The cell was cold and damp, the air thick with the scent of old stone and rusted iron. A single torch flickered along the corridor, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.
A young man sat in the corner, wrists sore from the coarse rope that bound them. His hair was matted, his clothes torn. Somewhere beyond the iron bars, footsteps echoed faintly.
"Yep," he muttered dryly, "that's me. You're probably wondering how I ended up locked in a place like this."
From the next cell over, a gravelly voice shouted, "Shut up already! No one's wondering anything!"
Lucas groaned. "You shut up, you old fart. I've been listening to your horrendous singing for the last four hours and I didn't complain, did I?"
The old man coughed — a raspy, theatrical sound. "Fine, fine! But once you're done talking to yourself, I'll sing you a new song I've been working on."
"Sure, Jeff. Sure," Lucas muttered, rolling his eyes and leaning his head back against the cold stone wall.
Hours earlier.
Lucas opened his eyes to find himself lying in a meadow that stretched endlessly in every direction. The grass was tall and swayed gently in the morning breeze. The sunlight was warm against his face — too warm, too real.
He blinked a few times, trying to remember how he got there. The last thing he recalled was falling asleep in his bed back home… and yet here he was, lying in the open, wearing his favorite pajama shirt — the one with a big grinning cartoon cat on the front — and pants covered in little yellow rubber duckies.
He sat up slowly, squinting against the sunlight. Lucas was around five-eleven, with short brown hair that stuck out in all directions from sleep, and sharp, tired features that made him look permanently skeptical. His eyes were a deep black — the kind that seemed to size up everything around him before deciding whether it was worth the effort. He wasn't skinny, but not bulky either — athletic in a natural, unintentional way, like someone who moved a lot without meaning to. If he hadn't been wearing pajamas covered in ducks, he might've even passed for good-looking.
Lucas, ran a hand through the dew-coated grass. The blades were cool and rough beneath his fingers, bending but not breaking. When he pinched his arm, the sharp sting made him hiss. The pain was real — too real.
"Okay," he muttered, "so not a dream. Fantastic."
A faint breeze rustled past, carrying the earthy smell of wildflowers and damp soil. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out, the sound crisp and clear. He looked around, half expecting his apartment walls to flicker into view. They didn't.
"Dreams don't smell like grass and regret," he whispered.
Before he could process any of it, glowing letters flickered to life in front of him:
Welcome to Spheria.
He stared, frozen. "Spheria? What the hell is Spheria?"
The letters lingered for a few seconds before fading away, leaving only the whisper of the wind and the sound of his own heartbeat. Lucas pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his ridiculous pajamas. "Okay, this is officially weird," he muttered.
He looked around — nothing but open fields, distant trees, and a sky so blue it almost hurt to look at. No roads, no people, no phone.
"Where am I?" he said, frowning at the emptiness around him.
A low, guttural growl echoed from somewhere far off — deep, animalistic, and much too close for comfort.
Lucas froze. "…Okay," he whispered, "I need to get out of here."
Without another word, he started moving toward the tree line on the horizon. The grass brushed against his legs, the air was fresh, and yet every step made him more uneasy. The silence felt too complete, too deliberate.
The walk stretched on far longer than it should have. The air thickened as the ground sloped gently downward. Insects buzzed somewhere in the tall grass, and the faint whir of wings brushed past his ear. Sweat rolled down his back despite the cool breeze.
"Whoever designed this dream," he muttered, "really went for realism. Ten out of ten for immersion, zero for comfort."
Every rustle made him twitch, every shadow seemed to stretch toward him. The field, once beautiful, now felt endless and predatory.
Lucas felt unprotected — his only cover between him and nature were his ridiculous pajamas and his bare feet.
After a while, he reached the tree line — no longer a distant smudge on the horizon but only fifty meters away. In the distance, something moved near the edge of the forest.
Lucas squinted, shading his eyes with his hand. It looked small, quick, and low to the ground. A rabbit, maybe.
He remembered visiting his uncle's ranch years ago, the time they had roasted rabbit for dinner over an open fire. His stomach growled at the thought.
"Rabbit for breakfast isn't usually what I'd go for," he muttered, "but in these circumstances… that'll have to do."
As he stepped closer, a faint shimmer of movement caught his eye again — faster this time. The creature darted behind a bush, and for a moment, Lucas thought he saw something glint like a fang.
Upon a closer look, the rabbit was no rabbit at all. It was a bizarre hybrid between a rabbit and a wolf — its body small and compact like a rabbit's, but with a snout, claws, and fangs straight out of a predator's nightmare. Its fur bristled in uneven tufts, and its eyes gleamed yellow in the sunlight.
Lucas froze, his voice trembling. "What… what is that?"
