<figure></figure>


    Chapter 30


    Blink - Howl - Yawn


    I jolt awake, gasping like I just took a


    steel-toed boot to the gut. Cold, damp grass sticks to my back, the smell of


    earth and crushed leaves heavy in the air. Birds chirp somewhere above, a lazy


    breeze stirs the trees, and—yep—naked. Again.


    For a glorious five seconds, I just lie there,


    staring up at the swaying canopy, ignoring the existential migraine


    jackhammering my skull. Then, right on cue—


    “Ow! Sprocket, get off me!”


    “You get off me, Twitch! Why do you always spawn


    on top of me like some clingy barnacle?”


    I groan, propping myself up on my elbows. Sure


    enough, the squirrel-like twins—Twitch and Sprocket—are twisted together in a


    tangle of limbs and tails, like a couple of toddlers fighting over the last


    cookie. Twitch, the grumpy one, kicks at his brother while Sprocket, ever the


    drama queen, clutches his tiny chest like he’s been mortally wounded.


    “Me? You’re the one who spawned spooning me.


    Again!”


    “Lies!”


    “Facts!”


    I rub my temples. “I die, and I still can’t get


    five seconds of peace before the nut squad starts bickering.”


    They freeze mid-squabble, beady eyes snapping to


    me.


    “Hey, boss,” Sprocket chirps, fluffing out his


    fur. “Welcome back to the land of the living. How was death?”


    “Shitty,” I deadpan. “Zero stars. Would not


    recommend.”


    I sit up, frustration curling in my gut.


    Respawning never gets easier. It’s not just the lost progress—it’s the hollow


    reminder that dying here is…cheap. No weight. No permanence. Just a slap on the


    wrist and a forced time-out.


    I glance down. Naked, again. Of course.


    “Seriously, who designed this system? Why is full-frontal the default?”


    Sprocket shrugs, deadpan. “Maybe the gods want


    you to embrace nature. Go feral. Full druid.”


    Twitch makes a retching sound. “Spare us.”


    I haul myself to my feet, swiping at the blinking


    notification in my peripheral vision. The system’s cheery blue text pops up,


    helpfully cataloging my latest failure.


    <hr>


    <i><b>[Cause of Death]</b>


    </i>


    <i>You were atomized in a blinding flash of aether-infused arcane fury.</i>


    <i><b>[Source]</b></i>


    <i>


    Unstable Aetheric Arcane Catalyst (Premature Explosion)</i>


    <i><b>[Info]</b>


    </i>


    <i>The <b>[Cerulean Pouch]</b> its timer ticking down, unleashed a torrent of


    unstable fused aether and arcane energy. Your proximity at detonation led to


    complete annihilation.</i>


    <i><b>[Elapsed Time Since Death]</b>


    </i>


    <i>Three days.</i>


    <i><b>[Respawn Penalty]</b>


    </i>


    <i>-10% Stamina Regen


    -10% Health Regen


    -5% Dignity (Your reputation suffers)</i>


    <i><b>[Status Effect]</b>


    </i>


    <i>Soul Fragmented (A piece of you is lost upon death)</i>


    <hr>


    “Fantastic,” I mutter, cracking my neck. “Just


    fantastic.”


    I flex my fingers, roll my shoulders, and dust


    off my non-existent pants. Alright. New life. New attempt. I square my jaw.


    “Round two. Let’s try not to explode this time.”


    Twitch snorts. “Yeah. Maybe don’t poke the


    glowing, volatile stuff next time.”


    Sprocket grins. “Or, I don’t know—stick to


    digging holes?”


    Great. Even my backup dancers are hecklers.


    I glance down at my arm, half-expecting raw,


    respawn-fresh skin. Nope—there it is. The vambrace, still clamped around my left


    arm, sleek metal pulsing with a faint blue glow. A sharp static hum ripples


    through my skull as Shaq’Rai, my ever-cheery AI companion, reboots our mental


    link.


    “You’re back,” she says, her smooth, synthetic


    voice laced with something dangerously close to relief. “I lost the tether when


    your body vaporized.”


    I snort. “Oh yeah? Try being the guy who


    vaporized.”


    Shaq’Rai doesn’t laugh. She never does. Instead,


    she dives right into her post-mortem spiel.


    “Your Soul is fragmented. You have lost a Soul


    Shard.”


