Chapter 5

  As I rested against the cave wall, catching my breath and hoping the pills would not only heal the wound in my leg but also restore some of the mental clarity I was desperately lacking—I felt like I couldn’t even figure out how to fry an egg—a deep blue portal suddenly appeared three feet to my right. The portal shimmered with an outline of electrical energy, shifting through shades from aqua to cobalt, and countless other blues, depending on how I looked at it. It was about four feet wide and seven feet high, oval-shaped.

  Through it, I could see nothing but a swirling, opaque mass, like colored water rolling over a surface. Little dots of light flickered beneath the surface, but the view was completely unclear.

  I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. Sadie had hinted that after my 10th fight, I would be able to leave. I’d won.

  Taking stock of the scattered items around me—everything I hadn’t yet stored in my space—I mentally gathered them together, taking a few deep breaths to steel myself for whatever might lie on the other side of that portal. I briefly thought about swimming, mentally checking off the possibility that I might need to hold my breath, then stepped forward and walked through.

  Surprise, surprise, I was falling again. This time, it was brief, but in a strange sense of relief, I landed in a sizable pond, and—thankfully—I didn’t hit the bottom. I immediately swam to the surface, the water a deep, aqua blue.

  The pond was surrounded on three-quarters of its circumference by steep cliffs, most of which looked natural, with jagged edges and rough rock faces. But at either end of the pond, the cliff walls changed, appearing man-made, crafted from smooth white stone, almost out of place against the wild, natural surroundings. The only break in the walls was an area where the stone receded. Without wasting time, I started swimming toward it, using a slow breaststroke to keep my movement as unobtrusive as possible, in case anyone was watching.

  As I approached, about fifteen feet from the edge of the pond, I finally felt the bottom—a solid stone surface beneath my feet. It was deep enough that I couldn’t see the bottom, but not so deep that I couldn’t feel it. I started walking toward the edge, staying hyper-aware of my surroundings. I paused about seven feet from the shore, surveying the area.

  Beyond the pond, I was looking at a dense, heavily wooded forest. Large oaks dotted the landscape, and in the distance, enormous redwoods loomed, their trunks easily twenty feet across. The oaks appeared to be around three feet wide, but the sheer size of the redwoods stood out, almost otherworldly in their scale.

  I still didn’t know where I was, but I knew one thing for sure—there weren’t many of those massive redwoods left in the U.S. that size. This place felt... different.

  Standing there, my instincts screamed at me to wait. I couldn’t quite place why, but my gut told me to just stay put. After about 45 seconds, I heard a voice off in the distance.

  "Ho, there, adventurer!" came a gruff, mildly deep voice with a heavy German accent.

  Now, I’m not exactly great at distinguishing accents, but after years of video games and movies, you get used to the more distinct ones—Russian, German, Spanish, and the like. Probably all exaggerated, but still recognizable.

  The voice continued, "Are you all right, adventurer? We have a healer in our party if you’re injured. We’re just about to set up camp for the day before entering the dungeon tomorrow. Could you use any help?"

  The man who spoke emerged from the trees to my left, about 40 feet from the water. Following behind him was another man, dressed in white robes, something that resembled a priest’s garb, or perhaps a healer. Behind him was a third figure, wearing dark, edgy clothing. He had a number of daggers strapped to his waist, a thick leather belt with several pouches, and everything about him screamed practicality, designed for quick, efficient movement.

  The man who had spoken to me was wearing an almost full set of knight’s armor, with leather pieces here and there where I assumed it was meant to provide more flexibility and reduce weight. A very long, broad sword was sheathed at his waist. Despite his seemingly friendly demeanor, my instincts were screaming at me that this man had greedy eyes.

  The man in the dark clothing, standing to his right, spoke with a bored tone, "Get out of the water. We’ll get you dried off, and we can even give you a late lunch if you’re hungry. I’m sure you haven’t had a proper meal in who knows how long, being stuck in that dungeon."

  The way he said, “Get out of the water,” set alarm bells ringing in my head. I couldn’t quite place why, but something about it felt wrong, like when someone jinxes a good day by saying, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  I immediately went on high alert, though I didn’t want to show it.

  I stalled by asking, “Is it just the three of you here for the dungeon? Seems like a small crew.”