The moment the words left his mouth, a soft chime echoed and a blue window materialized above the creature's head.
[Rabolf – Level 3]
A small, carnivorous hybrid of rabbit and wolf. Known for its speed and vicious temperament. Do not underestimate.
Lucas blinked. "A Rabolf? Seriously? You've got to be kidding me."
As he said that, the creature looked at him and bared its teeth in a threatening snarl.
"Calm down, little Rabolf. Calm down — we're all friends here," Lucas said nervously, holding his hands up in surrender.
The creature growled menacingly, fur standing on end.
Almost instinctively, Lucas grabbed a rock from the ground and threw it. He missed… by a wide margin.
The Rabolf hissed, taking that as a threat, and charged straight toward him.
"Crap, crap, crap!" Lucas shouted, fumbling for another rock. He hurled it again — this time hitting the creature cleanly in the head with a dull thunk.
The Rabolf dropped to the ground, unmoving.
Lucas stood frozen, panting. After a few seconds, he crept forward cautiously, eyes locked on the body. He nudged it with his foot. Nothing.
"Okay… I think it's dea—"
The Rabolf twitched.
Lucas yelped and instinctively stomped on it. Hard.
A sharp chime rang out as a new screen appeared in front of him:
[Rabolf – Level 3] Defeated.
Experience Points Gained: +40
Skill Acquired: Improvised Throw → Lv. 1
[Level Up! You are now Lv. 1]
HP +10 | ST +10 | STR +1 | AGI +1 | INT +1
A warm pulse spreads through his chest, like adrenaline mixed with electricity. His vision sharpens, the colors around him growing slightly more vivid. For a brief moment, he feels… aligned — as if his body and the world have synced. Then it fades, leaving a faint hum beneath his skin.
"That was… new. Did I just get stronger, or is this what a heart attack feels like in another world?"
He clenched his fists — no illusion. His muscles felt tighter, more responsive.
"Alright, System. You might be creepy, but I could get used to this."
He looked down at the limp creature, then at his bare feet, then at the glowing window. "I'm really going to need shoes."
Lucas crouched beside the fallen creature, curiosity battling disgust. The Rabolf's fur was coarse and smelled faintly of iron and dirt. Its fangs were longer than his fingers expected for a creature that small.
He poked it again with a stick, half expecting another chime — maybe a "Loot Collected" message or "Achievement Unlocked: Poor Life Choices." Nothing.
"Do I… skin it? Loot it? Bury it?" he muttered. "God, I should've watched more survival shows."
He glanced around the empty meadow. The silence had returned — heavier this time. A few crows circled lazily above, and for the first time he noticed other patches of flattened grass nearby. The Rabolf hadn't been alone.
"Yeah," he said, backing away slowly, "we're not doing round two."
He took one last look at the creature, shivered, and turned toward the trees.
"Again with the Rabolf?" Jeff's voice cut through his thoughts, yanking him back to reality. "Those things are harmless! I've seen five-year-olds hunt those for dinner."
Lucas groaned. "Shut up, Jeff. You try killing anything barefoot and wearing pajamas."
Jeff snorted. "Well, why would you wear pajamas if you're hunting Rabolf?"
"I wasn't—" Lucas started, then sighed, rubbing his temples. "Ugh… just shut up, Jeff."
Jeff chuckled softly, humming to himself. "Fine, fine. But admit it, that's a funny story."
"Yeah," Lucas muttered, staring at the ceiling. "Hilarious."
For a few seconds, silence hung between them — just the crackle of the torch and the steady drip of water down the hall.
Then Jeff spoke again. "So what happened after the Rabolf?" he asked, his voice half teasing, half curious.
Lucas sighed. "You really want to know?"
"We're not going anywhere," Jeff said.
Lucas stared at the damp stone floor, then let his mind drift back to that night in the forest…
The trees grew thicker as he stepped beneath their shadow, the world dimming into shades of green and gold. The wind whispered through the branches like distant voices, and somewhere deeper in the woods, something howled — low, long, and much larger than a Rabolf.
Lucas stopped mid-step, his pulse quickening. For a moment, he thought about turning back toward the open field… then he saw it: a thin column of smoke curling into the evening sky, far ahead.
He hesitated, weighing his odds. "Smoke means people," he whispered, "and people mean answers… or trouble."
The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint smell of burning wood — sharp and earthy. His stomach tightened. Maybe there were people out there. Maybe he wasn't alone. Or maybe he was walking straight toward whatever had made that howl.
With a sigh, he squared his shoulders. "Let's find out which."
He took his first step into the forest of Spheria — unaware that this decision would lead him straight to that cold, damp cell… and the man who wouldn't stop singing.