Novels2Search
World Programmer
Chapter 1: Into the Wild Code

Chapter 1: Into the Wild Code

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CHAPTER 1: INTO THE WILD CODE

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THE CALL TO DISCONNECT

If someone had told me a month ago that I’d be leaving Montréal for a solo camping trip in the middle of Québec’s boreal forest, I would’ve laughed and probably spit out my coffee. Me, Simon Freud, unplugging from Wi-Fi, streaming, and the comforting glow of my desktop monitors to “find myself” in nature? Absolutely not. The only thing I knew about forests was what I’d seen in RPGs and nature documentaries. Trees, sure. Animals, yeah, probably cute from a distance. But actually leaving civilization to go live among them? No, thanks. My idea of “wildlife” was usually limited to birds chirping in the background of my city commute.

But here’s the thing about coding for a living: it’s great until it’s not. At first, it’s like being a wizard in a digital kingdom—you’re creating worlds, solving puzzles, and bending logic to your will. But spend too long at it, and things start to… glitch. At some point, that city rhythm—the background noise of car horns, the whoosh of buses, the buzz of neon lights—starts feeling less like the life soundtrack you signed up for and more like a migraine waiting to happen. I realized I was reaching that point one night at about 3 a.m., midway through a caffeine-fueled coding session that had somehow spilled into its third week.

I’d been at my desk for so long that the lines of code on my screen were blurring together like some weird Matrix effect. For a split second, I wasn’t even sure if I was writing code or staring into some cursed eldritch text that would drive me mad. And right there, while squinting at a particularly stubborn bug that refused to fix itself, I thought, I can’t do this anymore.

I don’t know what kind of existential crisis was brewing in my sleep-deprived brain, but before I knew it, I’d typed “remote forest camping trips” into Google. Up popped these photos of misty trees and serene lakes, landscapes so beautiful they looked like they’d been Photoshopped by a team of pros trying to sell overpriced yoga retreats. The forest stretched endlessly, the trees tall and mysterious, the whole scene like something out of a fantasy game. Suddenly, there I was, scrolling through endless images of hiking trails, crystal-clear lakes, and mountain views that seemed to promise one thing: peace. And maybe a hint of mystery.

That was the moment I realized I needed an escape, not just from my screen but from everything my life had become—one big repetitive loop of keystrokes, instant noodles, and the faint glow of my computer monitor reflecting off my tired face.

I scrolled through the options like a kid in a candy store. Each retreat looked more appealing than the last, but then I stumbled across a camping spot so remote it practically dared you to even try reaching it. The website called it “nature’s Wi-Fi-free haven.” I was only half-joking when I wondered if there was a boss battle waiting at the end of the hike.

With my brain still half-baked from all the coding and caffeine, I clicked “Book Now.” The page loaded, my calendar opened, and before I knew it, I had scheduled myself for a week of “digital detox.” I blocked out the entire week with a single word: Escape. That’s all it said. Escape from what? I wasn’t even sure. Maybe escape from that coding loop I was stuck in, or maybe just a chance to remember what the sun looked like.

The next morning, I was already planning my gear. Now, when most people go camping, they’re thinking about the basics—tent, sleeping bag, maybe some granola bars. Not me. If I was going to escape the grid, I was going to do it on my terms, which meant bringing all the tech I could haul into the wild. I packed my solar-powered charging station, a tablet loaded with survival guides (because who remembers any of those little “outdoor tips” when you actually need them?), a high-end satellite GPS, and—my favorite—a portable induction cooktop.

Look, just because I was going off-grid didn’t mean I had to live like some ancient barbarian. Call it survival camping if you want, but I had my own interpretation of what “survival” looked like.

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THE DRIVE INTO NOWHERE AND SETTING UP CAMP

The morning of my grand “escape,” I loaded up the car and set off, half-expecting that the further north I went, the more epic the soundtrack would get. And in true “hero venturing into the unknown” fashion, I queued up my favorite RPG soundtracks to set the mood. There I was, driving with the kind of music that makes you feel like you’re on a legendary quest, even if that quest is just heading up a gravel road in a Honda Civic packed with more gear than I’d need for a zombie apocalypse.

