The cube loosens with a soft crack, like knuckles popping. Light spills outward and settles, flattening into lines and symbols that arrange themselves into shifting terrain. A holographic map forms in front of Jason, suspended midair at chest level, its glowing contours hovering close enough to illuminate his face.
He steps back. "You've got to be kidding me."
Words crawl across the surface, bright and deliberate.
COLLECT SUPPLIES.
PREPARE TO SURVIVE.
Jason snorts. "That's it?"
The letters shimmer, unbothered.
He rubs his palms on his jeans. His pulse climbs, fast and eager. Fear tags along, breathless. "You only talk when it suits you."
The map shifts. Hills fold open. Streams thread through fields. A faint outline pulses.
"A destination already?" he asks. "That's fast. Too fast."
He leans closer. Warmth brushes his cheek, intimate, like standing too near someone whispering. For a second, Clara's eyes cross his mind, gaze steady.
He shakes it off.
"Focus," he mutters.
The outline sharpens. Small shapes cluster. Roofs. Paths.
"A village," he says.
The map pulses again, brighter this time. The path glows, insistent.
Jason swallows. "First stop, then."
He reaches toward the image. It locks in place.
Behind him, the cabin creaks, settling, as if the decision has already been recorded somewhere unseen.
Cold water bites his ankles as he steps through the stream.
"Fantastic," Jason mutters. "Cool and refreshing."
He vaults onto the far bank, water shaking loose from his clothes. Ahead, a holographic map unfolds in midair, its lines and symbols shimmering softly. Above and just beyond it, a luminous arrow hangs suspended, angled forward and waiting, clear, insistent, guiding him toward the path he has yet to take.
"You're not subtle," he says. "Ever heard of suggestion?"
The path winds past fences. He climbs one, slips, laughs sharply. "Graceful."
A village unfolds ahead, low roofs, smoke threads, figures moving with purpose. NPCs pass him without really seeing him, their faces a shade too smooth, their motions looping, predictable. A vendor's bell chimes as he steps into a narrow stall.
The vendor's eyes flicker, just for a heartbeat, lingering on Jason longer than necessary before returning to the empty air in front of him. The movement is almost imperceptible, a twitch that doesn't match the mechanical precision of his hands.
Jason takes the pouch out from his hoodie pocket. Gold coins clink, real weight, real sound.
On a wall rack, shields are arranged by size and sheen, each tagged in clean, floating script:
Buckler → 10 gold coins
Grade 5 Buckler → 50 gold coins
Iron Shield → 250 gold coins
Steel Shield → 500 gold coins
Jason lifts the basic buckler. Light. Scarred. Honest.
"Start small," he mutters, counting out 10 coins. The vendor nods once, loop complete.
Next, weapons:
Rust-Worn Sword → 25 gold coins (brown, pitted edge)
Iron Sword → 150 gold coins (dull gray, steady balance)
Steel Sword → 400 gold coins (clean lines, faint blue sheen)
He tests the rusted blade, grimaces. "You've seen better days."
He reaches instead for the Iron Sword, sets 150 coins on the counter.
Bows hang in tiers below:
Old Shortbow → 20 gold coins (slack string, intact limbs)
Reinforced Bow → 120 gold coins (tight string, polished grip)
Composite Bow → 350 gold coins (layered wood, quiet tension)
He chooses the Old Shortbow. Practical. 20 coins gone.
He stretches the string. "Excellent."
Arrows sit stacked in bundles nearby:
1 bundle (20 arrows) → 2 coins
He buys 3 bundles. 6 coins gone.
Armor stands along a rail, textures telling their own story:
Tanned Hide Armor → 60 gold coins (stiff, sun-baked)
Hardened Leather → 200 gold coins (oiled, flexible)
Chain Shirt → 600 gold coins (cold weight, patient strength)
He runs a hand over the hide. Smells like old leather and sun.
"Light enough," he says, paying 60 coins. "Barely confidence-inspiring."
Food sits wrapped and stacked:
Dried Bread (wrapped) → 5 gold coins
Trail Rations (3 days) → 25 gold coins
Field Provisions (7 days) → 70 gold coins
"Don't mind if I do." He takes the dried bread, slides 5 coins across.
He gathers everything. Arms full. The weight shifts.
"Okay, okay, "
The stack slips.
"Whoa, no, no, "
He lunges, fingers scraping wood. The bundle tilts. Breath locks as his grip barely catches.
"Easy," he whispers, arms trembling, balance held on a thin, stubborn line, while the NPC vendor smiles, waiting for the next customer who will arrive exactly on time.
Jason crouches, palms pressed against the rough wood of a crate. Dust motes float in the sunbeam slicing through the village roof gaps.
"Okay. Let's see if brains can brute-force this," he mutters.
He lifts. Nothing. The crate barely budges.
"Nope. Not happening."
He tries again. The crate shifts an inch. His fingers scrape splinters. He pushes through the resistance, jaw set, breathing controlled.
A staggered lift. The crate wobbles, almost topples. His knees burn.
He lowers it carefully, hands flat on the wood, weight resting.
"Practical limits," he says quietly.
A rustle behind him freezes his heart.
"What now?" he whispers.
A shadow slides along the far wall, human-shaped, yet wrong. Limbs stretch at impossible angles, joints bending where joints should not bend. The dust shivers where it passes. It moves without sound, without weight, as if the floor has decided not to acknowledge it.
Jason's pulse hammers. His breath holds.
He takes a cautious step back, eyes locked on the silhouette. It does not react to his movement. It does not slow. It passes through the edge of the light and keeps going, unhurried, as if it has somewhere specific to be and all the time available.
He blinks.
The figure is gone.
Jason stands very still. The dust settles. The sunbeam holds its position. The village continues its loops around him, indifferent.
"Okay," he says finally. Quiet. Careful. "That was different."
Jason tugs the crate toward the waiting NPC cart, its wheels lined neatly along the path. The vendor gives a mechanical nod, then steps aside, hands brushing the air as if the cart moves itself.
"Uh, thanks," Jason mutters, balancing the crate. He hefts one end, the wood scraping against the frame. "Steady."
With a grunt he slides the crate onto the wagon. It wobbles once, then settles, the wheels groaning under the weight. The cart adjusts, tilting slightly as if recognising the load.
Jason jumps onto the wagon, fingers gripping the rough cold wood. A faint hum passes through the cart's joints and with a low creak it moves.
"Hey," he says, leaning forward, voice just above a whisper. "You ever talk?"
The NPC's gaze stays fixed ahead, unblinking, unreactive. His hands rest in his lap, perfectly still, too still, fingers aligned with a precision no idle person maintains.
Jason laughs once, quietly. "Right. Guess not."
Branches flick at his hoodie. The air carries the scent of wet pine and earth. His pulse quickens.
The path narrows. Shadows thicken. Every rustle sounds deliberate.
The forest feels alive, bending toward him.
"Okay. Eyes forward," he mutters.
Ahead, the cabin emerges, familiar and solid. Relief should have come.
The hairs on his neck rise instead.
Something, someone, watches from the treeline. Eyes or movement, he cannot tell.
Jason's hands clench the cart's edges. "Not alone," he breathes.
The cart rolls onward, but the feeling lingers, heavy, patient, inescapable.