I opened my eyes and found myself on the floor.
For a second, I didn't move. I just stared at the ceiling, chest tight, waiting for the dread to settle in. I already knew what this meant. Every time I woke her up, the consequences followed. Always. I'd learned that lesson too many times to pretend otherwise.
But this time, this time I was ready.
I forced myself upright, my arms shaking as I pushed off the floor. My body felt wrong, heavy and stiff, like it had forgotten how long it had been asleep. Dust coated my clothes, my hands, my face. It must've been days. Maybe weeks. The thought made my stomach twist.
I had ten minutes. Ten minutes where Riri would wake up and I would disappear.
I stumbled to the drawer beside the bed and yanked it open.
Dust exploded into my face. I coughed hard, choking, eyes burning, but I didn't stop. My hands were already shaking as I grabbed the pills hidden inside.
Painkillers.
I didn't count them. I didn't care.
I swallowed them dry, one after another, gagging as they scraped down my throat. My mouth tasted like chalk and metal. I tried to swallow again and nearly retched, my stomach lurching violently, but I forced it down. There was no time to get water. No time to be careful.
I sat on the bed.
And I waited.
The pain hit faster than I expected.
It slammed into my chest like a fist, knocking the air from my lungs. I gasped, fingers clawing at my shirt as pressure crushed inward, sharp and unbearable.
"No no, not yet"
It didn't listen.
The pain spread fast, too fast tearing down into my stomach, my hips, my legs. My feet went numb, then burned like they'd been set on fire. My vision blurred as agony surged into my head, a violent pressure that made me cry out despite myself.
My skull felt like it was cracking open. My jaw locked, teeth grinding so hard I thought they might shatter. My muscles seized without warning, spasms ripping through my arms and back, bending me forward as if something inside me had snapped.
I retched.
Nothing came up at first just dry heaving that burned my throat and chest. Then bile followed, sour and painful, spilling onto the floor as my body betrayed me completely. I barely noticed. I couldn't focus on anything but the pain.
My hands shook uncontrollably. Fingers curled and locked, numb and useless. My legs buckled and I slid off the bed, hitting the floor hard, but the impact barely registered.
I couldn't breathe right.
Each breath came shallow and panicked, lungs refusing to cooperate. My heart pounded too fast, uneven, skipping beats that sent terror slicing through me.
This is wrong. This is worse than before.
Tears blurred my vision, hot and humiliating. I squeezed my eyes shut, choking on a sob I didn't have the strength to hold back.
Why does it have to hurt this much?
The painkillers hadn't kicked in yet.
I didn't need the pain to stop. I just needed it to dull enough to last the session.
Time stretched into something cruel and endless. Every second felt like it was peeling me apart layer by layer. The pain shifted constantly from chest, spine, stomach, head, never easing, never settling. My muscles twitched and spasmed until they burned, then went weak. My limbs felt distant, disconnected, like they no longer belonged to me.
I lost track of how many times I vomited.
At some point, my vision narrowed, dark spots creeping in from the edges. My ears rang. I thought I might pass out and panic surged at the idea. If I lost consciousness now, I didn't know if I'd wake up again.
"I can't" My voice broke. "I can't do this again."
But I had no choice.
The session would last half a day. I knew that. The painkillers would dull it for a few hours at most, and then I'd have to take more, hands shaking, stomach empty and burning, just to survive the rest.
I curled against the floor, clutching my chest, breathing in broken gasps, riding out the consequences of waking her up.
Because no matter how much it destroyed me
I still chose to wake her.
Every time.
***
The first light of dawn crawled through the cracked window, weak but enough to warm the air. I stirred on the thin mat where I had collapsed last night, muscles stiff and sore, but alive. Hunger gnawed at my stomach almost immediately a sharp reminder that surviving meant more than just enduring pain.
I forced myself upright, flexing each joint like coaxing a stubborn machine to work again. The house was small, modest—a single room with a fire pit, a wooden table, and a sagging bed. Outside, the clearing was quiet, almost unnervingly so. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight as I stepped out, scanning for anything that might move.
My stomach growled again. I needed food. Now.
The strange hares or whatever they were were already in the clearing. Their fur shimmered in the morning light, twisted horns jutting from their heads like a fairy tale gone wrong. I swallowed hard. No mana. Not a single particle in my body. The only way I could awaken my skills was with a mana crystal, and the last one I had was tucked safely in my bag. I couldn't risk waking her now. I needed to survive first.
The morning air was sharp and cold against my skin as I stepped into the clearing, spear in hand. The hares were already there, grazing quietly, their twisted horns catching the sunlight. They didn't notice me yet—but that would change in a heartbeat if I slipped. My stomach clenched. Hunger was sharp, immediate. I had to move.
I crouched, feeling the weight of the spear in my hands, muscles coiling like springs. One wrong step and I'd lose them or even worse, hurt myself. My body moved slowly at first, testing the terrain, listening. Every pebble underfoot, every rustle of leaves mattered.
Then I saw my opening. One hare had strayed slightly, ears flicking back nervously. I lunged.
It bolted.
I rolled forward to avoid its sudden kick, pivoted mid-air, and thrust my spear at its flank. It twisted, spinning with a grace I didn't expect, and I adjusted instinctively, sliding the tip along its shoulder. Its eyes widened in panic. My heartbeat thundered in my chest. Leap, dodge, lunge—my movements were a brutal rhythm, predator and prey locked in a silent dance.
The final strike was clean. Its legs buckled, and I felt the weight of the hunt shift to me. I exhaled sharply, muscles trembling from the effort, chest burning, but I was alive. I grabbed the hare and carried it back to the house, each step careful, precise.
Inside, I worked methodically. Horns cut, skin peeled, organs removed. I set the meat aside and grabbed my basket. Time to gather herbs.
The forest was quiet but alive. Leaves brushed against my arms as I knelt, letting the artifact hum over every plant I touched. Herbs, roots, mushrooms each examined, confirmed safe. My senses were alert every sound, every shift of light could mean danger. Still, the ritual grounded me. Step by step, I filled the basket.
Back at the house, fire crackled in the pit. I chopped, stirred, added herbs to the simmering hare, inhaling their earthy aroma. Steam curled into the room as the artifact glowed softly, confirming that nothing I'd picked would harm me. I tasted the broth, adjusted seasoning, and let the rhythm of cooking wash over me.
Finally, I sat, spoon in hand, and took the first bite. Warmth spread through my chest, strength returning to my limbs. The hunt, the gathering, it all reminded me that I was still alive, still capable. For now, survival had a simple, tangible proof and that is food on the table and the forest waiting outside.
And then I saw it.
For the first time since the gate malfunctioned… I wasn't alone.