The birds outside are back at it again, chirping like a nature-themed alarm clock set to maximum cheery. I crack one eye open, groan, and roll over on my makeshift bedding. Sunlight filters through the leaves above the cave’s mouth, flickering gold across the stone. Pretty, yeah. But also blinding.

  I stretch like a cat that’s napped too long in a sunbeam. Every joint pops like a bowl of cereal.

  Time to rise and shine.

  Or, you know, at least rise. The shine part’s negotiable.

  Today’s mission?

  Become a slingshot god.

  I step out of the cave and into the clearing. A tree stands there, tall and majestic, looking like it’s auditioning for the role of “background prop in a training montage.”

  Perfect.

  My eyes lock onto a knot in the wood. Everything else fades. No birds. No breeze. No bugs. Just me, the slingshot, and a tree that’s about to have a very bad morning.

  I pull back the pouch. Feel the tension. Focus.

  “SōTEN ISHI!” I shout, full anime protagonist mode.

  Whip—crack!

  Dead center.

  The rock hits with a meaty thunk and vanishes into the underbrush. I grin. “Not bad for a rookie.”

  But don’t get cocky.

  First rule of training arcs—

  The moment you feel cool, fate punches you in the teeth.

  So I keep going. Shot after shot. Hours blur. Pull. Aim. Fire. Repeat.

  My hands start syncing with my brain. My grip tightens. My aim sharpens. It’s not pretty, but hey, it’s working.

  By the time I step back, the poor tree looks like it just survived a squirrel uprising armed with tiny sledgehammers. I wipe my forehead with my sleeve.

  Progress. Definitely.

  But let’s be real. Hitting a stationary tree? That’s tutorial-level nonsense.

  Real fights don’t stand still.

  They run. They fight back. They try to stab you with horns.

  (Still not over that.)

  Anyway. I need food. Rabbits aren’t cutting it, and the online store? Total scam.

  Seven gold for one Kashipan bread?

  What was it, kneaded by elven monks and baked in a volcano?

  My wallet cries every time I scroll through the listings.

  With my stomach growling louder than my internal commentary, I slip into the forest. This time, I move smoother, quieter. Less clumsy newbie, more fledgling hunter.

  The forest breathes around me. Birds chirp. Leaves whisper. Occasionally, something rustles in a very suspicious way. But it all flows together, like the forest’s got its own rhythm, and I’m finally starting to catch the beat.

  Then it changes.

  Not the wind. Not the temperature. Something else.

  The air gets heavy. Like invisible pressure pressing down from above.

  I’m being watched.

  I freeze. Slingshot already in hand. Every hair on my arms stands up like soldiers on alert. My eyes scan the trees. Muscles lock. Breathing shallow.

  Then it moves.

  A flicker of shadow darts between the trunks.

  I don’t think.

  I run.

  Legs kick into overdrive, ducking branches and dodging roots like I’ve been training for this exact scene in a montage.

  The forest blurs. Leaves slap past. My heart hammers, matching every step.

  Then I burst into a clearing. Boots skidding on moss, and freeze.

  Right in front of me stands my target.

  It looks like a porcupine if porcupines had been forged by an over-caffeinated blacksmith with a thing for medieval weaponry. Spines longer, sharper, angled back like missiles just waiting for a reason.

  Its eyes lock onto mine.

  There’s fear.

  But more than that—defiance.

  Like it knows. This isn’t just another hunt.

  Neither of us moves.

  I tighten my grip on the slingshot. My voice drops to a whisper.

  “STATUS SIGHT.”

  ________________________________________

  Brambler (Kiiroi)

  LEVEL: 2

  TITLE: NONE

  Description: A Kiiroi Ikimono creature resembling a porcupine with thorny quills. These vines can extend and entangle threats. Its meat is said to be extremely delicious and a delicacy among the Midoris. But be careful of its quills. Although not poisonous, they can be quite painful if you get hit.

  ________________________________________

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Oh, pristine meat.

  I’m really hoping it tastes like Kobe beef. Buttery, rich, melt-in-your-mouth goodness. The kind of flavor that makes your soul ascend and whisper, I could die happy now.

  I lick my lips, eyes locked on the brambler. Too bad the thing looks like a walking plushie.

  It tilts its head, all wide-eyed and innocent, like it’s begging for mercy.

  I almost feel bad. Almost.

  “Yo, Pokey,” I say, shaking my head like a tired anime parent watching their kid flunk friendship class. “Cuteness doesn’t work on me anymore.”

