The first thing Ren noticed was the silence.
Not the calm kind he sometimes found late at night when the city briefly paused. This silence felt heavier, like a blanket pressed against his ears. No subway rumble, no vending machine humming from down the hall, no neighbor's TV leaking through thin apartment walls.
Just… quiet.
And grass.
Long blades brushed against his cheek as he opened his eyes. They swayed lazily above him, shifting with a breeze that carried a clean, unfamiliar scent. He lay there for a few seconds, confused, trying to piece together how he had gone from studying at his desk to lying on his back in the middle of a field.
The sky overhead was too blue—rich and clear, without the usual haze he'd grown used to seeing over Tokyo. It looked closer somehow, like he could reach up and touch it.
He pushed himself upright, brushing dirt from his hoodie out of habit. Dew soaked through the fabric, making the cold bite through quicker than he expected. His jeans were streaked with mud, and several crushed leaves clung stubbornly to his shoes.
He turned slowly in place.
Nothing. No buildings. No power lines. No roads. Just grass stretching toward a distant line of trees that cut across the horizon like a dark wall.
A nervous laugh slipped from him before he could stop it. "Okay. This is… definitely not my room."
His hand moved automatically toward his pocket. Phone. The familiar shape steadied him for all of one second.
The screen stayed black when he pressed the button. No vibration. No flicker of life. Just a dead rectangle reflecting his worried face.
He tried again, harder this time, then shook it once for good measure. Still nothing.
He lowered the phone slowly, the feeling in his stomach sinking with it.
"What happened to me?"
The question hung uselessly in the air.
He tried to remember the last thing he'd done—reviewing practice questions, rubbing at tired eyes, telling himself he'd rest "for a minute." That had turned into several hours of sleep more than once before, but waking up somewhere completely different was… not something naps usually did.
A cool wind tugged at his hoodie, nudging him toward the treeline. Instinct agreed; standing in the open like this didn't feel safe. With no idea where he was or how he'd gotten here, shelter felt like the first reasonable goal.
He took one step toward the distant forest—
—and stopped as glowing words appeared in front of him out of thin air.
They hovered there, bright against the air like someone had etched them into glass and held it up to the sky.
Welcome, Ren Hoshikage.
You have entered a new world.
Each time you sleep, you will awaken with a new ability.
Survive. Learn. Build.
Your journey begins now.
His breath caught.
The words didn't come from a screen. They weren't projected from anything. They simply existed in the space in front of him, floating with eerie confidence.
He moved his hand through them.
Nothing changed. No resistance, no flicker—they simply faded after a moment, dissolving like mist hit by sunlight.
Ren stood still long after the message disappeared. He waited for more—another sentence, a hint, a clue—but nothing returned. Only the breeze and the quiet field remained.
A new world?
Abilities?
Sleep-triggered powers?
If he'd read this in a manga, he would have rolled his eyes. Living it was different. Too convincing. Too detailed. Too real.
His back still ached from the awkward way he'd lain on the ground. His clothes felt damp. His hunger was growing sharper by the minute. Dreams didn't do this.
Something cold and heavy settled beneath his ribs. He pressed his lips together and forced his legs to move, one slow step at a time, toward the dark green line of trees.
---
The forest swallowed sound differently.
The air cooled as soon as he stepped under the branches. The sunlight thinned into patches on the ground, shifting whenever the leaves above swayed. The smell here was earthy—dense with the scent of damp wood and plants breaking down into soil.
Ren walked carefully, testing each step before putting his weight down. Twigs snapped loudly anyway, mocking his attempts to be quiet. He winced each time, glancing around as though something might answer the noise.
He paused to steady his breathing. Thirst scratched at the back of his throat, and his tongue felt like it was sticking to his teeth. He hadn't realized how dry his mouth was until now.
A faint sound drifted through the trees—steady, soft, flowing.
Water.
His shoulders sagged with relief he hadn't noticed building. He followed the sound, weaving between thick trunks and pushing aside low branches until he reached a narrow stream.
Clear water glided over polished stones, catching bits of light between the leaves above.
