The forest was waking up.

  Basil’s breath came steady as he scanned the trees, heart still hammering from the fight. The goblin’s body still lay motionless behind him, its blood already sinking into the earth. But something gnawed at his nerves—an instinctive sense that he wasn’t alone.

  Then he heard it. The crunch of movement. Low chattering. More of them.

  Basil tightened his grip on his hatchet. He wasn’t sure how many there were, but the way the sounds shifted, they weren’t just wandering. They were surrounding him.

  A growl rolled through the trees, followed by sharp, guttural yips. Then, in a blur of movement, they charged.

  Six, maybe seven, sprinting out of the underbrush, crude weapons in hand. No hesitation, no testing his defenses—they were trying to overwhelm him.

  The first was fast, dagger flashing. Basil sidestepped, but the goblin twisted mid-air, slashing at his side. He barely avoided a deep cut, the blade scraping his hoodie. He lashed out with his hatchet, but the goblin hopped back, snarling.

  The others were already on him.

  Basil backed up, raising his weapon, but there was no time to think. Another goblin swung a rusted cleaver. He barely dodged—his foot slipped on damp leaves, balance faltering. The blade whizzed past his shoulder.

  A third goblin lunged, short spear aimed for his chest.

  Basil twisted, pain flaring in his ribs as the wooden shaft scraped against them. Before the goblin could recover, he slammed his hatchet down.

  A crunch. The goblin dropped, gurgling.

  But he’d overcommitted—another foe was already mid-strike.

  Basil raised his arm just in time—pain exploded as a jagged knife slashed across his forearm. Not deep, but enough to make him stagger.

  His back hit a tree. Trapped.

  The goblins grinned, yellow teeth flashing. They sensed the kill.

  Think. Move.

  Then he saw it—a crude spear lying beside a fallen goblin.

  A split-second decision. He kicked it up into his hand, dropping the hatchet. The moment his fingers closed around the rough wooden shaft, something clicked.

  The reach. The angle. The control.

  A goblin lunged—Basil thrust forward.

  The spear pierced through its gut. A pained shriek. He twisted the weapon free and stepped back, forcing another goblin to hesitate.

  This weapon was better. This was his.

  Another came at him, swinging wildly. He ducked, his spear snapping up—a sharp jab to the throat. It choked, stumbling back. Another rushed in, blade raised—Basil spun the spear and drove the butt of it into the goblin’s skull.

  One by one, they fell.

  Until only one remained.

  The last goblin was different.

  It had waited. Studied him.

  Its knuckles whitened around its weapon—a jagged saber.

  Then it charged.

  It wasn’t wild like the others. It was fast. Too fast.

  Basil barely parried the first strike. His arms shook from the impact. He tried to stab, but the goblin sidestepped, slashing at his side.

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  Pain.

  Basil gasped, staggering. Blood soaked his hoodie.

  The goblin grinned.

  It lunged again.

  Basil reacted. He lifted his spear—but too slow. He couldn’t dodge.

  The goblin’s blade came down—

  And it slipped.

  Its foot landed on a fallen goblin’s corpse, rolling on the slick blood. Its balance shattered in an instant.

  That single misstep was everything.

  Basil drove his spear through its chest.

  The goblin gasped, shock filling its eyes before it collapsed.

  Silence.

  Basil stood there, breath ragged, heart pounding in his ears.

  He had won.

  But just barely.

  A chime echoed in his mind.

  A surge of energy filled him—but no level-up notification. No class levels.

  He frowned. Then, instinctively, he focused on the experience. A new prompt appeared.

  A list materialized.

  Basil’s eyes flickered over the options.

  Spearmanship was tempting. He had just proven that a spear suited him.

  Battle Instinct would be useful. He had barely reacted in time to the goblins.

  But Adaptive Balance…

  He looked at the goblin that had almost killed him.

  It had slipped. Lost balance.

  So had he, early in the fight. That moment of instability, that lost footing, could’ve cost him his life.

  Balance meant control. Control meant survival.

  He poured all of his experience into Adaptive Balance.

  A faint shift in his posture. A subtle realignment of his center of gravity. Up to level 9, that was all it was—a vague, almost imperceptible improvement in balance.

  But at level 10, something changed.

  It was immediate. His movements felt a bit smoother, more natural. Like his body was in sync with itself. Even the way he held the spear felt… optimized.

  He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. This was progress.

  The sun was rising, burning away the night. Mist began to settle over the land, thick and ghostly. The forest was still, save for the distant sounds of unseen creatures.

  Basil narrowed his eyes, scanning the haze.

  He needed to find Claire.

  He focused, trying to picture her. If this world had changed, then so had he. His Ranger instincts should mean something. A skill he hadn’t tested yet, one buried deep in his class benefits.

  He closed his eyes.

  A vague pull. Not a direction exactly, but a feeling. Like a compass needle shifting toward what he sought. It wasn’t precise, but it was there. A sixth sense leading him forward.

  He opened his eyes.

  The campsite had been methodically set up so it only took him a quarter of an hour to fully pack up.

  And then he started walking.

  The mist grew thicker as he moved, curling through the trees in ethereal waves. The world around him felt different, weightless, as if reality itself was uncertain.

  Suddenly, through the shifting fog, he saw it.

  A floating island.

  Suspended in the sky, massive and impossible. A fragment of land torn from gravity itself, drifting like a silent sentinel over this new world. Trees lined its edges, waterfalls cascaded from its cliffs towards him.

  Basil stopped in his tracks.

  This wasn’t Earth anymore. Not in any way that mattered.

  The old rules were gone.

  He exhaled slowly, tightening his grip on the spear. Then something moved in the mist.

  A deep, rumbling breath. The sound of something immense shifting in the undergrowth.

  Basil’s instincts screamed at him. Not prey. Predator.

  He turned—and found himself staring into the golden eyes of a massive, serpentine turtle.

  A creature out of myth, its enormous shell lined with jagged ridges, its body coiled in a way that suggested ancient patience. It was watching him.

  Then it moved.

  Basil’s grip on his spear tightened.

  He had to run.