Eight: A LitRPG Novel of Magical Survival

The next day, I had my first bowel movement on this world, so that was another nice data point for the new-body hypothesis. Also, it seemed nothing I’d eaten or drunk had poisoned me, so that was good.

My feet continued to ache, but I’d expected that. The poor things looked like bruised potatoes. Still, none of my injuries appeared permanent, so good again.

I hadn’t slept all that well, but at least I didn’t have to worry about hypothermia thanks to the fire I’d maintained overnight. Also, the day was quickly warming up, so I decided to risk a bath. My whole body was caked with sweat, grime, and blood.

I ate a breakfast of fennel bulb, and dragged myself to the stream, where I splashed water onto my body. It was as frigid as I’d expected, and I shivered afterward until the sun warmed me through. I also washed my clothes and shoes, and left them to dry alongside me.

My eyes closed. For the first time, I didn’t have any pressing needs to address. I still worried about my survival, but all the basics were met or on their way to being met. My momentum lagged, and into that gap anger and grief rolled. Meliune’s Blessing didn’t seem to care about grief, and so the emotions had been churning all night—since I’d learned I’d died—and they finally spilled out as tears.

That was okay. I felt miserable, and that was okay too. These feelings were familiar friends, after all. We’d become quite close after my wife Helen died. It was eleven years ago now, and I’d made peace with her passing. I imagined I’d make peace with my own death too. Where I got stuck was with my kids. I’d never get to see them again, and that broke my heart.

Alex. Daniel.

Alex owned a small diner in Dallas. She ran the place with her wife, and they specialized in hand pies stuffed with curried chicken. There were plans for a local food magazine to feature them next month, and I’d been hoping to fly down to be a part of the shoot.

Daniel was the more troubled of the two. He’d dropped out of college to become an artist and came back to Portland, only to make some bad choices in partners. He was hit really hard by his mom’s death and was still grappling with it. I worried about what my death would do to him—would do to both kids.

Oh gods and goddesses, spirits of the land. I don’t know if you can hear me, but please watch over them. My kids are good people and deserve better than they’ve gotten. I don’t care about me—I can handle myself—but please help Alex and Daniel.

I sobbed some more, for a good long while too. It was probably smarter to sit with my grief inside the safety of the cave, but I’d spent enough time in the dark already in my past life. Even sobbing and broken, I wanted to be in the sun.

I washed off the snot and tears, then pulled another fennel bulb from the stream’s bank. Hunger assuaged, I turned back to relearning how to make flint tools. No matter how strong the sorrow, there was always work to be done. In my past life, it was the laundry, the dishes, and the next show to produce. Here, I had plans to make a spear, a hand ax, and a knife. Depending on whether I needed additional tools for working with wood, I might also make an adze and a draw knife.

I let myself become absorbed by the process. The trick was in the angles—first in choosing the right place to start and then alternating between the front and back to create a sharp edge. Slowly, the way of it came back to me. I was able to rough out a flint knife and a spearhead. I also made good progress on the hand ax.

Later in the evening, the night sky sparkled with gems. I recognized some of the star patterns, but not others. There was also the moon, waxing close to full, but the markings across her face were a similar mix of familiar and unfamiliar.

Helen, if you can hear me, love, keep an eye on me for a bit. I’ve gone wandering past what’s comfortable and could use your advice. I miss you, my heart. More than ever.

Another night and another morning, but this time I managed to sleep for most of it, only waking occasionally to the sound of splashing water. My feet were still sore, but healed enough for shoes as long as I walked slowly and carefully.

I crossed the stream to reach the plum tree. The fruit were tart and sweet and so delicious after a couple of days of nothing but fennel. It had been a mistake not to pick some before I treated my feet, but at least I got to enjoy them now. The red berries, I decided to ignore. I’d seen enough poisonous berries to suspect these would bury a bear.