He knelt immediately, cupping his hands and drinking without hesitation. The cold shocked him awake, but it was clean—cleaner than anything he'd ever tasted out of a bottle. He drank again, letting the chill ease the knot in his throat, then splashed some onto his face.
The moment he stopped moving, the forest's stillness pressed in again. No traffic. No chatter. No electric hum. Only running water.
He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked around. The forest grew darker in the distance, and the sunlight slipping through the canopy was already taking on the softer tint of late afternoon.
He needed shelter before night fell. The idea of stumbling around this place in the dark made sweat gather on his palms.
He stood, scanning the nearby trees for anything useful.
Something flickered at the edge of his vision. Not light—more like a thought that didn't belong to him sharpened suddenly.
Not words, not a message—just a clear understanding settling into his mind.
What makes a frame sturdy.
Which branches bend instead of snapping.
How to lash pieces together so they don't collapse.
Which vines act like rope.
The knowledge didn't come from guessing.
It simply… appeared.
He swallowed hard. "Carpentry…?"
Saying it out loud didn't make it easier to believe. But the certainty in his mind didn't feel optional.
He inhaled once, then got to work.
It was slow going. His hands took the brunt of it, quickly turning red and sore. He found a jagged rock sharp enough to saw branches, though it chewed into his palm each time he used it. Breaking smaller sticks over his knee stung sharply, but he kept going.
Vines came next—tough ones, the kind that bit into his fingers when he pulled them tight. He looped and tied them until the crude frame between two trees began to hold its own weight.
Leaves, moss, and scraps of bark formed the start of a roof. It wasn't straight. It wasn't pretty. But it covered more than it didn't, and that felt like a victory.
By the time he stepped back, sweat clung to his forehead and the edges of his hoodie. The forest had grown quieter, heavier. The sun no longer pierced through the canopy in clear beams—only faint, colored light filtered down, faint like dusk in a room with the curtains drawn.
The structure in front of him leaned to one side, but it stood.
Good enough.
Inside, he piled dry leaves and ferns into a makeshift bed. His stomach twisted with hunger again, loud enough to echo in the cramped space. He'd seen berries earlier but hadn't dared try them; poison wasn't the way he wanted to go out.
Instead, he grabbed another branch and sharpened one end with the same rock, turning it into a rough spear. Holding it made the space feel less vulnerable.
Night settled gradually but firmly, like ink spreading across paper.
Sounds shifted too. Something hooted far away. Leaves rustled with slower, heavier movement than before. An insect droned briefly, then went silent. The temperature dropped with surprising speed, sinking through his clothes and finding exposed skin.
Ren huddled deeper inside the shelter, drawing his knees close, pressing his palms together for warmth. His breath lingered in the air in faint clouds. The cold made his fingers sting.
He tilted his head back and saw the sky through a gap in the roof.
Stars filled it—so many it looked crowded. Sharp, bright, unmoving.
And two moons hung among them.
One full and white.
The other a slim crescent glowing pale blue.
A sound left him, small and cracked, before he could stop it. The sight drove the last shred of denial from his mind.
He wasn't anywhere near home.
He wasn't anywhere on Earth.
No amount of hoping would change that.
His chest tightened. He pressed his forehead to his knees, trying to keep himself steady. He didn't want to panic in the dark. Didn't want to start making noise that might draw something.
He tried to focus on the one rule the world had given him:
When you sleep, you gain an ability.
His chances depended on that—on whatever waited for him when he woke.
He pulled the thin layer of leaves under his chin, shivering hard. "Please… just something useful. Fire. That would help. Just fire."
His voice barely carried past the entrance of the shelter.
Fatigue hit him suddenly, dragging at his limbs. His grip loosened on the spear. The cold dulled everything, and the ache in his body made it impossible to fight sleep any longer.
The moment his eyes shut, he fell.
Not into dreams—just darkness.
And then warmth touched the back of his thoughts. A faint glow. A memory he shouldn't have had: the scrape of sticks, the moment dry fibers catch, the tiny flare of orange spreading into light.
He sank deeper, letting the warmth rest inside him, quiet and sure.
Firestarting.
The knowledge settled into him as naturally as drawing breath.