Snow gave way under Kael's boot.
He stopped mid-step.
Ten meters ahead, a patch of brush sagged beneath fresh snowfall. The shape beneath it was wrong—too heavy, too uneven. Someone had fallen there. Recently.
Kael lowered his center of gravity, breaking his outline against the grey pine trunks. Cold cut through his thin tunic and settled into joints stiffened by years of hard labor. Hunger pressed against his gut, constant and familiar.
This world did not kill quickly.
It crushed slowly.
Behind him, Tom stumbled.
"Kael," the boy whispered, voice tight with fear. "The snares are empty. We should go back. If the steward notices we crossed the boundary—"
"We already did," Kael said. "Quiet."
Servants weren't meant to hunt this far out. Boundaries existed to remind the bottom where it belonged. If a patrol found them, there would be questions. Questions always climbed downward.
The brush ahead thrashed.
A figure lurched forward and collapsed into the snow.
Silver armor. Scraped dull. The breastplate was split open, metal crushed inward by force rather than cut. Blood seeped through the gap, dark against the white.
Sir Janson.
Master-at-Arms of Blackstone Keep.
A man who oversaw training. Punishments. Executions.
Three years ago, Kael had opened his eyes in this world and laughed.
A game of his own design. A system-driven fantasy with progression curves, hidden triggers, and developer shortcuts buried deep beneath the surface.
He had expected a greeting.
A prompt.
Anything.
Instead, he had been assigned to the woodshed.
Sixteen hours a day splitting logs until his palms bled. Damp straw for sleep. Black bread that scraped his throat raw. A moment's rest earned the whip.
No interface. No system.
Just survival.
"Help me up," Janson rasped. His breath rattled wetly in his chest. "I'll pay. You have my word as a knight." His fingers twitched toward the purse at his belt.
Tom sucked in a breath. "That's—"
Kael grabbed him by the collar. "Look," he said. "Don't turn away."
Kael's gaze slid past the knight and into the treeline.
The snow there was disturbed. Drag marks. Compressed footprints.
Whoever had done this hadn't finished their work.
If Janson lived, this wouldn't end here. He would remember faces. He would remember that two servants had seen him broken in the snow.
And when the truth became inconvenient, blame would find the lowest rung.
It always did.
Kael stepped forward. Snow crunched under his boots.
"Kael…" Tom whispered. "He's dying anyway."
Kael knelt, examining the wound. "Punctured lung," he said calmly. "Blood loss. Shock follows."
"So why—"
"Because it takes time."
Time to scream.
Time to be found.
Time Kael didn't have.
He had waited three years in this world.
Not hoping for miracles—searching.
Searching for anything that should have existed, anything left behind by the world he thought he knew.
There had been nothing.
If such things had ever existed, they were long gone. Taken by others who knew the value of survival better than he once had.
In this world, people didn't wait for meaning. They scavenged. They took first and asked later. If it could be sold, traded, or eaten, it vanished.
Kael had learned that lesson too late.
This wasn't a scripted event.
There was no plot here.
Just a narrow chance that would disappear if he let it pass.
It was a chance.
Kael planted his foot against Janson's chest. The wooden stake sat heavy in his hand.
For a heartbeat, his arm held still.
Then he drove it down.
The rough tip forced its way through the gap in the armor. Janson convulsed once, twice. His heels scraped against the snow, then went still.
Kael waited.
When the body no longer moved, he pulled the purse from the belt.
Sorry.
The word came late.
He searched the corpse quickly. His fingers found something hard sewn into the lining. He tore the fabric open.
An amulet fell into his palm.
Silver. Heavy. Cold.
Its surface was etched with intersecting lines that didn't resemble runes or sigils—too precise, too deliberate.
Developer geometry.
The forest dulled, as if submerged.
Blue text surfaced in the air.
[ ERROR: ANOMALY DETECTED ]
[ DEBUG CONSOLE INITIALIZING… ]
[ DEVELOPER ACCESS CONFIRMED ]
[ SOUL SIGNATURE MATCHED: KAEL ]
Kael's fingers tightened around it.
Three years.
This was what he had been waiting for.
The System hadn't saved him.
He had forced it to appear.
"You finally came," he thought. "But you're late."
He looked at Tom.
"Move," Kael said. "We don't have much time."