Eight: A LitRPG Novel of Magical Survival

Dark clouds blew in overnight, and rain poured down on the Glen, the drops so big I saw them bounce against the stone. The waterfall in front of the cave flashed with every stroke of lightning.

It was hard to move after yesterday’s exercises—my whole body ached—but I forced myself up and outside to stand in the downpour. I grinned wide as thunder rolled across the valley. The air felt charged, like it was ready to ignite and catch fire.

I looked around for the otter to see if she was enjoying the thunderstorm as much as I was, but she was still away. I assumed she’d be back soon though. Today was the third of the three days she said we had to wait.

I went back inside the cave for my morning routine. This time, I extended the stretching and limbering, cut the resistance training in half, and focused on the yoga and qigong to help with the muscle pain.

For meditation, I sat outside in the glorious storm. I couldn’t stop grinning as my heart roared with the thunder and my blood rushed with the rain. I saw the veins within my eyelids every time the lightning flashed. It felt like it was illuminating the inside of my head.

The qi was so alive, it moved on its own inside my body. Swelled by the energy around me, my meridians stretched to contain it. I laughed like Dr. Frankenstein watching the electricity course through his monster’s body.

I’d always loved thunderstorms. I’d even been smacked around by my father once as a kid when he caught me on the roof watching lightning fall. I’d never seen him so furious. He was practically red in the face, and had used his belt like he meant it. It was only when my mother pulled me away, hyperventilating, that he stopped. She was mad too, but she waited until my tears stopped before turning the emotional screws.

So yeah, I didn’t do that again—at least not when my parents were home—but I tried to be away and in the woods whenever a thunderstorm was predicted. I’d seen some crazy stuff that way too—trees split in two, lightning flashing upward from the ground toward the sky, that kind of thing. I loved every minute.

By mid-morning the rain had eased, and the clouds parted to let a curtain of light through. There was still no sign of the otter, and I had a ton of energy flowing through me. I felt like I could run for miles.

I threw my armor on, grabbed my spear, and went into the forest to look for signs of deer. The plan was to figure out where they ate, drank, and bedded, so that I could come back later with my bow and lie in wait.

I started by heading toward where I’d found the pile of deer pellets two days ago. The ground was muddy, and my shoes slipped more than once. I had to catch myself with my spear, using it more like a walking stick than a weapon.

The birds had been quiet during the storm, but they were awake now, their birdsong just as energetic as I was. Big, fat drops of water fell from the leaves and branches above, adding a subtle percussion to the music. I listened as I hiked.

This part of the forest was just as I remembered—thick with tempting things for deer to eat, including the patch of fava-like beans I’d found. I was a fool to think the deer pellets would still be there though. The rain had washed everything away—the pellets, as well as any tracks. And yet there was enough food supply in the area to make me think it was part of the deers’ regular route, so I spiraled outward and searched for evidence of them passing through.

After a while, I came upon a thicket in the trough between two hills. It was quite the jumble of trees and made for good cover from the rain, while the hills also protected it from the wind. All in all, it was a perfect shelter for deer.

I waited and watched but couldn’t sit still for long, so I crept around the thicket’s border. About thirty yards away, just out of sight, a game trail followed the crease between the two hills and led down. I paced beside it, not wanting to get my scent anywhere near the deers’ route. Along the way, I spotted the scars from old rubs, places where bucks had worn away tree bark with their antlers.

I continued along the game trail and heard the sound of running water ahead. Peeking over a small rise, I saw the game trail end in a gentle slope down to a stream. Upstream, a familiar waterfall stood in the distance. That would be my home, the Glen.

The water level was higher than usual thanks to the rain, and I couldn’t make out any prints along the banks. I was just about to give up and head back to the thicket when I felt a tug on my attention. It was the Forest Survival skill. Downstream, there was another waterfall maybe forty or fifty yards away. I went to check it out.

Calling it a waterfall was generous. The water dropped only ten feet from a limestone shelf into the water below, a pond forty yards across. To the east, along the pond’s far edge, what looked like a beaver dam kept the water in check. The beavers’ lodge rose like a primitive pyramid at the northern edge of the dam, its walls built of stone, wood, and mud. They looked strong enough to keep a bear out.

