I shove through the underbrush like I’ve got somewhere better to be. Every branch, every thorn, every freaking leaf seems offended by my existence. They snag my hoodie, claw at my arms, and slap my face like I just insulted their tree mama.

The forest is thick, too quiet, and way too dark. It wraps around me like a horror movie set built on a student budget. Claustrophobic, moody, and one hundred percent trying to kill me.

And those howls? Still out there. Long, low, and about as comforting as a chainsaw lullaby. Like bloodthirsty wolves auditioning for a haunted house.

I spin around, eyes darting.

Trees. More trees. Even more trees.

And somewhere behind me? The creeps. Getting closer. Fantastic.

Then I see it.

Off to the side’s this gnarly old tree with branches drooping low, like it already gave up on life. Not exactly treehouse material, but hey, it’s something.

A sketchy maybe.

A climbable maybe.

Okay bro, now or never.

Another howl slices through the air. Closer. Too close. Horror-movie-close. I’ve seconds. Maybe less if the forest decides to trip me again just for laughs.

I jump for the lowest branch. Fingers brush bark. Almost there.

Slip.

Thud.

The forest floor doesn’t catch me gently.

I hit hard. Pain lights up my spine like I just lost a cage match with gravity. Air whooshes out of my lungs. For a second, I forget how to breathe.

But lying here? Not an option. Not unless I want to become werewolf chow.

I groan and shove myself up. Legs shaky. Muscles throwing a tantrum.

“Ugh, come on,” I mutter, like guilt-tripping my own body might actually work.

Round two.

I lunge again. Fingers dig in and slide right off. The bark may as well be greased with disappointment.

I faceplant harder than a parkour fail on YouTube. This time, the forest floor scrapes my arms raw.

My back’s throbbing. My palms are shredded. I can feel the sting all the way in my molars. The underbrush swirls around my feet like it’s laughing at me.

Honestly? Wouldn’t be surprised if the trees were high-fiving each other behind my back.

I drop to the ground and just lie there.

Totally over it.

“Who am I kidding?” I mutter, swiping dirt and dead leaves off my face. My pride already packed up and left the chat.

And then

The memories hit. No warning. No mercy.

Kindergarten.

I can still hear Mai’s laugh. That sharp, mean little cackle she let out whenever she smelled blood in the water.

We were playing hide-and-seek. I spotted this tree in the yard. Perfect hiding spot. I went for it.

And yep.

Fell.

The other kids climbed like baby ninjas.

Me? I hit the dirt like the consequences of my own actions.

Mai saw the whole thing. ’Course she did. She never missed a chance to roast me alive. Called me weak. Said I’d never climb anything. Said I’d never stand up for myself.

And the way she said it? Like it was already written in the stars.

Now, flat on my back in some cursed forest, I can still hear her.

Not as a memory. Like she’s right there. Whispering in my ear.

“You’re still that same kid, huh? Still falling.”

You probably think I was just being dramatic. Lying there like a loser while death howled closer. And hey, maybe I was. But you don’t know what it felt like to hear her voice again. Not until it’s your ear she’s whispering into.

My hand curls into a fist.

No. Not tonight.

I shake the thoughts off and force myself to stand. Every muscle screams in protest.

No more flashbacks. No more pity party.

I’ve to get up. I’ve to move.

Because those howls? They’re coming in hot.

Up ahead, a tangle of thick undergrowth catches my eye. Not exactly a five-star bunker, but I’m not picky. When you’re about to be eaten alive by forest nightmares, you take what you can get.

I drop low and crawl into it. Branches jab at my sides like the foliage’s got beef with me. Real cozy, like trying to nap inside a trash compactor made of splinters.

Still, if I scrunch in just right, maybe it’ll be enough. Maybe they won’t see me.

I tuck in tight. Hold my breath. And wait.

There’s still an hour or two before the sun clocks out. I figure I’ll chill here ’til the shadows take over, then scout for a better hiding spot once it’s darker and my odds of not dying go up.

