Archer's first conscious thought of the day arrived with all the subtlety of a steel-toed boot to the forehead.
Why the fuck is the sun so damn bright today?
It wasn't a gentle wondering. It wasn't a casual complaint. It hit him like somebody had thrown the sun directly at his face, point-blank, with malicious intent. Even through his clenched eyelids the brightness stabbed at him, a rude, piercing white that felt like it was trying to replace his brain with hot knives.
He groaned and slapped a hand over his eyes, palm up in a futile attempt to shield himself. That just made his arm hurt too. Everything hurt. It was the exact opposite of the peaceful, responsibly early night he vaguely remembered awarding himself like some sort of functional adult.
He distinctly remembered closing his blinds before bed.
Twice.
Because the first time they'd rolled themselves back up like passive-aggressive assholes. And even if they'd somehow unrolled themselves during the night to betray him again, his bedroom window faced a gloomy, lightless alley that rarely saw sunlight stronger than a particularly lazy candle.
There was no universe where morning light could infiltrate his room with the intensity of a divine spotlight. And even if the blinds had failed, and even if the alley had spontaneously combusted and created new sources of light, the window had been closed. He remembered shutting it because the draft had hit him right in the highly sensitive areas that were, frankly, national treasures.
But here he was.
Being blinded.
While naked.
And something was wrong. Like, existentially wrong.
He tried to shift upright.
Grass brushed his bare ass.
Cold, damp grass.
He went very still.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached a hand beneath himself, fingertips brushing the unmistakable texture of ground that was (a) not a mattress, (b) not a bedsheet, and (c) very much not supposed to be under his naked body.
Unless he had, at some point, replaced his bed with a patch of lawn — and he was 99% confident he had not — then he was not in his bedroom.
He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly against the too-bright world around him.
Blue sky.
Open air.
Sunlight.
Trees.
Lots and lots of fucking trees.
A whole goddamn forest.
He sat up straighter, both hands flying instinctively to shield his most prized anatomical region. His eyes adjusted, and the scene sharpened into horrifying clarity.
He was in a clearing.
A wide, grassy, nature-infested clearing, maybe twenty or thirty meters across, ringed with towering trees that looked old enough to scoff at human time. Their trunks were thick, their branches reaching high and lush, sunlight filtering down in mottled, golden patches that would've been beautiful if he weren't currently losing his mind.
He listened.
Birds.
Wind.
Insects.
Nature sounds.
The kind of nature sounds you only heard in movies or those ten-hour meditation videos your friends swore by.
There was no car noise. No people. No city hum.
No traces of anything remotely human.
His pulse spiked.
"What the fuck," he whispered to absolutely nobody.
He turned his head and saw a massive fallen tree behind him, trunk splintered like it had been hit by lightning or a giant with anger issues. Shattered branches formed a jagged barricade behind him, conveniently explaining why he hadn't rolled into anything worse than grass during his little surprise camping trip.
He squeezed his eyes shut again.
How much had he drunk last night?
Literally nothing. Not a drop. No beers, no shots, no convincing from his friends to "just come out for one." He had stayed home. Alone. Sober. And then—bed. That was it. His night had been aggressively uneventful.
Which made waking up naked in the middle of the wilderness not just confusing — but deeply offensive.
He listened again, more carefully this time. Over the chirps and rustles, something else lurked. Snapping twigs. Something stepping on dry leaves.
Something heavier than a rabbit.
His muscles tensed on instinct. Naked vulnerability suddenly felt significantly more literal.
One bush in particular trembled.
Something inside it was moving.
Archer scrambled backwards on his heels, cupping his dick with both hands like a very urgent, panicked fig leaf. His breath hitched. The bush was close — too close. If something big came barreling out of it, he'd be fucked in a very not-fun way.
The branches parted.
Something emerged.
A… hedgehog.
He stared.
The hedgehog stared back.
He blinked.
It blinked.
"Holy shit," he muttered. "You scared the fuck out of me, you stupid little—"
The hedgehog's tiny black eyes narrowed with unmistakable malice.
Then it opened its mouth.
Hedgehogs were not supposed to have teeth like that. Rows. Sharp. Predatory.
"Oh no—"
It launched at him.
"WHAT THE FUCK—?!"
The thing moved like it had been fired from a slingshot operated by a caffeinated god. It hit his calf like a spiky grenade, teeth sinking deep, claws shredding skin and sanity.
"AAAHHH—FUCK FUCK FUCK—!"
Archer thrashed, instinct warring with panic. He couldn't turn his back. Couldn't drop his guard. Couldn't—
Goddamnit, he couldn't even unclench his hands long enough to defend himself properly because he was still covering his damn crotch.
He pried at the creature with one hand while crab-crawling backward, kicking out with his free leg. Pain radiated up his calf like fire. Finally his hand found something solid in the grass — a thick fallen branch.
The hedgehog readied itself for another murder-leap.
He swung.
CRACK.
It hit the ground.
He swung again.
Again.
Again.
Only when the thing stopped twitching entirely did he stop, chest heaving, adrenaline coursing through him with such intensity he felt briefly nauseous.
His breathing slowed.
His senses calmed.
Which was why he absolutely did not handle the next part well.
A faint ping sounded.
Then — out of thin air — a glowing holographic screen materialized directly in front of his face.