  The guy who wasn’t the fake priest finally spoke up. "Of course not, child. We have three other companions setting up our campsite. There’s plenty of room for you. We even have room for an additional companion if you want to go back into the dungeon with us for some more rewards. Especially since we plan to be there for about three days, if we can help it.”

  The man who I was mentally calling “Not-a-Priest” had a smarmy expression on his face that irritated me like nails on a chalkboard. Everything about him screamed insincerity. He was trying so hard to appear caring and inviting that I think even Steve, the well-meaning idiot from down the street (who’s remarkably dense, though a genuinely nice guy), would see right through his half-hearted attempts to make me feel at ease.

  I decided I needed to stall for a bit more interaction, while playing up a persona of na?ve helplessness. I forced a relieved look onto my face, coupled with a smile that I hoped would make them think I was buying into their less-than-convincing story.

  "I’m so relieved you guys are here! My foot got stuck in a crack here, and I think I twisted my ankle trying to get it out. Could one of you come help me get it free?"

  All three of them exchanged confused looks, followed by immediate frustration as I shifted my weight, pretending my foot was stuck.

  The lead guy, with the German accent and wearing the armor, tried to mask his irritation with something approximating regret. "I’m sorry, friend. We can’t enter the water. You’re obviously new to the dungeon. People who escape the dungeon have to survive on their own outside of the water. It’s considered a final little test by the dungeon. It won’t allow us to get close to you until you’ve exited the water."

  I could feel the lie in his words. Not that the dungeon wasn’t preventing them from entering the water, but the reason was a complete fabrication. I was fairly certain the dungeon didn’t want people lingering in the water while others tried to pick off or rob new arrivals. The water acted as a safe zone until you left it. That was my take on it, anyway—reading between the lines.

  The guy in dark leather, repeatedly gripped his hand on one of the daggers on his belt. His energy was almost manic, coiled tightly like he was itching to do something but being forced to wait. I noticed the subtle clenching of his jaw, fighting to keep a neutral expression on his face, though his smile seemed forced, like it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  "Well," I said, trying to sound as casual as possible, "I hope you can be patient with me while I work on getting my foot free. As soon as I get out of the water, I’ll need a hand getting to the campsite, if you’re willing. This is my first time in the dungeon, and I don’t have a clue where I’m at. In fact, I don’t even know how I got into the dungeon in the first place."

  The lead guy in armor spoke up again, as if this was no surprise to him. "That’s not unusual at all. In fact, that’s pretty much everyone who finds themselves in the dungeon for the first time. Not many choose to enter the dungeon alone, especially not on their first go."

  That was probably the first thing I actually believed from this guy. The idea of anyone willingly walking into that dungeon on their own for the first time was ridiculous.

  Then I thought of Sadie. She must be an absolute badass.

  I nodded and replied, "That makes a lot of sense to me."

  I purposely didn’t add that I was from a different world—no idea if that was a common occurrence around here or not.

  "Well, that being the case," I continued, "is there any chance I could call out for some help once I make it to the shore? I don't want to keep you guys waiting around on me if you’re still setting things up at camp."

  Mr. Dark Leather replied exactly how I expected. "No, no, we're not in a hurry at all. No sense in making you wait for help once you're out of the water. Besides, there are dangerous beasts around here that might see you as an easy meal. We wouldn’t want to leave you unattended." He said the last part with a creepy inflection, which I pretended to ignore.

  "Well, just give me a few minutes. I'm sure I’ll get myself free," I said, a little frustrated that they wouldn’t just go away.

  At the same time, I made a firm decision: all three of these characters were going to have to die. And Mr. Not a Priest, who was probably a healer if video game mechanics held true in this world, was definitely going to be the first one I took down.

  I wanted to see if I could get the other three people to show up. If they did, it might make it easier to take them out all at once—or at least give me a reason to change my mind if at least three of them proved they weren't on the psycho-killer vibe list.

  Deciding to take charge of the situation, I activated my Clear Mind skill. It was time to organize my thoughts and reassess what I knew about the situation and the individuals in front of me. For all I knew, I could just be making some horrible assumptions based on my prejudices or bad experiences. That would’ve been absolutely true on Earth, but here... things could be very different.

  I felt the cool sensation run down my back and spine, and my mind instantly sharpened and relaxed. The stress melted away. Taking a second look at the three men before me, I could tell—yeah... I hadn’t made assumptions. These guys were rotten to the core. A couple of specific facts clicked into place that I hadn’t put together before.

