The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. He stirred, opening his eyes to a canopy of towering trees and faint sunlight filtering through. He remembered his name, his name was Ciaran. Disoriented, he blinked several times, his thoughts swirling with confusion. Where was he? And how did he get here?


    The last thing he remembered was the crushing weight of despair. The memory was blurry, but he could still feel the cold steel pressed against his neck. Then—nothing. Now, he was here, wherever here was.


    He sat up slowly, his hands sinking into the cool, soft moss beneath him. Around him, the forest stretched endlessly, a maze of shadows and tangled branches. The occasional rustle of leaves or distant birdcall only deepened the eerie silence. Unease prickled at the back of his neck. This place felt alive, as if it were watching him.


    He stumbled to his feet, his legs weak and unsteady. His gaze darted around, searching for something—anything—that might give him answers. Hours passed as he wandered through the dense forest, calling out into the void. But no one answered. The growing darkness of the evening brought a creeping sense of dread.


    When the first stars began to appear, he heard it. A low, guttural growl broke the stillness. His body froze, his breath catching in his throat. The sound came again, closer this time, accompanied by the crunch of leaves. He turned slowly, his heart pounding in his chest.


    Emerging from the shadows was a figure—or what used to be one. Its flesh hung in loose, rotting patches, and its lifeless eyes glowed faintly. The creature staggered forward, snarling as it fixed its gaze on him. A zombie.


    Panic surged through him. He stumbled back, his instincts screaming at him to run. The zombie lunged, and he bolted, adrenaline pumping through his veins. The forest blurred around him as he sprinted, branches scratching his arms and face. Behind him, the shuffling footsteps grew louder, joined by more growls. They were multiplying.


    The trees suddenly ended, and he skidded to a stop. His chest heaved as he stared at the cliff before him. The drop was steep, disappearing into an abyss of shadows. He turned, his back against the edge, as the zombies emerged from the treeline. Their growls filled the air, their numbers growing as more staggered into view.


    Cornered.


    His legs trembled, his chest tightening as hopelessness washed over him. He closed his eyes, preparing for the inevitable. The growls grew louder, and he felt the vibration of their footsteps through the ground.


    Then, a sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by a wet thud. He opened his eyes just in time to see the lead zombie collapse, an arrow lodged in its skull. Another whistle, another arrow, and another zombie fell. One by one, they were taken down with precise, lethal shots.


    From the shadows of the forest, a figure stepped into view, their bow held ready. They held a bow, their movements calm and deliberate. The faint glow from their chest illuminated their tattered robes and scarred face. Ciaran stared, too stunned to speak.


    “You’re lucky I found you,” the figure said, their voice low but steady. “If I hadn’t, you’d be one of them by now.”


    Ciaran swallowed hard, his legs still trembling. “Who… who are you?” he managed to whisper.


    “I’m Feyth,” they replied, slinging the bow over their shoulder. Their glowing chest pulsed faintly, casting eerie shadows. “And you? You’re about to learn how to survive.”


    Ciaran stared at the outstretched hand Feyth offered him. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out and took it. Feyth pulled him to his feet, their grip firm and steady.


    “Stay close,” Feyth said, glancing toward the dark forest. “This world isn’t kind to the unprepared. First, we’ll head back to my place. Then, I’ll show you how to fight.”


    With no other choice, Ciaran followed. The cliff faded into the distance as they disappeared into the forest. The road ahead was filled with danger, but for the first time, a flicker of determination lit within him. Whatever this world demanded of him, he would survive.


    ---


    The forest was darker than ever as they trudged through it. Feyth moved with practiced ease, their bow always ready. Ciaran tried to keep up, his footsteps clumsy on the uneven ground. The occasional snap of a twig or rustle of leaves made his heart race, but Feyth seemed unbothered.


    After what felt like hours, they reached a small clearing. At its center stood a modest shelter made of wood and stone. A faint light flickered from within, casting long shadows that danced across the forest floor.


    Feyth gestured for Ciaran to follow. “This is my base,” they said, pushing open the heavy wooden door. Inside, the room was sparse but functional. A small fire crackled in a stone hearth, and shelves lined the walls, holding an assortment of tools, weapons, and strange glowing items.


    Ciaran’s eyes widened as he took it all in. “You built all this?” he asked, his voice tinged with awe.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Feyth nodded. “You’ll learn to do the same. Surviving here isn’t just about fighting; it’s about preparation. Tools, shelter, weapons, armor—everything you need to stay alive. For now, though, you should rest. The night is safe here, but tomorrow brings its own challenges.


    The morning light filtered through the cracks in the shelter’s walls as Ciaran woke up. For a brief moment, he thought it had all been a terrible dream—the zombies, the endless forest, Feyth. But as his eyes adjusted, the reality of the room around him confirmed otherwise. This was real.


    Feyth was sitting by the fire, carefully sharpening a dagger. They glanced at Ciaran. “You’re awake. Good,” they said. “No use lying around. We have work to do.”


    Ciaran sat up, rubbing his temples. “So, this world… what is it?” he asked hesitantly.


