Mark awoke to a tugging on his leg. Not a yank, more like something pulling on his bandages. He knew on some level that he needed to stop it from happening, but he was deep in the postictal confusion following his seizure and couldn’t work out where he was, let alone what was happening. Was he outside? Why did it smell like dirt and rotting wood?

It was so hard to think. How long had he been out? It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours. Given the darkness outside, it was probably hours. Or not.

He passed out again.

This time it was pain that woke him. Something was biting his leg. He kicked whatever it was, and the thing scampered away. Maybe a rat of some kind? Wouldn’t that be ironic; kill a dire rat, then get eaten by a normal-sized one.

Mark had to get moving. No matter how hard it was to think, he had been lucky not to be killed while he was unconscious. Especially since the growing light outside suggested, he’d been there all night. However long that was. Like so many things, he had no idea how long a night was on Arenia.

The uncertain nature of time on Arenia didn’t change what Mark needed to do, so he began the laborious task of pushing himself backwards out of the hole in the log pile. It was an exhausting act, and by the time he was outside, he was just about spent. Were debuffs a thing on this world? Out of curiosity, he opened his Tome. Sure enough, there was now a tab labelled “Conditions.”

CONDITIONS

Postictal confusion: Stage 3 (-5 WIL, -5 INT)

Postictal exhaustion: Stage 3 (-8 STR, -8 CON, -5 DEX)

Postictal malaise: Stage 3 (no desire to eat, limited emotional range, -1 CON)

Mangled left calf: Stage 2 (-1 STR, -2 DEX, -1 WIL)

Holy crap, Mark thought. If those are the debuffs now, what were they right after my seizure? Looking at the numbers, Mark guessed that the max-grade debuff was so high that it had dropped his constitution to zero. That would certainly explain his passing out.

With a bitter sigh, Mark surveyed the area where he’d fought the dire rat. The carcass was nowhere to be seen. Not even bones remained. Unfortunately, the same could be said for the majority of his gear.

A fit of depression washed over Mark as he thought of what it would take to survive on the shoddy remnants of his gear. Couldn’t he just lie down and go back to sleep?

No!

He knew he needed to keep moving; that his desire to give up was the post-seizure malaise talking, and he couldn’t afford to listen. He had to push through the fog and his aching body. Not to mention the searing pain in his leg.

Forcing himself forward, Mark gathered what he could. His backpack had been torn open, and the rations were eaten, and his bedroll was shredded beyond recognition. A bit of hunting turned up his camp knife, but the torches were torn apart, and his flint and steel was now just “flint.” Hopefully, he could use his knife to get a fire going, but that would require luck, and Mark was pretty sure he’d exhausted his short supply.

The last bit of salvage Mark found was his canteen which, shockingly, had not been destroyed. It even had water in it. Mark popped it open and took a deep drink, savouring the sensation. Seizures were a killer on the body.

A seizure.

“Goddammit…” Mark whispered, dropping his face into his sleeve.

Why did he have a seizure so soon? And a grand mal at that? His anticonvulsants should have taken a week to clear his system. Couldn’t he have gotten at least a couple of days grace before they started? Instead, he had gotten one in less than an hour. Was it something about the trip to Arenia? Had it taken longer than he thought? Or was it something to do with Arenia itself—

Oh no.

Realization slammed into him.

The conversation before he arrived. The one with the voice when he signed the contract. That voice had said that Arenia had advanced magic, while Earth had advanced science. The implication was that Earth’s science wouldn’t work on Arenia. But what did that mean for the medicine already in his body? Had its effects simply vanished the moment he’d arrived? If that was the case… well, he was about to experience the worst withdrawal possible.

“Nuh-uh,” he admonished himself. “Don’t go down the rabbit hole.”

Mark lifted himself off the ground, wobbling from the combination of the seizure and the need to put almost all of his weight on his right leg. He had to get moving while he was still able. But to where? Down the ravine? Back up it? The smart bet was probably up since he knew there were exits that way, but that meant climbing over the log pile, and in his current state, he didn’t think he could pull it off. If he went down the ravine, he’d end up following the creek. That had to lead somewhere, right?

It only took one wincing step for Mark to see that he wouldn’t be going anywhere if he didn’t do something about his leg. Since he didn’t know any healing spells—assuming he could even learn spells—he instead looked around for a makeshift crutch.

After a bit of hunting, Mark found something, but it was closer to a branch than a stick. A couple of feet taller than he was tall, the length of wood was splintered and broken on one end and covered in twigs and small branches. Those he was able to strip off with the camp knife, but there was nothing he could do about the mangled end. It probably needed to be sawed off, but since he was all out of saws at the moment, it would have to do as-is. It was time to move.

At first, it wasn’t easy. Between the confusion and the mangled leg, Mark struggled to make any progress. The staff helped, but he could still barely put any weight down. Then, after about ten minutes of movement, he abruptly felt the fog in his head lift somewhat. He even felt like some of his strength had come back. A glance at his Tome showed the reason why: His exhaustion debuff had just dropped to Stage 2. He couldn’t help but wonder how long before it dropped to Stage 1—too bad there wasn’t a timer—but maybe the system governing Arenia considered that too “unrealistic.” If that was even possible in this place. Still, the mental fog was clearing faster than it did on Earth, so he wasn’t about to complain.

