Building a shelter sounded easier in theory.
I had a field. I had wood. I had motivation. But none of those things came with instructions. Turns out, dragging half-rotten logs and tying branches together with strips of boar hide isn't quite as glamorous as it sounds. But eventually, after enough bruised fingers and accidental smacks to the face with twigs, I had something that looked vaguely like a tent. If you squinted. In the dark.
"Behold" I said, arms wide to the empty field, "The Fortress of Slight Discomfort. Complete with one wall, minimal coverage, and exactly zero monster repellant."
It would do. For now.
Next problem: fire.
I found a dry patch of moss, a couple of flat rocks, and two sticks, then began spinning one into the other like I'd seen in survival shows. I spun faster. Harder. My palms were already blistering.
"If this doesn't work, I'm calling the fire department."
After what felt like hours but it was probably fifteen minutes, a wisp of smoke rose.
Then, finally...
Fire.
A tiny flame flickered to life.
"I summon thee, flame of the magic realm!" i said dramatically, raising the stick like a wand. "Rise, and burn thy enemies!"
The fire ignored my theatrics but continued to grow.
I carved a few decent slices of meat from the boar. It took a while, its hide was thick, tougher than anything I'd ever seen, but I managed to shave off some semi-edible cuts and skewered them on sharpened sticks.
As they sizzled over the flame, I sat back and admired my handiwork.
"Ah yes. Michelin star boar steak à la dirt, with a side of regret that would make Gordon Ramsay would cry."
I took a bite.
It was chewy. Gamey. Maybe slightly undercooked. But after a day of running, fighting, and not dying, it tasted like victory.
As the sun lowered again and evening returned, I stared out at the creek just beyond the tree line. The air was warm and filled with the quiet hum of insects.
For a moment, I just sat.
Alone.
Again.
"Is there anyone else here?" I asked the open sky. "Anyone like me?"
No answer. Just the crackle of firewood and the distant sound of water.
I stood up and walked the perimeter of the clearing, scouting for anything unusual, a trail, a sign of someone passing through, anything. But there was nothing. Just me. My camp. The burned ruins in the distance.
And the strange letters still spiraling down my left arm.
I traced a finger over them slowly, the way one might trace an old scar. They weren't raised or sunken, but they glowed faintly now in the firelight, wisps of gold and silver ink twining down my skin.
Magic.
I had to try again.
I stepped back toward the center of the clearing, away from the flames, and closed my eyes.
I thought of fire. Of heat. Of the way it had burst from the book and etched itself into me.
I stretched out my hand. Nothing.
I pictured water, flowing like the creek. Still nothing.
Light? Nothing.
Blood?
Nope.
"You're really killing the vibe, tattoo arm" I muttered.
I waved my hands a bit, whispered what I thought sounded like cool incantations, and probably looked like a discount stage magician with a head injury.
Still nothing.
Frustrated, I groaned and threw my hand to the side in a childish tantrum.
FWUMP.
A sudden gust of wind blasted sideways from my palm, ripping through the grass and sending nearby leaves swirling into the air.
I froze.
"Wait..."
I looked at my hand.
I did that.
I tried again. Nothing.
Again. Nothing.
"Okay, so I can do magic. Once. By accident. Perfect."
I paced in a circle, eyes wide, heart racing.
"Holy shit. I did magic."
The fire crackled quietly behind me.
I sat down again, closer to the warmth, and stared at the symbols on my arm.
They didn't glow brighter. They didn't whisper secrets.
But I felt it now.
A presence.
Power, maybe. Buried. Sleeping.
"I don't know how" I whispered, "but something's changed. And I think this is just the beginning."
I leaned back, eyes on the stars above, letting the calm settle around me.
"Note to self: learn to control that before I blow up my shelter."