One week.

That’s how long I’m stuck in this unforgiving bootcamp from hell, otherwise known as the Tutorial phase of a reality game called Fortress of the Fallen.

No breaks. No mercy.

Just a nonstop grindfest of scrounging for scraps, dodging death, and questioning every life choice that led me here.

At that point, time’s basically soup.

The days blur into one endless montage of hunger, bruises, and me yelling “Seriously?” at the sky like it owes me a refund.

And just when I think the game might be done kicking me while I’m down, it decides I need my own personal disaster in travel size.

Enter Pokey.

Now, Pokey isn’t just any brambler.

Nah. He’s a spiny little gremlin, dragged straight out of a fever dream, and I swear he’s got a personal vendetta against me.

This dude makes it his mission to turn my backside into a dartboard at the world’s least fun carnival.

Every time I try to breathe, stretch, or blink a little too confidently—boom. There he is. Popping out of the bushes like a forest landmine with attitude.

It’s like he clocks in daily just to ruin my life. Probably gets bonuses based on scream volume.

Picture this.

I’m out here, fighting for my life, and this sentient cactus with legs appears like, “Sup,” then snipes me in the butt. Over. And over. Like it’s his signature move and I’m just a really slow-moving target.

So yeah, I’ve got a bit of a grudge.

One day, I’m flipping the script.

Pokey’s going to learn that even the tower’s favorite pain-in-the-butt isn’t immune to payback.

And that day? It’s hot.

I mean sweltering. Like nature turned the whole forest into a sweaty sauna of doom.

I feel like a soggy sock someone forgot in a gym bag.

I’m standing on this dirt path, drenched in sweat, over everything, and ready to settle the score.

Then I hear it.

That familiar rustling. That cursed chitter.

I turn—and there he is. Pokey.

We lock eyes. His tiny body quivers. His quills catch the sunlight like he thinks he’s starring in an action movie trailer.

I can almost hear boss music kicking in.

No words. No warning. Just pure tension.

And then?

The chase kicks off.

Look, I’m not dumb enough to go toe-to-toe with a spine-shooting gremlin in broad daylight.

I’ve got a plan. A very anime-protagonist, last-minute, desperate-but-brilliant kind of plan.

Just a heads-up.

It’s going to be awesome.

I bolt into the forest, ducking branches and hopping roots like I’m running an obstacle course straight out of the underworld.

Pokey’s right behind me, faster than I gave him credit for.

Every few seconds, I hear his quills slicing the air like he thinks he’s some budget Ninja Turtle.

But I’m not running aimlessly. Oh no. This is all part of the setup.

I spent all night digging a pit. An honest-to-god trap, like something out of a cartoon.

Covered it with leaves, branches, the works. If Pinterest had a board for brambler traps, mine would be trending.

And just like I hoped, Pokey falls for it.

One second, he’s charging at me with murder in his eyes, the next, poof.

Gone. Vanished with a squeal and a thud.

I skid to a stop, heart hammering, and peek over the edge.

There he is.

Flailing. Spazzing. Quills rattling like a baby maraca.

He tries to climb the sides, but the dirt just crumbles under his claws.

It’s glorious.

I just stand there, breathing hard, sweaty, bruised, and grinning like a maniac who’s finally won the world’s dumbest war.

Finally. Victory.

I crouch at the edge of the pit, watching him struggle.

Not going to lie. A part of me feels kind of bad. Just a teeny bit.

Like when you step on a LEGO and yell at it, even though technically you left it there.

Then I remember all the sneak attacks. The sting. The humiliation. The psychological damage to my poor behind.

Yeah. No mercy.

I pick up a decently hefty boulder. Not a boulder-boulder, but big enough to say, We are done here.

Pokey looks up. His eyes widen. He does this pathetic little wiggle like he’s trying to pull the cute card.

“Nice try, Pokey! HA! HA! HA!”

But then—

“COUGH! COUGH! COUGH!” I wheeze mid-laugh and nearly drop the rock.