But would they survive a monster turkey’s heat beam? I wondered. The answer wasn’t certain. Maybe this world’s version of a beaver had its own tricks.

The beavers back in my old world were nocturnal animals, and I didn’t see any while perched atop the waterfall. There was evidence of something’s handiwork though—fallen trees and water channels extending into the woods.

To the south, the water overflowed the beavers’ dam and made its way down to the flatlands.

The pond rippled here and there, and I saw trout in the water. All I needed was a pole, and then this would be a perfect spot for fishing. Huh… maybe I can whittle a set of hooks from wood? Something to think about.

My restlessness was finally starting to settle, and so I sat at the edge of the pond and watched as a swarm of dragonflies zipped atop the water. None of them were monster-sized, so it was a peaceful sight. I kept an eye on the tree line though, just in case.

Nothing bothered me, except I hadn’t eaten anything all day. So I got up, washed the mud off, and headed back to the Glen. My heart swelled when I saw the otter was back, but that quickly changed to guilt—her fur was matted and there was a slight hitch when she moved. She looked worn, and wherever her travels had taken it her, it’d been on my behalf.

She called me over with a wave of her paw and had me sit beside the pool. I offered to fish up some lunch, but she declined with a shake of her head. The otter covered her mouth and made a gesture of the sun setting. She then pointed at me and asked if I’d eaten.

I shook my head. “Nothing since last night,” I signed.

She smiled in approval, patted me on the knee, and gestured that I shouldn’t eat anything for the rest of the day. So we’re fasting. Got it.

“Are you all right? Is there anything I can do for you?”

The words were in English, but the otter must’ve heard the concern in my voice. She shook her head and gestured. The movements flowed so smoothly, and she hardly hesitated at all. When I became confused, she clarified the signs she used.

Eventually, I understood: “Just rest until tonight. Save your strength. We’re going on a journey.”

It was dusk, and the light rapidly slipped away outside. I lay naked on the cave floor, surrounded once again by a pentacle of stone bowls. This time, though, there were bits of things floating in the water.

I recognized the little purple flowers in the bowl above my head as vervain. In the bowl on my right floated shavings from the split ash tree, and on the left were flakes of flint. I couldn’t see what was in the bowls at my feet, but they smelled floral.

The otter was too busy to put up with my curiosity and chirped at me to lie still. She pulled a gourd from her pocket, and my nose wrinkled at the medicinal scent of whatever was inside. It tingled when she smeared the paste on the bottoms of my feet.

She then drew a line on my forehead with the paste, and my mind was refreshed by a cool breeze blowing through it—at first anyway. My mind continued to get emptier and emptier, until it was so empty it slipped out through the line she’d drawn.

My spirit left my body like the time I’d been poisoned. I suppose I should’ve been shocked, but somehow it felt normal, like it wasn’t unusual to hover beside the otter, watching as she smeared the paste across my body.

The otter drew lines and whorls, and I recognized them as my dantians and meridians. As she continued to work, I vaguely sensed a feeling of discomfort. The paste was turning my skin red, like my body was being baked.

Similarly to how I wasn’t surprised, I also wasn’t alarmed. Everything felt distant, but not like with Meliune’s Blessing. No, it was more like being at one with the land, except in this case I was one with the spirit world. I felt interested in what I was seeing but watching with mild eyes, my sense of self overlapping with the world around me.

The otter brought out another gourd and made a tablet from the water it held, which she then used to scan her handiwork. From over her shoulder, I saw a map of my meridians, along with several layers of other spiritual structures, including some I didn’t recognize. It was these unknown structures in which she was particularly interested.

Holy hells, but it was cool.

The otter looked at me and signed, “Ready?”

I nodded, and she took my spirit’s hand. We went together to dive into the pool of water outside, leaving my body behind.

The world turned gray and rushed past me. Now dressed in jeans and a white button-down shirt, I found myself inside a circle of redwoods, five of the giants stretching up endlessly toward the sky. The ground underfoot was loamy, since the area between the trees was filled with bracken and ferns.

My heart sang. I recognized this place. Helen and I used to love hiking along the Oregon Redwoods Trail. The park was located right at the border between Oregon and California, and was the first trip we’d taken together.

