—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
Arion walked through the open forest, boots crunching over moss and roots. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in fractured ribbons, painting the ground gold and green. Every sound felt louder here—the buzz of insects, the creak of branches, the subtle droplets of lingering water.
He kept a running tally in his head.
Soil texture: coarse. Tree growth: uneven, maybe recovering from fire. Air humidity: high enough to suggest a nearby water source.
After an hour of wandering, he stumbled upon a cabin tucked upon a cluster of trees. The structure was intact—plank walls, a slanted roof, a small window gone blind with dust. It almost looked familiar, like something out of his old world.
The smell of old wood and dust hit him — not decay, but warmth, like summer bark after rain.
A flash.
"Arion! Arion! Look, the tree house is finished! Isn't it cool? It can be our secret base from Mom and Dad!"
A child's voice — bright, echoing somewhere that didn't exist anymore. He blinked, and it was gone.
It hit sharp and sudden, a flash of memory he couldn't hold onto. He shook it off, muttering under his breath, "Not the time. Focus."
He needed higher ground. Somewhere to get a proper look at where he was.
The climb wasn't long. When he broke through the treeline, he found himself on a low hill with a wide view of the land below—rolling wilds, scattered forest, the shimmer of a river, and no trace of civilization. Then he spotted it: a thin wisp of smoke rising faintly beyond the hills.
Relief flared through him. People. Somewhere out there.
He took a step forward—then stopped.
Wait. I'm an alien here.
"The locals will think I'm crazy if I can't act like one of them… what if they think I'm some kind of demon? Pinned to a stake and burned alive."
The image was enough to make him shiver. He stepped back, jaw tight.
"Yeah, no. Survival first. Lets keep civilisation at safe distance, that can come later."
Shelter first, food, then understanding
The thought steadied him. For the first time since waking, the world didn't feel completely against him. No rules. No one above him. Just freedom, and the risk that came with it.
He stood there a moment, letting that realization settle—until movement caught his eye in the far tree line.
Something large.
The forest bent and groaned as if the trees themselves were being pushed aside. Not saplings, but full-grown trunks swaying like tall grass.
Vibrations from the steps of whatever was moving reached him, the feeling came from the earth, his feet and legs shook.
A chill crept up his spine. Whatever that was, it wasn't small—and it was most definitely not friendly.
He turned on his heel, noped out of there, back the way he came.
"Tree cabin it is," he muttered.
…
Finding himself back at the tree cabin, he spotted a ladder leading up and climbed inside.
He was taken aback by how immaculate it was. It might have looked worn from the outside, weathered by time, but inside was another story entirely. The place had clearly been made for some kind of adventurer — a bed, drawer and a chest, a small desk, and what looked like a crudely made stone container with obvious ash marks.
A firepit? Possibly for cooking or boiling water.
It wasn't ancient, no — but a thin layer of dust had built up, showing that whoever this tree cabin belonged to hadn't returned for quite some time.
After observing the homely interior, he patted the bed and made himself at home, sprawling across it, finally able to rest.
…
After some time, when the weariness eased, he looked around properly. On the desk he spotted a small circular dark glass bottle and a quill, the ink had dried some time ago now with splodges staining the wood nearby.
He thought whoever lived here previously must have had a habit of writing. A diary or journal maybe? He thought, now more promising, he continued to snoop about.
When pulling out the draw of the drawer beside the bed, he discovered a small journal. Sitting down at the small desk, he began to read.
Fortunately, he could understand the language written in the journal — though it felt strange. He didn't recognize it, not really. The characters looked ancient, scribbled in some oddly cohesive manner, like looking at a foreign script you shouldn't understand, yet somehow could.
It was a very weird feeling. Arion didn't know this language, but the mind he was inhabiting did.
That didn't mean he understood everything recorded. Many words were unfamiliar, and certain terms or sentences made little sense. It was like grasping scattered puzzle pieces, trying to fit them into some larger picture.
Still, he managed to gather a sense of what the journal was — a record of observations in the surrounding area. Notes on creatures, caves, and other discoveries.