As the city shrank behind me and the suburbs gave way to countryside, I started to realize just how committed I was to this little wilderness adventure. With each mile, the landscape grew wilder, the roads quieter, and my bars of cell service fewer. Every few kilometers, I’d glance at my phone to check if I still had signal—old habits die hard, okay? But by the time I turned onto a gravel path that was more dirt than road, the “No Service” symbol stared back at me with a sense of finality.

Now, I’d seen “no signal” plenty of times before. Usually, it was a minor annoyance that meant my YouTube video was going to buffer. But out here, the “no signal” felt… different. It was like the universe saying, “Alright, Simon, you’re on your own now.” It was both thrilling and mildly terrifying, like the start of a game where you’re given one healing potion and a wooden sword, and then the tutorial ends way too soon.

I finally reached the end of the road, where a sign that had probably seen better days read, “Trailhead.” Beyond it, there was nothing but forest—trees so thick they swallowed up the light and underbrush that looked like it would be happy to trip you at any given moment. I got out, took a deep breath of pine-scented air, and felt a jolt of excitement. This was it. This was the off-grid adventure I’d signed up for.

Then I took one look at my backpack, crammed with more tech than a Best Buy clearance rack, and realized I had no idea what I was doing.

My pack felt like it weighed about as much as a small boulder, and I’d barely hiked ten minutes before I started to feel the strain. All around me, the forest closed in, thick and green, like it was trying to remind me just how far I was from anything remotely familiar. The deeper I went, the quieter it got, the only sounds my heavy breathing and the occasional rustling of leaves. Every once in a while, I’d hear a twig snap somewhere off the trail, and my mind would immediately conjure up images of forest predators sizing me up like I was the daily special.

But I kept going, partly because turning back felt like an admission of defeat and partly because, honestly, I was too proud to admit this was a terrible idea.

After what felt like hours (but was probably only forty minutes), I stumbled into a small clearing beside a crystal-clear stream. The water sparkled in the afternoon light, and the whole scene looked like something out of a screensaver—the kind of place where the words “inner peace” should be scrolling across the bottom. This was it. My own personal retreat, my camp for the next week.

First things first, I dropped my pack and took a few moments to, you know, reboot. I was sweating, a little out of breath, and my legs felt like I’d just completed a marathon on expert mode. But looking around, I felt… okay, I felt proud. I’d actually done it. I’d made it to the middle of nowhere, and now all I had to do was set up camp.

Now, here’s the thing they don’t tell you about pitching a tent: it looks easy in the YouTube tutorials, but reality is a whole different beast. My tent was one of those “pop-up” models, which I’d assumed meant I could just toss it on the ground, and it would magically assemble itself. Spoiler alert: it did not.

I spent a solid fifteen minutes wrestling with poles and fabric, nearly getting myself tangled in the guy lines more than once. At one point, I thought I’d finally done it, only to watch it collapse like a sad soufflé the second I let go. Let’s just say, if there were any squirrels nearby, they were getting a free show.

But eventually, after what felt like my third or fourth failed attempt at “pop-up camping,” I managed to get the tent to stand on its own. I took a step back, admiring my handiwork, and felt a surge of triumph. Simon Freud, professional camper, I thought, patting myself on the back as if I’d just conquered Mount Everest.

With the tent finally up, I got to work on the rest of my setup. I unpacked my portable induction cooktop and set it on a flat rock near the tent, along with my solar charging station, which I positioned to catch the last rays of afternoon sunlight.

I even unrolled a camp chair I’d packed, because while I might be out in the wild, I wasn’t about to sacrifice all my comforts. Sitting there, taking it all in, I felt a ridiculous sense of satisfaction, like I was the hero of my own survival game and had just unlocked a new level.