We went back often. Even after she died, I’d visited just to sit in our favorite meadow and remember. The meadow was—I oriented to find the direction, and then froze. Mi abuelito stood outside the circle, waiting.

My grandfather grinned, pleased to see me surprised, and the wrinkles around his eyes crinkled. He also wore jeans and a white button-down shirt, but his hair was slicked back like he was going to a wedding. I wanted to say something, to run to him and leap into his arms, but I was frozen in place. There was no sound around us. No birds. No wind.

My grandfather nodded. He understood, and his smile turned gentle. He stepped closer and took my hand. Suddenly, I could move again, and I embraced him. He patted my back, like I was still a little kid, and I didn’t mind. I just missed him so damn much.

After a while, and when I was done sniffling, he led me between the trees and into the forest. There continued to be no sound, but I felt the warm strength of my grandfather, my hand still in his.

At the meadow’s edge, Helen waited for me. She was young, maybe about the same age as me, but I’d seen enough of her childhood pictures to recognize her. She was so small! And her hair was in pigtails! She wore a yellow cotton dress with a unicorn patch stitched onto the front. The dress must’ve been well loved, since the patch was faded.

Even without the pictures, I would’ve known her from the way she stood, the way she smiled, and the way her love shone through her eyes and gestures. I flew to her and wrapped her in my arms. I swung her around in joy and delirious happiness.

If I missed my grandfather, there was no way to describe how I felt reunited with my wife. My world was complete again. Yes, I’d felt her presence in the blessing she gave, but that was nothing compared to being able to look into her eyes and feel her in my arms.

It was eating posole on a cold winter morning. Climbing Mount Fuji, breath steaming, as we watched the clouds break against the mountain. Holding Alex and Daniel, each birth its own struggle, and feeling so proud of her. I felt a lifetime of memories, each one precious and singular, and yet also part of the whole that was us.

There were tears in her eyes too. Happy, sad, and a million other emotions too subtle for me to name. She pulled me to a fallen log and sat me down, never letting go of my hand. Her wedding ring shone on her hand, shrunk down to fit her younger self.

Helen leaned against me, and we watched as the wildflowers swayed in the breeze. Slowly, my heart eased, and the peace of the place filled me. I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed mine. I don’t know how much time passed, but it wasn’t enough. It never could be.

The peace was interrupted when a burrow opened in the middle of the meadow, the dirt moving aside to clear a passage. From within stepped mi abuela, Catalina. She wore a white dress embroidered with colorful flowers. Her long black hair was tied back, and around her neck was a necklace of small bones and carvings. She surveyed the meadow, then nodded in approval.

She walked toward me, put her hand on my cheek, and gave it a little pat. There was a faint smile on her face. I think she was pleased to see me, but she always played her cards close to her chest, my grandmother. Not an easy woman either. She was firm and strict. And yet, I felt safe with her, although in a different way than my grandfather. Very, very different.

Her hand reached inside my chest, passing through the clothes and skin as if they were the surface to a pool of water, and from within she drew out the flint hand ax I’d made. Her eyebrows rose in a mixture of surprise, apparently at finding it inside me.

I couldn’t hear Helen, but I’m pretty sure she snickered.

My grandmother patted me on the cheek again, this time with sympathy. She gestured for me to follow, and we walked to the edge of the meadow opposite the way I originally entered. The way was blocked by two trees growing against each other, and my grandmother used her hands to tell me to cut them down. Then she framed her hands like a door.

My head quirked at the request, not unlike a certain otter, but she handed me the ax and raised an eyebrow in response, as if to say, “What are you waiting for?”

Could spirits sweat? Because it wasn’t long until the sweat was pouring off of me. My hands hurt from slamming the flint ax against the first tree trunk, and my shoulders burned with fatigue. I couldn’t stop with my grandmother watching though. Helen was there too, nodding in encouragement, along with my grandfather. Somehow he’d gotten hold of his rifle and was peering deeper into the woods.

The experience was a strange one, for obvious reasons, but I’d learned from my grandmother and others over the years that the underlying reasons for the processes and rituals of spiritual practice weren’t always evident. Symbols had great power, and there were truths in myths, even though they were often couched in allegory.