Archer screamed like a startled toddler, arms flailing, branch swinging wildly at empty air. He scrambled back, eyes bugging out, heart blasting against his ribs.
But the screen didn't move. Or attack. Or do anything other than float politely, like some kind of smug, luminous billboard.
He squinted at the text.
Greeting Contender!
Tutorial Training Program Loading… failed.
Rebooting…
Tutorial Training Program (2) Loading… failed.
Rebooting…
Tutorial Training Program (3) Loading… failed.
Rebooting…
Tutorial Training Program (4) Loading… Partial Success.
System Training User Interface Substantial Aid Initiated
System Menu Available.
He stared at it.
He stared so hard his brain threatened to vomit.
"I'm having a stroke," he muttered. "This is what a stroke looks like. I should be smelling toast. Shouldn't I be smelling toast?"
He wasn't smelling toast.
He was smelling blood. Sweat. Wet leaves. Fresh air.
Too fresh.
"What the fuck is a system menu?"
The moment the words left his mouth, the screen changed.
System Menu:
• Stats Menu
• Class Selection
• Inventory
Archer swallowed.
He said, "Stats."
The screen obediently shifted.
Steven Archer
Contender Rank – 1 (10%)
Class – Not Selected
Age – 37
HP – 135
MP – 100
Str – 7
Con – 6
Dex – 6
Int – 8
Class Selection Available
> You have killed (hedgehog) × 1 <
Loot now?
The hedgehog. The insane demon hedgehog. The one he'd just finished smashing like a deplorable piñata.
His brain jolted through two very distinct thoughts:
Thought 1:
Oh fuck me, Johnny was right. This is literally one of those anime isekai bullshit worlds he never shuts up about.
Thought 2:
Quit being a little bitch, Archer. Your life wasn't exactly sunshine and success before this.
He inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. Enough to stop his brain's instinctive "let's scream forever" reaction.
"Okay," he muttered. "Game menu. Stats. Classes. Inventory. Got it. Cool. Fine. Normal. Sure."
He selected Class Selection.
A list formed — half broken, half functional.
Available Classes:
• War£#or – ERROR
• Mag* – ERROR
• Ranger
• Dru%d – ERROR
• Cle#@c – ERROR
He stared.
"Really? I get a glitchy-ass Windows Vista version of magic classes? Fucking typical."
Only one option worked.
Ranger.
"Well… better than nothing," he grumbled. "And if you make me manage actual forests, I'm gonna punch God."
He selected it.
Loot kill now?
"Loot," he said.
A new window appeared — a neatly organized grid.
Underclothes. Leather armor. Boots. Bracers. A bow.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
He tapped the underclothes.
They literally popped into existence on the ground in front of him with a soft foop sound.
He practically dove on them, yanking them on like a man fleeing the consequences of public indecency. The cotton was soft, blessed, and immediately addressed the whole wind touching my junk problem.
Then the armor.
He focused on the armor icon. Dragged it mentally to the "Chest" slot.
His body was suddenly clothed.
Zero effort.
Maximum amazement.
He unequipped it.
It vanished.
He put it back.
It reappeared.
He grinned.
"Oh hell yes," he murmured. "If only dating worked like this."
He equipped the boots, bracers, and finally — his new favorite possession — the bow.
It felt good in his hand. The wood was smooth, reinforced, durable. A quiver slung itself automatically over his shoulder. He nocked an arrow.
Suddenly, information poured into his awareness:
24 meters.
Wind negligible.
Adjust trajectory by 3 degrees.
He fired.
THUNK.
Direct hit.
He fired again.
Another perfect shot.
Another.
Another.
Until his quiver was empty and a final arrow landed home with satisfying precision.
A soft weight settled on his shoulder.
He turned.
His quiver was full again.
"Oh, that's clever," he muttered. "You absolute dumbass. You just used all your goddamn arrows practicing on a tree. Good job."
He sighed.
Right.
The hedgehog.
He turned.
The loot window hovered helpfully.
Loot (hedgehog):
• 2 × Leather Pieces
• 2 × Game Meat
• 2 × Healing Gel
"Loot," he said.
Everything slotted neatly into his inventory.
He checked his stats again.
Steven Archer
Contender Rank – 1 (10%)
Class – Ranger
Age – 37
HP – 235
MP – 150
Str – 8
Con – 9
Dex – 9
Int – 9
He whistled under his breath.
"Not bad for a guy who woke up with his ass in the grass."
He took a long sweeping look across the clearing. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in lazy golden beams. The breeze carried earthy scents. The air felt cleaner than anything he'd breathed in his entire adult life. Nothing moved. Nothing growled. Nothing tried to bite him.
For the first time since waking, a small thread of excitement wormed its way beneath the anxiety.
He tightened the strap of his quiver.
Adjusted the leather armor.
Rolled his shoulders.
"Okay," he said to the world, to the forest, to whatever cosmic jerk had dropped him here.
"Let's see what kind of bullshit you've got for me next."
He stepped toward the tree line.
Leaves rustled beneath his boots.
His heart thudded with a mix of dread and anticipation.
And Steven Archer — former almost-functioning adult, now inexplicably a fully geared-up fantasy ranger — took his first step into the unknown world he'd been hurled into without permission.
It was, somehow, already the best morning he'd had in years.
Even if it had started with a homicidal hedgehog biting his naked leg.