As John stood alone in the forest, still feeling the echo of Shira’s mysterious touch, a sudden shimmer appeared before his eyes—an apparition, pale and rectangular, hanging in the air. At first, panic rushed through him; he stumbled backward, heart pounding, certain this was some forest spirit or a witch’s curse.

  But the window remained—floating, harmless, and oddly inviting. Words and numbers glowed softly in neat rows, crisp and clear as if written on glass. His fear slowly gave way to curiosity. He leaned forward, squinting as he tried to piece together the meaning of this strange sight.

  Here is how John’s stat window appeared:

  Numbers and names he almost understood—but he’d never seen anything like this before. He also did not know how to read and write, as he was young, and no one from the few villagers who could have, had taken the care and time to teach him but somehow, this window was intelligible. As wonder overtook fear, John reached out a hesitant finger, half expecting the window to vanish. Yet it stayed, lines shimmering softly, waiting for him to discover what had changed within him on the edge of the wild.

  John wandered deeper into the shadowed heart of the forest, driven by hunger and the lingering sense of new possibility from the strange stat window hovering in his mind’s eye. Branches creaked overhead, shafts of morning light breaking through only in fleeting splinters. He listened closely, every snap and rustle setting his nerves on edge.

  It wasn’t long before the underbrush trembled and a pair of large, grimy rodents scurried from beneath a rotting log. Their beady red eyes fixed on John, snarling in challenge—forest rats, much fiercer than the mice he’d sometimes seen near the village granaries and with whom he had shared barns and toolsheds during lonely nights.

  A first attempt to run soon seemed pointless, as the foes darted from the underbrush, teeth bared. In a clumsy, improvised evasive maneuver, John fell to the ground—knees first, hands last. He grabbed a branch in desperation; it would have to do as an improvised weapon—and swung low, smacking one mid-leap, sending it skidding through moss. The second nipped his arm before he could bring the branch down again.

  From the trees above, the one hit first who had gained heights for a more lethal attack dropped onto his shoulder. He spun, slammed his back into a trunk, and felt it squish—more instinct than aim.

  They circled him. He spun the branch like a crude staff, keeping them at bay with shouts and feints. His knuckles bled where bark bit into skin, but he held firm.

  One rat lunged for his legs—he leapt back, lost footing, landed hard. The pair surged. But in a burst of adrenaline, he rolled under a fallen log, popped up behind them, and struck from surprise. Rats scattered. A decisive blow snapped the branch nearly in half—but the jagged spear it left was even sharper.

  The largest of the two rats, thick as a small dog or cat, charged. He gritted his teeth, dodged once, twice, then leapt—driving the broken branch tip into its side. It shrieked, spasmed, and attempted a retreat, interrupted by a final lethal strike.

  As the other bolted at him, John’s fear was even further replaced by instinct, fueled by the demise of his first foe. Armed with nothing but the broken, now teeth-marked branch, he jabbed and swung, flinching at each charge, bite and claw. It was a messy, desperate scramble, but with a lucky strike and sheer determination, he managed to fend off the last and finish the fight.

  Breathing hard, John stared at the small corpses. An acrid, noxious stench wafted up—so potent it made his eyes water and his empty stomach twist in protest. The idea of eating them vanished immediately. He stepped away, wiping his hands on his tattered tunic, feeling a strange warmth ripple through his body.

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  Just as before, a faint shimmer popped up before his eyes:

  The numbers glowed briefly, then faded. His “Experience” rose, but the stat window made it clear he’d need much more to reach another level.

  John’s hunger gnawed at him relentlessly and seemed more urgent than his luckily only superficial wounds. He scanned the forest floor, searching for anything edible, and soon found a cluster of mushrooms tucked beneath the fallen leaves. They looked nearly identical to the harmless ones he’d gathered back home, so, desperate, he ate a few. Within moments, his stomach cramped and sweat broke out across his brow. He grew dizzy and weak—his vision blurring as fever washed over him. His heart pounded as panic set in, but before fear could overtake him, another translucent pop-up flickered into existence:

  Confused and trying to keep his head clear, John leaned against a tree, riding out the sickness. As the dizzy spell faded, another message appeared, this one different—pale green with a small question mark at the top:

  | You have discovered a New Craft: Herbalism |

  | Would you like to choose this as your craft? |

  | [ Yes ] [ No ] |

  Stunned and more perplexed than ever, John stared at the floating words. He barely understood their meaning, but something urged him forward—a sense that this was part of whatever change Shira had awakened in him. Tentatively, he reached out and pressed “Yes.”

  The window sparkled and dissolved, and a faint tingling filled his fingers and mind, as if unseen roots were burrowing knowledge into him. John still felt feverish and exhausted, but his confusion was slowly overtaken by a flickering spark of curiosity and hope—perhaps, for the first time, he was beginning to shape his own destiny, right here in the bewildering heart of the wild.

