Caspian Reyes stood still beneath the pale light of the three suns.
The silver grass around him swayed gently in the breeze, whispering like silk. There was no sound of birds. No hum of insects. Just distant, unfamiliar winds and the faint hum of energy from the floating countdown that had long since faded.
He turned slowly, scanning the horizon.
No buildings. No roads. Just towering crystal trees, thick with mist, and hills that pulsed faintly with a bioluminescent glow.
His eyes narrowed.
"Okay," he murmured, voice low. "Let's figure this out."
He crouched, running his fingers through the strange grass. It felt cool and soft—almost synthetic. No sign of moisture. No scent of decay or life beneath it.
Caspian looked toward the treeline. The forest loomed like a wall, the trunks too straight, too perfect. Alien.
But he didn't panic. He didn't call for help. He didn't scream.
Instead, he moved. Slowly. Carefully.
He circled a wide area, noting small details—claw marks on a nearby stone, a patch of soil that looked freshly disturbed, broken stalks that hinted at something moving through the brush recently.
"Something's been here."
Still calm.
He shifted his focus to what mattered: food, water, shelter.
He checked his clothes. No supplies. Not even a knife. Just his boots, dark cargo pants, and a fitted shirt that clung like it was made for this world.
His mind started working the way it did during high-pressure gaming tournaments—not panicked, just alert.
Find shelter. Stay hidden. Observe. Learn. Survive.
He looked up again, toward the suns.
They were starting to shift.
Time moved here. And soon, so would everything else.
He looked up again, toward the moon.
They were starting to shift.
Time moved here. And soon, so would everything else.
But then—he heard a sound.
Soft. Subtle. Somewhere deep in the forest.
It wasn't the wind. It wasn't natural.
It was deliberate. Like something… breathing.
Caspian tensed—not with fear, but with focus.
The game had begun.