I clear my throat like a pro. “Where was I? Oh, right. You reap what you sow, Pokey!”

And with that, I bring the boulder down.

I strut back to my cave, grinning like I’ve just soloed a raid boss with a toothpick. Victory feels good. Real good.

Especially when I’m dragging behind me the crispy, spine-covered corpse of my mortal enemy.

RIP Pokey, you prickly little menace.

At first, I think about roasting him over a fire.

Not out of spite.

Okay, maybe a little out of spite.

But mostly ’cause brambler meat is, like, top-tier gourmet stuff. Five-star monster cuisine. Iron Chef meets Hunger Games.

Then I remember something way better than playing caveman chef.

Online. Freaking. Store.

Yeah. Turns out that weird floating interface isn’t just for impulse-buying junk at 2 a.m.

It’s got features. Real ones.

I can sell stuff. My stuff.

Even better? I can invent items, toss them in the marketplace, and rake in a cut every time some rando player or NPC decides they absolutely need it.

But wait. There’s more.

No, seriously—this thing’s basically the loot box of dreams.

The store’ll even custom-make gear for me if I give it the right specs.

Only catch? The System’s got a terrifying anti-cheat clause baked right in.

Try to upload something made by Midori or sneak in outsourced junk, and boom—instant deletion. No retries. No warnings. Just poof. You’re gone.

Still, I’m not exactly hopeless.

I mean, come on. I’m Akira Sakamoto. Master of improvisation. Artisan of chaos.

If anyone can flip this mess into profit, it’s me.

With the right tools and a little desperation, I could probably MacGyver a plasma rifle out of two sticks and a shoelace.

Actually, now that I think about it…

What if I added Mai’s birthday figurine to the store?

That thing has craftsmanship, charm, and accidental emotional trauma built right in. A limited-edition collector’s dream.

Anyway, I shelve that thought for later. I’ve more important things to focus on.

Like bullets.

See, judging by the way this world keeps chucking nightmare fuel at me every ten minutes, I’m going to need a lot more firepower. And fast.

And knowing the System, when the GUNNER weapon finally unlocks firearms, they’ll probably hand me a pea shooter and wish me luck.

Yeah, no thanks.

Lucky for me, I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time watching what I generously call “documentaries.” And by documentaries, I mean those deep-dive YouTube learning channels mixed with the occasional late-night Wikipedia rabbit hole.

Research. Very academic.

What I’m planning to do is slap together some rough prototypes, run a few half-baked tests (ideally without blowing my own face off in the process), and then convince the in-game store to mass-produce them and sell them right back to me.

Boom. Instant ammo supply chain for my future gun invention—problem solved.

… Okay, maybe not completely solved.

The System loves playing prankster whenever I start feeling too good about myself. But hey, a guy can dream.

After I offload Pokey to the store? I get five hundred gold for him.

Yeah.

Five. Hundred. Gold.

Apparently, brambler meat is a luxury delicacy or something. Go figure.

The same creature who’s been treating me like his personal voodoo doll is worth a small fortune. I’m this close to writing him a thank-you note. Pretty sure the store would flip it for twice the price, because of course they would. The System never passes up a chance to hustle me.

By nightfall, I’m lounging in my cave like a king who’s just won a one-man war.

Dinner is rabbit stew, made fancy thanks to a few slices of Faerie Apple—basically magical apples with glitter and attitude.

Tastes like someone mixed honey, mint, and a sugar rush.

I’ve learned that if I’m ever unsure about a plant, an herb, or a suspiciously glowing fruit, I can toss it into TOOLS/ITEMS, and the System plays food critic.

It tells me if it’s safe, poisonous, or if it’ll make me grow an extra head. Super convenient.

Full and not dead from magical food poisoning? Total win.

I lean back and pull up my PLAYER STATUS.

Time to see if all that suffering and spinal harassment finally paid off.

