The transition was not a tunnel of light; it was a wall of lead.
One moment, William Morningstar was crouched behind a tipped-over cafeteria table, the air thick with the metallic tang of gunpowder and the deafening, rhythmic pop-pop-pop of rifles. He had closed his eyes, bracing for the impact he knew was coming. The heat of the bullet was a split-second sting—and then, nothing.
He was dead. He knew he was dead.
But then, he gasped. His lungs filled with air so crisp it felt like swallowing needles. He wasn't on linoleum; he was lying on a bed of damp moss and jagged flint. He scrambled to his feet, his hands shaking as he clutched at his chest. No blood. No hole.
Instead of his varsity hoodie, he wore a Ragged Shirt and coarse trousers cinched with hemp rope. He spun around, frantic. No school. No terrorists. Just an oppressive, ancient forest that felt like it was breathing.
"What... is this?" he croaked.
Panic surged, but as his eyes scanned the treeline, a familiar, translucent gold-and-grey overlay shimmered in his peripheral view. In the bottom left: a red bar for Health, a yellow for Thirst, and a blue for Hunger. In the bottom right, a small map and a crafting icon.
He tried to "will" an inventory open. Nothing happened. He tried to call out for a 'System' or a 'Status' screen. Silence.
There was no voice in his head. No "Cheat" ability to grant him infinite power. No magical storage space to hide a thousand logs.
"It's just the interface," he whispered, the realization sinking in like an anchor. "No inventory. No pocket dimension. Just... the rules."
In Grim Soul, the interface didn't give you items; it showed you how to survive. It was a HUD for a nightmare. If he wanted a sword, he had to find the steel. If he wanted to store something, he had to build a box with his own two hands.
The terror of the school shooting was suddenly replaced by a cold, mechanical dread. He was in a medieval world, he was alone, and based on the grey, pulsing veins now visible on his forearms, he was already infected by the Grey Decay.
"I died," he said, his voice hardening. "I died there, so I'm staying alive here. I don't care how."
He didn't waste time mourning his old life. A pro-player knew that the first five minutes of a new "run" determined everything. He knelt and grabbed a piece of Flint and a Pine Log from the ground. As he held them, the crafting icon in his vision flickered: [New Recipe: Club].
He didn't have a "magic craft" button. He had to sit there, in the dirt, and physically shave the wood with a sharp rock, shaping the heavy end for maximum blunt-force impact. It was slow. It was real.
He looked at the forest. To anyone else, it was a dark, scary wood. To William, it was a 1-Skull Zone filled with resources.
"Priority one," he muttered, gripping his crude Club. "Build a floor. Level the ground. Make a Haven."
He found a flat patch of earth and opened the [Building Mode]. A ghost-blue grid appeared over the mud. It wasn't magic—it was a blueprint, a guide for his hands. He began to drag fallen timber to the lines, his body moving with an unnatural, plague-driven efficiency.
Clink.
The first Pine Floor was laid. It was the first piece of logic in a world that had gone mad. William Morningstar was no longer a schoolboy; he was an Exile.
The sun was a pale, sickly disc hanging behind a shroud of grey mist, but William didn't look at the sky to admire the view. He looked at it to calculate his Daylight Cycle. In Grim Soul, the night didn't just bring darkness; it brought the invincible.
He ignored the phantom ache in his chest where the bullets had struck his "previous" self. That version of William Morningstar was dead. This version was an Exile.
His hands, now stained with the sap of Pine Logs and the grit of Limestone, worked with a mechanical precision that would have terrified a master craftsman. He wasn't just building; he was filling the grid.
With his crude Club tucked into a makeshift rope loop at his waist, he set to work on his first real tools. He lashed sharp flint to sturdy branches, his interface flickering as the blueprints finalized: a Stone Axe for the trees and a Stone Pick for the copper and stone veins.
"Structure first," he muttered.
By mid-afternoon, a small, square hut of Pine Walls stood on the leveled floor. It was cramped, smelling of raw wood and damp earth, but it was a Haven. Inside, he placed two Peasant Chests.
As he stared at the wooden boxes, he felt the Grey Decay pulsing in his veins—a cold, dark energy that didn't feel like a disease, but a resource. He closed his eyes, focusing on the "Inventory" logic he remembered from the game. He didn't have a system-granted pocket dimension, but he had the essence of the Plague.
He placed his hands on the chest. He imagined the space inside folding, stretching, and anchoring to the void. The grey veins on his arms glowed with a dull, necrotic light.
[Skill Learned: Basic Spatial Anchor]
It wasn't a cheat. It was a self-taught manipulation of the reality he now inhabited. The Peasant Chest didn't become infinite, but it could now hold three times its physical volume. He applied the same logic to a Ragged Sack he stitched together from hemp fibers. It was heavy, and it strained his shoulders, but it held more than any mundane bag should.
Next, he stepped outside to the perimeter of his hut. He hammered together a Garden Bed, tilling the dark, acidic soil of the North.
"I can't rely on Raw Meat forever," he reasoned. "Hunting is high-risk. Farming is sustainable."
He looked at the empty soil, his eyes scanning the forest floor for the tell-tale green of Leek Seeds or Holly Berries. He needed a steady calorie count to keep his "Hunger Bar" from depleting.
As he finished planting a few wild seeds he'd scavenged, he crafted a Torch. The resinous wood caught fire with a hiss, casting long, dancing shadows against the pines.
The light revealed something he hadn't noticed before: a set of footprints, far too large for a human, leading directly toward his new home.
William gripped his Stone Axe. He wasn't scared. He was just checking his Durability.