The first time I ate monster meat, I didn't die.
I wanted to. But I didn't.
Turns out, charbroiled goblin thigh tastes like burnt rubber dipped in sewer water. But it didn't kill me, and that was all I needed.
[Passive Acquired: Iron Gut Lv. 1]
[Effect: Reduces risk from consuming low-quality or toxic food.]
Thanks, system. Very reassuring.
I was adapting.
Not thriving, but no longer flailing.
I set routines. Patterns. Little tricks to stay alive. Wake before the monsters. Hunt them before they hunt me. Salvage whatever was edible. Sleep with one eye open.
And I started keeping trophies.
First was a goblin ear. Then a beast fang. By Day Ten, I was stringing them on rope and wearing it like a fashion statement. Not because I wanted to. Because it confused the slimes.
That's right.
I'm inventing psychological warfare against gelatin.
I called it "The Schedule."
Wake. Scout. Kill. Cook. Stare blankly into the abyss. Repeat.
My shelter — I dubbed it The Den — was built from troll bones and broken stone. I even carved a door.
It lasted exactly two nights before a pack of mana-hounds tore it down during a thunderless storm.
I buried the wreckage and held a solemn funeral with a slab of burnt meat.
"You deserved better. Rest in peace, you half-built masterpiece of desperation."
Then I rebuilt. Again.
And then came the bosses.
Not the tutorial's "final boss."
No. The side ones — things lurking in abandoned halls, sleeping under acid pools, stalking with more strategy than instinct.
And I went after them. Willingly.
Not because I was confident.
Because I was terrified of what might come next.
I knew this story — or one like it. The weak got killed early. The naive were plot devices. I wasn't going to be a forgotten name on a character sheet.
If I was going to live — really live — I needed to grow. I needed strength.
Even if I had to choke down black chitin soup and pray it wouldn't kill me.
[Skill Acquired: Monster Anatomy Lv. 1]
[Skill Acquired: Crude Field Cooking Lv. 2]
[Basic Sword Art Proficiency Increased.]
Somewhere along the way, the system stopped showing me "XP Gained: 0."
Now it showed nothing at all.
I took that as a challenge.
I began to enjoy it.
The hunt. The control. The isolation.
There was no one to perform for, no one to disappoint. Just me, my blade, and the next kill.
Sometimes I narrated to no one.
"And here we see the elusive One-Horned Doom Boar, known for its majestic screams and total lack of usefulness in a stew."
"I shall call this dish: Regret."
"Oh look. Another cave. I'm sure this one won't try to eat me."
But even through the dry humor, the confidence creeping in…
I felt it.
A pulse in the ground. A whisper in the wind. Like the world had noticed me.
Like something had finally started watching.
On what I assumed was Day 20, I found new tracks near my camp. Not goblin. Not beast. Boots. Heavy. Armored. But not human.
I followed them, foolishly thinking I was the predator.
What I found was a charred crater — where another shelter once stood. Not mine. Someone else's, long gone.
And in the center, scrawled in dried black blood:
"It walks when you grow too strong."
I laughed. It sounded like choking.
I stood there a long time, staring at that phrase.
And for the first time in days, I felt cold.
Not from the wind. Not from fear.
From memory.
Like something long buried had just turned over in its sleep.
[Environmental Change Detected.]
[New Zone Awakened: Altar of Binding — Access Restricted.]
[Entity Unsealed.]
I looked up.
Far on the horizon, at the heart of the ruins, a red flame flickered atop a cracked altar.
Small.
Distant.
Watching.