________________________________________

AKIRA SAKAMOTO (AOI PLAYER)

LEVEL: 5

CLASS: MARKSMAN

SUBCLASS: GUNNER

TITLE: LOVER OF PEACH

MAIN STATS

HEALTH POINTS (HP): 110 — 100%

MANA POINTS (MP): 300 — 100%

STRENGTH (STR): 6

DEXTERITY (DEX): 4+1

WISDOM (WIS): 3

CHARISMA (CHA): 1

INTELLIGENCE (INT): 30

LUCK (LCK): 2

FREE STAT POINTS: 10

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

________________________________________

My lips curl into a full-on victory grin as I stared at the screen.

Ding ding ding.

I’ve actually leveled up. Twice.

STR and DEX both got a bump, which makes sense. I’ve basically been doing jungle acrobatics while dodging death traps for the past few days. Gains, baby.

I’ve also finally figured out how the health system works.

Turns out, getting stabbed, bitten, or smacked in the face by forest freaks lowers my HP.

Shocking, I know.

The good news? Resting or chugging a health potion patches me right up.

The store sells them in low, mid, and high-tier flavors. Basically potion sizes at a fast-food joint, just with less sugar and more survival.

I buy a low-tier one for emergencies. Set me back a hundred gold.

Pricey? Yeah.

Worth it? Also yeah.

I’d rather cough up the gold than bleed out over a squirrel ambush.

Besides the physical stats, I notice WIS nudged up a point too. Probably ’cause I’ve been using my big old brain lately. Setting traps. Outsmarting Pokey. Being the genius I was clearly born to be.

LCK jumped a point too. Most likely for the rare achievement of not dying every five minutes. Honestly, that feels like either a miracle… or a clerical error in the code.

But one stat?

One stat just won’t budge.

INT.

Like the System’s sitting there, sipping tea, laughing at me behind the code.

Mocking me.

And of course, that’s when my dumb brain decides to daydream.

What if I crafted some majestic item to boost my INT? Something personal. Meaningful. Emotional stat-juice, you know?

Like Mai figurine. Handcrafted from wood. Precision-carved. Delicate. Stunning.

Yeah, that one.

I can almost see it—

The silhouette, the way the grain of the wood catches the light. Every tiny detail chiseled in like I’m some artistic god of the whittling world.

Then reality kicks in.

I glance over at my current “tools”—aka a half-rusted knife, a rock, and vibes, and sigh deeply.

There’s no way I’m doing Mai justice with this budget setup.

She deserves better than a half-melted popsicle stick with eyes.

Nah. I want masterpieces, not weird little totems that would haunt someone’s dreams.

If I’m gonna craft something real, something meaningful, I need proper gear. Tools with finesse. Materials that don’t crumble if you so much as look at them funny.

Until then, that vision? It’ll just have to wait.

I lean back, letting my thoughts float for a second as night settles over the forest like a sleepy blanket.

Crickets chirp. An owl hoots somewhere. Leaves whisper around the mouth of the cave like they’re sharing secrets I’m not cool enough to hear.

I stretch out on my glorious leaf-bed (ten out of ten on the discomfort scale) and stare up at the rough stone ceiling.

Another day down.

Tomorrow?

Probably more workouts and hunting down whatever Kiiroi creatures haven’t learned to fear me yet.

Honestly, the grind’s starting to wear thin. Same loop. Same forest. Same damn routine.

The whole “thrill of survival” thing? Yeah, it’s lost a bit of its sparkle.

But even with all that swirling in my head, one thought keeps circling back.

Mai.

Not Rei.

Not my parents.

Not even my phone, which, honestly, is saying something.

Just… Mai.

I keep trying to figure out why.

Maybe because I’ve seen her the most.

Our houses are practically conjoined twins. We shared buses, classes, awkward silences in the convenience store aisle.

She’s always there.

Or maybe…

Maybe I just miss her…

Before I can spiral too deep into that mess of a thought, a soft snore escapes my lips, echoing gently through the cave like an accidental punchline.

Akira Sakamoto, out.