Alex sat in the dirt for what felt like hours, cradling his shattered hand. The bleeding had slowed to a sluggish ooze, but the throbbing heat in his knuckles synchronized perfectly with the pulsing red hearts on his left forearm.
Health: 9/10.
He had lost half a heart just from the shock and blood loss. It wasn't a number in a corner of a screen; it was a physical sensation of weakness, a slight graying at the edges of his vision.
"Think," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Stop panicking. Analyze."
The "Punching the Tree" strategy was a lie. The game physics were a lie. But the logic had to be somewhere. If he couldn't punch the tree, he needed a tool. But to get a tool, he needed wood. It was a paradox—the first loop of the survival chain.
He scanned the ground, his eyes straining against the harsh, shadowless light. The grass was a dense mat of green blades. He began to crawl, using his good left hand to sift through the dirt.
Finally, he found it. A rock.
It wasn't a "block" of cobblestone. It was just a jagged, fist-sized stone, gray and heavy, likely a fragment of gravel.
Alex stumbled back to the oak tree. He didn't punch it this time. He raised the stone and brought it down on the bark with a primal grunt.
THUD.
The tree didn't break. A small dent appeared in the wood.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
He hammered at the trunk, sweat stinging his eyes. It took twenty minutes of brutal, repetitive labor to do what usually took three seconds of clicking. His arm screamed with lactic acid burn. Finally, with a sickening crack, the cubic meter of wood groaned and vanished—not into an item drop, but into a heavy, rough log that fell at his feet with a bone-crushing thump.
Alex collapsed next to it, panting. He touched the log.
Instantly, a grid appeared in his mind.
It wasn't a visual overlay. It was a Mental Blueprint. He could feel the concept of "Oak Planks" hovering in his thoughts, a ghostly instruction manual superimposed over his reality. The System was telling him what the log could be, but it demanded he make it happen.
He placed his hands on the log. The blueprint demanded he "process" it.
"How?" he whispered. "Do I just...?"
He pushed. He tried to tear the bark. The System seemed to assist, the wood becoming momentarily pliable, like wet clay, but the resistance was agonizing. To turn the log into planks, he had to physically rip the fibers apart, guided by the invisible grid.
Splinters drove themselves into his palms. The sound of the wood separating was like tearing muscle.
"Ah! God!"
He pulled, his fingers slipping on sap and blood. With a final, wet tear, the log split into four neat, perfectly planed boards. They fell into a stack with a hollow clack.
Alex stared at his hands. They were raw, covered in sap and fresh blood. This was the Bloody Craft. Every act of creation in this world was going to cost him pain.
Then, the feeling started.
It began as a hollow ache in his stomach, sharp and sudden. He looked down at his stomach. There was no bar there, but the sensation was unmistakable.
Hunger.
It wasn't the slow creep of appetite. It was a gnawing, predatory emptiness that seemed to scrape against his spine.
And with the hunger came the voice.
It wasn't a sound in the air. It was a Whisper inside his skull. It was low, rhythmic, and cold—like the hum of a server room mixed with the sound of grinding stones.
"...inefficient..."
Alex froze. He spun around, looking at the empty, blocky plains. "Who's there?"
"...resource... biological failure..."
The System. It wasn't just code. It was watching him.
Suddenly, the sky flickered. The perfect blue void seemed to glitch, black lines tearing across the horizon for a millisecond.
A message seared itself across his vision. It didn't float in the air; it felt like it was burned onto his retinas.
[Achievement Unlocked: Welcome to the Server.]
[Players Remaining: 98.]
Alex read the numbers, his blood running cold. Players. Plural.
Before he could process the number, the text shifted, the letters dripping like red paint.
[Event: The Purge Cycle Commences in 6 Days, 23 Hours.]
"Purge?" Alex whispered. "No. No, this is survival. This is just survival."
SCREAM.
The sound tore through the silence from the west. It was faint, distant, but unmistakably human. It was a high-pitched shriek of pure, unadulterated terror, cut short by a wet, gargling choke.
Then, a sound that every gamer knew. A high-pitched, electronic PING.
New text flashed, indifferent and cruel:
[Player 99 Eliminated.]
[Player 72 Gained 5 XP.]
Alex stared at the message. The scream was gone. The wind rustled the blocky grass.
"Player 72... gained XP," Alex repeated, the horror settling in his chest heavier than the inventory void.
Someone had just died. A real person. And someone else—Player 72—had been rewarded for it.
He looked down at his crude, blood-stained wooden planks. He looked at the vast, uncaring geometry of the world.
He wasn't just fighting the elements. He was in a slaughterhouse. And the butcher was already at work.