By the time the sun was at its highest point in the sky and the shadows were at their shortest, I had finished the hand ax. It was just a chunk of flint with a sharp edge on one side and was rounded on the other to fit comfortably in my hand, but I was pleased with the work. The flint knife was similar, a safe flint handle on one end and a sharpened edge at the other. Even the spearhead had a short safe section, the tang that I would hopefully soon insert into an appropriate length of wood.

I brought the hand ax with me for a short foray into the forest. I used it to chop free two branches, a shorter one to turn into a digging stick and a longer one with the potential to become a spear. I trimmed away the leaves and stubs, making sure both were relatively straight.

Back at the pool, I used the flint knife to give the digging stick a wedge at one end and smoothed the wedge’s planes by rubbing them on stone. With it, I’d easily be able to dig up root vegetables. In a pinch, the digging stick could also serve as a walking stick, lever, and impromptu weapon. Later that night, I’d harden the tip with fire.

Digging stick in hand, I set out again. I didn’t find any vegetables, but I did come across a fallen cedar. The log was damp on the outside and crawling with blue pillbugs. The bark was mostly detached from the trunk, so I used the digging stick to pry up a long section. The fibers underneath were nice and loose. Some of them were black, rotting or near rotting, but the rest were beautifully golden and ready to be braided into rope. I dragged the bark to the cave and went back twice for more.

After a dinner of plums and fennel greens, I started separating and braiding the bark fibers. It took several failed attempts for my fingers to remember how it worked, but eventually I was able to twist the fibers into rope.

It was long and tedious, but I could foresee the need for lots of cordage. I got to work.

I slept fitfully that night, waking up often from dreams I couldn’t quite remember. Only bits and pieces remained: a baboon snarling, a giant snake swallowing me down, mi abuela offering me muffins. That last one was especially weird. My grandmother never made muffins. She rarely cooked at all, and when she did, it was for special occasions. Her work as a bruja always took precedence.

In the morning, I had two related goals. The first was to make a spear. The second was to eat something other than plums and fennel.

The first task went reasonably well. I used a rock to pound one end of the branch that would become the spear’s haft. Once it was softened, I split the wood using the flint knife and wedged the spearhead inside. The spearhead was then lashed into place using the braided cord I’d made yesterday.

The finished spear was four feet long and heavy—too heavy. I had focused on making it sturdy and went overboard. I mean, I could swing the spear around like in the old kung fu movies I used to watch, but it was obvious that carrying it everywhere was going to be hard with a child’s strength.

Well, there was no rule saying a person couldn’t own two spears. It was a matter of using the right tool for the right job, right? I nodded to myself and took the spear with me into the forest. I’d look for another, lighter haft, and at the same time test what it was like carrying the spear around.

I’d walked a good distance to the south of the waterfall’s glen. I might as well just call it the Glen, since it’s going to be my home for a while. The canopy blanketed this part of the forest, making it hard for the underbrush to grow. There were clear sightlines in every direction, and I spotted several branches that looked like good candidates for a new spear.

I was examining one when the forest hushed. I quickly glanced around, but didn’t see anything that’d spook the birds and small mammals. No angry baboons, tigers, or bears—nor any hippogriffs, chimeras, or dragons.

Something passed overhead—something big and menacing—and I gulped. Oh. Oh. Maybe I’m wrong about the dragon. My knees buckled, and I only held onto the spear because of my deathgrip on the haft.

The canopy shook with the creature’s passing. Through the swaying tree cover, I caught a glimpse, an outline, of the shape of a dragon flying toward the Glen. My brain went sideways, not able to handle what my eyes were telling me.

Meliune’s Blessing smashed into my thoughts like a tsunami, instantly submerging my panic under what felt like a ton of water. All that was left in its wake was a single thought: Hide!

Not sure what was safe, I sprinted for a pine tree with low branches circling around its trunk like a skirt. I hid there and waited, but under the blessing’s influence I didn’t feel the time passing. There was no impatience either, just the caution and ongoing awareness of my surroundings.