  As the strange warmth from his new herbalism craft settled in, John blinked through the lingering dizziness. Around him, the forest no longer seemed quite so menacing—shapes and colors took on new meaning, and his mind hummed with instinctive knowledge he didn’t know he possessed. Where before he saw only weeds and brambles, now he recognized subtle differences: the toothy-edged leaves of mountain sorrel, the distinct, golden flowers of wild calendula, and a patch of short, round-capped mushrooms that, this time, he knew to be safe.

  John set to work, hands guided by intuition and memory both old and newly awakened. He gently dug up tender roots with a sharp stick, gathered sorrel leaves for their fresh, tangy bite, and plucked wild berries sheltered beneath thorny branches. With a chunk of dry wood and a stone, he fashioned a makeshift bowl, lining it with broad leaves for cleanliness. Using a flat rock as a surface, he mashed roots and berries into a kind of rustic mash, adding a sprinkle of herbs he’d identified as safe for flavor and health.

  He found a hollow in a fallen log to set his meal out of the dirt, and with nimble fingers crafted a simple spoon from a splintered branch. As the forest breathed quietly around him, John ate his foraged meal—a patchwork of flavors both unfamiliar and comforting. The tang of sorrel filled his belly, the roots eased his lingering nausea, and the sweet burst of berries brought a rare, contented smile to his lips.

  For the first time since fleeing Cloudroot, John felt a growing sense of pride. Amidst the unknown, armed with nothing but will, luck, and his new craft, he had made a meal from the wild itself—no longer just surviving, but, in a small way, thriving.

  As the echoes of battle against hunger and poison faded, the boy retreated into the hush of the woods, nursing a gnawing sting on his forearm from his previous fight. He might have done a mistake and should have taken care of this before attending to his belly, but how could he know, he was just a little boy. Drawing on the herbal lore which was now his, he knelt in a patch of sun-dappled moss and scanned the underbrush.

  For cleansing the wound, he plucked slender stalks of yomogi, in future times known for its antimicrobial properties. He crushed its leaves into a coarse paste between two stones and smeared the green balm over the punctures, wincing at its bitter tingle.

  To soothe pain and reduce inflammation, he sought out dokudami, whose heart-shaped leaves he bruised gently and laid over the wound like a poultice. Their fishy scent was unpleasant, but he trusted their power more than any village salve.

  To seal the wound, he stripped bark from a nearby birch sapling, revealing its resin-rich inner layers. He warmed the strips on a stone exposed to the mighty sun, letting the sap soften before pressing them against the skin like nature’s bandage.

  He wrapped everything with vines of kuzu, braided to hold the poultice firm and protect it from dirt. His fingers moved with unpracticed care, like threading life into the wound itself even if in a clumsy way.

  As the boy leaned back, the forest hummed approvingly. His breath steadied. The rats, the poison and the hunger were gone—for now—and he had woven a moment of peace from leaf and stem.

  For the next few days, John moved cautiously through the dense forest, learning to trust the rhythms of the wilderness around him. His hunger now somewhat eased by his newfound herbalism craft, he focused first on one vital goal: finding a dependable source of clean water.

  He followed faint trails left by small animals, their tracks etched softly in the damp earth. Slowly, the sweet, earthy scent of fresh water grew stronger, mingled with moss and the quiet call of birds. Eventually, he stumbled upon a narrow stream winding silver through the trees, its water cool and clear. Kneeling by the bank, John cupped his hands and drank deeply, relief flooding through him like a balm. He refilled his battered wooden mug and even managed to catch a few water beetles flitting near the surface, though he didn’t dare ingest them.

  With this crucial need met, John turned his attention to shelter. Picking a small clearing not far from the stream, he began gathering fallen branches, thick moss, and broad leaves. Using a sturdy stick as a crude digging tool, he scraped the forest floor free of debris and dug a shallow pit for stones and a hearth. Overhead, he arranged long branches in a lean-to frame, weaving in leafy boughs to form a roof that would shield him from rain and the chill mountain air.

  Each night, as darkness thickened and the forest sounds grew mysterious and strange, John retreated to his humble shelter. Inside, he’d huddle beneath layers of moss and leaves, feeling his makeshift fortress hold back the cold and the creeping shadows beyond.

  By day, he ventured further, practicing his herbalism, identifying helpful plants and avoiding dangers. His small victories—finding edible roots, mastering fire-starting with flint stones, listening for safe pathways—wove together a fragile thread of hope. Alone under the vast canopy, John was learning not just to survive, but to live. The forest was no longer just a place of fear—it was the world he must understand if he was to grow strong enough to face the unknown ahead.