POV: Ulah

  My stomach hurts…

  My stomach hurts so much…

  I struggled out of the outdoor bathroom, writhing in pain. It wasn’t just the physical agony—an unbearable thirst clawed at my throat while an emptiness gnawed at my insides.

  So hungry…

  Forcing myself upright, I clutched my belly as a fresh wave of pain rippled through me. It felt as though something was moving inside.

  I lifted my shirt and inspected my stomach. Faint scars from childhood falls marked my dark skin, but nothing else seemed unusual.

  The unsettling sensation persisted, shifting beneath my ribs, yet I saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Was it the bread roll? Or did I eat something bad?

  “Mommy…” I tried to call out, though even speaking hurt.

  Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to stand and pushed open the wooden door. It creaked loudly, its sound sharp in the quiet night as bugs scattered in alarm.

  I staggered toward the house, each step slow and unsteady, like an old man leaning on a cane.

  The bathroom was just behind the house—only two meters away—but it felt much farther.

  My feet dragged through tall, uncut grass. It was longer than usual.

  Did Mom forget to cut it this week? She always used a machete, and I could picture her, gripping a handful of grass and slicing it cleanly—over and over—unless her cutlass had dulled.

  A sharp pang twisted my gut. So hungry…

  My breath came in shallow gasps as I stepped on something small and hard—a wooden toy pyramid.

  I recognized it immediately; it resembled a pyramid communicator. I stepped past it, thinking that once my stomach stopped hurting, I’d ask Mister Paul if it belonged to Jenny. He’d made one just like it for her.

  Maybe he’d make one for me too… this time?

  I hesitated.

  “Tell your father to give me my damn money!” That was what he had shouted the last time I asked.

  I’d thought my father had hired him to build a cabinet, yet he never paid him. It didn’t make sense—Dad usually built everything himself. So why ask for a cabinet?

  I remembered the day Paul stormed into the house, machete in hand, demanding his money. People had gathered, watching and whispering:

  "Caren, just give the man his bloody money."

  "Paul’s too nice. If it were me, I’d have fucked you up already."

  "Paul is too stupid to do a job for Caren of all people."

  Mom said nothing. She never did when drama unfolded. Her face remained blank and unreadable. She only checked on Vernisha before leaving to fish with Palia and Mary.

  A wave of dizziness washed over me. So hungry…

  Mom had told me she hadn’t brought back any fish because they sold well in Portrum—but she was probably lying.

  Maybe she saved some…

  Maybe she preserved some for tomorrow…

  Maybe…

  Right now, I would eat or drink anything.

  I reached the back of the house and slumped against it, leaning heavily on the wooden wall. With the little strength I had left, I forced myself along the side, dragging my feet toward the front.

  “Mom…”

  POV: Vernisha

  I floated in shifting darkness, enveloped by a pulsating, twisting fog that seemed almost alive.

  I hated this dream. I longed for something better—something like the clean, clear dreams I had back on Earth.

  How strange… I wonder how this mind works. I was about twenty-one when I died on Earth—or rather, when I took my own life. I suppose I hadn’t had a good reason. I was sure that when my family and old friends found out, they would have reacted with shock and disbelief.

  “You’re lying… No way Nelle took all those pills.”

  “But why? She was never involved in anything odd. No children, no abusive boyfriend, no drugs, nothing.”

  It all seemed so ironic.

  I had nothing to look forward to—not even simple interactions with others. Life, as I knew it, was a series of fading connections.

  In high school, I was close with all my friends, excited at the prospect of going to the same college. But different majors meant never sharing the same classes, and when classes didn’t overlap, conversations on WhatsApp slowed and eventually died.

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  Friends became acquaintances. Acquaintances became strangers.

  Making new friends was the obvious thing to do, but I lacked the drive. I hated studying economics, and that animosity seeped into everything about that college.

  Once a class ended, I moved on to the next; when all classes were finished, I hurriedly left campus.