Eventually, the bird song resumed, and soon after Meliune’s Blessing receded, leaving me slumped against the pine tree’s trunk, drained. While I couldn’t feel the fear and adrenaline earlier, they still washed through me and their aftermath left me feeling wrung out.

I rested long enough to regain my composure, then worked up the courage to sneak back toward the Glen. It was the safest place I’d found on this world, and I didn’t want to lose it just because the dragon had flown in that direction. I wouldn’t let my fear rule me.

Moving quietly, I climbed the hillside, looping up and around to the top of the waterfall overlooking the Glen. The forest here was crowded with trees and brush. Vines hung from the branches. Some had small purple flowers. Others were orange or pink. The scent was vaguely minty.

My heart beat hard as I crept toward the cliff’s edge. Below, the pool was nestled between two hillsides. The water shimmered in the late morning light. Specks of color—fish—darted in the water. There was no dragon in sight, nor anything else large and terrible, only a five foot black log at the Glen’s far edge that hadn’t been there before.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been a giant turd, which is what the log certainly resembled. That can’t be from the dragon, can it? Did it stop by the waterfall for a pit stop?

I was asking myself just those questions when something bit me on the ass, causing me to jump, which was really, really unfortunate. The only thing in front of me was the cliff’s edge, and over the side I went.

My heart stopped. There was water below, so I wouldn’t splat. But I couldn’t belly flop either—not from forty feet up. I flailed my arms and desperately twisted to get myself vertical. There was a moment of flying, and then I smashed into the water feet first. The angle wasn’t perfect though, and I felt like I’d been punched in the face.

The world was gray and bubbles. I stared at it, confused.

A fish bumped into my back and flicked away. A heartbeat later, it happened again. Was it trying to eat me? The thought spurred me to kick toward the surface and drag myself out of the water.

I’d survived the fall and was intact, except my right butt cheek felt like it was on fire. I turned, but couldn’t see anything. I twisted my pants around and saw a ring of pinpricks an inch in diameter in the seat.

I’d been purposely avoiding the phone as I grieved my death, but for this I had to check.

I dropped to one knee as the world spun around me. Really, world? I avoided a dragon, and it’s a bite on the ass that kills me?

Meliune’s Blessing rolled over me and sent me stumbling toward the cave, where I collapsed onto the moss. The muscles around my lungs began to constrict, and I gasped for air. My jaw locked, and I couldn’t scream. Deep down, though, under the blanketing of my thoughts, I raged before losing consciousness.

I dreamed.

I dreamed I floated above my body, looking down at it. Its breathing came in fast, short gulps. Its limbs shook and spasmed. The body was dying, but somehow I wasn’t concerned. Instead, I was curious to see if there’d be a white light, like in the stories, or whether my grandmother had been right about what came after.

Then the light in the cave changed, but instead of a beautiful white, it was silver-blue in hue. Of all things, an otter then pulled itself up from the water in between the cave and waterfall. Not so bad as far as dreams went. Better an otter than a baboon.

The otter’s fur was gray and its eyes blue, banded with dark flint. It—no, some sense told me… she seemed annoyed by my body stinking of poison. With a sigh, she went back to the pool and returned, walking upright with a small bowl in her front paws. After setting it down carefully, she splashed water from the bowl onto my body.

What happened next was unclear and confusing. There was my body and at the same time also the figure eight, like somehow my body represented the number, and the body and the number were on fire.

The otter went for more water, back and forth, until the fire was extinguished. She paused to admire her handiwork, but what she saw didn’t please her. Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

With a nod to herself, she pulled a rock from a fold in her fur. Her eyes glinted as she smashed the rock onto the body, cracking and crunching something invisible. Sections of a dark gray carapace appeared and then fell away as she worked.

Once the last section was gone, I saw that the body was now bound by a rope the same color as the carapace. The otter smashed the rope. She pounded and pounded at the binding, but it wouldn’t loosen. She only stopped when she noticed the body mewling in pain. Her eyes narrowed.