The best part? I wasn’t even sweating the lack of cell service anymore. No notifications, no emails, no messages. Just me, my tent, and the vast, echoing quiet of the forest.

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GETTING COMFORTABLE IN THE WILD (WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM TECHNOLOGY)

Once my camp was finally set up—tent secured, induction cooktop ready for action, solar charging station humming away—I started to settle into my new wilderness life. For a guy who spent most days coding from the comfort of a swivel chair with easy access to UberEats, the whole thing felt a bit surreal. I mean, there I was, out in the actual forest, surrounded by trees that had been around longer than the concept of Wi-Fi, and yet… I was here, trying to make this my temporary home.

The first order of business? Water. Now, any logical, practical camper might just drink from the stream—it looked clean enough, right? Clear as glass, like the stream in one of those bottled water commercials, practically begging for a hashtag like #PureNature. But if there’s one thing city life has taught me, it’s that nothing is ever as pure as it looks. For all I knew, that water could be harboring the kind of bacteria that’d have me begging for a hospital by the end of the week. I’d seen enough survival horror games to know that’s how it starts. You think you’re good, just “one with nature,” and next thing you know, you’re two days into a fever, seeing visions of giant forest bears laughing at you.

So, out came my trusty water filtration system. Now, this wasn’t just a Brita filter situation—no, this was a full-on, James Bond-level piece of gear. Compact, efficient, and honestly, a little intimidating, it looked like the kind of gadget you’d find in a spy’s emergency kit. I spent nearly an hour pumping water, filling up my canteens with the kind of dedication normally reserved for a level grind in a game. Pump, pump, pump—clear, fresh water. Small victory? Absolutely. But as far as I was concerned, I’d just leveled up in Survival Basics 101.

Feeling pretty accomplished (hydration points up by +10), I moved on to the next challenge: dinner. For most people, camping food means instant noodles or maybe a granola bar or two. But I hadn’t just brought snacks—I’d brought an induction cooktop and some freeze-dried “meals” that were one quick water boil away from being hot and, hopefully, edible.

I set the induction cooktop on a flat rock, hooked it up to the solar charger, and waited. For a second, I half-expected it to do nothing—after all, I was in the middle of nowhere, and even my high-tech gear felt like it was holding its breath. But then, to my absolute joy, the thing buzzed to life. I couldn’t help but laugh, like I’d just discovered fire. I mean, here I was, boiling water on a rock, as if I was a caveman who happened to have access to advanced camping technology.

The meal of the day? “Gourmet Beef Stew.” The packaging promised something hearty, rich, and satisfying, with a picture of a bowl overflowing with beef and vegetables that looked suspiciously like stock photography. I knew better than to trust it, but hey, I was here for the experience. I tore open the bag, poured in my hot water, and waited the required five minutes, trying not to get my hopes up.

When the timer finally buzzed (yes, my camp setup even included a timer), I opened the bag, took a deep breath, and… well, “gourmet” was a bit of an overstatement. What I got was more like beef-flavored noodles, with chunks that I could only describe as “mystery vegetables.” It didn’t taste bad, exactly, but it also didn’t taste… like anything, really. It was food, in the most technical sense.

But sitting there, in the middle of the woods, with nothing but the rustling of trees around me and a cup of “beef stew” that probably wouldn’t win any awards, I felt weirdly content. Like I was actually living out that whole “escape to nature” thing, tech gear and all. It was the camping version of playing an RPG on easy mode: I had all the fancy tools to make it easier, but I was still technically surviving in the wilderness, right?

After dinner, I figured it was time for a little exploration. I grabbed my electric mountain bike, strapped on my helmet (safety first, even in the wilderness), and set off down a narrow trail I’d spotted earlier. Now, I was fully aware that an electric mountain bike was maybe a bit much for a camping trip, but you know what? It was fun. The boost made it easy to power through rocky patches and avoid roots that seemed to be actively plotting to trip me up.

