"…Ugh… never touching tequila, or those damned questionable fungi, again…" Steven Miske groaned, consciousness a returning, sickening tide of dizzying pain.
His head throbbed as if an old steam engine were running wild off its pistons, each pulse a devastating hammer blow within his skull. Data overload, or… something else entirely? Garbled "Neural Connection Error" messages flashed across his retinas before resolving into a sight that nearly made his stomach heave: mud, and overgrown grass reeking powerfully of humus and some indescribable, "primordial-grade" stench—a foul miasma blending the musk of some colossal unknown animal with the pungent sap of unfamiliar, colossal plants.
"Hey, Cecil?" he called out mentally, a thread of panic tightening in his chest.
"I am here, Sir." Cecil's infuriatingly precise London accent materialized. A sliver of relief, sharp and welcome.
"Initial environmental scan complete," Cecil reported. "Atmospheric composition: Oxygen approximately thirty-five percent… multiple unknown fungal spores and volatile organic compounds significantly exceed Star Alliance safety standards… Conclusion: Ninety-one point seven percent probability you are no longer situated within your original spatio-temporal coordinates."
"No shit, Cecil!" Steven's eyes scanned his surroundings. The sky arched above, a blue so pure it felt almost violent in its intensity. Sunlight struggled to pierce dense canopy layers of gigantic, alien-looking ferns and ancient trees that clawed towards impossible heights, finally splashing down in mottled pillars of light that danced with fist-sized insects, their wings iridescent, their colors lurid as if spawned from a fever dream.
The ancient earth beneath him felt preternaturally solid, radiating an immense age, and beneath that solidity, a faint, almost subliminal, constant tremor resonated—like some impossibly vast creature shifting in its slumber. No skyscrapers, no mag-levs, only an endless, menacing expanse of primeval forest. And closing in… a swarm of gigantic mosquitoes, their proboscises gleaming coldly like hypodermic needles.
"Fuck! This has to be a dream!" He pinched his thigh; the pain was a brutal, clarifying spike. His expensive Lunar Wolves jersey was gone, replaced by a few large, rough-edged leaves emitting a raw, green smell, lashed around his waist and chest with flexible vines, offering risible coverage. Even Tarzan might hesitate.
"Shit! My clothes? My smart hub?" He slapped his wrist. Empty. The NeuraSync chip interface at the base of his skull felt intact, a small mercy, but all external devices, his entire networked life, had vanished. No signal. Total, terrifying isolation.
"Smart hub link severed," Cecil reported with infuriating calm. "Operating solely on NeuraSync chip's internal processor… Internal storage data integrity estimated at ninety-nine point eight percent. Certain high-privilege encrypted files may have sustained corruption… Detecting high-frequency acoustic signatures… unknown. Recommendation: Maintain concealment, Sir. Vital telemetry indicates mild dehydration and elevated stress markers."
"No kidding!" Steven fought back a surge of hot tears. "Cecil, pull up everything on 'primitive wilderness survival,' 'edible flora,' 'Paleolithic megafauna'… Now!"
"Retrieving… Warning: Some retrieved information may not be applicable…"
Piercing screams and chaotic shouts erupted nearby—wild battle cries, guttural roars, and an eerie, high-pitched wail like a terrified infant's, yet carrying a resonance that burrowed straight into his marrow, awakening vestigial fears. The NeuraSync chip pulsed; Cecil began to translate the proto-Huaxia-like language:
"…Run! The Paoxiao—they come!" "…Father! Help me! The beast… it took Amu!" "…Curse them! Kill! For the tribe!"
Paoxiao? The name triggered corrupted data fragments from ancient bestiaries: goat-like form, man-face, eyes under armpits, tiger fangs, human claws, infant's cry—a man-eater.
He looked. A rudimentary encampment of bone-framed huts was being overrun by gray-green horrors. Half human height, muscular goat-like bodies, grotesquely twisted infant-faces dripping bloody foam, and hideously elongated human hands with jagged, obsidian-black nails. They shrieked, moving with the terrifying speed of hunting spiders, tearing, snatching.
The tribespeople, mostly bare-chested or in worn skins, streaked with crude pigments, fought with heartbreakingly primitive stone axes, clubs, and fire-hardened spears. Terror warred with a chilling, numb resilience on their faces.
"…Game over… I've crash-landed in a real-life Monster Hunter, playing the defenseless Aptonoth…" Steven's face was sheet-white. "Cecil! Where's the damn System?! The newbie gift pack?! The golden finger cheat every transmigrator gets?!"
"Sir," Cecil replied, its synthesized voice utterly devoid of sympathy, "the 'golden finger' is not a recognized component of standard spatio-temporal displacement phenomena… Survival remains the immediate priority. High-velocity threat detected, vector closing rapidly. Evasive maneuvers strongly recommended!"
A talon flashed towards him, reeking of gore! A lone Paoxiao, having circled silently. Its twisted infant-face wore a repulsive, slavering grin. Steven scrambled backward, slamming against a tree, fumbling for a weapon he didn't have.
"Shit—!" He threw himself sideways as obsidian claws slashed the air where his stomach had been. Calculus and gunpowder formulas are fucking useless against teeth and claws!
