Kale was back in his shack, its thin wooden frame groaning softly under the evening wind. Winter hadn't arrived yet, but the nights were already sharper, colder than before. His breath lingered faintly in the air now—just like his body heat would vanish too quickly if he didn't act soon.
He muttered to himself as he sat outside, a habit carved deep by years of solitude. "Right. Gotta fix this place up. Can't freeze to death like some dumb fool."
With that, he closed his eyes and focused on the familiar pull within him—the Ocean. The sensation came fast, like an old friend tugging at his soul. Inhale. Exhale.
And then—
The world shifted.
Golden streams stretched endlessly before him, swirling threads of knowledge drifting through the air like rivers of light. This was the Ocean of Knowledge, vast and whispering secrets only Kale seemed to hear. He reached out, not for survival tips or edible plants this time, but for *shelter*. How could he reinforce his shack? How could he keep the cold away?
Strings, swirls, and motes of golden light danced around him, offering glimpses of understanding. Kale placed his hand toward one of the glowing threads. The moment he touched it, insight surged into his mind—diagrams of sturdy wood frames, bundles of thick leaves layered for warmth, vines woven tightly to bind structure together. His thoughts buzzed, pieces of knowledge slotting into place like a puzzle finally finding its missing parts.
He pulled himself out of the Ocean, blinking against the dimming sky. Night was coming. He had no time to waste.
Without hesitation, Kale set off into the forest.
The deeper he walked, the more the Ocean guided him. Threads flickered faintly in his vision, leading him past thorny bushes and unstable ground. He followed them with quiet trust, moving from tree to tree, scanning the undergrowth for what he needed.
First, he found branches—thick, strong limbs fallen from older trees, untouched by rot. He dragged two of the heaviest ones back to his path, grunting under their weight. They would form the new framework.
Next, the leaves. Golden threads coiled around a dense bush with wide, dry foliage—perfect for insulation. He gathered armfuls, crushing them slightly between his fingers to test their thickness. Satisfied, he tied them together with thin vines, making sure they wouldn't slip loose during transport.
Vines were trickier. Not just any vine would hold weight. He needed the thick, twisted kind—strong enough to bind everything together without snapping in the wind. Another thread pulsed ahead, guiding him toward a moss-covered tree draped in tangled greenery. Kale inspected the vines wrapped around its trunk, testing their strength with careful tugs. These would work.
By the time he returned to his shack, both arms loaded and sweat clinging to his brow, the sun had begun its slow descent behind the trees. He dropped the materials near the entrance, taking a moment to catch his breath.
"Alright," he whispered to himself, rolling his shoulders. "Let's get to work."
Kale started with the walls. He used the thicker branches to reinforce the weak spots, hammering them into the ground with a rock he found nearby. Some areas were patched with bark slabs he'd collected earlier, giving the shack a sturdier look than before.
Next came the leaves. He packed them tightly between the gaps in the wooden planks, layer after layer, until the wind couldn't slip through anymore. It wasn't perfect, but it would keep the worst of the cold out.
Then the vines—woven across the outer beams like rope binding a ship's mast. He tightened them carefully, ensuring nothing would loosen under the weight of snow or storm.
The floor got attention too. Flattened bark laid side by side formed a barrier between him and the frozen earth. Even the roof got an extra layer of thick branches covered in dried moss and woven leaves. It wouldn't stop a falling boulder, but it would hold against rain and snowfall.
By the time the sky turned from deep blue to orange, Kale stood back, hands resting on his knees as he caught his breath. He looked at his shack—not just a shelter anymore, but something closer to home.
"Ain't much," he said aloud, lips curling into a tired grin. "But I guess you could call it… home."
His talking habit was getting worse, but right now, he didn't care. He'd done something real. Something lasting.
Inside, he settled down and broke open the soft bread and dried meat from earlier. He washed it down with milk, savoring the warmth spreading through his stomach. Then, full and exhausted, he curled up beneath layers of leaves and fur, letting sleep take him.
For the first time in a while, the cold couldn't reach him.
The upgraded shack held strong against the night's chill, keeping him warm in a world that had never offered comfort.