Caelen had a problem.
Actually, several. Sleep deprivation. No water. Zero nutrition. And a Lava Wyrm boss that refused to die.
He'd been playing Primal Survival Online for three days straight. No breaks. No stretching. Not even a bathroom run. He was running on adrenaline, caffeine, and the sheer spite of someone who had already failed this boss five times.
But now? The Wyrm's health bar was almost gone.
He was so close.
He raised his hand for one last combo...
And dropped face-first into the keyboard with a satisfying thud.
He woke up to birds chirping and sunlight on his face.
Not the warm glow of his monitor. Actual sunlight.
Grass poked his cheek. A breeze ruffled his hair. Somewhere nearby, something that sounded like a squirrel was having a heated argument with a tree.
Caelen groaned.
"Did I... die?"
"Yup!" said a voice above him, far too cheerful for someone discussing death.
He blinked up.
Floating in the air was a glowing man in a white robe, sipping from a smoothie cup and looking very pleased with himself.
"Face-first into the keyboard. Full-on nose dive. You didn't even flinch. Truly, a gamer till the end."
Caelen squinted. "Who are you?"
"Jeff."
"...God's name is Jeff?"
"Nah, it's just easier to pronounce than 'The Eternal Admin of Universal Respawn Protocols.'"
Of course it is.
"Anyway, you died in a hilariously dumb way. So I'm giving you another shot."
"Wait, seriously?"
"Yup! But here's the twist. I'm putting you in your favorite game. Hardcore survival mode. No respawns. You die for real this time."
Caelen stared. "That sounds... significantly worse than dying quietly in my chair."
"That's the spirit! And hey, you're not going in empty-handed."
A notification pinged in his brain:
[Starting Gear: 1x Rusty Pickaxe]
[Skill Unlocked: Googel Brain (Search Anything, Get Answers)]
[Skill Unlocked: Creation Mode – Beta Access]
"Have fun!" Jeff yelled as he pressed an invisible button and vanished.
Thud.
Caelen landed in a forest.
No armor. No food. No tools. Just trees, bugs, and a pickaxe that looked like it had been fished out of a medieval junkyard.
He looked down at the weapon in his hand.
"Of course this is what I get."
He tried opening his inventory. Empty, aside from the pickaxe and a single note labeled: 'Good luck, dumbass.'
The forest was quiet.
Until a squirrel hopped onto a nearby log and made eye contact. It looked at the pickaxe. Then at Caelen.
Then it laughed. Squeaked, really—but he knew a laugh when he heard one.
"Okay," Caelen muttered. "Challenge accepted."
He stood up, holding the rusty pickaxe like it was Excalibur.
"I survived three days of boss fights and microwave pizza. I can survive this."
Then he tripped over a root and faceplanted into a bush.
"...Probably."