The otter stepped away, then came back with the flint hand ax she’d found nearby. The ax swung down. A binding snapped. Then another, as she wielded the ax again. The dark gray rope frayed, which only encouraged the otter. She used the ax to cut and chop, to hew and hack.

I suddenly felt like a balloon inflating. Like I’d been emptied out and folded carefully, but now I was being unwound and unfurled. Below me, my body was whole and unfettered.

The otter’s nose wrinkled again, but this time in pleasure. She looked down at the ax, pleased, and tucked it away in the fold of her fur. As for my body, she gave it a pat on the head and left it to sleep.

I woke up. Alive. Which was a surprise.

Also, my feet didn’t hurt anymore! I pulled off my shoes and saw that the wounds were gone. The otter had healed me, in addition to curing the poison.

Perhaps most surprising was that I felt more like me—the me before I’d come to this world. My thoughts and emotions weren’t dim and cramped, no longer tied down by whatever had been binding them.

I sat up and stretched. My eyes went to the flint tools in the corner, and I saw that the hand ax was missing. It wasn’t a dream, then? Well, I’d be a fool to think it was—I was alive and no longer poisoned. An otter had visited while I was dying and saved me, both from the poison and whatever had been compressing my spirit into a smaller shape than it was supposed to be.

I had no idea who she was. All I knew was that I felt better, much better than before. I called up my information to make sure everything was okay.

Woah! The character sheet changed.

First of all, I was still called Eight, but beside my name in parenthesis, it read “Hidden Status” and then my old name: “Oliver Michael Sandoval.”

Seeing my name from my old life moved me. I’d worked so damn hard to make myself a better man and had hated the idea that all that effort was lost. Of course I still had my memories, but a name stood for something. It was more than a bunch of letters and sounds. My name represented me and all I’d been through.

My wife used to call me Ollie, not Eight. Well, I was Eight now too, but I didn’t mind as long as it was an addition instead of a substitution. All that mattered was that I kept my roots.

Looking further, it was disappointing that my physical attributes were unchanged, but at least the intangibles were higher. And, if they really represented the attributes from my previous life, I could use them to make assumptions about the numbers’ meanings. Scores of 10 to 12 were likely average for an adult, while 13 to 15 were above average.

In addition to the new information, the page had also restructured. There was a new section titled “Soul Marks,” and I had three: God Touched, Spontaneous Formation, and Memories of Another World.

Also, my secondary attributes were now listed on the first page. Body power was still 8, but qi had increased to 11 and mana to 14.

Does the page change along with me? I wondered.

That was an interesting question, but even more interesting was the note about it being ‘Hidden.’ That implied there was a way for others to see my character sheet, my Status—which also implied that other people had them too. I hadn’t been sure. My gift from Diriktot might’ve been unique.

Oh, it also means he was looking out for me. Considerate, that. My mental and spiritual attributes might otherwise get discovered and land me in trouble.

I didn’t know what kind of trouble, but anything out of the ordinary tended to attract attention, and rarely the good kind. In my old life, I was a Mexican kid who grew up in Oregon, so I’d experienced that first-hand.

But why all the eights in the beginning?

All I could think of was that they must’ve been necessary somehow in order to transport me to this world. Maybe the gap between universes was such that only something eight-shaped could pass through? Or the number eight created less spiritual drag? Perhaps it was Diriktot’s sense of humor? Would the otter know?

The answer to that last question depended on the relationship between her and the god. In my mind, she was clearly a spiritual creature, though I wasn’t sure what type. But then I doubted myself. I’d seen an example of an animal-person at the town gate, after all. Who was to say there weren’t whole races of them?

I massaged the bridge of my nose and let the questions go. They were useless right now; besides, my Status provided a nice distraction from my all-too-recent near-death experience.

I turned my attention to the phone, and found that the soul mark entries were as weighty as my names. Each felt engraved in the metal and dense, like they were a fundamental part of me. What they meant and how they affected me, though, was uncertain.

Swiping up, I saw a new section, as well as new entries under my blessings.

