Chapter 2: Decision

Chapter 2: Decision

I marveled at the beauty of this world as I traveled.

The weather was perfect, and I barely worked up a sweat walking beneath the leaf-cover far above thick and plentiful trunks. I didn’t recognize any of the trees, though historically I wasn’t what you’d call the outdoors type. I knew of the trees local to Australia from my childhood—Eucalyptus, Paper Bark, Norfolk Pine, and Acacia, to name a few—but none were present.

In my passing, I noted a light-brown species covered in loose fibrous strands. I pulled a section of the bark off and separated it into strips before stuffing it atop the gold coins in my leather pouch.

I thought to find a high point to survey the area, but couldn’t make out any mountains or raised area of land to look from. The thick canopy of leaves above only let the blinding sun peak through, and the trunks themselves were too thick to climb without risking injury.

I noted the passage of the sun as I moved, and seeing it climb higher in the sky as the day progressed, knew that I’d woken in the morning.

The day grew hotter; my mouth grew dry, my stomach hungry.

The burble of water crept into my auditory field, and after a quick search, I found a shallow creek. It had a bed of river-stones, and was clear of algae and other plant growth, telling me that the water flowed continuously, or at least had done so in recent time.

I rejoiced, inferring dozens of possibilities.

I followed the creek downstream, scanning the rocks for something that was desperately needed.

What I thought was two hours later, and as the sun descended from its peak in the sky above, I found what I was looking for.

I took careful steps down the small bank of the creek and retrieved my prize.

It was a large rock. One side had a concave dip that was just deep enough to hold water. Thankfully, it wasn’t made of the relatively porous rock that most of the river-rocks were composed of—porous rocks could hold bubbles of air, which had a nasty habit of turning stones into primitive grenades when the air inside expanded after being placed in a campfire.

As I lifted the rock, an involuntary grunt escaped me. It was going to be a pain to carry, but I didn’t have much of a choice.

I set it down on top of the bank and started looking for the last pieces of the puzzle.

A few minutes later, with a handful of dried sticks, twigs, and a branch in-hand, I started constructing my project.

I pulled out the fibrous bark first, separating it meticulously into thinner strips. The small twigs were the next thing I grabbed, and I made a small tipi-shaped structure out of them, ascending from thinnest to thickest. I carefully placed the thin strips of bark within, ensuring I left enough room for oxygen to circulate, then I notched the dead branch with a sharp rock gathered from the creek.

Using another stick, whose base fit almost perfectly into the notch I’d cut, I rubbed the stick between my hands with rapid and repeated movement.

As a form of escapism, I’d watched plenty of videos on survival, and primitive fire creation was a basic of almost every single one.

Unlike the videos, however, creating an ember proved to be exceedingly difficult.

Whether it was the wood used, or my lack of experience, I couldn’t say, but as the minutes stretched on, and my arms started aching, I dropped the stick and let out a sigh.

I felt the notch of thick branch; it was warm, but nowhere near hot enough to spark the beginning of a campfire.

I stood and stretched, then left in search of the components for another method.

With the sharpened rock, I cut a long section of fibers from a living vine. I pulled it taut between my hands. It didn’t snap.

Now I just need something to tie it to...

After another search, I found a stick I thought would suffice. I bent it, and seeing it didn’t snap, nodded to myself. I secured the strand of plant fibers to each end of it, and peered down at the bow I’d created.

“What was it called again...?” I mused aloud. “A bow drill...?”

With a smile, I sat down by the notched branch once more and looped the length of vine around the stick I’d spun by hand.

I pulled the bow toward me; the fibers held to the stick, not spinning as the videos had depicted.

I clenched my jaw, furrowed my brows, and pushed as hard as I could.

The bow snapped, the wood unable to handle the pressure exerted.

With another sigh, I discarded the broken tool over my shoulder, placed the stick between both palms again, and started spinning it.

***

The sun had long since started descending from its peak, and the formerly pleasant heat of the day was no longer enjoyable as I hunched over, panting.

Sweat poured from me, pooling around my eyes and dripping from the tip of my nose as I spun the stick back and forth with dogged determination.

My arms trembled with the exertion, and I closed my eyes, trying and failing to ignore my body’s complaints.

