Frank got up, walking to the door, staff in one hand, pack across his shoulders. He pushed it, and despite the fact that it opened inwards for his opponents in the tutorial, it gave way. In front of him, forest. He stepped out into the underbrush. The trees themselves were sparse, stunted evergreen with a few broadleafs interspersed. This meant that the ground cover was thicker, not choked off by a thick canopy. It would be taxing to push through. The system appeared with another message, and Frank realized with fascination that it was different than the tutorial.

It occupied a place in space, blocking part of his vision. A floating blue rectangle. In the tutorial, he now realized, none of the messages were tangible. They just... existed within his perception. Frank thought back. Was he being manipulated in some way during the tutorial to avoid him noticing? It wouldn't be the oddest thing the system did. He read the message.

2,107,030,674 humans have made it to the end of the tutorial. 198,812,650 humans have failed to complete the tutorial, but have survived.

The system loved doing that. Assuming it had preferences. It always gave information that it seemed like someone ought to know, but was of no practical use at the moment. Frank dismissed it. He wondered who of the people he knew had survived. Hopefully his parents. The odds were slim though. The survival rate in Europe and North America was much lower than in poorer places. Not surprising that subsistence farmers and urban dwellers of the shanties in poor countries were simultaneously less likely to be sedentary and more likely to have been hardened by violence. It turned out deprivation and violence prepared you for deprivation and violence. Sub Saharan Africa, India, and Central America would fare much better than the developed world.

Frank began to move about. It very quickly became clear why the tree cover was sparse. The ground was wet and spongey. He had been placed at the edge of a bog. He started using his quarterstaff to probe in front of his feet, checking for solid ground. swamps and bogs came about in areas with poor drainage. Low ground. So to get out, Frank simply started trying to find ground with an incline. After about half an hour of slowly pushing through grass and scrub, he did, and as he gained elevation the soil firmed up, the trees increased in size and frequency, and soon he found himself in a proper forest, the canopy thick enough to choke off much of the plants that were previously covering the ground. Getting away from the bog was important for two reasons. The first, and most practical, is that bogs suck. They are dangerous, exhausting to travel, and difficult to forage in. The second was that these factors made the system more likely to designate it a high-level area, and place a dungeon there. Both factors drove him to hike away from it.

He much preferred where he'd exited last time, on the outskirts of a town. He had no idea the location could be different. Frank eventually decided it was time to rest. Fortunately, once he'd gotten away from the bog, the land flattened out and he no longer had to go uphill. He found a fallen log, not yet rotted out, and took a seat. Being alone in the wilderness had not been in his plans. Last time he'd ended up on the outskirts of a town in Northern California. This time, though the climate felt similar. It was sunny out, and cool without being chilly. Further South than his home, which was already frosty in the mornings.

The priorities then were to find water and a road. Roads were everywhere. They were the single most common sign of human activity. Water was doable. If he did not find some by days end, he could always double back to the bog. He'd rather not though. It would simultaneously be tedious and dangerous.

Frank got back up and prepared to keep moving. His feet already hurt, the additional constitution he gained from his equipment helping somewhat, but not completely negating the fact his body had no experience hiking, that his boots were not yet fully broken in. He ignored it, trotting at a steady pace, staff in one hand aiding him. He kept the sun behind him, having seen its rise indicate that it was still morning. West was as good a direction as any.

His decision was soon rewarded, as only fifteen minutes later, Frank reached a road. A paved one too. If it had been a logging road of packed dirt or gravel it could be a hundred kilometres from anything, without any markers. A proper highway like this, four lanes, yellow paint, ditches to either side, was most likely close to some sort of community. If it wasn't he'd find a sign that told him how long.

He wandered down it to the Southwest. Every few minutes there'd be a wrecked vehicle, the consequences of a morning commuter pulled into the tutorial. He checked a few license plates. He was in Washington state His parent's vehicle was almost certainly in the same state. None of them would ever move again, except in pieces salvaged by scavengers. The system put a stop to high technology. Gun powder was no longer reactive enough to propel charges, electronics were simply dead weight. Internal combustion engines just ceased to function at all. Gas burned fine, but make an engine to try and make use of that and it just didn't work. Frank had watched people try to build new ones from scratch, each part functional, but the whole never did anything.