But what truly caught his attention were the last few entries:
—— ❖ ——
14th of Early Bloomtide
'My grandfather was told by his father of an ancient structure lying somewhere in this land. He told me a story of a very powerful magic crafter who once resided within—a man filled with unmatched knowledge, recorded in his own sacred library. It was said he was obsessed with it—knowledge of this world. The locals called him a madman, insane, a demon spawn from the very first Openings.'
'I've searched for months around these areas, but the track back and forth takes too much of a toll. That's why I've set up a forward outpost for the time being. If I could only just find it…
Father, I won't fail you.'
—— ❖ ——
Fingers slipped into the journal, flipping to the next page. The handwriting had turned jagged, letters rushed, ink spots dark where the quill must have trembled.
—— ❖ ——
17th of early Bloomtide
'I found it!
An ancient structure—hidden by the forest itself. It has to be it. Most of the area was overrun with creatures; no wonder no one ever found it… or lived to tell anyone about it. I had to push far past my Vitalis limit just to reach the entrance.'
'I'm cautious of what could be inside. More creatures? Possible. I'll rest for two days to recover fully, and then return to explore its secrets.
I've made sure to note down my trail—alas, I forget my way.'
—— ❖ ——
The only words after the last entry described the adventurer's route to an ancient structure deep within the forest.
Arion picked up the dried quill, instinctive more than deliberate—maybe to add a line of his own. Was he trying to continue the stranger's story, or record his own existence in it, just like the owner had done? He didn't know himself.
The quill kissed the page, then lifted again and returned to its glass home. He chuckled. 'What the hell am I doing…'
His voice sounded wrong here—too loud in the hush, as if the walls hadn't yet learned its shape. Maybe he'd expected it to sound different.
The ink had faded to a brown the colour of dried blood. Some letters bled into one another; others pressed too deep, as if the writer leaned on emotion more than ink. He traced a name at the top corner, half-erased, and felt a strange sympathy for the hand that wrote it.
He caught himself wondering how many nights they had sat here, writing until the candle died—the same way he used to stare at monitors that hummed with artificial light.
He sighed and closed the journal, fingers lingering on the groove of someone else's handwriting.
"Someone else chased knowledge," he murmured.
And the world charged interest.
The thought landed heavier than expected. It wasn't fear; it was recognition. The universe had always collected on curiosity—atoms split, species burned, progress paid in pieces of someone's sanity.
Maybe this world worked the same way…
Before he could continue, a low growl interrupted him. It wasn't subtle—loud enough to echo in the rafters. His stomach was in protest, dragging him out of his current train of thought.
"Welp. That's my cue to think about food." He pushed off the desk. The thought's weight fell away, replaced by simple hunger.
He looked around, half hoping there'd be something remotely edible, but of course, he found nothing. Whoever lived here had clearly taken everything useful on his last voyage.
Well… not everything.
A glint of metal caught his eye below the pillow. Pulling it out, he found a crudely made knife — possibly a welcome present for anyone wanting to break in while he slept.
"He seemed prepared… and maybe a little paranoid. Well, this is better than nothing, I guess."
Still, the problem of food remained. Then an idea struck.
…
Arion stepped out in front of the same river that had abused him not too long ago — but this time, instead of a knife, he held a DIY spear: a sturdy branch lashed with vines and the knife tied at its tip.
"Now, let's not get too full of ourselves… heh. Well, I guess not everyone can be a natural master of survival."
Grinning with blind confidence, he steadied the spear.
"Now where are you…"
Stay still…
Be a statue — a plain old inanimate statue. Statues don't move.
They won't react if they don't feel movement.
Time passed. Then, a flicker of motion in his peripherals — the plan worked. The prey was in sight.
Just as he was about to strike—
Growwwllll…
His stomach betrayed him. The fish darted off. Arion lunged anyway, throwing the spear at where it would be instead of where it was.
A miss.
"Son of a—! You couldn't wait one more second, huh?"
He glared down at his own stomach like a man half-mad.
The second attempt followed. No stomach growl this time — but still, the spear splashed harmlessly past its target.
"Gah! Dammit! Why does this always look so easy in the movies?"
Swsh!
Blonc!
Plop!
…
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
Many, many misses later…
Panting, head bowed in defeat, he leaned on the spear like an old man with a walking stick.