After another half hour of walking, Mark was notified that he’d picked up a new Skill.

NEW SURVIVAL SKILL LEARNED!

Hiking – Skill Level 11 (Tier-I)

I suggested we only give you half the levels since you’re only using one leg, but they said that’s against the rules. Looks like fun is against the rules too.

Tier-I Bonus: Increased foot durability when hiking.

*Since this Skill predates your arrival in Arenia, it has been set at a level commensurate with the practical ability you already possess.

650 XP Earned (cumulative)

It was a higher intro tier than he would have expected, but Boy Scouts did a lot of hiking, so maybe not so surprising. And while there wasn’t much of a bonus for Tier-I, no blisters was certainly better than blisters. Especially when you only had one good foot.

RENOWN LEVEL UP!

Level 6 Achieved

XP: 5,200

XP to next Renown: 2,200

Even though the messages were simple and being broadcast directly into Mark’s awareness, it was still hard for him to process them through the fog of post-seizure confusion that still bound his brain. He could handle the idea of an increase in Renown though, despite having no idea what those levels were for. And while Level 6 had come easily, the experience needed for the next level suggested the difficulty would ramp up significantly. Expecting those gains to continue at his current pace would be foolish.

Mark stopped. His head hurt from trying to think about this world’s levelling system, and even with the hike being predominantly downhill, a half-hour hike in his condition required a monumental effort.

Plunking himself on a large, moss-covered rock, Mark took a moment to look at the sky and gauge the time. The sun was at its zenith—and there did appear to be only the one sun—so it was currently “noontime.” For what that was worth. Its path was also off to one side rather than being directly overhead, so Mark arbitrarily designated that as “south.” Which meant that he was stuck walking west until he could get out of this ravine. Unfortunately, the ravine walls kept getting steeper the longer he walked. If they didn’t taper off soon, he was going to be in real trouble.

Mark leaned heavily on his makeshift staff and stared at the ground for a moment.

He was just so, so tired.

“Come on, man,” he whispered.

Heaving himself to his feet, Mark once again stumbled down the ravine.

The journey didn’t get any better despite picking up another level in his Hiking skill. He fell several times when he placed his bad leg incorrectly, or the butt of his staff slipped, but each time he managed to get up and continue. At least there was water in the creek to drink, but food was going to be a problem. In a way, the postictal malaise was somewhat of a blessing, masking as it did what should have been a gnawing hunger. Which wasn’t to say he’d trade that benefit for removal of the other negative effects. At least they had all dropped to Stage 2, but for all he knew, it might stay that way for another day. Good times.

At some point, Mark started to get a tickling on the back of his neck. Remembering the Sense Danger skill he’d picked up earlier, he made a pretense of stopping to catch his breath. Yes, he’d constantly been on the lookout, and there wasn’t anything visible, but there was still the occasional rustle that seemed at odds with the surroundings. Unfortunately, there was no way to know for sure if he was in danger.

Sense Danger Skill Increased to Level 2 (Tier-0)

Of course there’s a way to know for sure! It’s called getting mauled to death.

50 XP Earned

Growls resonated from the ledges overlooking the ravine, sending chills through Mark. He peered up to see if he could identify the source of the sound, but a mist had gathered, causing the air to grow heavy and wet. As he peered up at the edge of the ravine, Mark was able to make out five sets of red eyes peering down at him. At first, he was worried it was more dire rats, but the glowing pupils were too wide apart for that. Too wide for wolves, even.

Granted, what the hell did he know about the eye width of an Arenian wolf?

Mark picked up his pace, hobbling faster down the ravine. For now, the creatures seemed content to stay up on the ledge, but for all he knew, they were trying to maintain his attention while their friends circled back behind him. If that happened, he was toast. He couldn’t fight off a geriatric Pomeranian in his condition, let alone a pack of Arenian red-eyed-not-wolf-wolf-things.

“Go!” Mark shouted. “Screw off, mutts!” He waved his staff at them. “See this? Super powerful magic staff. I’ll transmogrify your asses into shoe leather.”

The taunts did not have the desired effect. Instead of merely lurking above him, the creatures’ growls turned into a staccato of yelps and clicking. Two of their number split off and headed into the woods, deadly silent in contrast to their loud packmates. It reminded Mark of a nature documentary he’d seen about how transient killer whales hunted seals, where one or two would sneak off and go quiet in order to set up an ambush. Which was cool when you were on your couch, not so much when you were the seal.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Mark muttered to himself as he forced his weakened body to move faster. There was no logical argument for why he needed to move quickly, but it was fair to say that his flight reflex was triggering pretty hard at that moment, and he was in no mood to argue.

As Mark moved, he noticed that the ravine walls had spread wider and lower as the creek he was following slowed down and spread out. That was bad news. If the ravine walls were lowering and the creek was spreading, that probably meant he was heading toward some sort of open area. In fact, the creatures tracking him had probably been following him for a while, knowing he would eventually emerge in an easier-to-access location. Given that some of them had split off, there was a strong chance he was heading into an ambush.

