The boots were a special kind of hell. Arthur had meticulously described them in his novel as "worn to perfection," comfortable and durable. On his own feet, however, they felt like clumsy, lead-filled boats.
Every step was a new challenge, and his low Dexterity stat was a constant, mocking companion. He stumbled over a root he'd sworn he'd seen coming, his arms flailing like a cartoon character.
"Of course," he muttered, dusting off the forest-green tunic. "I wrote this forest to be difficult terrain for low-level characters. I just assumed that applied to everyone but me."
He pushed on, the silence of the woods a suffocating blanket. He knew from his own writing that the Aelfwood was a place of quiet predators. The monsters here didn't howl or roar until they were right on top of their prey. His high Intelligence was a double-edged sword; he knew exactly what to fear. He had even given a detailed description of the sounds the Shadow Hounds made.
The faint, rhythmic snapping of a twig, a sound that could easily be mistaken for a normal animal. The soft, almost imperceptible rustle of leaves that didn't quite match the wind.
He stopped dead in his tracks. A twig snapped somewhere to his left, followed by that tell-tale, unnatural rustle of leaves. It was exactly as he had written it. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
"No, no, that's just a squirrel," he whispered, trying to convince himself. "I wrote about squirrels in this part of the forest. I gave them... ah, I gave them a mischievous streak. So a snapping twig is normal."
The sound came again, this time closer. It was deliberate. Calculated. Not a squirrel.
His mind, racing at a frantic pace, scrolled through the mental databanks of his own novel. He remembered writing a specific passage about a certain type of fern, the Moonpetal Fern, which glowed faintly in the moonlight and was known to grow near small caves or rocky overhangs. He had intended for Alfred to use the fern as a landmark to find a place to rest. For Arthur, it was the only hope he had.
"Okay, a plan," he stammered, his voice thin with panic. "I need to find the fern. The Moonpetal Fern. I wrote that it grows best near a water source, a stream."
He turned away from the sound of the approaching predator and moved towards the sound of a distant, gurgling stream he could just barely hear. His steps, once clumsy and loud, were now desperate and hurried, the need to survive overriding his pathetic physical stats. He was no hero, just a writer, running from a monster he had personally invented.
With a final, desperate grunt, he pulled himself onto a small, flat ledge he had just spotted on the other side of the stream. He collapsed, his lungs burning, his body shaking. He was safe. For now. A new screen chimed into view with a reassuring green glow, a sarcastic counterpoint to his utter terror.
Side Quest Complete: Find a suitable dwelling.
Reward: Basic Survival Kit received.
Next Quest: Secure the dwelling before nightfall.
He snatched the kit from his belt pouch. Inside were a flint, a bundle of tinder, and a single, hard biscuit. He stared at the pitiful haul, a sense of betrayal washing over him. "A single biscuit? I wrote a whole chapter about how satisfying the starter kits were! This is a scam!" he spat at the holographic screen, the words escaping in a thin, panicked squeak.
The night was falling, and the forest below was a sea of shadows. He was a writer, and he was alone, staring down at a world he had created to kill him.
He fumbled with the flint, his low Dexterity making the simple task feel impossible. Sparks flew, but they were weak and erratic, dying before they could catch on the tinder. His hands trembled, not just from the cold, but from the raw fear that was beginning to set in. He cursed his past self, a string of profanity he had never thought to include in his fantasy novel.
Finally, a spark caught, and a small fire flickered to life. The dancing flames cast long, eerie shadows on the rock face, but the warmth was a small comfort.
As the fire grew stronger, a low, guttural howl pierced the night. It wasn't the mournful cry he'd heard before, but a hungry, eager sound.
He pressed himself against the rock wall, his heart pounding in his ears. Through a small gap in the trees below, he saw them. Two glowing red eyes, impossibly bright in the darkness, blinked and disappeared. Then another pair, and another. They were here.
"Oh, God," he whispered. "The Shadow Hounds. I wrote them to be a challenging first-chapter foe for a level 1 adventurer with real stats. Not for a level 1 writer with a Strength of 4."
He clutched his pathetic half-rotten stick in his hand, a pointless shield against the predators he had created. He knew the hounds were cunning and that they would stalk their prey before the final attack. His high Intelligence was no help in a fight, but it was a horrifying database of all the ways he could die.
They won't attack the fire directly, he recalled from his own notes. I wrote them to be cautious, intelligent hunters. They'll circle, looking for an opening, waiting for the fire to die down or for me to make a mistake.
A low, predatory growl rumbled from the darkness, a sound that seemed to be more a feeling in his bones than a sound in the air. The two red eyes he had seen were joined by two more, then two more after that. A cold, dread-filled realization settled over him—there wasn't just one or two; there was a pack. He was surrounded.
His frantic mind, racing at a speed his physical body could never match, searched for a solution. The fire was his only defense, but it was small. He couldn't keep it burning all night with his pitiful supply of tinder. He had to do something else. He remembered a detail he had written about the hounds' sense of smell. It was their greatest asset, but it could also be a weakness.
He looked at his belt pouch, at the one remaining item inside: the rock-hard biscuit. It was inedible to him, but maybe not to them.
"This is ridiculous," he whispered, a hysterical laugh catching in his throat. "I'm going to use a stale biscuit as a weapon."
With trembling hands, he took the biscuit out. He scrambled to the edge of the ledge, holding the biscuit in his hand. He took a deep breath, aimed for a thicket of bushes far to his left, and threw the biscuit with all the strength his pathetic Strength stat could muster. It landed with a hollow thud.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the predatory growls stopped. A chorus of sniffing and rustling sounds erupted from the bushes where the biscuit had landed. He had bought himself a few precious moments. He huddled back against the rock wall, utterly exhausted and alone.