Day Two.
Am I really gonna die to something this ugly—on my second day in my favorite game? No. No way. If I'm going out, I'd rather Signora kill me. At least she'd look good doing it.
But my legs are shaking. My mouth's dry. I'm trying to keep breathing slow, but my heart's already racing like I'm halfway through a deadlift. I keep hearing the wind from Starsnatch Cliff whistling past my ears even though I'm nowhere near the edge anymore. I can't stop thinking about falling.
Still… like hell I'm going down without a fight.
The hilichurl archer—bowscurl, whatever—was distracted, muttering in that weird "Dada-da-muuh" language. I dropped from my hiding spot, landing hard enough to jar my spine, and rammed my makeshift spear into its neck. Right where the vocal cords should be. I think. I've never done this outside of a videogame.
It let out a horrible choking grunt, stumbled, and I ripped the crossbow from its hands. First shot—clean head hit. Second shot—miss. F**k, my hands are shaking so bad. I don't even know if it's adrenaline or just terror leaking out of my bones.
The third one charged me, club swinging. It clipped my head—everything spun. My ears rang. The edges of my vision went fuzzy, and for a moment, all I could think was, This is it, you're done.
Then… instinct. I kicked it in the balls with everything I had. My whole life force went into that one strike.
It folded like a sack of wet rice.
I scrambled for the crossbow, ignoring the screaming in my legs, reloaded, and put a bolt through its head. I stood there panting, realizing I'd just killed something alive and breathing. "Man… f**k. Disgusting. But… you were just living your life."
I muttered a short prayer to any god that might be listening—Barbatos, if he's real—and pushed
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On the way, I spotted a boar. No, I collided with it—full suplex into sharpened wood stakes I'd half-set up in desperation. Messy, but effective.
I built a little stone stove, checked for danger every five seconds, and seasoned the meat with sweet flowers. Used boar fat as grease. Washed the meat, cooked it, ate a little, and stored the rest in a leather bag, wrapping it in clean leaves. My hands shook the entire time. Not from effort. From knowing something else could come out of the trees at any second.
Why does a city boy know how to butcher? Because I'm paranoid. Bear Grylls-level paranoid. I can eat some bugs. Drink my own pee if I have to. But I'd rather not find out if dandelion wine works as an IV drip.
Loot haul from three hilichurl camps:
One small knife
A pot
67 crossbow bolts
A small wooden shield
A water skin (desert-style)
A tent
A coil of rope
Used boar leather and bones to patch my bag. Breaking cartilage with that dull knife made my teeth hurt. Crafted arm guards and shin pads from leftover bones and hide. I look like a caveman reject, but at least I won't die instantly.
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For the night, I picked a thick, hairy tree. Made a bone hook (from the ribcage) to climb. Tied my gear to the trunk in small bundles so I could haul them up easier.
Hammock from rope, leather, and torn clothes. Roof from the stolen tent fabric. Safety rope from my wrist to the trunk. Knife tucked in my arm guard.
Box breathing—four in, four hold, four out, four hold—until my heart slowed. The forest still sounded wrong. Too quiet. Every rustle made me grip the knife.
Today was bloody. Exhausting. But I'm still here. Maybe I can outlive my past self.
Once, I was a powerlifter. Died on a 4000 kg deadlift. Worth it—my wife was leaving anyway. Donated everything I had to orphanages and struggling students before my last lift.
Goodnight, Alex. Try to sleep.