"This is impossible! Surely there's a better way—"
His tantrum cut off mid-sentence as an idea formed.
Dropping the spear like a failed experiment, he stood motionless — eyes closed, body still, like a tree breathing sunlight. The forest hummed around him.
A faint splash upstream. A wiggle in the current. Left side — shallow bend — speed moderate.
When the fish drew near, Arion's eyes snapped open. He thrust his hand forward, releasing the internal energy he'd been circulating quietly through his arm.
Within an instant, the river responded — the energy pulsed outward, twisting water into motion. But this time, he wasn't shaping flow or temperature. He was forming a bubble of air.
The moment it swelled around the fish, the creature dropped helplessly inside, flopping on the surface of the dome, stunned by the sudden lack of water.
He felt the fish's thrashing through the water like a vibration — rippling back through his control.
"Crap!"
The shock forced him to stabilize the bubble with extra effort, straining his focus. Without thinking, he willed it upward, dragging it through the air toward himself.
He wasn't letting this one go.
The bubble shot from the river with such speed that the poor fish must have felt like it was preparing for launch, crushed by invisible G-forces.
A grin lit Arion's face — victory, finally.
Then his expression shifted.
"Oh… shit."
Smk!
The fish slammed directly into his face — tail first, for extra insult.
Both collapsed. The fish hit the ground first and began flopping toward freedom.
Arion groaned, saw his prey escaping, and lunged for his discarded spear.
"Spear! I'm sorry for throwing you away! Let's get this sucker!"
Hurling the spear, it soared through the air, piercing the fish just before it reached the river.
A clean hit.
"Ha-ha-ha! I finally got you!" Says the manic desperate man to his food.
"Thought you could slither away, huh?"
He didn't hold back his triumphant cackling.
Pressure and flow — that's all it is. The same way air moves when you swing a hand through it fast enough. Internal energy pushes, water yields, air rushes in to fill the gap.
He chuckled under his breath.
"Not exactly magic, is it? Just playing around with physics."
With a successful fishing method — and a bruised face — Arion continued to catch fish until the sun began to retreat and the sky turned gold and violet.
…
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
With a smug grin, Arion lounged in his newly claimed — and, admittedly, stolen — tree cabin, enjoying the spoils of his hard-won hunt. Cooked fish sizzled beside the small firepit he'd managed to rekindle.
Ssszzz.
It hadn't taken much. A few strikes with the knife's edge, and an ember caught in the dry wood.
As the fire grew, he stared into its light, mind drifting back to the strange energies — the so-called magic — he'd been toying with.
"Ahhh, feels just like college all over again," he muttered with a half-laugh. "Like a kid discovering the periodic table and the laws of physics."
He took a swig from his newly claimed (and equally stolen) waterskin, filled with river water, then tore another bite from the fish.
Teeth crunched on which wasn't meat, something solid and round.
Pulling back, grimacing, he noticed a faint glint inside the flaky meat.
"Unbelievable, what is this food service?" he sighed, prying it free.
A tiny, round, glittering orb rested in his palm — smooth and faintly luminous. As he turned it over, it seemed to respond to the hum of his internal energy, like two tuning forks vibrating in sympathy.
Intrigued, he leaned closer, narrowing his eyes.
What are you, exactly?
The surface shivered. Hairline cracks began to creep outward from where his fingers touched, spider-webbing across the whole sphere.
"No you don't—!"
Jerking back, he threw a hand up to shield his face.
But the orb didn't explode — it simply fractured, collapsing into fine glitter that scattered like sand and vanished almost instantly, as if it was never meant to exist outside the fish's body.
For a moment, he just stared at the empty air where it had been.
"Not an organ… maybe some kind of mineral buildup? Or a condensed energy node?"
He sighed, jotting a mental note.
Right. Step one: remove mystery orbs before eating the fish.
With a full stomach and mild satisfaction, he stretched out on the wooden bench.
The fire crackled softly. The smell of cooked fish lingered in the cabin air. His spear rested within arm's reach — just in case.
Within minutes, Arion drifted off, half-smiling as sleep claimed him.
…
Outside, as Arion slept, the river trickled along its banks — a quiet symphony of water and stone.
Above the trees, a broad black shape drifted in slow circles, hunting for its prey.
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