  I raise the slingshot, draw the pouch back, take a breath. “Sayonara, dude.”

  I let it fly.

  Full smug mode activated.

  The marble zips through the air and smacks the brambler dead in the body.

  Thunk.

  … Then bounces off.

  “What.” My voice cracks like bad Wi-Fi.

  The rock lands a few feet away like it’s ashamed of me. That shot had power, cartoonish power, and the plushie tanks it like a champ. No flinch. No damage. Nothing.

  Is this thing wearing plot armor?

  Fine. Round two.

  I fire again. And again. At one point, I even yell “HEADSHOT!” for emotional support.

  Still nothing. The brambler doesn’t even blink. Just stands there with those tiny dark eyes, looking at me like, You done?

  “Alright, what are you made of, dude? Titanium? Friendship?” I mutter, slowly lowering the slingshot.

  Then it happens.

  The brambler shakes its body, quills rattling like it’s powering up a boss fight. A low, metallic hum fills the air. Every instinct screams, Run.

  I squint. “What the heck is this little guy—”

  Fwip.

  A spine zips past my face—

  Close enough to part my imaginary bangs.

  “WAIT, CAN IT SHOOT THOSE?” I shout.

  Answer—

  Yes.

  Yes, it freaking can.

  I barely dodge. Just sidestep fast enough to avoid a free facial piercing.

  That had been the warm-up.

  ’Cause next? The brambler unleashes hell.

  It fires quills like it’s been bottling up childhood trauma and decided today’s the day to let it all out. A straight-up bullet hell of needle-sharp projectiles.

  “Nope!” I duck, roll, trip over a root, ninja-flip back up (don’t ask how), and keep moving like my life depends on it.

  (It does.)

  Each quill slices the air within inches of me, like I’m stuck in a very personal game of dodgeball where the balls are angry darts and the stakes are fatal.

  And I swear on all that is pixelated, this thing’s packing aimbot-level precision with a vengeance.

  I gasp and dive behind a tree.

  My slingshot? Useless.

  My aim? Decent.

  My gear? Trash-tier.

  I’m seriously outclassed.

  This isn’t a hunt. It’s a test. A cruel joke from the gaming gods.

  And apparently? I’m failing.

  Teeth clenched, ego shattered, heart doing jazz percussion in my chest, I face reality.

  This little murder puffball’s way out of my league.

  I turn and run.

  The brambler’s right behind me, way faster than it has any right to be. Its quills rattle like some nature-themed chainsaw, every step closing the gap.

  Then—

  “ACKKK!”

  A quill stabs me.

  In. The. Ass.

  Since when did I become the designated forest pi?ata for every spiky gremlin with a projectile kink?

  Pain rockets through me like karma decided to show up with a steel-toed boot. I run harder, but—

  “SERIOUSLY?!” I yelp as another quill nails the exact same spot.

  I stumble, nearly face-plant into the dirt, and catch myself with all the grace of a collapsing scarecrow.

  My legs? Jelly.

  My pride? Roadkill.

  And my butt? Yeah… my butt is not okay.

  If I survive this, I’m never telling anyone. Ever.

  A good twenty minutes later—Was it really that long?

  —I finally stagger to the stream near my hideout. The cool water trickles by, soft and steady, like it hasn’t just witnessed me get absolutely clowned by a spikeball on legs.

  I stop to catch my breath.

  But honestly? I just want to forget the humiliation I just went through.

  Chest heaving, lungs on fire, hands still trembling a little.

  I reach back with a wince. The sting’s still there. Sharp. Personal.

  One by one, I start pulling out the quills stuck in my skin.

  Each one comes out with its own special wave of pain, like the universe is really committed to making sure I never forget this moment.

  “Why is it always my butt?!” I growl through gritted teeth.

  Seriously, what curse had I triggered?

  I yank another one free—

  “OW!”

  —then chuck it into the stream like it offended me. I watch it float off, smug as hell.

  Nature’s mocking me. I can feel it.

  The irony? Yeah, it stings harder than Pokey’s aim.

  I’m supposed to be the hunter. The brave newbie adventurer. The up-and-coming slingshot god. Instead, I’ve spent the last half hour running from a pint-sized porcupine with anger issues.

  The only upside? The brambler’s spines aren’t poisonous.

  The downside? Every single puncture feels like karma dropkicked me for thinking I could solo a fantasy ecosystem on day freaking two.

