Survive

Chapter 2                                                        Survive

He woke up to the sound of a distant snap—sharp, quick, and definitely not the wind.

His eyes opened instantly.

The sky was deep blue, streaked with silver clouds glowing faintly under a pale moon. It wasn’t fully dark—more like an extended twilight, a kind of ambient night that hadn’t committed to full darkness.

His internal clock was scrambled, but judging by the light, he had slept for maybe five, six hours. Noon to dusk. No alarm. Just his body rebooting from critical fatigue.

The Φ in his right eye flickered softly as his senses kicked in.

Another soft rustle.

He sat up without a sound, keeping low. His makeshift grass shelter had settled under its own weight, blending in with the slope. Good. Natural camouflage.

He stood, boots pressing into the soft soil, and listened.

It wasn’t the same noise again, but something was out there. Not footsteps—more like motion. Consistent, rustling low to the ground.

He debated going back to sleep.

Then again… if this was going to be home for a while, reconnaissance wasn’t optional. He needed information—resources, terrain, patterns, possible threats. Also… food. His stomach had started filing complaints with headquarters.

He stepped silently toward the eastern treeline, his vision low-lit and sharp. Every crunch underfoot was calculated. He kept his eyes active but didn’t trigger the full overlay yet—no need to fry his brain with unnecessary data if this was just a squirrel-sized threat.

The forest wasn’t thick. The trees here were tall, spaced evenly, with bark like braided rope and leaves shaped like flattened spiral shells. No wildlife sounds—no chirping, hooting, howling. Just wind and the occasional creak of branches shifting.

Then he saw it.

A cluster of fruit-bearing shrubs under a crescent-shaped tree, maybe fifteen meters ahead. The fruit was oval, translucent, and faintly glowing from within—like someone stuck a drop of starlight into a grape.

He crouched.

The distortion was strong here. The plants were pulsing with those same shimmering trails he’d seen around the villagers and animals. More complex this time—intertwined, overlapping threads of motion. Living energy. Or whatever passed for it.

He narrowed his right eye, the Φ activating with a silent hum.

The world realigned.

"Multiple energy arcs within plant system.

Symmetrical distribution. No fluctuations.

No signs of predatory signature.

Bioluminescent outer layer. Not radioactive.

Smell: mildly sweet.

Insects nearby feeding without distress."

“Alright,” he murmured, “that’s five indicators for non-toxic.”

He picked one carefully and held it to the moonlight. No thorns. No oily film. No sudden red flags.

He bit into it.

The texture was soft. Like pear flesh soaked in mineral water. Slight fizz. Cool on the tongue. The flavor was mild—somewhere between citrus and chamomile.

No burning. No bitterness. No numbness.

He exhaled slowly.

“Okay. One point for edible alien fruit.”

Once the fruit had passed the taste test and a few minutes went by without internal bleeding or sudden hallucinations, he activated the Φ again—only briefly. Just long enough to map the nearby energy distortions and spot more clusters of potentially edible flora.

He moved methodically.

Another low shrub—thicker leaves, but its fruit had a waxy texture and released a sharp citrusy aroma when split. The insects here avoided it, but a small rodent-like creature had bite marks on one.

He sliced off a tiny piece with a flat-edged rock and rubbed it on the inside of his wrist. No itching. No discoloration. After ten minutes, he tasted it carefully.

Tangy. Slightly astringent. Not pleasant—but not toxic either. Backup emergency food.

He collected five. Marked the area mentally.

Next, a bulbous root under a soft mound of dirt. It had green tendrils stretching outward, and the dirt around it was unusually cool. He dug it up, smelled it—neutral. He tapped it. It sounded dense.

“High starch content. Could be a good carb source if boiled.”

By the time he returned to the hilltop, his pouch was stuffed with three varieties of fruit, two types of roots, and a handful of minty-green leaves that numbed his tongue slightly but cleared up his sinuses like a mint bomb.

He stored them neatly near his shelter, sorting by category—sugar, starch, experiment. Then he scanned the terrain once more, activating Φ briefly to track energy flows through the land.

Water ran down.

Gravity plus energy dispersal told him what he needed—there was a denser mana shimmer along the incline westward, about two hundred meters away.

He followed it. The terrain dipped into a small grove, and there, beneath twisted branches, was a slow-moving stream—clear and cold.

He crouched and observed.

No surface oil.

No scent.

No discoloration.

Tiny filter-feeders present.

Current slow, but not stagnant.

“Promising.”

Still, no way he was drinking this raw.

He collected a few fist-sized stones, carved out a bowl in the dirt using a flat piece of bark, then layered the mini trench with charcoal he created from dry wood and burned grass. Over that, he added fine sand, another charcoal layer, then pebbles.

He funneled water through using a broken, curled leaf like a scoop. It trickled out the bottom—slower, cleaner.

He lit a small fire and placed a carved-out root shell over it, boiling the filtered water.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was a decent field purifier. The best he could make on short notice without a 3D printer or lab access.

He filled two bark containers with the boiled water, placed them near his makeshift shelter, and leaned back again.

He looked at the sky.

Still night.

Still silent.

His eyes traced the stars again—constellations foreign but beautiful. Time passed differently here. Or maybe it was just the lack of noise and blue-light distractions that made everything feel... longer.

“Alright,” he said quietly to himself. “Food secured. Water filtered. Shelter intact.”

He scanned the hilltop. His current location had ample grass for bedding, nearby foraging spots, elevation for visibility, and now—confirmed hydration.

He was halfway through nibbling on one of the minty leaves—testing if it dulled hunger as well as it did sinus pressure—when he felt it.

The subtle shift in air pressure. A presence.

His body froze.

Not from fear. From calculation.

He turned his head slowly toward the treeline, Φ glowing faintly in the corner of his vision. That same shimmering distortion appeared—heatwave-like—but stronger now, erratic and surging in spikes.

A shadow stepped into the moonlight.

It was a boar.

At least, that was the closest thing he could compare it to. Four-legged. Stocky. Low center of gravity. Tusks like curved daggers but near transparent. It stood far taller than any wild boar he'd ever seen—maybe five feet at the shoulder—and its skin wasn’t fur-covered, but coarse like bark, with ridged grooves down its spine that pulsed faintly.

Worse yet, its eyes didn’t glow red or snarl like a monster from some B-tier game. They just… watched.

Silent.

No snort. No grunt. Just slow, deliberate steps forward—muscle moving beneath armored skin like the purring of a hidden engine.

He stood up. Calmly. Instinct screaming in one ear, analysis racing in the other.

Too big to fight. No weapons. No mana.

Time to relocate.

The boar snorted once, then charged.

No hesitation.

“Yup,” he muttered as he turned and bolted, sprinting down the hill. “Definitely not Earth.”

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