  First off, they knew this was the exit to the dungeon and had purposely been waiting. That was the first red flag in their story. The second mark was more subtle—they didn’t have any medical supplies, food, or anything resembling an actual helping demeanor, except for maybe Not a Priest, who I was assuming was the healer.

  The third and final mark that sealed my decision was Mr. Dark Leathers and his overeager body language. He kept reaching for the daggers at his belt, the motion almost compulsive, as if he couldn’t resist the urge to touch them. There was a manic edge to his movements, an unsettling frustration that only grew more obvious. With Clear Mind active, I could see the grinding of his teeth, the barely contained frustration at the delay, as if he expected instant gratification and hated the wait.

  If it weren’t for Mr. Patched Metal Armor with the thick German accent, I might have believed the story they were spinning. But everything else—the way they carried themselves, the tension in the air—told me what I needed to know.

  I made my decision. My strategy was set, as clear as it had ever been whenever I used a skill. This was going to end quickly, one way or another.

  Over the next few minutes, while they stood there, not quite impatient but clearly uncomfortable, I continued to act the part. I stood up a few times, wiggling my foot as if trying to free it from the crack in the ground, then reaching down into the water, letting my arms soak up to the shoulders, even dunking my head a little to work the foot free. I made sure to appear frustrated myself, doing my best to look like I was exhausted by my efforts, the act normalizing the motion. The idea was to make it seem like just another routine dive, so when I came up the third time, I’d have my bow and an arrow in hand. A quiet surprise for them.

  When I surfaced, I drew the arrow with a quickness I barely knew I had. A sharp inhale, and I launched an ice arrow straight for Mr. Not-a-Priest.

  The shot didn’t land perfectly. My aim was off just a fraction, and instead of hitting him square in the face, the arrow grazed the side of his neck.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  It didn’t matter. The arrow still connected, and within moments, the freezing frost spread outward, encasing him in a shimmering, icy grip. His body spasmed for a split second, and then he flopped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut—his movements locked in ice.

  I didn’t waste a second. I sprinted toward the shore, ignoring the burn in my muscles as the cold water splashed up to my thighs. A few feet in, I hit solid ground and surged forward, making a beeline for the nearest tree. I was panting slightly, but the adrenaline had taken over. I mentally retrieved one of the throwing stars I’d earned in the dungeon and thought about how to use it on Mr. Dark Leathers.

  None of them had introduced themselves. Not that I expected it. The unspoken assumption was clear: we wouldn’t need names. They’d kill me, take my stuff, and vanish into the night.

  Just a few feet from the tree, I pivoted, sensing a movement behind me. A knife sliced through the air, missing me by inches. I dodged to the right, pressing my left hand against the trunk of the tree. I felt it grounding me, steadying my next move. The second I turned to face them, I readjusted my grip on the throwing star, now more of a shuriken in my hand. I released it with a practiced flick, and it flew straight for Mr. Dark Leathers, catching the inside seam of his pants.

  The blade sliced clean through, leaving a deep wound. Blood started pouring out, and he immediately dropped to the ground, screaming, "Gaaaa damn it! I can't believe he got me! Fred, he's a damn dungeon sprout! He shouldn’t even know how to tie his own shoes! Gaaaa damn it!"

  I could see Fred—aka the patched armor guy—slow his pace, noticing how tired I looked. His expression turned even colder, more predatory, and his voice dropped into a threatening growl.

  "You’d better have a bunch of gold or something worth it," he said, every word dripping with menace. "Otherwise, I’m gonna make sure this takes a long time. Do you have any idea how expensive it is to get a healer in this area, with the moral flexibility I need? I’ll get gouged for an astronomical share of the profit!"

  I grinned, despite the situation. "I’m surprised you don’t care more about your rogue-looking friend," I shot back, a bit of cheeky inflection in my voice.

  "Dale can rot in hell for all I care," Fred muttered, a bitter edge in his voice. "Keeps getting all the good barmaids by overpaying. Well, some of us have bills to pay back home." He shouted the last part over his shoulder.

  "Besides," he continued, his tone shifting, "if you've got even a single item from the dungeon on you, I won't have to go into that hellhole myself. And with James and Dale gone, it'll be a sweet, sweet haul."