I trusted the otter to know what she was doing, and I definitely trusted my grandmother to keep an eye on me; she’d make sure I didn’t stray into danger, because that was a very real possibility when delving into the spiritual. She’d emphasized that over and over again when I was younger. I only wish I’d paid more attention while she was still alive.

Well, she was here now, and I wasn’t going to ignore her or my grandfather or wife, all of whom were people I loved and trusted.

The light didn’t change as I worked, even though I felt like I’d hacked at the tree all day and all night. Eventually though, it came down, and the four of us dragged it to one side. Then I started on the other until it too fell and was dragged to the side.

My grandfather stood in the gap with his rifle at the ready. My grandmother was next to him, her medicine pouch in her hands. The two of them stood guard while Helen gestured for me to keep working and make the planks necessary for the doorway.

So, I started chopping. Partway through, I needed my other tools, so I reached inside my own chest to pull out the adze and drawknife I’d made. Well, if my grandmother could do it, why couldn’t I?

Helen gave me a thumbs up, which was adorable and made my heart swell.

The going was slow, so slow. The one advantage was that the tools didn’t dull. I never had to re-knap the edges, and I could chop, hack, and cut as much as I wanted. All that was needed was work, and I knew how to do that.

Eventually, I cut away enough of the wood to form the equivalent of four 2x4s, along with a wider piece to use for the doorway’s header. There were still a couple of stumps in the ground, but there was no way we were going to be able to pull them out. Instead, I smoothed the tops to make a platform.

Once the hard parts were done, all that was left was to trim the pieces and assemble them. I didn’t have nails, so I reached inside myself again to pull out a coil of braided rope and a stone bowl full of pitch. Then Helen helped lift the finished door frame into place, and I marked where the bottom beams touched the stumps with a bit of charcoal—thank you, weird spiritual storage space inside my body.

Once I knew where the frame would stand, I hacked out a couple of holes for them to fit into. I smeared the inside of the holes with pitch, and slid the beams into place.

When I was done, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. It was fantastical: a mysterious empty doorway at the edge of a meadow, leading into a dark forest beyond. I grinned and turned to my family.

They looked… skeptical.

What did they expect from flint tools, braided cedar bark, and pitch? I was pleased with how it turned out, no matter what they thought, and gave the doorway a good thwack. And it held. It actually held.

Helen shook her head at my antics and pulled me down from the stumps. Her smile faded, and her eyes turned serious. My grandfather and grandmother came to stand beside me, the three of them forming a triangle with me at the center.

My grandfather started by pulling a flint spear from within me, my grandmother a flint knife, and Helen my bow and five arrows. By this point, retrieving things from inside me was starting to feel normal. What concerned me, though, was the nature of the objects. These were all weapons.

Again, my grandfather started—he placed the spear diagonally across the doorway, barring the way. My grandmother slammed the knife between the stumps, embedding it into the wood—which, by the way, was totally badass.

Helen placed the three brown arrows around the knife, the arrowheads facing outward. As for the bow and remaining orange-vaned arrows, she pressed them into my hands and pointed through the doorway.

I raised my eyebrows. It was dark on the other side, and there was the hint of something moving in the shadows of the trees. “Really?” I mouthed.

She leaned in and whispered, Really.

I stored the feeling of her breath against my skin in my heart.

Well, if Helen and my grandparents thought it was necessary, then it was necessary. And it wouldn’t be a deeply mystical experience if there wasn’t some element of danger, right? But there was no way I was going in just a shirt and jeans, so I reached inside myself and pulled out the patchwork chain shirt.

Armored and bow in hand, I moved the spear, stepped over the knife and arrows, and walked through to the other side. It was the oddest feeling, like crossing the boundary to the otter’s territory, except with more teeth. The weapons prickled against my skin and only let me through because they recognized me.

My three beloved family members all smirked. They knew exactly how cool that was. I shook my head, turned around, and walked into the darkness. I didn’t like leaving them behind—a part of me vehemently protested—but there were instructions to follow, things to do, and most of all rules for dealing with life and death.

