I wake up early the next morning with the dull awareness that I'm still wedged between branches and bark. My body's stiff, my neck is sore, and my fingers are numb from gripping the trunk half the night. I open one eye, then the other, and wait a few seconds to see if anything is watching me.
Nothing lunges. Nothing hisses. No glowing eyes in the dark.
"Good start," I mutter.
I hop down from the tree as the sun crests the horizon. Light spills through the canopy in soft streaks, turning the morning mist gold. My boots hit the ground quietly. Muscle memory does the rest. Knees bent, balance steady, senses flaring.
Still alive. That's becoming a theme I'd like to keep going.
The first thing I do is head straight for the river. I crouch at the edge and scoop water into my hands, drinking deeply. It's cold enough to make my teeth ache but clean. No metallic taste, no weird afterburn. I splash my face and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
I follow the river downstream, figuring it's still my best bet. Water always leads somewhere. Somewhere usually has people. People usually have food, roofs, and fewer murder-goblins lurking in the bushes.
My stomach growls again, louder this time. I ignore it for a few minutes, but it keeps pushing, that familiar hollow ache curling under my ribs. I haven't eaten since I landed in Fronterra, and while hunger isn't exactly new to me, it's not something I'm nostalgic about either.
Back on the streets, hunger was just background noise. You learned to live with it and learned how to think past it. That didn't mean it ever stopped sucking.
I slow my pace and start scanning the forest floor and nearby brush. Mushrooms, berries, anything that looks even remotely edible. I spot a cluster of dark red berries tucked under a bush and crouch beside them.
I pluck one free and roll it between my fingers. Looks fine. Not too shiny. No weird discoloration. I bring it up to my nose and sniff.
Smells… normal. Sweet, maybe a little sharp.
I've always had decent instincts when it comes to bad food. Some people just know when something's off. I'm one of them. It kept me alive more than once.
"Well," I say quietly, "guess we'll see."
I pop the berry into my mouth and chew slowly, waiting for burning, numbness, or anything unpleasant. None of that happens. It's actually good. Tart and juicy.
"Bon appétit," I mutter. "Or whatever the French say."
I eat until the ache in my stomach eases into something manageable. Not full, but functional. I wipe my hands on my jeans and get moving again, staying close to the river.
The forest doesn't stay quiet for long.
I hear the scrape of feet and the sharp little growls, and I already know what it is before they rush me. The gremlins burst from the undergrowth, ugly green faces twisted with excitement.
One comes in low. I kick it square in the chest and send it flying back into a tree. Another swings a crude blade. I twist, slash, and feel the resistance as my knife bites deep. The third lunges from behind, and I elbow it in the throat, then finish the job without stopping.
It's over in seconds.
I don't bother catching my breath. I keep moving.
After another stretch of walking, the sounds of the forest change. Birds scatter. Something crashes through brush ahead. Then I hear it.
A sharp scream rings out in the forest.
That stops me cold.
I pivot toward the sound immediately, slowing my steps and dropping my profile. Could be trouble. Could be bait. Could be someone dying a little too loudly.
Or it could mean civilization.
Either way, I'm not ignoring it.
I move through the trees carefully, using the greenery for cover, keeping my breathing steady. The closer I get, the clearer it becomes. Shouting. Crying. Deep, animal growls that don't belong to anything small.
I ease up behind a thick bush and peer through the leaves.
There's a family in the clearing. Four of them. A middle-aged man on the ground, clutching his arm, blood soaking through his sleeve. A woman standing protectively in front of two kids, arms spread wide like her body alone might be enough.
The girl looks in her early twenties. The boy is maybe ten. Both terrified.
Off to the side is a horse-drawn carriage loaded with crates and sacks. Traders, maybe. Common folk at least, judging by the rough fabric and worn leather. If this world runs on feudal rules, they're near the bottom of the ladder.
And then there are the wolves.
Five of them.
They're massive. Easily twice the size of any wolf back home. Thick muscles under dark fur, jaws wide enough to snap a person in half. Yellow eyes track every movement with unsettling intelligence.
The father groans and tries to push himself up, reaching for a pitchfork lying in the dirt. His injured arm gives out, and he collapses again. The mother's hands are shaking, but she doesn't move. The daughter screams as one of the wolves lowers itself and prepares to pounce.
I let out a slow breath.
Helping them is going to be risky. Those wolves are no joke. But I've taken on worse odds for worse reasons. And if I help them, there's a decent chance they'll help me right back.
Transport. Directions. A village. All things I could really use right now.
One of the wolves leaps toward the daughter.
I move.
I explode out of the shrubbery, sprinting full tilt. I plant a hand, flip forward, and drive both boots into the wolf's side in a flying handstand kick. The impact sends it skidding backward with a startled snarl.
I land between it and the family, blades already in my hands, stance wide and grounded.
The wolves snarl and fan out, reassessing.
I glance back at the daughter for half a second and say, "I suppose I can lend a hand and help you out."