The forest was damp, the ground sank beneath my feet, and the silence in there wasn’t natural. The branches overhead tangled like decrepit hands, sealing the sky as if it were a secret. I moved through leaves and shadows, each step feeling like the world was testing my right to remain.

  That’s when I heard it — a soft gurgling, almost melodic. Water.

  I followed the sound, and it didn’t take long to find it. A small, clear lake, nestled between the trees as if it had been hiding there for centuries. The surface was so still it reflected everything with cruel precision. I knelt at the edge, as if it were sacred. Maybe it was.

  It was the first time I saw the face that now belonged to me.

  It stared back with intense, almost aggressive eyes, like they wanted to pierce through the water’s mirror and crawl back into the real world. Eyes that glowed a dark amber, full of life — but also something more… a kind of urgency. Long, black hair fell over the shoulders like veils. The jaw was firm, the nose well-shaped, the lips dry. The beard was sparse, but there was something about it — something feral, unfinished. A face sculpted for war, not for peace.

  My body... was different. Virile. Vigorous. Muscles carved out the lines of my chest and arms, as if fate itself had prepared me to endure what was coming. Nothing of who I was on Earth remained, except the awareness buried behind my eyes.

  Back on Earth, I might’ve been just another forgettable face in a crowd of millions. Here, I was… something else. A heartthrob, maybe, if the circumstances were different. But in Ymir, beauty carried no weight. Swords and willpower did. I say that as I write this.

  I tried to smile at myself, and failed. The reflection offered nothing back.

  The water was cold to the touch. I felt my fingers dip into it as if touching another skin, another world. And for a brief moment, I wondered: would I ever recognize myself in that mirror?

  But the question died there.

  It wasn’t time for answers. It was time to move.

  I left the lake behind with the lightness of someone carrying their own burial on their back. The water had shown me a face, but no direction. Just the bitter reminder that I was naked, hungry, and woefully unprepared for all this shit.

  And then I had the stupidest — yet most natural — thought: “Basic survival… Minecraft.”

  Yeah. Minecraft.

  That old instinct from countless nights mining imaginary blocks thinking it might come in handy someday. Well, guess the time had come.

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  I looked around, measured the trees. Thought: “I need wood. Then stone. Then shelter.”

  Simple. Methodical. Almost comforting, in a way.

  So I walked to the nearest tree and threw a solid punch at the trunk.

  Nothing.

  Well, not quite nothing. The impact rattled through the bones in my hand like I’d slammed into a wall of forged iron. Pain followed right after — hot and insistent — reminding me that unlike a pixelated avatar, I bled. A lot.

  “Great, great,” I muttered. “First day of my new life and I’ve already fucked up my hand.”

  I shook my fingers, cursed under my breath, and tried again — this time on smaller branches. Managed to break off a dry, thin stick. Not exactly a glorious beginning, but it would do.

  I walked a bit further, observing everything like a cornered animal. Insects buzzed around, big enough to make me wary. Some trees bore fruit, but I had no idea if they were edible or would gift me with diarrhea and hallucinations.

  And that was it. A naked man with a stick, trying not to die.

  The whole thing felt absurd, even comical. I laughed. A short, dry laugh. The kind that comes right before despair.

  “Did the others get this unlucky too?”

  It was impossible not to wonder. I was one among millions on Earth. We were all thrown onto this invisible board, scattered across Ymir like dice rolled by a drunken god.

  Did someone wake up in a palace? In a city? With clothes?

  Why me? In the middle of nowhere? Naked, with a stick in my hand and a system that found it amusing to call me an errant?

  I looked up at the gray sky, and the only answer was the wind — cold, constant, and indifferent.

  Like everything in Ymir.

  I was still debating whether I should try lighting a fire by rubbing two rocks together when I heard the sound.

  Sharp. Low. A muffled crack.

  My senses were still scrambled — I didn’t know if it was just the wind or something else. But then came the second snap. And the third. And the growl.

  My skin prickled before my brain even caught up.

  I spun around, eyes scanning the forest’s underbrush, until I finally saw it.

  Or her.

  Or it.

  It looked like a coyote, but something was off. The limbs were too long. The fur clumped in irregular tufts. A yellow glow in its eyes flickered as if something was burning inside. And the snout? The mouth was… twisted, like it had been sewn together wrong between dimensions. That wasn’t a coyote. It just looked like one.

  It stared at me with hunger and intent.

  I didn’t wait. I didn’t stick around to check if it was hostile. I didn’t mentally ask the system if it was a low-rank mob. I didn’t strike a hero pose or slam my stick into the ground with fake courage.

  I just ran.

  Ran like I had my own epitaph stapled to the soles of my feet.

  The forest blurred into branches, leaves, and jagged stones.

  The wind howled in my ears, and the ground tried to trap my ankles with invisible roots.

  Behind me, the sound of paws was a drumbeat: fast, coordinated, relentless.

  The thing was hunting me. And I? I was just a naked man trying not to die on the first day of my second life.

  I tried to slip between two close trees but slid in the mud. My heart jumped into my throat. For a moment, I thought: this is it.

  But no. Not yet.

  I lunged to my feet, filthy, gasping, and kept going.

  Adrenaline is a bastard — it lies to us, makes us believe we’re something we’re not. And in that moment, it told me I could make it.

  I didn’t look back.

  If I was going to die, let it be while running. Let it be trying. Let it be… like a true errant.

  The chase felt endless.

  Every step was a new pain, every branch a promised scar. The plants grew thicker, the sounds duller, and my body began to fail. The creature — whatever it was — still followed, now a bit further back, but not enough to let me stop.

  And then I saw it.

  The ground vanished ahead.

  Too late.

  I tried to stop, but my legs were out of control, gravity already dragging me down with ruthless urgency. I fell. And it wasn’t a clean, cinematic fall where the hero flips midair and lands in style.

  No.

  It was a dirty, twisted, brutal fall.

  My shoulder slammed into a rock. My knee scraped exposed roots. I tumbled down a muddy slope, swallowing leaves, flailing like a sack of flesh thrown downhill. Every roll ripped a grunt from me, a shred of strength, a bit more dignity.

  At the bottom, I collapsed into a clearing. Lying on my side, wheezing softly. Hands caked in dirt, feet torn up, mouth tasting of blood and earth. My shoulders throbbed — one probably dislocated — and my knees were scraped raw, almost to the bone.

  The pain was so real it was almost funny.

  There I was: naked, filthy, wounded, fallen in a world I didn’t know, fleeing from something I couldn’t name. My chest rose and fell like a broken bellows, eyes watering not from sorrow, but from the sting of open wounds.