    My stomach drops. “I lost a what now?”


    “It’s only a temporary severance,” she adds, like


    that’s supposed to help. “Your equipped gear remains at your death site.”


    I pinch the bridge of my nose. “So that’s why I’m


    naked. Again. Stellar.”


    Respawning was already a


    nightmare—disorientation, creeping existential dread, the nagging sense that


    the gods coding this world were trolling me. But now? Now I’m shedding pieces


    of my soul like spare change every time I die?


    Yeah. No. Hard pass.


    I flex my fingers, jaw tight. “Okay, so where’s


    my shiny, shattered soul shard now? Floating around out there, singing sad


    songs?”


    “It remains at your point of death. Recovery will


    initiate reintegration. Failure to do so will result in its energy dispersing.”


    I stare blankly at the trees, the weight of this


    new headache sinking in. “So there are… literal pieces of me just lying around


    out there?”


    “That is correct.”


    “Fantastic. I love this for me.”


    Groaning, I rub my face. This just keeps getting


    better. Not only do I have to drag my ass back to where I exploded, but now I


    have to play fetch with my own damn soul before some eldritch horror decides


    it’s snack time.


    Shaq’Rai, unbothered as always, chimes in, “You


    should begin retrieval soon. Prolonged separation weakens the bond between mind


    and body.”


    “Yeah, no pressure,” I mutter, glancing around


    the clearing. “Let’s get this over with before someone loots my very


    existence.”


    Twitch scurries up my shoulder, twitching his


    tiny nose. “Sooo… we have to go back to the big, boomy place?”


    “Yep,” I sigh.


    Sprocket, of course, beams. “Dibs on not dying


    first.”


    “Dream big, buddy.”


    I crouch low in the underbrush, scanning the


    clearing for anything remotely useful. No weapons. No supplies. Just me, two


    squirrel-gremlins, and a growing sense of déjà vu. Naked, alone, and forced to


    play survivalist. Again.


    The twins are off doing their best impression of


    competent scavengers—which mostly means bickering while collecting twigs.


    Meanwhile, I’m fashioning a sad excuse for a loincloth out of thick vines and


    broad leaves. It’s not winning any fashion awards, but at least I won’t die


    again in my full birthday suit.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    “Alright, let’s see…” I mutter, yanking a


    sturdier branch from a fallen tree. With a jagged stone, I whittle one end into


    a rough point. Not exactly a spear, but good enough to jab something—preferably


    before it jabs back.


    Twitch and Sprocket scurry over, proudly dumping


    their haul at my feet. A handful of twigs, a couple of pebbles, and one very


    determined beetle already making a break for it.


    I sigh. “That’s it? That’s all you found?”


    Sprocket puffs out his tiny chest. “Excuse


    you—resource gathering is an art form.”


    Twitch kicks a rock. “We’d be better at it if we


    had, oh, I don’t know—pockets.”


    “Yeah, well, I’d be better at this if I had


    pants.” I jab my makeshift spear at them before grabbing another branch and


    hacking it into smaller pieces. “But here we are. So let’s gear up.”


    I toss Sprocket a stick about half his size. He


    turns it over in his paws, unimpressed.


    “This is… a stick.”


    Twitch sniffs at his own, which is rounder, less


    pointy. “Mine’s just a fat stick.”


    I level them both with a look. “First of all,


    that’s a damn shield. And second, when all you’ve got is sticks, you better


    stab like you mean it.”


    They exchange a glance. Sprocket grins. Twitch


    shrugs. Moments later, they’re twirling their “weapons” like they just unlocked


    some legendary loot.


    I keep crafting, letting the rhythm of survival


    work settle my nerves. It’s not like engineering back on Earth. Not like the


    military, either. But surviving? Yeah. That, I know.


    A memory flickers—me, my cousins, a camping trip


    gone sideways. Lost in the woods, separated, relying on half-remembered Boy


    Scouts training and my grandfather’s gravelly warning: <i>“You better not die


    on me, boy.”</i>


    This isn’t my first time roughing it. But man, do


    I miss modern conveniences.


    The forest hums with that kind of eerie,


    unnatural quiet that makes your instincts scream <i>something big</i>—and


    probably hungry—is watching. The deeper we go, the thicker the trees get, their


    twisted roots clawing at the earth like skeletal fingers. The air feels heavier


    now—hot, sticky, like stepping into a pressure cooker set to <i>deadly</i>.