  I would take a taxi home, toss my clothes onto the living room couches—maybe even consider cleaning that stubborn watermelon flavored Kool-Aid stain on the armrest—and then collapse onto my bed, sweaty and indifferent.

  I’d turn on the AC, take a nap, wake up to do some homework, scroll through TikTok until boredom set in, then switch to Webtoon to read my favorite series only to feel nothing. I’d check Royal Road, Ronobes, or whatever pirate sites hosted novels, only to realize I had no energy to read.

  I’d try watching Invincible, then give up; attempt a random anime, then give up; or rewatch a nostalgic series like Adventure Time or Teen Titans—nothing stuck.

  Nothing brought joy. Nothing sparked excitement.

  Even the food I once loved tasted bland, and my favorite YouTuber, MoistCr1TiKaL, now seemed unbearably dull.

  I had no desire for anything.

  At first, I thought it was just a bad day. But the emptiness lingered—weeks, even months. I couldn’t see any reason to keep going.

  So, I overdosed on painkillers.

  I cracked open the pill bottle, poured some pills into my hand, and stared at them. Anxiety mounted as I tried to talk myself out of it, but soon I gave in. I swallowed the pills and lay on my bed, waiting—waiting for my breath to slow, for my heart to beat erratically and sluggishly.

  The loss of consciousness, then cardiac arrest.

  What a pathetic way to go out, I suppose. But what do you know? For some reason, I got reincarnated as a baby in a fantasy world.

  I didn’t believe in random luck, but I also didn’t care enough to question it.

  Anyway, the dream finally faded. The shifting darkness dissolved, and I woke up.

  I stared at the ceiling—I couldn’t see it in the dark, but I knew I was facing upward.

  My stomach hurt.

  I sat up, but the pain surged, forcing me to stop. It felt as though I were being kicked from the inside.

  What the hell?

  I paused and looked around. “Ulah?”

  I didn’t want to use my healing skill just to find out he was secretly awake, watching.

  No response. As expected, if he was fast asleep.

  I lightly kicked the space behind me—his usual sleeping spot.

  He believed that if a monster ever sneaked in, sleeping behind me would let him escape while I got eaten first.

  What a cruel child.

  But I have to admit, it was funny when he explained his reasoning.

  I moved blindly through the darkness, reaching for his blanket. At least it wasn’t wet with sweat—or worse. But where the hell had he gone?

  The stomach pain worsened.

  Holy shit! Maybe I shouldn’t have said I was glad I didn’t have my period yet. Is this karma?

  This was worse than anything I’d felt back on Earth. Back then, the pain was so excruciating I always needed painkillers.

  I coated my left hand with a red healing aura and pressed it against my lower abdomen. The faint glow flickered in the room, like a firefly struggling to stay alight in the vast darkness. The pain didn’t subside quickly; it lingered for what felt like tens of minutes before finally beginning to dull.

  That meant the source wasn’t natural.

  Years ago, I’d tested this power and learned that while it aided recovery, it didn’t stop muscle contractions—unless those contractions were caused by some damage or malfunction, I supposed.

  I left the bedroom and moved toward the kitchen. The wooden floor creaked under my steps.

  My foot caught on pens and notebooks Ulah had left scattered across the floor. The room was dark, but I relied on memory.

  There were five decent wooden chairs—one resting against the right wall of the living room, another against the left. The three others…

  I slammed my shin against the dinner table’s leg.

  Hissing through my teeth, I ran my fingers over the faded red table runner. Its green color had nearly vanished, worn by time and use.

  A merchant from Laskdar City had brought it here, selling off old junk to the villages. Caren bought it for a steal—two bronze pints kind of cheap.

  One bronze pint less than a hamburger from Sundawn, the capital.

  I used the table as a guide, moving toward the kitchen. The woven, oil-treated basket near the edge signaled my destination—the place where all the dishware was kept.

  Stretching up, I felt along the face of the small cabinet mounted above the basket.