  Limping back to my cave like a defeated side character, I finally admit it—

  I lose.

  No monster feast tonight.

  My grand plan of cooking a self-caught victory meal?

  Dead. Buried. Crisped to ashes and scattered across the land.

  My pride’s gone.

  And my stomach? Throwing a full-blown tantrum.

  So yeah.

  I cave.

  Grumbling like an old NPC forced to repeat the same quest line, I open the ONLINE STORE and buy a Shokupan bread with chicken filling.

  It costs me ten gold.

  Ten.

  That tiny little food icon practically laughs as the purchase goes through.

  Sure, it tastes good.

  But I can hear my wallet sobbing from the void.

  An hour later, once the sting from both the wounds and the price tag start to fade, I finally decide to test the theory I came up with last night.

  Could grinding raw exercise actually boost my STR and DEX?

  There’s a forest trail not far from my cave, about two miles long and scenic in that “trees silently judging you” kind of way. I figure, hey, it’s perfect for suffering.

  I start with sit-ups.

  Crank out twenty before my abs give up and file for early retirement.

  I collapse like a war hero. Stare at the sky. Re-evaluate everything.

  Next up? Push-ups.

  I manage a solid seven.

  And by manage, I mean I face-plant on the seventh and stay there like I’ve just been defeated in a shonen battle arc.

  “Why am I so weak?” I mumble into the grass.

  That’s when Mai’s voice echoes in my head. All wise and mysterious. Like some kind of spectral fitness coach.

  She once told me squats build leg strength.

  So I drag myself up and start squatting. Count each rep out loud like I’m hyping myself up for a boss fight.

  “SIX… SEVEN… EIGHT… NINE… TEN—”

  My legs are melting.

  I half-expect to look down and see uncooked noodles instead of thighs.

  “This is going to be rough,” I wheeze, collapsing again like the forest floor just became my therapist.

  But I’m not done. There’s still the final boss of fitness.

  Running.

  Back in junior high, Mai swore that doing 100 sit-ups, 100 push-ups, 100 squats, and running 6 miles a day would make me the strongest man in the world.

  I laughed at her back then.

  Now?

  I’m starting to think she got that from anime. Probably the kind where people explode if they sneeze wrong.

  So I take off along the trail, legs screaming, lungs wheezing, arms flopping like a Muppet in distress.

  After barely a mile, I stop, hunched over with my hands on my knees.

  My body’s still here, but my spirit? It’s face down in a ditch somewhere, googling “how to fake your own death.”

  I need water. Or a nap. Or maybe a busty deri jō holding a water bottle and cheering me on like I’m in a sports anime. (Preferably all three.)

  Then I hear it.

  A soft rustle. A faint crunch of leaves.

  I look up.

  Ten yards ahead stands a very familiar spiky menace.

  “Pokey?” I croak, voice cracking like my will to live.

  The brambler quivers. Its spines shift with purpose, every single one aimed directly at me.

  Oh no.

  I turn and run like my pants are on fire.

  “What the hell’s wrong with this world?” I yell at the trees, sprinting like a guy who knows exactly how this story ends.

  Half an hour later, I’m back at the stream.

  On hands and knees.

  Once again yanking quills outta my rear like I signed up for the world’s worst spa treatment.

  My butt cheeks? They’ve checked out.

  They’re done with life, pain, and everything even remotely pokey.

  “That’s it,” I sniffle. “I give up.”

  I’m going to find a nice cliff and do a triple swan dive.

  Maybe in the Live game, the tutorial doesn’t come with butt trauma as a bonus round.

  But just as I’m about to throw myself a full-blown pity party, the system pings.

  That familiar blue screen pops up in front of me, slicing through my mental breakdown like a reset button from the gods.

  ________________________________________

  Well done! You have increased your STR and DEX by 1 point each.

  ________________________________________

  I blink.

  Then blink again.

  “Wait. What?”

  I stand up, still aching, still sweaty, but now about five percent less emotionally wrecked.

  My fists shoot into the air as a grin spreads across my face like I’ve just pulled a rare gacha.

  “It worked! My theory actually worked!”

  Sweaty. Sore. Slightly traumatized. But victorious.

  I flex. I laugh.

  I might even cry a little.

  Progress is progress. No matter how many quills it takes.

  “Watch out, Pokey,” I whisper, a wicked grin curling at the corners of my mouth. “Next time, I’m bringing the pain.”