmy stumbled out of the dungeon, the cold air smacking him square in the face like a wake-up slap. After the damp, claustrophobic dark of the dungeon, the wide-open sky felt weird—almost too much. He sucked in a couple of sharp breaths, letting the frost sting his lungs. Painful, yeah, but it reminded him he was still breathing.

And that was when his stomach made its opinion known: a loud, angry growl. “Alright, alright, I get it,” he muttered, rubbing at the ache twisting up his gut. The last level-up had taken the edge off for a bit, but the System wasn’t here to babysit him. No food? No energy. No energy? No chance of making it to wherever the hell this road was supposed to take him.

“Time to play hunter-gatherer,” he muttered. Problem was, hunting wasn’t exactly his wheelhouse. Last time he’d been near raw meat, it was a half-thawed burger patty. But there wasn’t a choice here, just a cold forest full of shadows and snow. So, he walked, one hand on his katana, every crunch of his boots on the snow sounding way too loud in the stillness.

He found tracks after a while—faint ones, curving through the drifts. They led him to a clearing where a lone wolf was sniffing at the ground, its coat blending into the trees like it was made of shadows. Jimmy crouched, gripping his katana tighter. His heart was hammering now, nerves on fire. This wasn’t a game. He got one shot.

The wolf’s head jerked up, its eyes narrowing, but Jimmy was already moving. He swung the blade, quick and hard. The steel hit true. The wolf yelped, twisted mid-air, then crumpled into the snow with a soft thud. A red stain spread out beneath it, bright against the white.

Jimmy stayed frozen, scanning the treeline for movement. When nothing came, he let out a shaky breath. “Lunch,” he muttered, stepping closer to the body. It wasn’t pretty work—skinning the thing, dealing with the blood and the weird, sticky mess that clung to his hands. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself through it until he had enough meat to make it worth it.

Next up: fire. He dug out some dry wood and scraped his flint against the katana, cursing under his breath until sparks caught. The little blaze was stubborn, but it worked. The warmth hit his hands first, chasing away the numbness as he skewered the meat on sticks and held it over the flames. The smell rose sharp and smoky, making his stomach twist even harder with need.

He ate slow, biting down on the tough, stringy wolf meat like it was filet mignon. It wasn’t good, but it was food. And it was warm, filling that hollow ache in his belly. He leaned back against a tree afterward, letting the fire’s heat soak into him for a moment longer.

The forest was quiet now, except for the crackle of the fire and the soft whistle of wind through the trees. Jimmy’s eyelids drooped, and he let them, just for a second. Maybe longer.

When the dream came, it wasn’t peaceful. He was standing on a rocky outcrop, waves smashing into the rocks below, black and violent. Overhead, the sky was alive with storm clouds, lightning ripping jagged lines across the dark. And sitting in the middle of it all, calm as anything, was a man. One hand rested on a sword that glowed faintly, like it was alive.

The man’s eyes snapped open, and the storm seemed to freeze. Waves stopped crashing, lightning hung in the sky like someone had hit pause. Jimmy couldn’t move. He was pinned by that stare, locked in place as the man spoke.

“So,” the man said, voice low and smooth, “the Styler finally shows up.”

Jimmy didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t like the way it felt—like he’d just been handed something he wasn’t ready to carry.

The man stood, smooth as water flowing, and in one swing of his sword, the whole world seemed to hold its breath. The storm split wide open, the ocean parting in a crashing roar of waves that slammed back like they were bowing to him. Even the sky seemed to tremble under the force of that single strike. Jimmy stood there, slack-jawed, feeling the weight of what he’d just witnessed settle into his chest.

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This was power—real, raw power. The kind that didn’t just bend the world around it but carved out its own rules. Something inside him stirred, a flicker of hunger he hadn’t realized he had. To be that strong? To have that kind of control? Yeah, he wanted it. Bad.

The man’s gaze landed back on Jimmy, his eyes burning like coals left in a dying fire, steady and intense. “If you walk this path,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with meaning, “you’ll face trials that break most men. But if you endure… you might just become more than any blade.”