  My fingers traced the wood until they met the knob at the center. With a small swing, the cabinet door creaked open.

  I reached for the last shelf, searching for a small, airtight wooden bottle containing grated Hula fruit—dried for preservation.

  Unscrewing the cap, I sprinkled a light amount into my palm and tossed it into my mouth.

  Gross!

  The bitterness was immediate and overwhelming. My stomach twisted as I forced myself to swallow, suppressing the urge to gag. A violent cough escaped me, sending flecks of spittle flying.

  That bread…

  Some fucker must have poisoned it. Or maybe it was just made with shit.

  Hopefully, it’s just my piece that was spoiled.

  A sudden creaking sound broke the silence—a door opening. I turned toward it, ears straining. Footsteps followed.

  Was someone going outside to use the washroom?

  I reached for the blu-dust on the second shelf. It rested on a small metal plate, and I carefully held its edge to prevent it from tipping over.

  I spat onto the blue sand and watched as it reacted—sizzling like water on hot oil. A few sparks flickered before a small but steady blue flame flared to life.

  The dim light stretched shadows across the room, warping them into eerie, elongated figures. In its glow, I saw the figure that had entered—Ulah.

  He was hunched over, clutching his stomach, groaning in pain.

  “Your stomach hurts too?” I asked as I grabbed the container of grated Hula fruit and moved toward him.

  His voice came out weak and strained. “Who’s that…? Vernisha?”

  “Yeah. I think the bread was spoiled. My stomach felt like shit too.”

  I hesitated, remembering how he always reacted to Hula—he wouldn’t simply spit it out; he’d vomit.

  “Give me a second.” I turned and headed for the basket of fruit sitting in the middle of the dinner table. My fingers found the largest pink-terra—a half-ripe, pink, wrinkled apple.

  There were other fruits, like moonpaes and C-shaped grapes that tasted like a mix between watermelon and cherry, but those wouldn’t help.

  “What’re you doing?” Ulah asked, his voice tight with discomfort.

  “Getting something to make you feel better.”

  He fell silent for a few seconds, then groaned, “I’m hungry… and thirsty.”

  “I know, I know. You’ll get something to eat soon.”

  I steadied the dried Hula container in my armpit, freeing my hand. As I walked toward him, I split the pink-terra in two.

  A thin stream of white juice trickled down my fingers, dripping onto the floor.

  Scooping a thumbnail’s worth of grated Hula, I pressed it between the halves before closing them together.

  “Eat this. It’ll help.”

  Ulah snatched it greedily and devoured it without hesitation.

  Strange… he usually asks why it’s already open. Or at least complains.

  Pink-terra was his favorite—mostly because he liked being different: "Wow, you guys hate this? But it’s so good!"

  Its bitter taste masked other flavors well, making it perfect for slipping in medicine.

  A new sound cut through the quiet.

  “Why are you two up?” Natasha asked.

  She and Caren usually slept in the living room.

  I turned slightly. “Ulah’s feeling sick, so I was just—”

  “I’m hungry…” Ulah’s voice came out hoarse, like a man with a wounded throat struggling to speak.

  “Eat everything first, and… I’ll get you something else.”

  That was a lie. There was nothing left to eat except vegetables and fruit.

  Natasha approached. “Since when is he hungry at night?” she asked, then shifted her gaze to him. “Didn’t you eat all your lunch?”

  Ulah hugged his stomach and squatted in pain. “I’m hungry. I’m hungry…”

  “Hey. Hey.” I rubbed his back, trying to calm him. “You’ll get something to eat soon.”

  “Oh…”

  “Yeah, so just wait a little.”

  He said nothing for a while, then grabbed my left arm and stared at it.

  “What is it? You like my fingernail paintings?” I asked. He had done them one boring afternoon.

  Instead of answering, he sank his teeth deep into my forearm.

  Pain shot through me.

  Sharp. Sharp teeth!