Chapter Thirteen

  Potato, Potahto

  I’ve got a problem. All the ingredients I’ve been hauling around? They’re heavier than I expected. Seriously, how the hell am I supposed to carry all this?

  Of course, the system pops in with a solution. Apparently, I’ve got an "infinite bag of holding." Well, not exactly. It’s more like the ingredients aren’t limited by a number, but rather by weight. The more I pack in, the lighter it feels. Odd, but helpful.

  I try stacking everything up to two hundred. When that fails, I just stack another pile. Even better—I don’t have to lug the damn thing around anymore. Just like my books, it disappears. Where? I don’t care. The system’s probably about to hit me with another annoying popup or tutorial.

  "Fuck that," I mutter under my breath.

  After a long, exhausting day of gathering ingredients, my book’s packed with all sorts of stuff—fruits, mushrooms, veggies, you name it. But still no meat. The one thing I actually need.

  I flip through the pages, staring at the sketches and notes. Maybe I should just call it a day.

  But then it hits me. Boy Scouts. Survival training. I was all about that stuff once. I sigh, trying to shake off the weariness. If I can’t find meat, I’ll make do with what I have. I push through the fatigue and focus on the basics. Flint and tinder.

  A few minutes later, I find a couple of stones. I strike them together against the edge of my vambrace. Sparks fly, just like I remember. With a few more hits—boom. Fire.

  “Gee, thanks,” I mutter, barely glancing at the notification. Another skill. Great. I dismiss it with a flick. Whatever.

  I look around for something to cook on. Stones work. I set them up into a makeshift rack, place the mushrooms on top, and wait. They sizzle, releasing that earthy smell. My stomach growls.

  A timer pops up in the corner of my vision. I don’t even bother questioning it. At this point, these weird system pop-ups are just background noise.

  “Right on,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. Two skills in an hour. Real progress, huh?

  Then, out of nowhere, I hear a fanfare. Like a parade or something.

  “What the—?” I whip around, half-expecting someone to be behind me. But nope. Empty clearing.

  Then the Recipe Book appears, right in front of me, pages flipping like it’s been waiting. Runes swirl and sparkle across the pages. Before I can even process it, a list of recipes pops up:

  Then one catches my eye: “Emergency Rations: When You’re Desperate Enough to Eat Dirt.”

  I blink. Seriously? Who comes up with this? I’m just trying to survive here, not eat something that sounds like it was scraped off the bottom of a boot.

  I shake my head and flip the page. “This place gets weirder by the minute.”

  My stomach growls again. I glance down at the mushrooms, now golden brown. Well, desperate times.

  I take a bite. It’s hot, earthy, with a hint of smokiness. Not bad. Not great, but definitely edible. A warmth spreads through me. A slight boost in energy.

  I look down at the half-eaten mushroom, then back at the Recipe Book.

  Maybe this cooking thing isn’t so useless after all.

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  I glance at the fruit in my hand. Some weird golden thing I found earlier. I open the ingredient book, and it lights up, revealing a new entry:

  Whispering Glade Sweetfruit

  Looks can be deceiving. It won’t solve all your problems, but it’ll give you a little boost. Restores minor Health, Mana, and Stamina. Because sometimes, a little something is all you need.

  “Okay…”

  I flip through the Recipe Book and find . Apparently, I need four Tart Tatoes. Which, of course, I happen to have. Don’t ask me how—I’m not sure. Let’s just say... yeah, I’m not going there.

  Following the recipe, I mash the Sweetfruit and Tatoes into a sad-looking paste on a flat rock.

  The Codex pings again:

  Sweetfruit Mash Prepared! Taste Rating: 4/10. Congratulations, you’ve made Mediocre Food.

  “You didn’t have to put it like that,” I mutter, but I take a bite anyway. It’s not great. Not terrible. Just… fine. I chew for a moment, then grumble, “If my ex-wife could see me now…”

  I barely choke down the last bite of this sad excuse for a meal when something shifts in the trees ahead.

  The underbrush rustles like something big is pushing through it. Branches creak. Leaves shudder. The air goes still—unnervingly still. It’s like the whole forest is holding its breath.

  I freeze. My spoon—okay, rock—is halfway to my mouth. My heart thuds in my chest. My survival instincts, rusty but still sharp, kick in. Whatever’s out there isn’t just passing through.

  "Oh, fantastic," I mutter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Now the forest is judging me."

  Silence. No movement, no sound. Just that eerie stillness stretching out, way too long.

  I scan the treeline. A shape. A shadow. Anything. But all I see are dark, tangled trees, swaying ever so slightly. Could be the wind. Or could be something watching me.

  Yeah, that’s comforting.

  I slowly set the makeshift eating rock down and stand up, movements careful. Last thing I want is to startle whatever’s out there. I take a half-step back, debating my next move. Do I run? Hide? Try to bluff my way through this?

  Then, from deep in the underbrush, something lets out a low, guttural growl.

  A chill crawls up my spine.

  “Alright,” I whisper. “Definitely not the wind.”

  Pairs of glowing eyes blink at me from the underbrush. Two sets. Then another from behind a tree. Then four more from the branches above.

  And before you ask—no, it’s not some bloodthirsty murder tree come to life. It’s just an oak. I think. Look, I’m all for survival, but I’m no expert on nature.

  The creatures slink forward, stepping out from behind the tree and dropping down from the branches with soft thuds. They’re strange. Four of them look like raccoons, but with leafy broccoli tails. Two resemble squirrels, except their bushy tails are puffed up like moss. They all just… stare at me.

  Then, waddling up from the back of the pack, comes a round, stubby creature with big, wiggly bug arms. It looks like a sentient potato. And not just any potato.

  I know this little bastard.

  “Oh. Fuck.”

  This is creature. The one that—look, you’re not gonna like this— Tart-Tatoes. Yeah. Poops them. And I, like an idiot, tickled it earlier. Which made it—well, you get the idea.

  The Potato-Thing lets out a squeaky little growl and steps closer. I brace myself for anger, revenge, or whatever else this menace has in store. But instead…

  Grrrpt!

  It makes a happy noise.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter. “Are you hungry?”

  The leafy-tailed raccoons chirp, wiggling their butts like cats about to pounce. The moss-squirrels creep forward, inching toward my fire like a dog trying to sneak snacks off the table.

  I narrow my eyes. “Oh no.”

  Before I can even react, the Potato-Thing lets out a slurping noise—then hurls itself straight at my fire.

  The rest charge in after it, a fluffy stampede, diving for my flat rock.

  “Hey!”

  I try to fight them off—well, not really. It’s more like trying to keep my fat dog away from my Thanksgiving dinner.

  I stand there, stunned, as these greedy little goblins devour everything.

  “I hate… everything about this.”