  A cruel grin twisted Fred's face as he closed in, his voice dripping with malice.

  "It’s just a small problem with your plan, Fred," I said, keeping my tone steady. "You’re definitely going to die in the next few moments."

  Fred's grin only deepened, his confidence unwavering. "You think I'm not ready for your bow and arrow?" he sneered, his voice mocking. "I've got treated steel armor. Your arrows won’t even leave a scratch. Get ready to taste my blade."

  Now, here’s where some idiots go the extra mile to make things even harder for themselves, by pointing out the obvious solution to their problem. They end up giving the bad guy just enough time to make that solution useless—because they can't stand by, calm and collected, and let the traditional hero take the easy win.

  I didn’t hesitate. I drew my bow, nocked an arrow, and released it straight into Fred’s chest—right where his lungs or heart should’ve been. Just as I’d expected, the arrow buried itself deep, stopping only when the fletching barely touched his skin.

  Fred jerked to a stop, his face frozen in a mix of shock and disbelief. His eyes dropped to the arrow sticking out of his chest, and for a moment, he just stared at it, like he couldn’t quite process what had just happened. Then, his brow furrowed, and his lips parted as if to say something, but only one word came out. His voice was thick with confusion and frustration, like he couldn't quite believe his own body was betraying him.

  "What?"

  The word hung in the air, and then, with one last, ragged breath, he collapsed forward, face-first into the dirt.

  I couldn’t help but feel a wave of annoyance rush over me. Damn it. I really liked that arrow.

  It had been the chisel arrow—designed specifically to pierce through armor and enchantments. The only one I had. Now, I would have to go searching for another, but considering this encounter, it had been worth every cent even if it cost me a pile of gold.

  As Fred hit the ground, the force snapped the shaft, rendering it useless.

  I muttered under my breath as I leaned against the tree to catch my breath. "Damn it." The adrenaline was still coursing through me, but I could feel the tension begin to ease as my Clear Mind skill deactivated.

  In that moment, the flood of emotions hit me like a tidal wave. It wasn’t that I had suppressed them—it was just that my mind had compartmentalized everything, giving me space to act without being overwhelmed. But now, without that shield, all the weight of what I’d just done came rushing back.

  Did they have families? Was this the right choice? Am I going to go to prison? I can’t believe I killed them.

  As one would expect from my first time killing a human being, I promptly leaned against the tree and emptied my stomach. In this case, there wasn’t much in there—just some water, mostly.

  I knew I couldn’t stay there forever, though. These men had made it clear they had more waiting for me at their camp—unless they were lying, of course. I decided to take them at their word, though, not knowing if it was some sort of dungeon mechanic or something else entirely. I moved towards the body of the man in patched armor. Yes, I was avoiding using their names.

  As soon as I touched his armor, a faint glow surrounded it, and it began to fade into transparency before completely disappearing with a flash. Left behind was a scattering of items, just like in the dungeon, perfectly intact.

  Among the loot was an armored chest plate, similar to what the man had been wearing, as well as a brand-new metal helmet. There were also a pair of high-quality boots and leather gloves, decorated with filigree on the backsides—clearly crafted with some care.

  I decided to hold off on inspecting the items right away, mainly because I wasn’t sure if the other three might show up soon. Instead, I moved to store everything one by one. First, I took Mr. Leathers' gear, then Mr. Not-a-Priest’s. On the first two bodies, I found coin pouches and a few other supplies. Mr. Leathers had a gaudy ring, while Mr. Not-a-Priest’s pouch was stuffed mostly with coppers and silvers, though there were a few gold coins mixed in.

  Looking around to make sure I hadn’t left any evidence of the fight behind, I slowly made my way toward where Mr. Patched Armor had come out of the woods. I veered off slightly from what would have been a straight path to whatever camp he came from, moving deeper into the forest. The air was still, the only sound the occasional rustle of leaves—until I heard light laughter from a very pretty voice, edged with a cruel undertone. Accompanying it was the soft strum of a stringed instrument.

  My energy was nearly depleted at this point, and I knew I had maybe an hour left before sleep would become a necessity. But I was determined to follow through. I needed to see this through, to prove to myself that these people were as horrible as I suspected.

  Then the person playing the instrument spoke, his voice whiny. "George, are you ever going to stop fiddling with that meal and let me eat? You've been working on it for almost an hour."