So there I am, crouched in the bushes, leaves poking places they’ve got no business poking, and of course my brain decides now is the perfect time for an existential crisis.

This whole thing still doesn’t feel real. Like, what even is my life anymore?

I keep thinking about that orientation session. The System, all polished and smug, laid out the rules like it was some chill summer camp. Tutorial first. Then straight into the big leagues. Compete, survive, level up. Easy, right?

Yeah. Not so much.

Now it just feels like I’ve been dumped headfirst into a cursed VR survival sim written by someone with way too much trauma and a control freak’s fever dream.

You probably think I should’ve been laser-focused, survival mode fully activated. And you’d be right.

But honestly? My brain had other plans. Stuck on repeat like a bad karaoke track.

And the questions? They won’t shut up.

Why me? Was it the car accident? The one that was supposed to be game over? Is this some weird second chance wrapped in digital code and life-or-death quests? Are the other players in the same boat? Dead, broken, or just unlucky enough to get picked for this bizarre Hunger Games cosplay?

My thoughts loop like a broken playlist until something snaps me back to the moment.

Rustling.

Close.

Instant freeze mode activates.

I don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Just listen.

Something’s moving through the trees. Not wind. Not some squirrel doing evening aerobics. Something bigger.

Every second stretches forever, time dragging itself out like it wants me to suffer in slow-mo.

My heart’s pounding so loud I’m sure it’s got a megaphone. If whatever’s out there has ears, I’m toast.

Then—

Silence.

Just the wind again. The soft hush of trees swaying like nothing ever happened.

Slowly, I shift my weight, moving like I’m in a stealth tutorial. No sudden moves. No sound.

I pull up my player status screen with a single thought.

A soft blue glow lights up my face.

Stats. Right there. My one comfort in a world that’s gone full nightmare.

________________________________________

AKIRA SAKAMOTO (AOI PLAYER)

LEVEL: 2

CLASS: MARKSMAN

SUBCLASS: GUNNER

TITLE: LOVER OF PEACH

MAIN STATS

HEALTH POINTS (HP): 40 — 100%

MANA POINTS (MP): 300 — 100%

STRENGTH (STR): 1

DEXTERITY (DEX): 2+1

WISDOM (WIS): 2

CHARISMA (CHA): 1

INTELLIGENCE (INT): 30

LUCK (LCK): 1

FREE STAT POINTS: 2

OVERALL PRESTIGE (P): +120% (MAX 1000%)

________________________________________

I press my lips together, squinting at the screen like it owes me an explanation.

My INT stat’s stupidly high. Like, suspiciously high.

Like, is the System trying to tell me something high.

Shouldn’t DEX and WIS be my top dogs? I mean, come on.

I dove in front of a speeding car to save a woman and her kid. That’s straight-up anime protagonist behavior. Reflexes? On point. Perception? I saw that car coming before it even hit second gear. I was like a cat on caffeine and trauma.

But INT?

That stat always felt like it belonged to some bookworm in a robe, throwing fireballs or healing the party from the backline. MAGE or SUPPORT territory. Not exactly “cool guy with guns and ninja flips” energy.

So why’s the System stacking me with brainpower like I’m applying for wizard school?

Did I pick the wrong class?

I mean, MARKSMAN and GUNNER feel right. Guns? Cool. Precision? Cooler. Explosions? Yes, please.

But if my stats don’t match the vibe, am I just cosplaying as the class I want instead of the one I’m actually built for?

Or maybe the System’s trolling me. Again.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

My eyes drop to one of the INT-based trait descriptions. Maybe the answer’s buried in the fine print.

________________________________________

CRAFTSMANSHIP: Measures skill in crafting and artisanal pursuits. Influences a character’s ability to create weapons, armor, magical items, or other objects of value. Characters with high craftsmanship are skilled artisans and can produce high-quality goods sought after by others.

________________________________________

And then it hits me like a rogue textbook to the face.

Craftsmanship.

Duh.