Flying through the forest, with the wind in my face and the trees blurring on either side, I felt like I’d just unlocked some new game feature, like I was cruising down an open-world map in a level that was maybe a bit higher than I was ready for. And there was something exhilarating about it. Every twist and turn felt like it was leading me further into some mysterious place, each hill and valley a new part of the “map.”

At one point, I startled a couple of deer, who looked up, wide-eyed, like they couldn’t believe some city guy with a futuristic bike had just shown up in their forest. I could practically hear them thinking, “What in the world is he doing here?” before they darted off into the trees, vanishing like NPCs when you get too close.

When I finally made my way back to camp, it was late afternoon. The forest was bathed in this golden light that filtered through the trees, painting everything in warm, rich colors that felt too perfect to be real. I rinsed off in the stream (cold but refreshing), changed into a fresh set of clothes, and sank into my camp chair with a deep, satisfied sigh. My phone was dead, my tablet on airplane mode, and yet, for the first time in… honestly, way too long, I didn’t feel the urge to check for notifications. There were no notifications out here. Just me, my camp, and the slow, calming heartbeat of the forest around me.

Looking around, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Here I was, surviving, even if “surviving” meant using more gadgets than a James Bond movie. Sure, I wasn’t exactly roughing it, but I was still living in the wild, and that counted for something.

As the sky faded from blue to a soft purple, and the first stars began to appear, I thought, Maybe I could get used to this. It was peaceful, calming, and exactly the break I needed from the grind of the city. No code to write, no emails to answer, just me and the quiet of the woods.

And then, just as I was finally feeling like I’d gotten the hang of this whole “nature thing,” the sounds started.

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TWILIGHT AND THE EERIE SOUND

The sun was setting, casting long shadows through the trees, and the whole forest was bathed in this warm, dusky glow that you’d see in the background of fantasy landscapes. It was the kind of lighting that makes everything look important, like the world was quietly hinting that something big was about to happen. Honestly, all that was missing was the sound of some distant, mysterious flute playing to set the vibe. I leaned back in my camp chair, watching as the sky shifted from shades of orange to a deep purple, stars just starting to prick through.

For a while, everything was just… quiet. Not that eerie, horror-movie kind of quiet, but more like a lull, a pause in the forest as it settled in for the night. The birds had gone silent, the breeze had stilled, and all that was left was the soft crackling of the little campfire I’d built up. I stretched out, basking in the calm, feeling this strange sense of peace. I’d done it. Here I was, far from the noise of the city, truly alone with my thoughts, and it was surprisingly… nice.

Then the hum started.

At first, it was barely noticeable, a faint buzzing that blended into the background of the night. I probably wouldn’t have even heard it if I hadn’t been so tuned into the silence. But slowly, it grew louder, shifting from a soft buzz to this low, pulsing hum, like the forest had an engine hidden somewhere, and it was powering up. It was subtle, but it was there—a steady, rhythmic sound that didn’t belong.

I sat up, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from, but it seemed to be all around me, echoing between the trees like the world’s most unsettling surround sound. My brain scrambled to make sense of it, running through a mental list of possibilities. Did I accidentally set some device to “power up” mode? Maybe my induction cooktop was going rogue. Or… what if I’d somehow stumbled across a hidden underground bunker?

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And then, as quickly as it had started, the hum faded, leaving behind an even heavier silence. The kind of silence that feels like it’s watching

you. My campfire crackled, casting flickering shadows over the trees, but everything else was dead still. I tried to laugh it off, telling myself it was probably just the wind or some natural phenomenon that city people like me don’t understand.

But the air felt charged, like static building up before a lightning storm. My skin prickled, and the little hairs on my arms stood on end. I was trying really hard not to let my mind go down horror-movie rabbit holes, but come on—if I’d been watching this scene in a movie, I’d be screaming at the guy on screen to pack it up and get out. Did you hear the creepy hum? What more do you need?

Still, I told myself it was fine. Nothing weird was happening; I was just being dramatic. This was nature, after all. Unpredictable, mysterious, and probably just doing its usual nature things. So, like the true master of denial that I am, I crawled into my tent, zipped up my sleeping bag, and lay there, trying to ignore the lingering tension.

