The water was… everything. I didn't savor it, didn't even taste it, just gulped it down like a man clawing his way out of a desert. It soothed the burning in my throat, the throb in my shoulder, and even, if just for a moment, the sheer, soul-crushing despair that had been threatening to pull me under.
I finally allowed myself to lean back against the muddy bank, the cool water washing over my face.
"Just breathe," I told myself, the words a ragged whisper. "Just… breathe."
—Ding!
My status screen shimmered into existence in the corner of my eye. A quick assessment confirmed the mana beam had caused a minor injury, but my Indomitable Human Spirit trait had already begun to work, accelerating the healing process.
[RES: D-Rank (3/27) -> D-Rank (4/27)]
"Yeah, real helpful," I said to no one. A minor increase in resilience wasn't going to save me from another barrage of mana beams.
I needed a plan.
This wasn't a test of strength or magical ability. It was a test of survival, and I was woefully unprepared. I'd designed these exams to be challenges, not death sentences.
Nor like psychological torture.
But then, I'd also designed a world filled with shallow characters and plot inconsistencies.
I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. I couldn't stay hidden in the inlet. It was too easy to be cornered. I needed to find a more defendable position, a source of food, and a way to avoid those Mana Gazers.
I scanned the landscape, my Eight Senses— still barely F-Rank, but still an upgrade from human senses— working to process the details in the air.
On the other side of the river was forest. It was dense, but I could make out a faint path winding its way up the hill on the far side of the river.
"A path," I said, a small surge of something that might have been hope. "A possible way out."
But it meant crossing the river.
And that meant risking another encounter with the Mana Gazers.
I clenched my fist, feeling the familiar throb of power within my shadow. I could use True Shadow to move faster, to become more agile. I could even use it to create a diversion.
"It's a long way to the other side," I said, a dark, almost-smile touching my lips. "But I've been through worse."
I began to move, staying low to the ground, using the vegetation as cover. I moved toward a point where the river was shallow and the bank was slightly lower.
Suddenly, I could feel Lux's gaze again, a faint presence at the back of my mind.
She was watching.
And I had a feeling she wasn't impressed.
"…If you don't like what you see, don't watch," the mutter left my lips, and I could almost swear that the Headmaster's Insignia just scoffed.
I raised a brow.
What?
The insignia didn't scoff, of course. It was an unfeeling piece of… something. A connection to a being who could likely unmake me with a thought.
It was just… the feeling. The sheer, dismissive power of it.
Especially since the headmaster was clearly listening.
I pushed the thought aside. Lux was a problem for another day. Survival was the immediate problem.
The river was cold, the water quickly numbing my feet as I waded across.
The Mana Gazers, six-legged creatures with antlers that pulsed with an unholy light, didn't appear to have moved. This time, they simply… observed. Their three eyes on each side of their elongated heads scanned me with an almost lazy disinterest.
It was the disinterest that was most unsettling. I was a threat, a potential source of energy, yet they didn't act. It was like watching a particularly dangerous, yet indifferent, predator.
I kept my movements slow and deliberate, using my shadow to blend with the water, to become as small and unnoticeable as possible. I could feel the mana in the air and the familiarity it somehow had within the energy I bore.
Perhaps it was the magic of my world, after all. A part of me had formed the world itself, and now, I was in it.
The trait, Author's Authority probably had a connection to that sentiment.
—Squelch.
My footfalls reemerged on the other side of the river after a brief swim.
I finally reached the other side, the muddy bank offering a slightly more stable footing. I quickly scanned the area, looking for tracks, for signs of other survivors.
There were some, faint and barely visible in the undergrowth.
"So I'm not the only one in this area or… world," I was talking to myself, the words barely a whisper. "Good. Misery loves company, or at least, a potential source of information."
I began to follow the path, the forest growing denser with each step. The air was hot and humid, the sounds of the wilderness — the calls of unknown creatures, the rustle of leaves — a constant, unsettling presence.
Eventually.
I reached a clearing, and my steps stilled.
A small, abandoned shelter, built from branches and leaves, was in the center. And around it, a half-eaten, and very fresh, kill. A small, four-legged creature, something I didn't even have a name for in my novel.
And a set of tracks leading away from the shelter. Human tracks.
—Ding!
[Eight Senses: F-Rank (0/3) -> F-Rank (1/3)]
A faint, almost imperceptible, feeling of… intention. A direction.
Someone was watching me.
And my senses screamed.
* * *
Arcine knelt by the shelter, examining the crude construction with narrowed eyes.
Branches woven together with surprising skill, leaves packed tightly to keep out the elements. It was not the work of a novice survivalist.
"Someone's been here a while," he muttered, running his fingers along a notch in one of the support beams. "And they know what they're doing."
So, the likelihood that it was a student like him was now lower.
'Shit…'
The half-eaten carcass told another story. The flesh had been torn, not cut. It was a savage, desperate feeding rather than methodical butchery.
Arcine's stomach tightened as he noticed the pattern of the wounds.
No animal made cuts like that. He knew that for a fact.
A rustling sound from the underbrush made him freeze. Arcine's shadow flickered at his feet, responding to his sudden spike of fear.
Then he saw it.
Eyes.
Just... eyes, floating in the darkness between two ancient trees.
They weren't glowing or particularly remarkable in any physical sense—just ordinary human eyes. But something about them was profoundly wrong.
Arcine felt his breath catch in his throat as recognition dawned.
"A pyschon," he whispered, the word barely audible even to himself.
The creature stepped forward, its form resolving into something almost human. It was a mockery of humanity, wearing features that seemed borrowed, as if it was trying to appear the way it thought humans appeared.
Its movements were fluid yet wrong, like watching a puppet controlled by someone who'd only heard descriptions of movement. Of young writers trying to express those little flirtatious smirks.
Arcine had written this monster.
Created it as a manifestation of mental illness and inner demons. A creature that fed on weakness of mind, that could smell fear and doubt and self-loathing.
And now it was looking at him with perfect .
"Author," it said, the word slithering from its too-wide mouth.
A terrifying chill gripped his spine.
The terror of hearing that one title was worse than than his existential crisis before.
The Psychon's voice was exactly as Arcine had described it in his novel. It was a sound that bypassed the ears and vibrated directly against the bones of the inner ear.
Or perhaps spoke directly into the mind as a thought.
One could never tell.
Pyschons would always choose the most terrifying method to devour someone's psyche.
Arcine felt his anxiety spike, memories of his own inadequacies flooding his mind. The Pyschon's presence was already working on him, drawing out every self-doubt he'd ever harboured.
"You made me," the Pyschon said, tilting its head at an impossible angle. "You know what I can do."