  A deep, smooth voice came from somewhere on the opposite side of the camp. "It's delicate meat. It's a long process to get it right. I told you before I started that it needs to soak in milk for at least half an hour. I’m not going to waste the opportunity to season it properly. After all the time I spent grilling it, there are just some spices you don’t add before it’s done cooking. Besides, most of the work’s in the sauce. If you add too much too soon, you ruin it. Turns from savory to downright disgusting."

  The girl spoke up again, and this time her voice was clear.

  "Just feed him some potato or fried scraps to hold him over. You know he doesn't care about quality. He smokes too much to even taste it properly. And by the way, even I’m getting frustrated with how long this is taking."

  The deep voice responded with a touch of irritation. "You're not the one who shelled out three gold for this perfect cut of meat. I'm going to take as much damn time as I please to make it perfect."

  Mr. Whiny Voice spoke again, his tone dripping with irritation as if he had to have the last word. "Juan, at least give me something to snack on to keep me busy. Waiting for the others is driving me insane. If we don't have to go to the dungeon, or worse, pick off some hip-squeak like last time, I want to know. I hate the dungeon," he said, the words laced with pure venom.

  The girl responded, her voice sharp and dripping with contempt. "It’s not nearly as bad as you make it out to be. It’s not like you have to do any of the fighting. All you do is strum that damn loot and take an unreasonable cut of the profits for it. If anyone deserves a bigger share, it’s the one keeping the goblins coming so we don’t have to spend days tracking them down." Her words were laced with a biting sarcasm, and she didn’t bother hiding her disdain.

  At this point, I had heard enough to solidify my decision. These three were beyond redemption—worthless, selfish, and cruel. They weren’t even worth the air they were breathing. And it was clear to me that Mr. Chef, the one orchestrating this whole circus of a camp, needed to go first.

  I made my move as quietly as possible, slipping around the camp at a painfully slow pace. Every step was a careful calculation, my senses heightened, my mind focused on the task ahead. The last thing I wanted was to alert them to my presence before I was ready.

  I’d already used my skill five times today, and I had no idea when it would reset. I couldn’t rely on it again soon, so I had to make every move count.

  As I crept along the edges of the camp, I finally caught a glimpse of the chef’s work area. It was impressive, in a twisted sort of way—an entire table stacked with supplies and cooking equipment, with a pile of knives placed neatly beside him.

  He was a man of process, that much was clear. He would walk to one side of the table, chop something, then cross over to the other side to mix something in a bowl. Back and forth. Back and forth. He never stayed in one place for more than a few seconds, his movements calculated but almost mechanical in nature. I found myself momentarily mesmerized by the complexity of his routine, even though it was nothing more than a display of his obsessive nature.

  Shaking myself from the daze, I silently cursed under my breath. Time was wasting. I couldn’t afford to just watch him work.

  I had a clear line of sight on Mr. Chef and the girl with the pretty but cruel voice, but I couldn’t see the guy with the whiny voice playing the instrument. He’d been the loudest and most irritating of the bunch, but he was currently hidden behind the cooking setup.

  I’d have to act fast—fire two arrows, and then rush in to take care of the whiny bastard before he had a chance to escape. It would be a gamble, but it was the only play I had left.

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, I pulled back on the bow, an ice arrow notched and ready. I wasn’t about to give Mr. Chef a single chance to fight back. The man was a mountain of muscle—dark-skinned, bald, with meaty arms that looked like they could crush stone. He stood at least 7 feet tall. If I didn’t take him out now, I’d be in serious trouble.

  Miss Pretty Voice was almost skeletal, dressed in a red dress with black trim that seemed wildly out of place for someone out camping or preparing for a dungeon dive. I could barely stomach looking at her. As she glanced sideways for a split second, I got a good look at her face.

  It looked like she’d been the victim of a joke—one of those insults about being dropped as a baby. No, scratch that. She had clearly been thrown at a wall. Hard. Her features were unkempt, like she’d been through a fight with a rock, and her expression was worse. She wore a sneer, a permanent distortion of whatever she thought passed for a smile, that made her uglier than her face could ever hope to achieve

  .

  I focused on the task at hand, narrowing my vision on the mountain of a man.

  Without another thought, I pulled back the string and let the ice arrow fly, timing it just as Mr. Chef took another step to the far side of his table, preparing for his next chopping session. The arrow struck him low, right into the soft flesh of his abdomen, and immediately, the air around him seemed to chill.

