The air turned heavy.
Dense.
As if someone had deliberately compressed the atmosphere.
I felt a pull in my stomach—not downward, not upward, but nowhere.
The kind of sensation that tells you the rules just went to hell.
Then… impact.
I dropped to my knees on hard ground.
Not polished stone.
Earth.
Sand mixed with dry mud.
The smell hit me before the sound: old blood, smoke, excrement, burned flesh.
I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was a grayish-red sky.
Covered in columns of smoke rising like open scars.
The first thing I did was locate the sun in the sky… If I was going to be here for 12 hours.
The most essential thing to know right now was: Would that time fall during day or night?
If it was daytime, my chances of survival were higher.
If it was night—shit…
I didn't think I'd have enough time to come up with a plan with so little light.
I tried asking Quincy, but there was no response…
That's when I knew… I was cut off from the System, from the basic skills.
Here, I was worse than nerfed.
I was…
vulnerable.
A guttural scream exploded to my left.
I turned my head and saw a man—no, something—covered in hides, his body painted with twisted symbols.
No armor.
No trace of mercy in his expression.
In his hands was a bone spear stained dark red.
Behind him, more of them. Men, women—barely human.
They screamed.
Not words.
Sounds.
Pure hatred.
My first thought wasn't "Where am I?"
It was:
"Okay… everything here looks savage—and it wants me dead."
I held my breath. Dropped to the ground as carefully as possible. Moved with stealth to avoid their attention.
I backed away slowly… Until I found a spot where I could stand.
That was…
my first mistake.
A sharp pain shot through my ankle.
A jagged stone had pierced my skin.
Blood.
Dirt.
And the inability to scream, because that would guarantee death.
I clenched my jaw. Tried to clean the wound. I understood what was happening, with disgusting clarity:
In this place… I had zero margin for error.
I got distracted for one second.
Focused on easing my ankle.
Because I knew—I wouldn't be able to run if it got worse.
That was…
my second mistake.
The first spear strike passed grazing my side.
I felt the air split. If it hit me, it was over.
To hell with heroism.
If I died here, there was no second chance.
I moved on pure reflex, my body acting before my mind, dodging without thinking how—only thinking not to die.
I ran, in pain, complaining under my breath.
But better a live dog than a dead lion.
The ground was full of primitive traps: pits covered with branches, buried stakes, scattered bones.
This wasn't an organized battle.
A typical war.
This was tribal.
Primitive.
Bloody.
In the distance, I could hear it. Like the whisper of constant slaughter.
A war that never ended because no one won—only survived a little longer.
I stopped.
The adrenaline in my veinswas the best anesthetic for the pain in my ankle.
And without giving myself a moment of calm, I heard drums.
Slow.
Deep.
The sound traveled through my chest, not my ears.
Each beat felt like it marked a death.
I hid behind a large rock to recover.
Tore part of my clothes to stop the bleeding in my foot.
I breathed so slowly it hurt. My heart hammered in my throat.
My hands trembled, but my mind was…
strangely clear. Too clear.
And I recognized it.
This was definitely my old way of thinking.
The one from my real body, my original world.
This was me. Brian Murphy.
The psyche without absurd enhancement—the one that makes me emotionally unstable.
The clarity of my thoughts made me see—as if the world had slowed down just to mock me.
I analyzed quickly:
—Short-range weapons.
—No real projectiles, just brute force.
—Uneven terrain.
—They know the field. I don't.
Perfect.
Fucked.
In an unknown jungle. With inadequate weapons.
If I used the underwater shotgun, I'd have to lure them into water. But water meant another unknown risk.
From what I could tell, their weapons were obsidian or bone.
They were probably masters—or at least skilled—with them.
Perfect.
I had a damn kitchen knife.
And a lot of faith.
A sharp screech cut through the air.
From the top of a hill, I saw something worse: two tribes clashing—and in the middle…
Corpses. Piles of them. Some fresh.
Others already being devoured by animals that looked like dogs—but with far too many teeth.
I wasn't in a war.
I was in the war.
The most primitive version, where killing isn't a decision—it's a biological function.
Then I felt it.
A tingling at the back of my neck.
An invisible pressure.
I didn't know what it was.
My mind faltered as I remembered.
the System and its conveniences.
I accepted that it said nothing else.
Accepted that it explained no rules.
Accepted that I no longer had the luxury of that damn interface.
But I knew—with a bone-chilling certainty—that this wouldn't be a one-time punishment.
This was definitely going to be recurring.
I swallowed.
Clenched my fists.
Twelve hours.
I just had to survive twelve damn hours.
I swallowed. Adjusted my stance.
Forced my body to stop trembling in fear.
I knew I couldn't win. Only try not to die too soon.
Something moved behind me.
Too close.
I turned just in time to see a blood-covered face, crazed eyes, a stone being raised over my head.
I didn't think.
I didn't hesitate.
With the kitchen knife, I drove it straight into his eye with all my strength.
The scream was short. Wet.
I felt the body fall, dead.
Blood splattered across my face.
I didn't gag. I didn't have time.
I ripped the weapon from his hands and ran again.
My lungs burned.
My muscles screamed, flooded with adrenaline.
My mind counting seconds like bullets.
Then, in the middle of the chaos, I thought:
If this is the first hell…
What will the next ones be like?
A nervous laugh climbed up my chest.
Twelve hours.
Just twelve hours.
The drum sounded again—closer.
I tightened my grip on the knife and the improvised weapon.
Looked at the sick sky.
"Perfect…" I muttered.
"They didn't even give me time to prepare."
And in that instant, something roared from the hill—something too big to be human, something that made even the tribes pause for a second.
My smile froze.
Ah.
Of course.
I guess this is how hell begins.
And I ran again.
My legs couldn't take it anymore.
Air was failing in my lungs.
But if I stopped, I would die.
So there was no choicebut to push past my own limits.
I kept running. Even as my body protested.
I considered dropping the weight of the weapons.
But in an unknown environment, in a war—that was suicide.
And so… I didn't let go of the knife.
Nor the underwater shotgun. Nor the tribal weapon.
I had only one thing.
Only one thing in mind:
"I can handle this shit… I just need to come up with a strategy."