First, though, I checked to make sure the condition section was empty, and confirmed I wasn’t poisoned anymore. Huzzah! I knew that already, since I wasn’t dead, but it was important to celebrate victories, especially in dire situations.

Next, there were talents! I loved talent and perk systems in games. They were often the best ways to make a character your own. I apparently had two: Jack of All Trades and Talent Scout.

I quickly focused on the Jack of All Trades talent, and my memory flashed to the countless hours of instructional videos I’d watched—sitting in the editing suite, reviewing B-roll, attending film festivals, watching the competitions’ work. The opportunities to study a wide range of material had been endless.

And Talent Scout originated from all the hiring I’d had to do. Southwind wasn’t big enough to afford the masters of filmmaking, so I had sifted through thousands and thousands of resumes over the years hunting for unpolished gems: the folks with hidden talents. I caught them early and cheap! Then, after we grew them into masters, they left us for bigger companies and more money, but we had their skills long enough to produce some amazing work.

Hmm… I had two talents. But do they do anything? Did they impact me in the same way blessings did? That’d make sense, since they were grouped together on the same page. Questions, questions.

And speaking of blessings, there were two new entries. My wife’s name was there: Helen Miriam Sandoval, and she was listed as a “Spirit.” There was also someone named Ikfael, who was also a spirit.

Who was Ikfael? The otter? Or the being responsible for the otter? If so, I owed her my life. As for the blessing from my wife—what could I say? She always looked out for me, and just seeing her name was enough to warm me through.

Ahem. Moving on. I swiped up to see if the skills section had also changed, and there were now eight categories displayed, each populated with skills.

Seeing the skills listed, I laughed in relief. My sixty-four years of living hadn’t been for nothing! Also, the gamer in me rejoiced. There were skills to explore and builds to plan… except I didn’t know how skills worked in this game—on this world. Did they just quantify my expertise, or could I actively use them?

“Biology powers, activate!”

Nothing happened, except for me smiling at my own joke. The real experiment came next.

“Appraise,” I said, focusing on the moss under me.

It was dark green and dense with tall tufts. I happened to recognize it as common haircap, but I didn’t see any pop-ups or status windows with additional information.

“Damn, that would’ve been a useful ability, but nope—no magical appraisal skills for Ollie.”

Still, if I put my ego aside and objectively looked at my expertise, I could start to make assumptions about skills’ numerical values. A twelve, like the one in my Accounting skill, meant that someone was a professional, and a good one.

Then if I had to extrapolate, a score of one to three represented someone just starting to learn a skill. From four to eight, they might be considered a hobbyist or advanced amateur, and anything above fourteen was for experts and beyond.

Funny how the System felt obligated to strike out my world’s understanding of Cosmology.

Yes, yes, I get that the multiverse is much more weird and magical than I had believed. Thank you for the tip, System.

Also, I’d always felt that keeping a film crew supplied was like going to war. Seems like the System agreed, since it put my Logistics experience under the martial disciplines. Strategy must be from all the wargaming I’d done, and Archery and Marksmanship from hunting.

I swiped between the pages, curiously poking at the entries, when an exclamation point appeared at the top of the screen where the notifications would normally be. “You’re taking this phone thing very seriously,” I said.

Diriktot chose not to respond, so I tapped on the notification. A new page appeared with my old character sheet, the one with all the eights. This time, though, there were the words “Visible Status” in parenthesis next to the name, Eight.

There were only two blessings—the ones from Ikfael and Meliune—and only one skill: Forest Survival, which was listed at rank 2.

Huh… okay… so that’s what people would see if they could see my Status.

It really was for the best that it was hidden, since an eight-year-old with professional-level Accounting skills was unlikely to be common. Not to mention the weird soul marks and everything else.

There was one skill present though, for surviving in the forest, which was reasonable for someone in my circumstances.

I ran a hand through my hair, thinking through the situation. The phone was a tool, like the hand ax and flint knife. It had provided clues to my situation—for example, Dirktot touring Portland and coming across the scene of my death—and at the same time it raised more questions.