My lungs worked like bellows, and I breathed through my nose, keeping the movements steady as best I could.

An odd smell hit me, and I opened my eyes, blinking sweat away as I stared down at the source.

The branch was smoking.

So, I swallowed it.

To be safe, I had to wait at least eight hours to see if I experienced any itching, nausea, or other adverse effects from the berry.

With the afternoon sun still high in the sky, I started building a small shelter atop a flat patch of grass.

When the sun was just starting to set over the horizon, I surveyed my newly constructed abode.

It looked like shit.

It was just longer than I was, about a meter high and a meter across, in the shape of a triangular prism. Well, it was supposed to be that shape, but if I was being honest, it looked more like an abstract-art installation.

The frame was constructed of branches and sticks from the surrounding forest, and was lashed together with strips of the same bark I’d used to make my fire-starter.

I’d found a patch of palm-like trees a short walk further downstream, then tried to weave their leaves together to make up the walls of the crude tent. The videos I’d watched had woven palm leaves in a way that, if it were to rain, the liquid would roll down the side, hopefully leaving the interior—and more importantly, the person inside—dry.

I held no such delusions that this thing would keep out a drop of water, let alone a tropical storm.

“Oh well,” I said with a sigh. “It’ll have to do.”

Before the sun could set, I purified more water, drank it, then snuffed out the fire. As frustrating as it would be creating another one in the morning, drawing attention to myself and getting shanked by a fantasy creature in my sleep seemed like a worse eventuality.

As darkness crept through the forest, the weariness of the day set in.

I was emotionally and physically exhausted, but couldn’t fall asleep yet—I had to stay awake and attentive for any adverse effects of the test berry.

I meditated, relying on the skill-set I’d been developing in my previous life. When I reached a mindset I regarded as open and logical, I allowed my thoughts to come.

I died.

I’m in another world.

I’d harbored some doubts as to the reality of my situation earlier in the day, but after a full day of living, breathing, and experiencing my surroundings, I no longer had any such misgivings.

... what the hell am I gonna do?

The world seemed to have some sort of System, just as in the novels I enjoyed so much in the past. The issue was it was non-functional, or at least only partially so.

I recalled the messages I’d received when waking, as well as after drinking purified water for the first time.

It said something about having insufficient power, and systems being offline. Have I arrived in a faulty world? Or one where the functional System, along with human life, has long since departed?

That thought hit me with a surprising amount of sadness.

I had just begun a journey of self-discovery and the seeking of genuine bonds when my life was snuffed out.

Most of my life had been misspent—fixated on the eventual inheritance of my father’s business empire, smothered by the weight of expectation.

To wake up in a new world, but one lacking any other humans to interact with... what a miserable irony that would be.

If that’s the case, what’s my course of action? Will I try to level up and seek power like the protagonists in every isekai story, despite a seemingly dysfunctional System, and a lack of any other humans?

While I’d spent many nights in my previous life imagining such an escape, the reality of it hit different now that I was actually here. I’d never imagined myself the hero type in those fantasies, but more of an economic conqueror.

I recalled envisioning an underdeveloped world, where my vast training of business and capitalism would allow me to build a world-spanning empire.

I snorted.

That was before I tried heading such an empire, and given my recent experience, that idea now seemed tedious, repulsive.

I already did that on Earth, and look where it got me. Sad and alone—king atop an empire of dirt.

The thing that had drawn my attention, and indeed, had seemed to pull me out of the misery created by my hubris, was fishing. Something as simple as fishing—one of the world’s oldest professions—had been exhilarating, calming, and everything in-between.

“What did that old bloke say on the jetty?” I mused aloud. “It’s a perfect day for fishing...”

I recalled the Zen-like meditation of the wind in my hair and the sun on my face as I waited for a nibble on the line. The adrenaline spike and subsequent contentment that came when I caught that single fish was a feeling more enticing than all the pride I’d previously felt from corporate domination.

Long into the night, I pondered. By the time I fell asleep, I’d completely forgotten to celebrate the fact that the berry hadn’t made me sick.

I had, however, reached a conclusion.

There were many things I desired in this second life of mine, but I could reduce them to two key deliverables: genuine interactions with others, and as much fishing as humanly possible.