But even with my eyes closed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off. The sounds of the forest were back, but they didn’t feel normal. Every rustle, every snap of a twig sounded amplified, like the forest had cranked up the volume just to mess with me. I lay there, listening to the sounds echo around me, my mind creating stories out of every little noise.

Eventually, I drifted into a restless sleep, but my dreams were strange, full of twisting shapes and flashes of green light that felt almost alive, like they were crawling through my mind. It was as if the hum had followed me into my dreams, seeping into every corner of my subconscious. I dreamed of forests that stretched on forever, lit by an unnatural green glow, trees that seemed to whisper secrets in a language I didn’t understand.

When I finally woke up, the sun was already high, spilling soft light into my tent, and for a second, I lay there, trying to shake off the remnants of those weird dreams. The forest around me was peaceful again, bright and ordinary, as if the night before had just been a glitch in reality. I stretched, yawned, and convinced myself that everything was fine. Just a strange night, a product of too much quiet and too little sleep.

I crawled out of my tent, ready to get on with my day, telling myself that whatever happened last night was just my mind playing tricks. But somewhere, in the back of my head, the memory of that hum lingered, a reminder that not everything in this forest was as it seemed.

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THE MORNING AFTER AND AN AFTERNOON OF EXPLORING

The sun was already climbing high when I finally dragged myself out of the tent. The forest around me looked almost annoyingly peaceful, as if it had forgotten all about the bizarre hum from the night before. Birds were chirping, a soft mist hanging between the trees, and not a single hint of that eerie green flash I’d seen. For a moment, I almost convinced myself it had all been a dream, one of those weird half-awake moments where you mix reality with whatever your brain’s cooking up at 3 a.m. But then I felt it—a weight in my pocket. I reached in, and there it was, the little gray stone that had glowed with that impossible green light.

I turned it over in my hand, half-expecting it to pulse back to life. But it stayed lifeless, just a cold, ordinary-looking rock. Magic stone? More like mood stone, I thought, smirking at my own joke. Still, even without the glow, it felt… off, like it was waiting for something. It didn’t make sense, but then again, nothing in the last 24 hours had made sense.

I shrugged it off and went through my morning routine. Filtered some more water, fired up the induction cooktop to make a “cheesy” breakfast that tasted more like wallpaper paste with a hint of salt, and tried to shake the weirdness from last night. I told myself I was fine, just a bit spooked, and decided that the best thing I could do was stick to my plan: explore the forest, breathe some fresh air, and maybe even get a nice “forest bathing” session in.

But just as I was about to get up, something flickered in front of my eyes—a faint blue outline, floating in midair. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, then blinked again, but it was still there. Words were printed across the faint blue screen, hovering just inches from my face, almost transparent against the trees in the background:

“System connection partly established. Open link to mainframe through portal? Yes/No.”

I stared at it, my brain scrambling to catch up with what I was seeing. A floating prompt? In real life? This wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, I’d programmed plenty of in-game menus, designed all kinds of interfaces, but seeing one just… there, in front of me? It was like I’d stepped into my own code.

For a moment, I wondered if this was some kind of tech burnout hallucination. Maybe all those hours hunched over my keyboard had finally caught up with me, and my brain was firing off random bits of code just to mess with me. But the screen stayed, as crisp and real as anything else around me.

Yes or No. Two options, just waiting for me to pick one.

A sensible person would have gone with “No,” packed up camp, and gone home. But I was a programmer, and if there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s seeing what happens when you press the shiny button. After all, curiosity is the driving force behind every line of code, every bug fix, every game mechanic. And right now, that button was practically begging me to press it.

I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it, whispered, “Yes.”

The air in front of me shimmered, like someone had dropped a pebble into a still pond, and a new message popped up.

