Day 3.
Kaiser wrote the date in his log with a trembling hand. Not from fear—at least, not entirely—but from something else.
Hope.
"Located a stream. Running water. Cold. Clear. No weird taste. I boiled some, just in case. I'm still alive, so either it's clean or my gut's tougher than I thought."
He underlined the entry twice.
Then stared at it.
His lips curled upward slightly. A grin—not joy, but survival satisfaction.
"Take that, you pixelated systemless hell."
The stream gurgled like laughter, mocking how long it took him to find it. Kaiser crouched at its edge, filling his flask and watching tiny fish dart in the shallows. He took a cautious sip and wiped his mouth.
Still no stomach cramps. He took another.
Something glittered in the mud near a gnarled root. He squinted.
A dagger. Rusted, half-buried. Its hilt was simple, iron twisted around bone. The blade itself had once been sharp, now dulled and chipped by time.
He hesitated.
"Too convenient…" he muttered.
He picked up a stick and poked around it. No tripwires. No obvious traps. No blood. Still—
He stood there for a long moment.
And then stepped back.
"Nope. That's how you die in the first act," he said, walking away. "Congratulations, dagger trap. You almost had me."
That was when he saw it.
A faint line in the distance. Dirt packed tightly into a road—not an animal trail. A real, man-made road. Or at least, something-made.
He approached carefully, crouching in the undergrowth like he'd seen in old war documentaries.
No carts. No footsteps. Just... silence.
He touched the ground. It was warm. Dry. Old.
But unmistakably artificial.
"Civilization," he whispered.
His throat tightened.
He wanted to laugh. To cry. To sprint down it screaming for help. But instead, he crouched and stared.
What if whoever made it wasn't friendly?
What if this was a road built by slavers? Or worse, cultivators? The kind that sliced people in half for breathing too loudly?
He remembered the countless stories where the protagonist trusted too easily, ran toward people like a golden retriever—only to get stabbed or sold.
Not him.
Not Kaiser[1].
He marked the road's location carefully on his map and backed away. He'd watch it for a few days—see if anyone passed by.
This wasn't desperation.
This was strategy.
He returned to the stream, filled his bottles, and washed his face. Looking into the water, he barely recognized the reflection. Messy hair. Wild eyes. Scratches and grime along his jaw.
Kaiser sat back and exhaled.
Then, as usual, summoned the [TRANSMIGRATION GROUP CHAT].
Still just him.
kaiser[1]: Day 3. Found water. Found a road. Might be civilization.kaiser[1]: Still no one else here. Still no cheat.kaiser[1]: Not that I'm complaining. Okay, I'm complaining. Screw you, Admin.kaiser[1]: You threw me into the deep end with canned beans and a bat. I demand hazard pay.
He stared at the flickering screen.
No new messages. No new members.
Still alone.
That night, he dreamed of crowds.
Not welcoming ones. Not family. Not smiles. Just blurred faces whispering in languages he didn't understand, all pointing at him.
Their voices buzzed like static.
He woke up drenched in sweat, clutching the bat like a lifeline.
The forest was quiet. Too quiet.
And for the first time, Kaiser realized something that chilled him far more than the absence of monsters or cheats:
This world wasn't trying to kill him.
No.
It was waiting.