It was far too easy for the dead to hunger after what they’d lost, to grasp for life and turn into ghosts, and I would play no part in tempting my loved ones toward such a fate. Not that I thought they would, but I’d hate myself if my selfishness somehow led any of them astray.

So, I squared my shoulders and adjusted my grip on the bow. Let them see me confident, and know that even though I miss them terribly, I’ll be okay.

I looked back only once before moving on.

Ahead, the forest’s trees were bent and menacing. The canopy covered the sky and made a tunnel of the path ahead. Shapes moved in the shadows. A trick of the light? The wind in the twisted boughs? Not likely. I felt like I was being watched.

Some of the trees were familiar—cedar, pine, spruce, hemlock, and maple. Others less so, although I’d seen them before in the woods around the Glen—one with black, furry bark and reddish pods hanging from its branches. Another was striped yellow, the leaves smelling of cardamom.

The unusual trees were covered in coal dust, except it wasn’t coal, nor was it dust. They were motes of darkness. There was no sound, but I felt them buzz and hiss as they swirled around the trees. A gap showed, and a glimmer of soft silver light appeared, only to be swallowed again by the dark light.

I stayed to the center of the path, my eyes roving, not lingering too long on any one section of the forest. My breath was soft, and my steps even softer. I didn’t know if my grandfather could see me from the meadow, but I didn’t want to embarrass him and his lessons.

A branch moved, and it wasn’t the wind. I exhaled, drew the bow, found the target, and released. The creature—not a tree, but looking like one—shook as the arrow struck its shoulder. It charged at me, its branch-like arms swinging, but its legs were thick and cumbersome. I was faster, so I ran to make space, then turned and planted my feet to shoot again.

The creature was about twelve feet tall. Its eyes were dark pools, and its mouth open in a rictus of anger. I found my target, and the arrow struck the creature through the eye.

It stumbled, its body falling to the ground, and the swirling dark light dispersed. The silver light underneath glimmered, then it too dispersed, the motes spreading into the air, the forest, and me. The feeling was warm and wild, like potential and freedom. My body responded with a shudder.

The silver light touched my bow, and the wood smoothed under my hands. When I pulled the arrows from the creature’s body, the shafts were straighter and the arrowheads sharper. They gleamed in the forest’s half-light.

I still couldn’t speak, but I mouthed the words my grandfather had taught me. “Thank you. Your sacrifice will sustain our bodies and our lives. Be easy and move onto your next life.”

I walked the path again, my heart beating like a drum. Ahead was the tunnel’s exit, and there, waiting for me, was an otter. I wanted to run to her, but didn’t. I took my time, approaching the exit with care, and made sure the otter was real. She quirked her head and watched my approach. That’s when I knew it was really her and not some malicious spirit pretending.

I stepped into the Glen. It was the same as in the physical world, except all the surfaces—the stone and the water—glowed faintly with silver light.

The otter waved me over and had me sit in a pentacle beside the pool. She had me drink from a gourd, then painted my forehead and torso with water. I recognized some of the patterns from the map of my meridians, but other parts were runes and symbols.

She tapped me on the forehead to make sure I was paying attention. Her eyes were the color of water, the irises edged with gray stone. I couldn’t look away, and I couldn’t move, as she pushed the flint knife I’d gifted her into my chest.

The knife passed through without pain. Its tip touched the door guarding my mana.

She began to work steadily and intently to etch a rune in the door. The otter wasn’t trying to cut her way through. The door served a purpose, after all, and her intention was to add onto that purpose, not take it away.

Drops of mana beaded inside the rune’s lines, finding a way to appear outside the door. More and more crossed the boundary until the rune was full of mana.

The otter withdrew the knife and examined her handiwork. The door was as solid as before, but there was a shimmering rune full of mana on its surface. She sat back with a sigh and laughed a little, pleased with herself.

As for me, I was half-distracted, trying to be mindful in case there were further instructions, but also captivated by the feeling of mana spreading through me, like a cool spring flowing from my chest to nourish the rest of my body.

I gestured in the sign language the otter had invented. “Magic now?”

“Magic,” she replied, but stopped to look into the forest. Her face tensed in alarm.

“What—” I began, but the gesture was cut off.

The otter grabbed my hand and shoved me into the pool.