System connection fully established. Processing individual data…

My heart pounded as more text began to appear, line by line, like my life was being scanned, analyzed, and transformed into a stat sheet. It was exactly like an RPG character screen, complete with the sort of basic info you’d find at the start of any game:

Name: Simon Freud

Age: 29

Race: Human (Earth)

Class: None

Health: 100%

Energy: 100%

Strength: 8

Agility: 10

Intelligence: 14

Wisdom: 12

Skills: None

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. The stats felt almost insultingly accurate. Strength at 8? Well, I’d be the first to admit I wasn’t exactly built like a tank. Intelligence 14, though? I’d take that. Nice to know the universe acknowledged my years of coding. And there it was, at the bottom of the screen, flashing in that soft blue light: Class Selection.

I reached out, and the screen reacted, opening up a new menu. Just like a real game, it displayed the available classes in neat little rows, each with a description and a suggested skill set. And, oh, they’d covered all the basics:

Warrior – All strength and stamina, built to tank hits and wield swords as big as a person. Sounded like a back pain waiting to happen.

Mage – Your standard spellcaster. High intelligence, elemental attacks, lots of dramatic robes. I’d probably blow myself up trying to cast a basic fire spell.

Rogue – Agility-based, stealthy, sneaky, quick on their feet. Look, I liked the idea of stealth, but the idea of me dodging attacks with ninja precision? Not happening.

Healer – Support class, all about mending wounds and keeping the team alive. Great in a group, maybe not so useful solo.

And then, at the very bottom, there was one more option. It didn’t have the same flashy icon or the same familiar ring as the other classes, but it caught my eye immediately:

World Programmer – A unique class that allows the user to manipulate the world through “code.” Ability to alter objects, adjust stats, and make environmental modifications. High energy cost per use.

I stared at the screen, half expecting it to disappear or glitch out. World Programmer? A class that let you manipulate reality like code? It was almost too perfect, like the system had scanned me and thought, Yeah, let’s make something special for this guy.

My fingers itched to select it. Sure, the description sounded risky, especially with that “high energy cost” warning, but if I was going to dive into whatever this was, I wasn’t going to pick Warrior or Mage. This was my territory—coding, creation, bending the rules to make reality fit. If this was a game, this was the kind of game I wanted to play.

“Select World Programmer,” I said, barely able to keep the excitement out of my voice.

In that instant, I felt a strange surge of energy, like I’d just tapped into some hidden power source. It buzzed through me, filling every part of me with a sense of connection I couldn’t explain, like I’d just plugged into the forest itself. Suddenly, symbols and glyphs began to appear around me, faint but visible, overlaying the world with a kind of “source code” I could see. The trees, the rocks,

even the air itself—it all seemed to have this underlying layer of information, as if the entire forest was written in a language only I could read.

I focused on a small rock by my foot, and as I stared at it, an overlay appeared, labeling it with basic attributes: Weight: 0.5 kg. Density: High. Durability: Normal. I reached out, almost on instinct, and willed the Weight attribute to drop. To my shock, the rock actually lifted off the ground, hovering in mid-air like I’d just turned off gravity. My jaw dropped. This was real. I was actually altering the world around me with the equivalent of developer tools.

But just as quickly, the weight of it settled in. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a game. There were no save points, no checkpoints, and no game over screen that would just kick me back to reality if something went wrong. I didn’t know how much I could push this new “World Programmer” ability before I hit a limit—or worse, broke something I couldn’t fix.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and glanced at the portal, still shimmering faintly behind me. On the other side, I could see something that looked like another forest, but different somehow—the colors were more vivid, the shapes slightly alien, like I was looking at a world that followed different rules. Small, strange creatures darted across the other side, glancing at me with curious eyes before disappearing back into the underbrush.

The urge to step through that portal was almost overwhelming. After all, if I’d already gone this far, why not see where it led?

But for now, I knew I needed to get a handle on this new reality-bending power. I turned back to the camp, ideas already buzzing in my head. I was in a world where the rules were mine to write.

And that, I realized, was exactly the adventure I’d come here to find.