To the right of the road, on the shoulder rather than in a ditch, was a large silver SUV. Completely undamaged. Either the driver had been stopped for some reason, or it had by chance rolled to a stop safely on its own. Frank approached it, eyes glancing over the little stickman family on the rear window. He leaned his quarterstaff against it and placed his pack on the ground. The driver's seat door was unlocked, which was fortunate since the vehicle was new enough it had electronic locks. All the other doors were certainly stuck. He took a look inside. Coffee, by now completely cold, lay in the front cupholder. He moved it out of the way as he climbed into the back. Behind the last row of seats, lay what was intended to be emergency supplies. MREs, bottled water, a foil blanket. A radio and flashlight that would no longer do anything The bottled water was a welcome sight.

Frank reacted to its presence by immediately tearing the plastic cover of the flat of it off and snagging a bottle. He downed in two big swallows. Then he grabbed the useful supplies and exited the vehicle. He unloaded and then loaded up his pack, even the flat of water not being much difficulty for him to handle with a strength of nine. Adjusting the straps, he soon got up and left, lightly burdened by the potable water he'd obtained. Frank continued down the road, metal cap of his quarterstaff making an audible ring every time it knocked against the pavement. That was deliberate. If anyone was nearby, they'd hopefully check out the sound.

He rounded a bend in the road and saw his first sign. Just the typical shimmery green back with white text. Redstone - 11 Mi. Be it a town or village or a couple of houses and a gas station at the intersection of two highways, there was a greater chance of finding someone there. However, eleven miles was a ways away. He'd already travelled probably four or five in the woods, and two along the road. The last thing Frank wanted was to end up injuring his feet by overdoing it. The constitution bonus from his boots probably offset the fact they weren't broken in, but while seven constitution made him hardier than the average person, it wouldn't magically make his soles hard and callused.

Frank kept going until he found another car. He swung his staff at the wreck, the metal tip clanging against the metal of its tire rims with a gong that rang out loudly. He waited, then hit it again. If there was anyone within a few miles around him, they'd hear. He sat down and drank another bottle of water, slowly this time. He gave it a good half an hour, letting his legs rest, quarterstaff across his thighs and pack beside him.

Just as Frank was about to get up and continue moving, he heard a rustling. A dishevelled looking man trudged out of the brush across the road from him. He limped slightly, obviously avoiding putting pressure on one foot. His face was red with exhaustion, spectacled, and stubbly. A large, aquiline nose supported his glasses, which only had his left lense remaining. His clothes, a button-up dress shirt and slacks, were torn in several places, though he did not look wounded. He wasn't overweight, it was obvious he wasn't the type to hit the gym. The man saw Frank.

"Hey bud, you know what the fuck is going on?" He called out, before stopping and catching his breath. "Fucking all sorts of bullshit today, I tell ya."

Frank deliberated. "About what? You get locked in a deathmatch by a crazy AI too?"

The man started ranting. "Fucking rights. The fuck is that shit. And then I get out of there and I'm in the fucking woods. Door I walk through is gone like it's been cloaked with some Alien tech the government cribbed from Area 51. My phone doesn't even fucking turn on" He paused for a breath. "They must've put a microchip in me. Fucking messages keep popping up in front of me. They're fucking sending the signals to the chip by satellite, man."

"What do the messages say?"

"Fuck if I know. Some crap about 'levelling up' like it's a multilevel marketing scheme. I'm not the type to fall for that shit dude. It's probably a contract or some shit. I agree and then boom, they own me and fuck all I can do. Probably why they let me leave after I took out the robot. Couldn't trick me into signing the contract you know. Hands were tied." The man looked at Frank."Never introduced myself. I'm Bill. You are?"

"Frank."

"Well Frank, you know where the fuck we are?"

"About ten miles East of Redstone, in Washington."

"Washington? Fuck man. I gotta get to a phone. I had a job interview. Gotta tell em I couldn't make it. Your phone work?"

Frank knew this was going to be fun to deal with.