    Feyth’s gaze turned distant for a moment before they spoke. “This is Terralune,” they said, their voice heavy with sorrow. “Once, it was a world of beauty and joy. But that was before the creature came. Its name… cannot be spoken. Its arrival brought darkness and chaos. It destroyed everything we knew.”


    Ciaran’s breath caught as he listened. Feyth’s words painted a grim picture. “What happened to the people?” he asked.


    Feyth’s expression hardened. “Most of them died, or hidehide. Scattered across the land, the live trying to survive. Some fight back, but it’s not enough. Not yet.”


    The fire crackled softly as silence hung between them. Feyth finally looked back at Ciaran. “What about you?“


    Ciaran tensed. He couldn’t tell Feyth the truth—that he was from another world entirely. It would only raise more questions, questions he wasn’t ready to answer. “I don’t remember much,” he lied. “Just fragments. It’s all… blurry.”


    Feyth studied him for a moment, their expression unreadable, but they didn’t press further. “Then we’ll focus on what’s ahead,” they said simply. “Get ready. Today, you start learning how to survive.”


    ---


    Feyth walked over to a nearby shelf and pulled out three items, placing them carefully on the table in front of Ciaran. “Here,” Feyth said, gesturing to the tools. “A copper sword, a copper pickaxe, and a copper axe. Basic tools, but they’ll serve you well for now.”


    Ciaran picked up the sword first, its weight solid but manageable in his hand. “These are for me?” he asked.


    Feyth nodded. “You’ll need them. The axe is for cutting down trees. The pickaxe will help you gather stone and minerals. And the sword? Well, that one’s self-explanatory.”


    Ciaran looked at the tools, then back at Feyth. “What do I do first?”


    “Start with the trees,” Feyth said, leading him outside. The forest loomed just beyond the clearing, its thick trunks and tangled branches casting long shadows. Feyth pointed to a nearby tree. “Cut it down. Swing at the base until it falls. It’ll take some effort, but you’ll get the hang of it.”


    Ciaran hesitated, then stepped up to the tree, gripping the axe tightly. He swung awkwardly at first, the blade glancing off the bark. Feyth watched silently, offering no help but observing intently. Gradually, Ciaran found a rhythm, his swings growing stronger and more precise. The tree creaked and groaned before toppling with a loud crash. As it hit the ground, it shimmered faintly and magically broke itself into neatly cut pieces of wood. Ciaran stared at the sight, confusion flickering across his face, but he quickly schooled his expression. He couldn’t let Feyth suspect anything—after all, he’d claimed to have lost his memories.


    “Not bad,” Feyth said, nodding approvingly. They reached into their pouch and tossed a small, wraist bag toward Ciaran. “Here.”


    Ciaran caught the bag, examining it with a confused expression. He hesitated before asking, “What… exactly do I do with this?”


    Feyth raised an eyebrow but then seemed to remember. “Ah, right. You lost your memories.” They gestured toward the bag. “It’s simple. When you need to collect something, just think about it as you work. The bag will handle the rest. It’s linked to your thoughts, so you don’t need to carry heavy loads yourself.”


    Ciaran nodded slowly, pretending to understand. “Got it.”


    “Now, gather the wood and bring it back inside.”


    Ciaran placed the pieces of wood into the magical waist bag as he thought about gathering them, and to his surprise, they vanished into the bag instantly. He hesitated for a moment, still grappling with the strange mechanics of the bag. With the bag now holding all the wood, he followed Feyth back to the shelter, relieved not to carry the weight physically. Feyth gestured to the sturdy wooden table in the corner. “This is the workbench,” Feyth explained. “You’ll use it to craft items. But there’s a catch.”


    Ciaran raised an eyebrow. “A catch?”


    “You need to have the materials first, and know the recipe of the item you want to make” Feyth said. “Once you have everything you need, place it on the workbench. Then comes the important part: you need to think. Imagine the item you want to create. Picture every detail. The magic in this world will do the rest.”


    Ciaran frowned, skeptical. “That’s it? Just… think about it?”


    “Try it, try to make a wooden sword.” Feyth said, stepping back to give him space.


    Ciaran hesitated, then placed several pieces of wood on the workbench. He closed his eyes, focusing on the image of a simple wooden sword. He imagined its shape, the grain of the wood, the weight and balance it would have. A faint glow emanated from the workbench, and when he opened his eyes, a wooden sword lay before him, its edges sharp enough to look functional despite its simplicity.


    “It worked,” Ciaran whispered, picking up the sword. The wood was smooth and solid, just as he had pictured it.


    Feyth smiled faintly. “Not bad for your first try. Crafting is about precision and imagination. As you gather more materials, you’ll be able to create better tools and weapons. But for now, practice with the basics.”


    Ciaran nodded, a mix of pride and determination settling over him. “What’s next?”


    Feyth’s expression grew serious. “Next, we prepare for the night. The monsters won’t wait, and neither can we.””


    Ciaran nodded, a mix of relief and determination settling over him. Whatever his past, it didn’t matter now. Terralune was his reality, and he had no choice but to face it head-on.