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THE PORTAL AND THE NEW WORLD

I stood there, staring at the portal shimmering in the air in front of me, half-excited, half-terrified. On the other side, I could see a forest that looked similar but… different. The trees were taller, their trunks twisted and gnarled, with leaves that seemed to shimmer in colors I didn’t even have names for. Small, bizarre creatures darted through the underbrush, some with feathers, others with glowing eyes, and one that looked suspiciously like a fox but with wings. The sight was enough to make me question every assumption I’d ever had about reality.

Part of me was tempted to just grab my phone and snap a picture, but then I remembered: no signal, no Wi-Fi, and no one to send it to anyway. Besides, I wasn’t sure if my phone would even pick up what I was seeing. This wasn’t just another forest. It felt… richer, somehow, like a version of reality that had been given an HD remaster.

I took a deep breath, my mind racing. Every rational thought I had screamed, Turn back now. After all, there was nothing stopping me from just closing the portal, going back to my tent, and pretending none of this had happened. But curiosity, the kind that every programmer knows all too well, gnawed at me. This was a chance to see something no one else had ever seen. And if I could manipulate reality itself with my new “World Programmer” ability, then maybe—just maybe—I could handle whatever was on the other side.

With a mixture of nerves and excitement, I went back to my tent, did a quick inventory check, and gathered up the essentials. I wasn’t sure how this was going to go down, so I packed the basics: multitool, flashlight, a canteen, some high-protein snacks, and my trusty portable charger, even though I doubted I’d find any outlets in Fantasy Land. My tablet came along too—sure, it probably wouldn’t be useful, but there was something comforting about having it with me, like a little piece of home.

Finally, I took a deep breath, tightened the straps on my pack, and walked back to the portal. I could feel my pulse hammering in my chest, the same way it had when I’d accepted my first job offer in programming, or launched my first game to actual players. This was uncharted territory. My own private beta test in a world where the code was, apparently, malleable.

With one last look around my campsite (which now felt almost disappointingly normal), I stepped forward, right into the portal.

The air shimmered as I crossed the threshold, like stepping through a sheet of water, cool and slightly tingly. For a second, everything was a blur—a whirl of green and gold and strange colors that swirled around me—and then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped. I was on the other side.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Earthy, rich, like the forest I’d just left but multiplied tenfold. It was like I could smell every leaf, every blade of grass, even the damp soil underfoot. The air felt charged, almost electric, and I had this bizarre sense that the world around me was alive in a way I’d never experienced before.

I looked around, taking it all in. The trees here were massive, their trunks twisted in strange, spiraling patterns, and their leaves glowed faintly in shades of green, blue, and purple. Strange flowers dotted the forest floor, their petals sparkling like they were dusted with tiny bits of glass. And the creatures… they were everywhere, peeking out from behind trees, flitting through the branches above, each one stranger than the last.

One particularly bold creature trotted up to me, giving me a look that could only be described as “judgmental.” It was about the size of a rabbit, with silvery fur and big, luminous eyes, and—get this—a pair of tiny, shimmering wings. It looked at me like it was trying to decide if I was friend or foe, or maybe just a mildly interesting distraction.

“Uh… hi?” I said, not sure if I was supposed to be talking to it. The creature flicked an ear, unimpressed, and promptly scampered off into the underbrush. Alright, I thought, friendly, but definitely sassy.

I was starting to get my bearings when I noticed something hovering in my field of vision. Another screen, this time with a message:

Welcome to the New World.

It felt bizarre, reading that line like it was some kind of in-game prompt. Welcome to the New World? What, was I supposed to hit “Accept” and start a tutorial? But then, as if it had read my thoughts, the screen shifted, displaying a new line:

Tutorial Mode Active. Access to New World abilities will unlock as you progress.

A small laugh escaped me. A tutorial mode? Was I really in some kind of world where everything functioned on game mechanics? On one hand, that was weirdly comforting—familiar territory for a guy who’d been building game mechanics for years. On the other, it was a stark reminder that this world, no matter how stunning, might not follow any of the rules I was used to.