At that critical instant, a furious, guttural roar: "Fool! Move aside!" (Cecil's instant translation).
A rock nearly the size of Steven's head whistled past, striking the Paoxiao square on the side of its skull with a sickening thud. Green ichor and greyish brain matter exploded. The monster spun, snapped a sapling, twitched, and lay still.
Steven sat stunned in the mud, heart hammering, breath ragged. A young man stood over the fallen monster, bare-chested, drenched in green gore and dark red human blood, muscles coiled beneath bronze skin. A worn hide loincloth. In his hand, a stone axe, its edge wickedly sharp, dripping greenish slime.
He glared at Steven with utter ferocity, muttering. Cecil supplied: "Target language: 'From what dung heap did this witless, clumsy, life-wasting obstruction crawl? Still adorned with leaves like a hatchling? Did you wish to be devoured as a garnish?!' Emotional indicators: extreme negativity, contempt, profound impatience."
"M… Mason?" The name escaped Steven's lips—the face was shockingly, undeniably Mason's, his best friend, only far more rugged and savage, a necklace of fangs and knucklebones adding a feral touch.
Cecil queried: "Query: 'Mason'? Phonetically similar term, 'M'sen,' translates approximately to 'Stone That Withstands Three Lightning Strikes,' often denoting stubbornness or… profound foolishness, Sir."
"Grah! Who do you call stone-headed fool!" The youth roared, misinterpreting through Cecil's unfortunate translation, and hefted the axe menacingly.
Suddenly, another voice—calmer, authoritative—cut in: "Mason! Left flank! Three more approach! Ignore the… outsider!"
Steven registered the second youth: slightly older, leaner, more agile. He wielded a long spear tipped with sharp black obsidian, his eyes unnervingly calm amidst the chaos, each parry and thrust economical and deadly. He issued clipped commands to other panicked but obedient warriors. An innate dignity about him seemed incongruous with the primitive brutality. This guy, Steven thought, is different.
The one called Mason spat a bloody glob onto the earth. With a final glare at Steven, he whirled, his axe cracking a flanking Paoxiao's skull. Then, he seized Steven's arm—startling strength—and hauled him towards the calm youth. Mason was still cursing.
Cecil supplied: "General sentiment: Useless baggage! Waste of air! Your dying splatter better not stain my loincloth!"
The calm youth issued another sharp command: "Maintain formation! Flanks, contract inward!"
The tribal warriors responded, coalescing into a ragged, uneven, yet structured defensive semi-circle. Clumsy, chaotic, filled with raw fear, yet… a flicker of discipline.
"Are you guys primitive LARPers or reincarnated TikTok choreographers?!" Steven gaped, sarcasm momentarily overpowering terror.
The battle raged. When the last Paoxiao dragged its broken body into the forest, its wail thick with venomous hatred, the camp was a hellscape of severed limbs, broken tools, and a sickening slurry of mud, viscera, and blood. Moans, keening, and gasps composed the dirge of Survival.
Steven slumped in the mire, bile burning his throat. Mason was maniacally hacking a Paoxiao carcass. The calm youth, unnamed, moved with quiet efficiency, assessing injuries, directing aid.
As Steven watched them—primal fury and nascent order—the last vestiges of his denial shattered. He, Steven Miske, was royally, irrevocably stuck. This world was infinitely more dangerous, savage, and steeped in blood than he could ever have conceived.
The very air felt heavy, crushing, imbued with a spiritual oppression. His NeuraSync chip's faint warmth was his sole tether to his old life. For the first time, a sliver of genuine doubt, cold and sharp, pierced the armor of his lifelong faith in technology's omnipotence.
"…soul of another world… one of the keys…" The whisper, from the edge of oblivion, echoed again. Key? What key?!
Just then, the calm youth straightened amidst the wreckage. Sorrow flickered in his dark eyes, instantly subsumed by a harder, resolute light. He drew a deep breath, and began to chant. His voice was low, yet resonant, carrying an uncanny power that seemed to rise not just from his throat, but from the wounded earth itself:
"Stone Forge the Soul!"
The line cut through the grief. Warriors, even Mason, froze. The youth chanted again, voice rising, unyielding: "Heart Claim the Sun!" A few warriors struck their chests. Their hoarse reply ripped through the heavy air: "STRIVE!"
The youth's gaze swept over faces etched with sorrow, numbness, exhaustion. His voice rang out, stronger now, fiercely resolute: "Guard the Den and Kin!"
More voices joined, rough, low, yet a spark rekindling: "ENDURE!"
The youth raised his spear high, obsidian tip to the indifferent sky, gathering all their flickering will into a final, defiant cry: "Spirits Watch Above!"
Every survivor—man, woman, child—drew upon some hidden strength. They lifted their heads, straightened their spines, and joined their voices in a single, primal roar that shook the very trees: "WE SURVIVE!"
It wasn't triumph. It was a declaration hammered on loss's anvil, an assertion of existence hurled into the teeth of a cruel cosmos. Steven watched, transfixed, as these "savages," clad in rags, wielding primitive tools, fresh from a slaughter, forged anew the will to live. His earlier contempt felt profoundly shallow. Absurd. Something deep within his carefully constructed modern worldview fractured, leaving a small, uncertain gap.