The words hung in the air like they were meant to linger, pressing down on Jimmy’s chest. He opened his mouth to respond—or maybe just to breathe—but before he could, the storm melted away, swallowed by darkness.

Jimmy woke with a start, his head snapping up from where he’d been leaning against the tree. His breath fogged in the icy morning air, and for a moment, he just stared at the faint dawn creeping through the forest, trying to shake the vision loose from his mind.

“The Styler,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Right. Styler of bad decisions, more like.” He let out a short laugh that felt more like a bark. Whatever that had been—dream, hallucination, or weird cosmic download—he wasn’t sure what to make of it. But if it meant something useful was coming his way, it better show up fast, or he was about to be Styler of Getting Eaten.

He shoved himself upright, brushing the snow off his coat. The map interface blinked open with a thought, a pale grid glowing faintly in his vision. His next goal pulsed in red deeper into the Frostwood. The Gloomshade Warrens. The name alone felt like a dare.

Jimmy squinted at the marker, his fingers brushing it more out of curiosity than anything else. Suddenly, a wall of text popped up, spilling details about the dungeon like an overenthusiastic tour guide.

System Notification:

Welcome to The Gloomshade Warrens. This twisted maze was once an ancient storage ground, forgotten by time and reclaimed by the land. Now, it serves as a lair for goblin hordes and shadowy creatures who guard it jealously. Tread carefully, for the shadows hold more than you might expect.

Jimmy blinked. “Wait… I can tap on stuff?” He pressed the marker again, this time on purpose, and more text filled his view.

The Gloomshade Warrens:

* Floor 1: Narrow tunnels, goblin ambushers, and scattered traps. Find the hidden path to the second floor.

* Floor 2: A wide cavern. The goblin shaman and his guards await, along with deadlier traps.

He groaned, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “A death maze full of goblins and creepy shadows. Perfect. Just what I wanted.”

A glance at the countdown in the corner of his vision—364 Days, 5 Hours, 10 Minutes—didn’t exactly fill him with confidence. He sighed and started walking.

The forest stretched ahead, endless and quiet. Too quiet. Jimmy tugged his tattered coat tighter around himself, feeling every rip and tear in the fabric like a cruel reminder of how unprepared he was. “Where am I even supposed to find new clothes? Pretty sure wolves don’t run thrift shops.” He snorted, making a mental note to scavenge for something warmer as soon as he got the chance.

His katana felt heavy at his side, the weight of it still strange against his hip. He gripped the hilt as he walked, trying to let the feel of it settle into his bones. “Vehemence…” he muttered, thinking back to the move that had obliterated the alpha wolf. That moment of raw power had been intoxicating, but now it was just… gone. The skill sat grayed-out in his menu, the cooldown timer mocking him with its vagueness. “Come on, System,” he grumbled. “What, you want me to guess when I can use it again?”

With a resigned sigh, he closed the menu. If Vehemence wasn’t an option, then he’d have to get better the old-fashioned way. Strength, balance, technique—stuff he couldn’t fake his way through. The thought of doing push-ups in the snow made him cringe, but what choice did he have? If he wanted to swing that katana like it was part of him and not some awkward hunk of metal, he needed to put in the work.

The trees thinned as he followed the path uphill, and the looming entrance to the Gloomshade Warrens came into view. It was a dark, jagged maw carved into the hillside, the edges frosted over like the forest itself was trying to warn him away. Every step felt heavier, the silence pressing down on him like a held breath.

Jimmy’s hand brushed against the Bag of Holding at his side. Among the odd assortment of junk he’d picked up, there was one thing he hadn’t taken the time to check out: The Manual of Blade Disciples. He pulled it out, running his fingers over the worn cover.

“Alright,” he said, tapping the book lightly. “Let’s see if you’ve got anything useful in there.”

But he wasn’t about to crack it open in the middle of the trail. His eyes darted around until they found a small alcove tucked beneath the twisted branches of a tree, just off the main path. It was quiet, secluded. Good enough.

He ducked into the space, propping himself against the tree. The Manual rested heavy in his hands, its leather cover cool to the touch. Jimmy let out a slow breath, turning to the first page.

Whatever was coming next, he wasn’t about to face it blind.