    Damp moss and decaying leaves fill my nose, but there’s something else—sharp,


    musky. Something alive.


    Shadows flicker between the trees, darting just


    out of sight. Leaves rustle, though there’s no wind. My grip tightens around


    the spear. There’s movement up ahead.


    A low growl rumbles through the clearing, deep


    and heavy, vibrating right through my chest.


    The creature steps out—massive paws landing


    silent on the underbrush. Its silver fur ripples like liquid metal under the


    dappled moonlight, each step smooth and deliberate. Pale-blue eyes glow like


    twin lanterns, cold and calculating, locked on me. This isn’t some dumb animal.


    This is a predator—and it knows exactly what it’s hunting.


    <i>Shaq’Rai</i> pings in my head, her voice as


    smug and calm as ever. <i>“New Side Quest: Befriend or Dominate. Capture or


    subdue the Dire Wolf.”</i>


    I blow out a breath, adjusting my stance.


    “Alright, team. Time to put those sticks to good use.”


    Twitch, the smaller and infinitely more unhinged


    of my squirrel-gremlin companions, cracks his tiny knuckles, tail flicking like


    an over-caffeinated metronome. “I was born for this.”


    Sprocket, the slightly more reasonable twin,


    clutches his spear like it’s a breadstick on the verge of snapping. His wide


    eyes bounce between me and the Dire Wolf. “I was definitely not.”


    The wolf doesn’t wait. It lunges—pure muscle and


    fury—a silver blur of fangs and claws closing the distance in a heartbeat.


    Twitch moves first, hurling himself like a tiny,


    screaming meteor, claws sinking into the wolf’s muzzle. The beast snarls,


    thrashing its head side to side in a violent shake. Twitch holds on for about


    two glorious seconds before physics throws up two middle fingers—he’s flung


    through the air like a particularly aggressive fastball.


    <i>Thwump.</i>


    The impact echoes as he slams into the trunk of a


    gnarled oak. Leaves rain down. There’s a dazed groan from the leafy crater he


    left behind.


    No time to check if he’s breathing. My spear’s


    already in motion. It’s not a perfect shot—hell, it’s barely passable—but it


    flies true enough, grazing the wolf’s flank. The beast yelps, more insulted


    than hurt, its glowing blue eyes snapping toward me with the unmistakable look


    of <i>Really? That’s all you got?</i>


    “For fuck’s sake, Twitch! Use the damn shield!”


    From the crumpled heap at the tree’s base, Twitch


    makes a wheezing noise. “Right. Shield.”


    He yanks the makeshift shield off his


    back—because of course, the little idiot had been wearing it like a goddamn <i>backpack</i>—and


    staggers upright. With a ragged battle cry, he charges, swinging the shield


    like a battering ram into the wolf’s ribs.


    <i>Thunk.</i>


    The wolf grunts. Soft. Barely a reaction. It


    flicks an ear, clearly unimpressed.


    <i>Thunk. Thunk-thunk.</i>


    Twitch doesn’t quit. The bonking continues. It’s


    both valiant and aggressively pointless.


    Meanwhile, Sprocket is… leaning on his spear.


    Not braced for attack. Not mustering some


    squirrel-sized act of heroism. Just leaning.


    And, casually, waving his other paw through the


    air.


    A faint golden glow pulses from his fingertips,


    swirling toward Twitch. The battered little maniac straightens, wounds sealing


    like time itself just hit the undo button.


    I gape. “What in the—Sprocket, you can heal?”


    Sprocket blinks at me mid-yawn. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, I


    guess.”


    I nearly swallow my own tongue. “And you’re just <i>now</i>


    mentioning this?”


    “Didn’t seem important.” He scratches his ear,


    completely unbothered.


    I have so many words. All of them profane. No


    time for any of them.


    The wolf lunges again, its massive paw slashing


    through the air. I barely twist aside, the force of it whipping a sharp gust


    across my face. <i>Too close.</i> One hit from that, and I’m paste.


    <i>Fine. No more screwing around.</i>


    <i>Time to finish this.</i>


    Twitch takes another hit, skidding backward but


    somehow staying upright. He finally gets the shield angled right, catching the


    wolf’s next swipe with a loud <i>clang</i>. Progress. I’ll take it.