  His hand froze before he could even reach down to grasp the arrow. Ice spread out from the wound, creeping quickly across his stomach and down his legs. His face twisted in frustration as he screamed, "Bollocks!"

  Before he could do anything else, he tilted backward out of sight, the sound of cracking ice following him like a death rattle.

  I didn’t wait to savor it. The second arrow was already mid-flight, and it found its mark—just left of the spine on Miss Pretty Voice’s form. The impact knocked her sideways. She tried to get her feet under her, but they betrayed her, and she crumpled to the ground with a desperate scramble, struggling to push herself upright, though it was clear she wouldn’t be able to.

  But that wasn’t the real surprise.

  A shadow darted to the side—one of them was running. The whiny idiot who’d been playing the stringed instrument, now bolting for the edge of the camp. I had no intention of letting him get away.

  The short, squat man was wearing an obnoxious orange winky hat on his head as he sprinted through the camp. His feet pounded the ground, but the string instrument he was carrying seemed to be slowing him down, bouncing awkwardly with each step.

  I took a steadying breath, drawing one of my last regular arrows, and lined up my shot. The first arrow flew, finding its mark at the back of his head, straight into his eye. The speed at which I launched it left no room for error. The other two arrows followed immediately, hitting him in the back as he was still falling, one after the other. It was over in a matter of seconds.

  I exhaled, wiping sweat from my brow, my body still tense and ready for whatever might come next.

  Crouching low, I began moving toward the camp, keeping my eyes peeled for any signs of life. I only saw movement from the ugly woman—her arms flailing as she tried to reach for something, still barely alive. I couldn't risk leaving her to suffer or get away, so I drew my last arrow, aimed, and fired it directly into her chest. The shot ended her struggles quickly.

  Turning back to the area where Mr. Chef had been cooking, I saw his body scattered in more than six pieces. It was a grisly sight, his vacant eyes staring off into the distance, devoid of life. Despite the carnage, I found myself oddly impressed by what he had been preparing. The meat he’d been cooking was perfectly done, glistening under the firelight, surrounded by various sauces and vegetables simmering over a small flame.

  I couldn’t afford to linger, though. I had to keep moving. I removed the meat from the fire and began the grim task of looting their bodies.

  At this point, I was on the verge of collapsing, exhaustion creeping in. I needed to gather as much as I could before I passed out and hoped the morning would bring some clarity. Using my storage skill, I started grabbing anything in sight. Part of it was a test to see how much I could actually fit in my storage, but I was surprised at how much room there still was. I hadn’t even reached 10% capacity, and the amount of stuff around me was staggering.

  There were six massive chests, each packed with who-knows-what, but I didn’t bother looking through them. I focused on the table where Mr. Chef had been working, piling up all the utensils, pots, and ingredients. There were also more knives sticking out of a tree, left there as if Mr. Chef had taken to practicing his knife-throwing skills while cooking. I grabbed all of them, too. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to end up being a hoarder, but I couldn’t help myself. Every bit of loot was worth it.

  I grabbed five of the tents, along with all the furniture and gear inside them, stacking everything I could carry into my storage. The short guy’s loot didn’t escape my notice either. If I was going to be stuck in this world, I figured I might as well start learning how to make the most of it, just like I used to play my guitar back home whenever I had the time.

  As for the loot from the bodies, there wasn’t much to be had. The woman had left behind a stiletto blade, a decent pile of silver coins, and a bracelet—or was it an anklet? It was a mix of polished stones and metals, adorned with rune-like markings that were unlike anything I’d seen before. There were over thirty different types of stone and metal woven into its design, a strange but beautiful thing.

  If I had even an ounce of mental energy left, I might’ve used my Inspect skill to learn more about it. But I was drained—utterly spent. So I just stuffed it into my storage with the rest of the loot I’d taken from the other bodies, deciding to deal with it later.

  With a heavy sigh, I made my way to the last remaining tent. I emptied everything out except for the cot and tucked it all safely away in storage. The cot itself didn’t look much better than a pile of sticks with fabric thrown over it, but it was the best I was going to get for the night. I collapsed onto it, my head hitting what might’ve been the most uncomfortable pillow in existence. It didn’t matter. I was out before I even had the chance to pull the covers over myself.