August ran.
Not gracefully. Not heroically. More like someone who'd learned to run by watching other people do it badly and deciding that was probably good enough.
His ribs screamed with each step. His shoulder felt like it was held together with spite and medical tape. But the woman with the spear had said "move," and August had discovered that when someone points a weapon at you in a world you don't understand, your body develops very strong opinions about momentum.
He stumbled down the hillside, half-sliding on loose gravel, arms windmilling for balance.
"Okay," he panted to himself. "Okay, this is fine. This is totally fine. Just a normal Tuesday. Got transported to my own story, met a mysterious entity, fell through reality, and now I'm being chased by—"
He glanced back.
The woman wasn't chasing him.
She was just standing there, spear lowered, watching him flail down the hill like he was the most disappointing thing she'd seen all day.
August slowed to a stop, doubled over, hands on his knees.
"Oh," he wheezed. "She's not… she's not following me."
He straightened up, squinting back at her. She raised one hand in what might have been a wave. Or a dismissal. Hard to tell from this distance.
"Well that's embarrassing," he muttered.
The fog had thickened while he ran. Now it clung to everything—trees, rocks, the ruins of what looked like an old bridge spanning a dried riverbed. The air tasted like copper and ozone, with an undertone of something floral that didn't belong.
August looked around, trying to get his bearings.
No path. No landmarks he recognized. Just fog and the distant sound of… was that music?
"Okay, August," he said aloud, because the silence was starting to feel oppressive. "Let's think about this logically. You're in a story. Your story. Sort of. Which means there have to be rules, right? Patterns?"
He started walking again, this time more carefully, testing each step.
"In every isekai anime, the protagonist gets a tutorial. Or a guide. Or at least a status screen." He paused. "Status screen?"
Nothing happened.
"Inventory?"
Still nothing.
"Help?"
Silence.
"Come on," he said to the air. "This is supposed to be a power fantasy, isn't it? Where's my cheat ability? Where's my—"
Something rustled in the fog ahead of him.
August froze.
The rustling stopped.
He took a careful step forward. Then another.
"Hello?" he called softly.
A shape moved in the mist. Low to the ground. Quadrupedal.
August's heart rate spiked. "Nice… doggy?"
The thing that emerged from the fog was definitely not a dog.
It was about the size of a large cat, with too many legs and skin that looked like tarnished silver. Its eyes were flat black, like drops of oil, and when it opened its mouth, August could see rows of needle-thin teeth.
"Oh," August said. "Oh, that's a Forsaken, isn't it?"
The creature tilted its head, as if considering the question.
"Yeah, you're definitely a Forsaken. Small one, but still." August took a slow step backward. "And I'm supposed to fight you with… what exactly? Harsh language?"
The Forsaken made a sound like static electricity. Not quite a growl, not quite a hiss.
"Right," August said. "So this is how I die. Eaten by a chrome gremlin in my own story. That's just perfect."
The creature tensed, ready to spring.
August closed his eyes and braced himself.
Then something strange happened.
The coiled feeling under his ribs—the thing that had been humming quietly since the fall—suddenly uncoiled. Not painful, exactly, but intense. Like someone had just plugged him into a wall socket.
When he opened his eyes, the Forsaken was on the ground, twitching.
"What the—"
The creature scrambled to its feet and ran. Not toward him. Away from him. As fast as its too-many legs could carry it.
August stared after it.
"Did I… did I just scare off a monster by standing there?"
He looked down at his hands. Still just hands. No glow, no energy crackling between his fingers. But the humming under his ribs was stronger now. More present.
"Adaptive evolution," he whispered, remembering the entity's words. "Whatever happens once, won't happen again."
He'd fallen from impossible heights and survived. Maybe now he couldn't be hurt by falls. But what did that have to do with scaring off a Forsaken?
"Unless…" August's eyes widened. "Unless it tried to hurt me, and the power adapted to prevent that specific type of damage?"
He started walking again, faster now, energized by the possibility.
"That's actually incredible," he said to himself. "It's like having an immune system for reality. Every time something bad happens, I become immune to that specific bad thing."
The implications hit him all at once.
"But that means I have to get hurt first. Every time. The power doesn't prevent damage, it just makes sure the same damage can't happen twice."
His excitement dimmed slightly.