    Meanwhile, Sprocket—sensing, perhaps, the looming


    specter of death—scrambles up the nearest tree with surprising speed for


    someone who treats movement like a personal insult. He perches on a thick


    branch, still healing Twitch with all the effort of flipping a light switch,


    flicking his paw lazily while chewing on a twig.


    Priorities.


    “Twitch!” I shout, ducking under a snapping jaw.


    “Tell me you’ve got some kind of ability! Magic? A special move? Anything?”


    Twitch actually pauses mid-battle—like I asked if


    he wanted fries with that—before turning to me with wide, vacant eyes. “Who,


    me? Naw…” He shrugs. “Ain’t fancy like that.”


    The Dire Wolf pounces.


    “Twitch—!”


    “NOOOOOOOOOO!”


    Sprocket throws himself across the tree branch in


    an Oscar-worthy display of grief, paws clutching his chest. “OH, BROTHER, WHERE


    THOUST HAVE YOU GONE? MY DEAREST, SIMPLE-MINDED BROTHER, TAKEN TOO SOON!”


    I blink. “That’s… not even close to—never mind.”


    Then, from above:


    “Shield Slam!”


    I whip my head up just in time to see a furry


    missile plummeting from the sky—shield-first. Twitch, who apparently has


    teleportation now (<i>thanks for the heads-up, buddy</i>), descends like a


    chubby, squirrel-shaped comet, slamming straight into the Dire Wolf’s skull.


    <i>CRACK.</i>


    The impact echoes through the clearing. The wolf


    staggers, legs buckling like it’s trying out ice skating for the first time.


    “Oh…” I exhale. “We are <i>so</i> having a talk


    after this.”


    The tide shifts. Twitch, now grinning like he


    just discovered sugar, blinks out of existence again, reappearing mid-charge to


    body-slam the wolf’s ribs. I don’t waste the opening—my spear drives down,


    sinking deep into muscle.


    Sprocket? Still clapping from the tree like he’s


    at dinner theater.


    The Dire Wolf lets out a low, defeated growl


    before collapsing onto its side, chest heaving. Still breathing. Barely.


    Twitch immediately breaks into a victory


    dance—some unholy fusion of breakdancing and rabid rodent energy.


    Sprocket slow-claps from his perch. “Exquisite


    performance.”


    I sigh, stepping forward. Kneeling beside the


    wolf, I hover my hand near its muzzle. Part of me expects a snarl. A snap of


    jaws. Or maybe a deep, rumbling voice—ancient, primal wisdom, something worthy


    of a Dire Wolf.


    Instead—


    “Hey… hey… like, maybe don’t touch me? Please?”


    I freeze.


    The wolf blinks up at me, golden eyes wide with


    mild discomfort, ears twitching like I’d interrupted its afternoon nap.


    Of course. Of course this is happening.


    “Great,” I mutter. “Another unorthodox monster.”


    I rub my temple. “Alright, buddy… what’s your


    deal?”


    “The <i>deal</i>?” The wolf snorts, shifting with


    a wince. “I was <i>sleeping</i>. In my hole. A good hole. Cozy. Quiet.


    Then—boom. No more hole. No more nap. Just chaos.”


    “A hole? Why not find something else, like a cave


    or something?”


    “Because caves around here are <i>prime real


    estate</i>, man! Feral goblins, kobolds, a drake or two—this place is a <i>nightmare</i>.


    I’m barely mid-tier on the food chain.”


    I stare. “You’re… not at the top?”


    “Dude. Big doesn’t mean <i>invincible</i>. I got


    problems.” He lets out a long, miserable sigh. “Had one good spot. Now it’s


    gone. And to top it off! I get wrecked by a teleporting rodent and a guy with a


    stick. A freaking stick. Like… not kool man.”


    Twitch fist-pumps. “Hell yeah!”


    I shoot him a glare before turning back to the


    wolf. “So you were just… minding your business when your whole world flipped


    upside down?” My voice softens. “Yeah. I get that.”


    The wolf lets out a low rumble, then slowly


    presses his nose against my palm.


    “So… we like… <i>kool</i> now?”


    I chuckle. “Yeah. We’re definitely kool.”


    A bond—not of power, not of dominance—but of


    understanding