Even though it had felt that a lot of ti had passed and he had been falling for a long ti, in reality, from start to finish a few seconds had just passed.
Slowly, agonizingly, he began to check his fingers. One by one, they twitched. He moved his toes. He felt the sharp, stabbing pain in his ribs and the dull, throbbing ache in his arm. He could feel the sensations, which ant, no matter what, he was still sohow alive.
"I’m... alive," he slowly whispered, his voice a jagged, hollow rasp. "I actually... survived that."
"Hahaha..." Sol let out a weak, unhinged triumphed laugh that turned into a cough, spitting a bit of blood onto the moss. "Take that, physics. You’re a bitch, but I’m a bigger one."
...
He lay there for what felt like hours, his body draped over the massive, cooling stomach of the beast like a broken marionette. The silence of the ravine was sickeningly eerie, broken only by the rhythmic drip-tap of moisture falling from the heights he had just conquered and subsequently lost.
As the initial shock of being alive settled into a dull, throbbing ache, his thoughts couldn’t help but drift back to the "knowledge" of his previous life... specifically those brain-rot Chinese manhuas he used to binge-read.
"Okay... this is the part of the story I know by heart," Sol wheezed, his voice a dry rasp. "The fall. The survival. The cliffside encounter... and now, the Cheat."
He stared up at the dark canopy of mist. In those stories, this was the mont the protagonist found the turning point.
"What’s next?" Sol muttered, a jagged, expectant grin tugging at his bloody lips. "A hidden cave at the bottom of a cliff? An old man’s skeleton holding a forbidden manual? A pool of spiritual milk? Maybe a pet dragon egg?"
He knew the chances were slim. This was a brutal, primitive world where people ate hearts and worshipped beast-souls. But then again, he had already transmigrated into the body of a tribal "cripple" and started eating the souls of his enemies. At this point, what wasn’t possible? The universe clearly had a script, and he was ready to collect his royalties.
...
So, with newfound excitent, he sohow forced himself to his feet. It was a slow, agonizing process. His ribs clicked and ground together with a sound like dry branches snapping, a reminder that while he was alive, he was far from "well." He leaned heavily against the bear’s fur, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts.
Driven by a desperate, manic hope, he began to search the periter of the ravine floor.
He started with the most cliche place he knew of first, and pushed aside a curtain of thick, damp foliage, expecting to find a concealed stone door or a glowing inscription. Instead, he found only cold, moss-covered rock and a massive, angry swarm of cave-hornets that humd with a low-frequency threat.
But he didn’t give in and continued his search and spotted a perfectly flat, suspicious-looking rock near the base of the cliff. He heaved it over with a grunt of pain, expecting a jade slip or a hidden compartnt. But what he found was a very large, very slimy, and entirely unimpressed slug.
Slowly, the frantic hope began to sour into a cold, bitter draught of reality. Sol didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t. He had checked the vines, he had flipped the stones, and now, like a desperate gambler looking for one last coin in the dirt, he turned his attention back to the massive, cooling corpse of the beast.
He poked through the matted black fur, his fingers searching for a "Beast Core," a glowing internal organ, or maybe even a secret map stitched into its hide by so legendary ancient hunter who had used the bear as a living postbox.
But all he found were fleas, a massive internal hemorrhaging, and lingering scent of carrion.
So, all in all, he had found exactly zero "cheats."
...
"No secret manual?" Sol asked the empty air, his voice rising in a psycho-edged, frustrated trill that echoed hollowly off the stone walls. "No ancient grandpa in a ring? No dragon egg?"
He looked up at the sliver of moon, his face twisted in a mask of pure, indignant fury.
"I just fucking fell off a cliff for a broken rib and a bear-shaped pillow? THOSE MANHUAS ARE A TOTAL SCAM!" he scread, the sound bouncing back at him as if the ravine itself were laughing. "The authors, the artists, the publishers—once I go back, I’LL SUE THEM ALL TO BANKRUPTCY! I’ll take their houses! I’ll take their pens! I’ll sue them for emotional distress and false advertising!"
"Where’s my spiritual milk?" he demanded of a nearby mossy rock. "Where’s the pool of essence that heals in three seconds?
In a fit of pique, driven by a surge of childish, manic rage, he kicked a loose stone.
"Fuck this world!"
CRACK.
The mont his foot made contact, he realized his mistake. The vibration shot straight up his leg, bypassed his hip, and slamd directly into his shattered ribs like a lightning bolt.
"Hhh-HHHNNGG!"
The world went white for a second as a hiss of pure agony escaped his clenched teeth.
After so ti, the pain went away, and with it the adrenaline was also finally, truly, leaving him. The "overdose" of that intoxicating, liquid-lightning surge of the Strider and Dagger-Mouth souls... the liquid lightning that had made him feel like a god... was fading into a cold, hollow emptiness.
He felt every bruise, every thorn-scratch, and every internal tear. He felt fragile. He felt human. He helplessly slumped back against the beast, sliding down its flank until he sat in the dirt.
"Great," he whispered, his head thumping back against the matted fur. "Just great. Seems like I’m the only transmigrator in history to get the ’Realistic Survival’ difficulty setting."
The reality of his situation began to sink in with the weight of the mountain above him. He was at the bottom of a vertical tomb in god knows where, but he had slight inkling that it was the Inner Circle... the heart of the Eastern Zone where the most nightmare-inducing beasts road. He was injured, exhausted, and completely lost. He didn’t know the way back to the tribe, and even if he did, he didn’t have the strength to climb out of this gorge.
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