I woke up early the next day, greeted by pain.
Every single muscle in my body protested as I rolled onto my side. The ground might as well have been a slab of punishment disguised as stone. I stared up at the sky with half-lidded eyes and sighed.
"Ah yes," I muttered. "A wonderful morning in paradise. Five stars. Would suffer again."
My stomach growled but I ignored it and forced myself up and dusted off imaginary dirt—because at this point, I was just dirty everywhere anyway.
Caves. I needed caves.
The system said caves had "valuable materials," which in system language usually meant suffering with benefits.
I started walking.
Ten minutes in, I was fine.
Thirty minutes in, I was still confident.
One hour in, my confidence was replaced with denial.
Two hours in, I was surviving on pure spite.
By the time two and a half hours passed, I was dragging my feet, sweat dripping down my back, lungs working overtime like they were about to file a complaint.
Then—salvation.