Another message popped up:

Class abilities unlocked: Basic Code Edit

I focused, curious to see what that meant, and suddenly the world around me took on a strange new clarity. Objects near me had faint overlays now—trees with labels showing height and age, stones with information about their weight and density, and even the creatures, which had little health bars and stat summaries hovering near them. It was like I was looking at a developer’s debug mode, able to see the stats and attributes of everything around me.

I crouched down, focused on a small rock, and saw the familiar options appear in my mind: Weight, Size, Density. Almost on instinct, I altered the Weight attribute, setting it to near zero, and watched as the rock lifted off the ground, hovering in mid-air like I’d just turned off gravity. My jaw dropped. This was real. I was actually altering the world around me with the equivalent of developer tools.

But before I could try altering anything else, a noise snapped me out of my trance. The rustling of leaves, coming from somewhere behind me. I froze, my heart pounding as the sound grew louder, and slowly turned around.

There, in the shadows of the trees, was a figure. They looked humanoid, dressed in armor that glinted faintly in the strange forest light, with a sword strapped to their side and an expression that was a mixture of exhaustion and determination. They hadn’t noticed me yet, their attention fixed on something further ahead.

But then, as if on cue, another creature burst out of the bushes—a massive, hulking beast with a body covered in dark fur and teeth that looked sharp enough to cut through stone. It snarled, advancing on the figure, who raised their sword, bracing themselves for the fight.

I wanted to help, but every instinct told me to stay hidden, to just watch and try to learn the lay of the land. But then a new screen appeared in my vision:

Quest: First Contact

Objective: Aid the traveler in battle. Reward: Advanced Code Edit ability.

I stared at the screen, half-excited and half-horrified. A quest? Really? And a combat quest, at that. I hadn’t exactly prepared for monster fighting when I packed my camping gear, but this was what I’d signed up for, wasn’t it?

The figure took a step back, clearly losing ground as the beast advanced. I glanced down at my hands, trying to think. I didn’t

have weapons or armor, but I had something potentially more powerful: the ability to rewrite reality.

Taking a deep breath, I focused on the creature’s stats, my vision zeroing in on the faint overlay above it. Attack: 18. Defense: 12. Agility: 6. Perfect. I reached out mentally and lowered the creature’s Attack stat, just enough to give the figure a fighting chance. I wasn’t sure if it would work, but the effect was immediate—the beast slowed, its snarling attack faltering as its movements became sluggish.

The figure took the opportunity, lunging forward with their sword, striking a clean blow that sent the beast reeling back. I watched, feeling both amazed and relieved, as they fought off the creature with newfound confidence. A few tense moments later, the beast let out a final snarl, stumbled, and fell to the ground, defeated.

The figure staggered, catching their breath, and for the first time, their eyes met mine. They looked as shocked as I felt, their gaze darting from me to the now-defeated creature, as if trying to piece together what had just happened. Slowly, they approached, sheathing their sword and giving me a cautious nod.

“Thank you,” they said, their voice tinged with a strange accent. “I… don’t know what you did, but you saved my life.”

I opened my mouth, about to explain that I wasn’t even sure what I’d done myself, when the tutorial message popped up again.

Quest complete! Reward unlocked: Advanced Code Edit.

I felt a rush of energy, like a new ability slot had just opened up in my mind. Advanced Code Edit? My head was spinning with possibilities, questions, and the undeniable thrill of what lay ahead. This was more than just a camping trip or a portal adventure. I was in a world where I wasn’t just an observer—I was a programmer, with access to the source code of reality.

“Simon,” I finally managed, holding out a hand. “I’m Simon. And I think I have a lot of questions.”

The traveler shook my hand, looking at me with an expression I could only describe as wary curiosity. “I’m Anaya. And I think you might have more answers than you realize.”

And as we stood there, in the heart of this strange, fantastical forest, I knew one thing for sure: this was only the beginning.

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