What exactly were soul marks, how did talents work, and what was the nature of Ikfael’s Blessing? There were more questions besides those, of course, but they were the ones I was most curious about. The ultimate question, though, was: If the phone is a tool, how can I use it to help me survive?

The answer depended on whether it merely reflected me and my situation—that it was purely descriptive—or whether it had active functions, like the ability to level up and assign skill or attribute points. I didn’t see anything like that, but my Status had already shown that it could evolve. Maybe there’d be an opportunity later?

Right, I had to think about that and there was still a lot to do, but first I had a debt to pay. I knelt at the water’s edge and let my gratitude pool in my heart.

“You saved my life. Thank you.”

The world surely had rituals for this—the giving of thanks—but I didn’t know them. I was a stranger to its customs, traditions, and expectations. Hopefully, my sincerity would be enough.

Or maybe… In the dream, the otter was pleased with the hand ax. Maybe she’d like another tool to add to her collection? I reached for a chunk of iron pyrite, but my hand hesitated. There was a feeling, like I was making a mistake.

It wasn’t rational. There wasn’t any knowledge or information that made me think so. It wasn’t even intuitive. I’d spent enough time working with my intuition to know what that felt like. No, the hesitation came from elsewhere, outside of me and from within at the same time. It was weird and a little disconcerting, but also somehow natural.

I closed my eyes and tried to feel for the source of the hesitation. Immediately, the skills page appeared in my mind, and my eye was drawn to the Taoism skill. There was an attraction, a pull on my attention. My hand moved to the flint knife, and the hesitation eased, as did the pull on my attention.

Ooh, are the skills guides? Not quite active, but not entirely descriptive either? Well, well, I can work with that.

Pleased with my newfound discovery, I picked up the flint knife and placed it in front of me. “I offer this knife in gratitude.”

Nothing happened at first, but then a paw snuck out of the water. It grabbed the knife before dashing away.

A grin spread across my face, and I sat back to watch the waterfall, content to be alive.

My to-do list was getting longer—I needed to retrieve my digging stick and spear, make a new hand ax and knife, maybe another spear too, catch a fish, and decide if I wanted to become a hermit full time. I could see myself living in this cave, but over time I knew I’d miss the company of people. Before I could even address that, though, I had to figure out why the town’s gate guards had driven me away.

So many questions, and only a handful of answers. Still, I’d made progress, and I had confidence in eventually getting my bearings on this world. No, I have to change the way I think about this. I’m not a visitor. I live here now, in and of this world.

Before all that, though, I had to make use of all the tools available to me, including the phone. I started by poking at my skills to see what else I could learn. I focused on each one in turn and made some interesting observations.

First, they were made from bundles of memories: Helen and I hiking along the Columbia River Gorge, me poring over the books as I prepared Southwind for a visit from our auditors, me listening to my archery instructor during our private lessons. I didn’t suddenly have an eidetic memory. It was more like, if I was patient, I could tease out information and experiences related to the skill.

Second, it wasn’t just memories. There was no way for me to know that the knife was the more appropriate gift, and yet I still knew. It was like there was an edge to the Taoism skill, a boundary between the known and unknown, and information had crossed over. That was conjecture on my part, but if it proved true it meant I could tap my skills for guidance—not just for decision making, but also for further development of the skill, even without a teacher.

That was important, because the odds of me finding a teacher didn’t look good. Sure, the learning process would be slow, but theoretically all I’d need was a foothold in a skill, and with practice it’d grow as I pushed at the boundary between known and unknown. It was like being given a map for getting better, but seeing only one step at a time.

All in all, I spent a couple of hours sitting around thinking, and getting hungry too. My stomach eventually forced me outside.

At the cave’s exit, I promised myself that I’d be careful, but also that I’d find a way to do more than just survive. I had been given a second life, and I refused to waste it. To do so would shame the memory of my wife and everything I’d learned from her. All I had to do was reach for what I wanted.

I caught sight of a pair of otter eyes in the water watching me leave, and I waved in passing.