I awoke in a cold sweat, breath ragged, memory fractured. Scars marked my arms, my torso, my legs—jagged reminders of something I couldn't recall.
"My arms... still here. My leg too."
I touched my knee and pushed myself upright, muscles stiff and aching.
"Where did these clothes come from?"
Snow blanketed the world—thick, untouched, the aftermath of a recent storm. Above, the sky churned with black clouds, heavy with menace. Towering pines stood like frozen sentinels in every direction.
A shiver racked my body.
"It's freezing."
I looked down. Sweatpants. A T-shirt. Sneakers. Nothing for this cold.
I searched my pockets. A small pocket knife. A roll of bandages. A box of matches. And a folded note.
Elegant cursive sprawled across the paper:
"Hello, dear prisoner.For your crimes, you have been sentenced to death by the wilderness inside the Prison Realm.However, if we see good behavior from you, we will let you out in 35 years.Wishing for your survival.—R.D."
"R.D.?" I muttered. "What crimes?"
No answers came. Just wind and snow.
"Doesn't matter. I need shelter."
I trudged forward, boots crunching over frozen slush, weaving through the dense forest. As night fell, the temperature dropped like a hammer.
"Damn. That was fast."
Darkness swallowed the forest in minutes. Snow fell again—thicker this time. I struck a match and cupped it with my hand. Its weak light flickered in the wind.
Snapping a branch from a pine, I tore a strip from my shirt, wrapped it tightly around the wood, and lit it. A crude torch—but better than nothing.
That's when I heard it. Low. Guttural.
A growl.
Two eyes reflected the flame—yellow, cold.
A wolf.
I raised the torch and flicked open the pocket knife. The wolf circled, muscles tense, silver fur dusted in snow. A thick scar ran down its spine.
I backed away, heart hammering, blade trembling in my grip.
Then it lunged.
I barely dodged. Slashed out. The blade scraped fur and flesh. It yelped but didn't stop.
It lunged again—fangs sinking into my leg, tearing, shaking its head to rend muscle from bone.
"GEAAA!" I screamed.
I drove the knife into its back with both hands. It howled, finally letting go, and limped into the trees, leaving a trail of blood.
My hands shook. My leg throbbed.
"I have to stop the bleeding…"
I snapped off a thick branch and tied the bandage tightly above the wound—tourniquet. My breathing grew shallow. The pain blurred my vision.
Then I held the blade over the torch, waiting until it glowed faint orange.
Biting down on a stick, I pressed it to the wound.
The hiss. The stench. The burn. Agony.
I collapsed against a tree, gasping, dizzy. But alive.
I rewrapped the torch and pressed on, limping, each step a battle. The cold gnawed at my bones.
After more than an hour, I saw it.
A cave.
The entrance was barely three feet high. Didn't matter.
I crawled in—cramped, tight. Maybe seventeen feet deep. Nine wide.
"It'll do," I whispered, voice barely audible.
Then everything went black.
Time warped. Slowed. Twisted.
And in the void, words carved themselves into the dark:
You have proficiency with medical equipment, polearms, and basic craftsmanship.