"So I'm going to have to suffer through everything at least once before I become immune to it. That's… actually kind of horrifying."
The fog was starting to clear as he walked, revealing more of the landscape. Rolling hills covered in strange, spiral-shaped trees. Ruins scattered across the terrain like broken teeth. And in the distance, the spires of Edgeharbor proper, reaching toward that impossible layered sky.
"But it's still a power," he continued, because talking to himself was apparently how he processed trauma now. "And if I'm smart about it, maybe I can use it to help people. Maybe I can even…" He swallowed. "Maybe I can save Arthur."
The thought sent a chill through him.
What if Arthur was meant to die because of something August couldn't become immune to? What if the story demanded that specific tragedy, and his presence here was just going to make it worse?
"No," he said firmly. "I refuse to believe that. I wrote the story, which means I can change it. Somehow."
A new sound reached his ears. Voices. Human voices.
August picked up his pace, following the sound through the thinning fog. After a few minutes, he crested a small hill and saw them.
A group of people—maybe six or seven—working to repair what looked like a damaged fence. They wore practical clothes, earth tones and leather, with weapons within easy reach. One of them looked up as August approached and said something to the others.
By the time August reached the bottom of the hill, three of them had turned to face him, hands resting casually on their weapons.
"Hey there," August called out, raising his hands in what he hoped was a universal gesture of peaceful intent. "Sorry to bother you. I'm kind of lost."
The nearest person—a middle-aged woman with calloused hands and suspicious eyes—looked him up and down.
"Lost how?" she asked.
August hesitated. How exactly do you explain that you're the author of the world you're standing in, but you only wrote ten pages of it and everything else is a complete mystery?
"I'm… new to the area," he said finally. "Just trying to get to Edgeharbor."
"From where?"
"Uh…" August's mind blanked. "North?"
The woman's expression didn't change, but one of the others—a younger man with prematurely gray hair—snorted.
"North of here is the Wraithlands," he said. "Ain't nobody comes from the Wraithlands."
"Oh," August said. "Well. That's… problematic."
The woman stepped closer. "You got identification? Travel papers?"
"Not… exactly."
"Weapons?"
"Unless you count devastating social awkwardness, no."
Despite herself, the woman's mouth twitched slightly. "Food? Water? Supplies of any kind?"
"I have a pencil," August offered hopefully.
This time, a couple of the others actually chuckled.
"A pencil," the woman repeated.
"It's a good pencil," August said. "Writes in blue."
The woman studied him for a long moment. Then she sighed.
"Kira," she called to one of the others. "What do you think? Harmless idiot, or elaborate spy?"
The younger man—Kira, apparently—walked over and circled August like he was inspecting livestock.
"Well," he said finally, "if he's a spy, he's either the best actor I've ever seen, or the worst spy in recorded history."
"I prefer to think of myself as charmingly incompetent," August said.
Kira grinned. "I like him."
The woman—apparently their leader—rubbed her forehead like she was getting a headache.
"Fine," she said. "But if you get us all killed, I'm blaming you posthumously."
"That's fair," August agreed.
"I'm Commander Reese," the woman said. "This is my repair crew. We're heading back to Edgeharbor in about an hour. You can travel with us, but you follow our rules and you do exactly what we tell you. Understood?"
"Absolutely," August said. "Thank you. Really."
Reese nodded curtly and turned back to the fence.
August stood there for a moment, watching them work. These people seemed competent. Professional. Like they knew what they were doing in this world that had grown beyond his imagination.
"Hey," he said to Kira, who was coiling rope nearby. "Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Have you ever heard of someone named Arthur? Arthur Solvain?"
Kira's hands stilled on the rope. The chatter of the other workers died down.
Reese turned around slowly.
"Where," she said, her voice very quiet, "did you hear that name?"
August felt the weight of their attention like a physical thing.
"I… why? Is that bad?"
"Arthur Solvain," Reese said, "is the most dangerous person in the Five Territories. He's killed more Forsaken than the rest of the Anti-Forsaken Corps combined. He's also completely unpredictable, potentially unstable, and definitely not someone a 'harmless idiot' should be asking about."
August's mouth went dry.
"But he's… he's one of the good guys, right?"
The silence that followed was answer enough.
"Oh," August said softly. "Oh, this is bad."