What Mark needed was an advantage that would help him hide, and he found it in a thick fog bank that wasn’t too far ahead. It looked pretty foreboding—more like a grey wall than proper fog—but it was that or giving up hope altogether. Buckling down, he leaned heavily on his staff and forced himself into a hobbling run across the rough forest terrain, barely choking back a cry of pain over the waves of agony coursing up his leg.

The first ten metres of Mark’s run produced no signs of the creatures from the ravine ledge. He began to harbour some hope of making it to his destination, but when he hit the halfway mark, he was struck with a sense of foreboding so strong that it caused him to instinctively swung his staff around and duck off to the side.

Something smashed into Mark’s staff, the impact taking the thing off course and causing it to crash shoulder-to-shoulder into Mark. Much to Mark’s surprise, he seemed to get the better of the collision, able to stay on his feet while the creature was sent tumbling along the ground. When Mark managed to get a good look at the creature, he realized why.

Instead of a large, bulky beast like the dire rat, this new assailant was of a completely different build. Only around 40 pounds, it had a low body and long limbs that would have seemed gangly if Mark hadn’t already witnessed them slipping silently through the forest terrain. Its head was squat and triangular, sitting atop a long neck and boasting big, wide-set red eyes over teeth that looked like they had been stolen from a lion.

If pressed, Mark would have said it looked like a 4-legged spider with a praying mantis head that had been shoved inside the skin of a hairless cat the size of a Doberman pincer.

“Wow, are you ugly,” Mark said, his jaw-dropping. He couldn’t stop staring. “Seriously, by every objective measure, you are hideous. I mean, maybe among your species you’re handsome, but where I come from, you look like a flaccid syphilitic penis with teeth.”

Mark realized he was babbling, but for some reason, the creature wasn’t attacking, so he continued talking while simultaneously backing towards the wall of cloud.

“So, uh, where are your friends? You guys hang out a lot? Where’d you meet?” He snapped his fingers. “I know! You met at church, didn’t you? The one where you worship whatever deity got hammered and did the drinking dice equivalent of creature creation? Because let me tell you: There is no way anyone—even a god—is creative enough to have invented something as hideous as you off the top of their head. It had to be an accident. Hell, that’s probably how your species procreates. You wake up one morning with a massive hangover and look next to you on the bed and go, ‘Man, how drunk was I?’ Next thing you know, boom! More penis mantises running around the house.”

“Why does the food speak?” a voice said from behind Mark, causing him to halt abruptly. The sound was harsh and guttural, but the creature clearly understood what Mark was saying. Which, considering the content of Mark’s monologue, represented a serious oversight on Mark’s part.

Mark turned around slowly. There were two more of the creatures there, one of which had blue stripes on its body. As Mark investigated the newcomers, two more creatures came out of the mist to his left and another three to his right. Mark glanced forlornly at the fog wall. So close yet so far.

The blue-striped creature followed Mark’s gaze and then looked back at him. “Food always runs. But not into the fog. Never into the fog.”

Great, the fog is haunted. Of course it is. What kind of fantasy world has banks of fog that aren’t haunted?

Mark glared at the creature. “Maybe I want to die in the fog? Maybe I think that the fog would be better than getting sliced up by you guys?”

The creature jerked its head at an angle. “We would kill you quickly. You would nourish our young, and your gods could retrieve your soul. Not in the fog. Even gods do not escape the fog.”

Mark looked at the creature. Then back at the fog. Then back at the creature. Then at his surroundings. Then back at the creature.

Getting eaten by these things can’t seriously be my best option, right?

Disturbingly, it seemed like the creature legitimately expected Mark to just lay down and die. Which suggested others had made that decision before—hardly a good sign. Avoiding a confrontation was obviously in their best interests as well. Despite the certainty that Mark would lose, they had no idea how capable he was with his makeshift staff. For all they knew, he was a ninja with the thing and would kill a couple of them before he went down.

Mark began to ask a question, but the words came out jumbled, and he felt a lightness inside his head, followed by a twitch in his hands.

No…

Given how Mark’s day was going, the onset of another grand mal was hardly surprising. What was surprising was the way the fog pulsed, thumping outwards with each shake of his hands. As much the movement of the fog confused Mark, it elicited utter pandemonium from the creatures.

The blue-striped leader shrieked a question at Mark as his followers jumped around in agitation, but the words were twisted into incomprehensibility by Mark’s seizure. Even still, it seemed like the creature was placing blame on Mark, which left him staring in bewilderment. How was this his fault?

Another twitch came, longer in duration, and this time gray-white tendrils burst from the wall of fog, stretching a dozen metres out before collapsing back with each shiver of Mark’s limbs.

The creature’s panicked narrative reached a fevered pitch that was no more intelligible than before. When Mark’s pleas came out garbled as well, the creature sprang towards him with claws outstretched.

The last thing Mark saw was the entire wall of fog surging around them, and the last sound he heard was harsh screams that needed no translation.