1.11 Days of Solitude

Day 3;

Even inside the cabin, one leech found him, feasting on his blood. He did not mind being generous to wild creatures, but the wound left behind by these vampiric things itched beyond reason.

That was not even the worst problem of the day.

He had not cleaned the cabin before he slept on it, so the accumulated dust had done wonders to his throat. Thankfully, he was accustomed to dust, so he knew his ailment wouldn't last long.

Thus, he found a new mission of the day; Clean the cabin.

Michael did the job thoroughly. Not just the floor, but walls and even the ceilings. There were beams up there he could climb, allowing him to clean the ceilings too.

He even covered the holes in the wall using a tree branch.

After he finished cleaning, his left earring hummed, and he was pulled back into that foggy space. Which gave him the choice to choose the class [Cleaner].

Michael refused it, of course. He had no intention of taking such a stupid class. He wanted something that allowed him to use magic so that he could find a way to go back home.

"Who wants a [Cleaner] class anyway?"

Day 4;

That day, Michael ventured into the forest, deliberately steering clear of the trail he had stumbled upon the day before. He had no intention of venturing anywhere near that place again.

Michael knew eating fish every single day could not be healthy. Concern for his health prompted him to dabble at hunting—and there was his class too. However, his hunting endeavor proved fruitless.

Just because an unseen voice had proclaimed him a Level 1 [Hunter], it didn't mean he was one. He had no real skills in hunting or any experience. Despite his experimentations with [Life Detection], he lacked the practical knowledge of tracking or capturing game.

"Why is this so hard?" Michael said to himself in frustration, leaning against a gnarled tree trunk.

The memories of lifeless bodies he had encountered haunted him, pushing away his resolve to catch anything. Feeling defeated, he retreated to the safety of the pavilion, empty-handed and disheartened.

"I'm not going to survive long, am I?"

Day 5;

Michael finished the fish with a grimace, the taste of it unpleasant on his tongue.

He pushed the empty plate away with a sigh. "Is it just me, or does the fish taste bitter?"

His gaze drifted beyond the pavilion to the looming forest. "I have got to do this, haven't I?"

With a deep breath, Michael tossed the fish remains into the crackling fire, steeling himself for another attempt. He prepped himself, firmed his resolve, and lumbered into the dense thicket of trees.

He had failed yesterday, but wasn't there a saying, "Practice makes a man perfect"? Michael clung to that thought as he moved cautiously through the underbrush, cursing at every snap of twigs and dried leaves under his feet. My, but I really aren't stealthy, am I?

This time, he spotted a squirrel through his [Life Detection]. It darted between branches. Heart pounding, Michael raised his makeshift trap he had made out of one of the fishing nets, weaving stones in it, hoping to make it heavy enough to capture small game.

His hands trembled with anticipation. But the squirrel, sensing danger, paused and fixed him with a knowing stare before darting away.

"Damn It."

Michael could have sworn the squirrel had looked him directly in the eye just to make a mockery out of him.

He stumbled back to the pavilion, empty-handed. "This is bad. This is really bad."

He collapsed next to the dying flames and flipped at the world. "Do your worst, you hear me, do your worst. But fuck me, I won't be defeated this easily."

Screaming at the world actually helped him. And yet, he curled up into a ball and cried himself to sleep that day.

"I can't do this. Mother … Madison, Mason … Please … Where are you? Don't do this to me."

Day 8;

Yesterday, after painstakingly cleaning the clothes he had salvaged, Michael finally felt satisfied with their cleanliness and began to wear them despite their torn and baggy condition. Even with their flaws, the simple act of wearing clothes gave him a sense of security. It was an odd sensation.

Feeling safer than ever in his makeshift clothes, Michael ventured deeper into the forest—the place where he had stumbled upon the beehives.

High in the trees, the hives hung like golden treasures, inviting him to taste its sweetness. He paused and contemplated the idea of climbing the trunk to reach the honey within. However, even if he could climb that high, which he had never done before—not even a small tree—he had no way of protecting himself from the endless onslaught of bees. The risk of provoking them was too great to act on his impulse.

In the end, he discarded the idea of recovering the honey anytime soon, and redirected his focus to scouring the forest for other potential resources.

All his efforts, and when he returned to the pavilion just before nightfall, he had little to show for his exploration. He had come upon only a handful of nuts and hunger for something other than fish.

Day 11;

"Well, this is something," Michael said, his eyes on the groove of banana trees. The sight of trees rippling with bananas didn't excite him, not exactly, but it didn't disappoint him, either. He was not very fond of bananas. He did not like it, but he did not hate it either. At least it was a diet other than fish and nut.

He plucked a banana from a nearby tree, peeled it, and took a hesitant bite. He chewed thoughtfully. It tasted better than he remembered. It must be the influence of his tedious diet. But bananas alone weren't enough. He needed more, much more.

Day 19;

Michael was sick to his core of eating fish. The mere thought of another meal of flaky, bland flesh without any seasonings made his stomach churn.

So that day he filled his stomach with nothing but nuts and bananas. It did not help him—the combination left him unsatisfied, craving for something with spices.

How am I ever going to survive like this?

Everything he ate was so revolting, they made him nauseous.

Day 23;

Michael's stomach revolted after just a few bites of the dreaded fish and he retched violently into a pot. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I hate this world."

This couldn't continue. After all his effort in the forest, his hunting skills had not grown, and he hadn't progressed a single level on his [Hunter] class.

Every attempt to catch a game ended in failure, leaving him with nothing but nuts, bananas, and fish. All of them were bland. At this rate, he thought he would go mad.

Ever since he had found that corpse near the trail, he had decided not to go there. He did not want to die—Michael didn't even know what had killed them. But now—starving or losing his sanity seemed worse fate than dying in the wilderness. Besides, trail meant civilization, and civilization meant food. Food other than nuts and bananas or worse, fish.

Summoning all his courage, Michael decided on the matter. He packed what little food and water he could, ensuring he had his flint and steel, his trusty axe, and the three kitchen knives, just in case he did not return.

"You can do this, Michael, you must."

Gulping, he followed the marking on the trees he had left behind—it seemed an eternity ago—and followed it to the trail.