I remember now. All those hours in woodshop and metalwork back in school, where I was basically the Michelangelo of birdhouses. My hands just got it. Like, they knew what to do before my brain even showed up to work.

From slapdash toolboxes to actual decent furniture, I got better with every splinter and every “accidental” fire drill we caused.

Every project wasn’t just a grade. It was proof I wasn’t completely useless. That I could make something real.

I mean, sure, it started as “mandatory class you take to avoid math,” but it turned into something that felt kind of personal.

I got good. Real good. Top of the class, even. Quietly proud, not that I ever admitted it out loud.

It wasn’t just about hammering nails or pretending not to bleed when you missed. It was about solving problems. Figuring stuff out. Turning junk into something cool or useful or, in a few cases, wildly inappropriate.

Like that time I made a hand-sized figurine of Mai for her birthday.

It was… artistic.

Okay, maybe I exaggerated her proportions a little, but come on. It was a joke. A hilarious, handcrafted masterpiece.

She didn’t exactly see it that way.

Her eyes went full girl rage-mode, and before I could blink, she flung that thing straight at my face.

Direct hit. The bump it left behind had opinions for days.

Without thinking, I rub the spot on my forehead where the souvenir used to be. It isn’t there anymore, obviously, but the memory’s so vivid I can almost feel it.

For a second, the creepy forest fades away.

It’s just me, Mai, and that ridiculous little moment.

Warm. Loud. Real.

Then the underbrush rustles.

My body stiffens like someone pressed pause on my spine.

Something moves.

Out of the shadows comes… a rabbit?

At least, it looks like a rabbit.

Like if a rabbit did steroids and hung out in a Lisa Frank fever dream.

It’s big. Like, small-dog-sized big. Its ears twitch like radar dishes, and its white fur shimmers with patches of rainbow-blue. Its red eyes glow in the dim forest light—not in a creepy “gonna murder you” way, but in a “you’ve got no idea what I am, do you?” kind of way.

“Well, this is new,” I mutter, half expecting it to pull out a monocle and start speaking fluent English.

It doesn’t look hostile, but I’m not about to let my guard down just because it’s adorable in a may-or-may-not-eat-me kind of way. I quietly summon one of the marble-like rocks into my hand, the cool weight grounding me. Just in case.

The rabbit tilts its head. It’s watching me. Studying me, even.

Honestly? It looks curious. Like it’s not sure if I’m a threat or just another forest idiot.

It steps forward. Slow. Graceful. Barely makes a sound.

I tense. Rock in hand. Breath shallow.

Another step.

Closer.

Its red eyes lock onto mine. There’s something in that gaze. Not aggression. Not fear. Something else.

Intelligence.

Awareness.

Could I tame it?

That little thought sparks in my brain like a lightbulb with hope issues.

Maybe this isn’t a monster. Maybe this is a sidekick moment.

The kind where the hero gets a cool animal companion, and they form a bond, and suddenly it’s all anime theme songs and magical battles together.

I mean, if this world’s got one thing going for it, it better be cool pets.

I take a risk.

Slowly, I extend my hand. Palm up. Friendly. Non-threatening. Classic “I come in peace” gesture.

“Easy now, buddy,” I murmur, soft enough not to startle it.

The creature sniffs the air and shuffles closer. One careful hop at a time.

My heart does a weird little flip.

Then, finally, it nudges its nose against my hand.

I reach out, fingers brushing its fur.

Oh man.

Soft.

Not just regular soft. This is cloud-on-a-silk-pillow-after-a-spa-day soft. Like if cotton candy and happiness had a baby.

I let out a slow breath, a grin creeping onto my face. The rabbit leans into my hand, nuzzling gently, but its eyes never leave mine.

“Guess you’re not so scary after all,” I whisper.

And for the first time since landing in this weird, glitched-out forest, I feel something that’s not anxiety, confusion, or the crushing fear of imminent death.

I feel hope.

Maybe this world isn’t just survival horror with leveling. Maybe it has room for things like connection, trust… and soft, magical murder bunnies with glowing eyes.