Night draped itself over the world, still and breathless.
In the western districts of Rukongai—Sector Three, beneath the quiet rise of Mount Koifuku—the darkness held a rare gentleness. Pale silver washed across wooden eaves and crooked rooftops, drawing soft outlines in place of color. The air carried an old, familiar scent: earth, aging timber, and the faint musk of places that had weathered too many forgotten years.
Under the moonlight, a boy of seventeen or eighteen lay on a bed of dried thatch. His roughspun clothes clung loosely to his lean frame, and the only sounds in the night were his steady breathing, the whisper of leaves disturbed by the wind, and the distant murmur of a narrow stream.
A long fall of black hair was loosely tied behind his head, casual and unkempt, yet unable to mask the clear-cut lines of his face or the elegant shape of his posture—even blurred by darkness.
Tiny motes of pale light drifted toward him, almost imperceptible, sinking into his body as if returning home. Each point vanished as quickly as it appeared.
The wind continued its quiet wandering. The leaves kept rustling. Time slipped by in silence.
"…Gr…"
"…Gr…"
Within some indistinct dream, a voice whispered—soft, distant, like someone calling through a thick layer of fog. Yori barely stirred, his eyelids trembling. But he didn't wake. He only rolled over slightly, the thatch crackling beneath him.
"…Grrr…"
His stomach answered loudly.
The sharp pang of hunger hit like a fist from the inside, twisting and burning beneath his ribs. It felt as if some unseen hand reached into his gut and tore at him without mercy.
The pain jolted him awake just as the first beam of dawn slipped through a gap in the roof.
His vision blurred, then sharpened. Groaning softly, Kurosawa Yori pushed himself upright. His gaze swept around the room… and froze on the utter desolation.
A collapsing wooden shack, with walls patched from mud and time. No door. A roof so thin that sunlight spilled freely through gaps. Cobwebs draped in the corners. Nothing inside except the thatch he had been lying on—barely qualifying as a bed.
He lowered his gaze.
Rough clothing. Worn fabric. Something out of an old period drama.
"Where the hell did they dump me…?"
The thought surfaced unbidden, followed immediately by another.
"…Don't tell me I crossed worlds."
For someone who had grown up on webnovels, the idea wasn't unfamiliar—just absurd when it happened to you. He tried to recall the previous day, anything that might explain this, but the memories were hazy. Only the older parts of his life remained sharp.
But his stomach gave him no time to ponder.
Hunger.
Crushing, maddening hunger.
His gut roared again, the emptiness so violent it bordered on agony. If not for how vividly it hurt, he might have suspected he was still dreaming.
He forced himself to stand. The shack was as empty as it looked—no food, no containers, not even a broken pot.
"No choice. If I don't find something to eat soon, I'll starve before I even understand what's going on."
Instinct pushed aside uncertainty. Bracing himself against the wall, Yori staggered toward the doorway—well, the open gap that passed for one—and stepped outside.
Soft earth greeted his bare feet. Tall weeds brushed against his ankles, wet with morning dew. The chill made him instinctively pull his coarse clothes tighter around himself.
A few other rundown huts stood not far away, arranged along a faint trail worn by human steps. It was far too early for anyone to be outside.
At least someone lived here.At least he wasn't dropped in the middle of nowhere.
But instinct also warned him—where there was poverty, danger wasn't far behind. And in his condition, he wasn't about to stumble around begging strangers for food.
He took a breath and headed toward the stream.
His steps wavered, but his eyes stayed steady.
The sound of water grew louder—clear, cold, and alive. The stream shimmered beneath the morning light, rippling like scattered silver. Yori knelt, scooped water into his hands, and drank. The freezing chill dulled the burning in his stomach, but the emptiness remained.
He splashed his face. The shock of cold brought his senses back into sharp focus. In the surface of the water, a black-haired boy stared back—a stranger, yet unmistakably himself.
"First things first—food."
He rose, shaking droplets from his hands, and scanned the area.
Plants grew thick along the stream, and the warmth of early summer lingered in the air. He pushed through a patch of bushes—and spotted several clusters of bright red berries.
Snakeberries. Not ideal, but edible.
He stripped them off the stems in a few quick motions, brushed away stray leaves, and shoved a handful into his mouth.
Juice burst across his tongue—tart and lightly sweet, a welcome shock to his empty stomach.
"God, that hits the spot…"
Several more handfuls disappeared just as quickly. He wasn't full, not even close, but the edge of the hunger dulled, and his mind cleared.
With a bit of strength returning, Yori walked upstream—not just to search for more food, but to find something resembling a weapon.
No one survived long by eating grass. He needed something to hunt with—and something to defend himself.
The forest air was crisp. Sunlight filtered through branches in soft beams. Birds chirped in the canopy. Everything felt deceptively peaceful.
A short walk later, he reached a willow tree. Light poured through its hanging branches, and Yori recognized it instantly.
A willow.
His heart lifted slightly.
If familiar plants existed, then he hadn't been thrown into some fantastical realm without rules—he was still on a world similar to Earth. Willows grew across northern temperate zones, which meant survival here might not be as impossible as he feared.
He plucked several green twigs. Bitter flavor filled his mouth as he tore off buds and catkins to chew. Not ideal, but it kept the hunger from clawing deeper.
As he ate, his gaze drifted to the tree's lower branches.
He needed something sturdy. Something straight. Something he could shape.
His goal was simple:A weapon.Something to hunt with.Something to defend himself with.
Humans couldn't survive on leaves alone. Only cattle could.