Jack’s avatar materialized in the Vulpine Woods.
Pale moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting a mottled glow on the forest floor, and the night birds called in the distance. The tall silos of the Agropastoral Institute loomed in shadow.
Just before the Breach run, he and his team had carried that egg through here, ducking branches and dodging frenzied foxes. It felt like another life, one that had been carefree.
He didn’t move.
The wind stirred the leaves. A fox darted across the path. Somewhere nearby, a pup let out a high, sharp yelp. Still, he remained rooted to the spot.
His father was sick. His father was dying.
"Half a million credits. Three months," he said aloud.
He had never made five figures in a year, and now he needed six in a single quarter.
He wanted it to be a dream—something he could blink away. Or perhaps a mistake someone else would fix. Maybe the hospital would call back and say they’d mixed up the files.
But it was real. And there was no one else.
Numbness crept into him, cold in his gut and fire in his veins. It gripped his chest like a vice, squeezing tighter with every breath. Time blurred—he didn’t know how long he stood there—until the pressure cracked something inside him.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered.
No one answered. Then, from deep within, he heard his father’s voice: You have to. You have to, or I will die.
He clenched his fists and coughed against the tightness in his throat. The tears burned hot behind his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
He didn’t want to cry. Instead, he turned and punched the nearest tree. He hit it once. Then again, and again until bark bit into his knuckles and pain sparked up his arm. It didn’t help. Not really. But it reminded him he was still here.
When his fists ached, and his arms hung heavy, he dropped to the forest floor and leaned against the trunk, catching ragged breaths.
“I don’t have time to wallow,” he said, voice low. “Dad doesn’t have time.”
New Earth had started as a side hustle. A way to cover rent. Now it was his only shot. The only way to pay the ransom and break his father free from the grip of a spreading cancer.
He closed his eyes. The dread didn’t fade. But the path forward was clear, and it started here.
He opened his interface and pulled up his contacts. Rob had taken the train to Providence to spend the day with Marie. Horace had planned a long bike ride by the seashore. Amari said he had editing work lined up.
Jack’s first instinct was to call them all. Rally the troops and start grinding. But he forced himself to breathe and think.
He couldn't call Amari. His videos would be crucial here. Hadn't he said that they'd make a fortune with the videos from the Breach? So far, Amari had only posted a video of their compy and bug quests, and then how he’d unlocked his hidden class.
But there was so much more to share. There were the specifics of his class and all its unique recipes and skills.
Then there was the epic victory over the Slayer, and footage from the village they'd start together. Amari would have to spend a lot of time editing to make this work.
He still didn't know how much money exactly he'd make in royalties, but if the channel did explode… it could reach six digits. Maybe.
And the others? They wouldn’t be any help to him if they were running on empty. He needed them sharp, not wrung out. He'd also wait for them to come back.
Still, he couldn’t sit idle.
“What can I do? What can I do?” he muttered, pacing in tight, frustrated loops.
There were items he could sell on the Marketplace. The wolf mantle, dropped by the Slayer and the epic skill book from the Mastodon, were both still in his inventory, untouched.
Selling them without a word felt wrong. They’d earned those together. He’d leave Horace to handle it. He had far more experience with auctions.
Then there was the golden cube. That absolutely had to wait. He wasn't going to start the village without the team.
Which left him with one path forward.
He left his two pot hives nestled safely in the woods and took off toward the Agropastoral Institute. The gates parted, and he raced for the local marketplace. One by one, he dumped the lesser loot from the Breach run into the system window.
Then he reached for the most valuable item in his inventory: [Royal Jelly].
Thanks to the hives, he had over a hundred units stored up. He tapped “Sell,” and the suggested price popped up—1,500 gold.
He accepted the offer.
One thousand and some credits down. There was still a lot of work ahead of him. But at least he’d taken the first step.
He tapped his foot. His income potential with [Royal Jelly] really was out of this world, and the best part was that it was passive income. He needed to scale up his [Royal Jelly] production as quickly as possible.
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Maybe I should get a few more hives, he thought. Queens cost about 500 gold.
If he waited on his [Queen Breeding] skill to kick in, it’d take days before one of his hives could be split. But if he bought queens outright, he could ramp up jelly production and rake in a solid profit.
The only issue was that live creatures couldn’t go into inventories. Queens had to be bought directly at an auction or from other players.
So be it. I’ll buy more as soon as I can.
Next, he purchased the materials he needed: ropes, cords, sticks, and bark. He could have gathered these himself, sure, but that would’ve taken time, and right now, time was worth more than gold. He'd rather use his time doing something else.
Moreover, the only requirement was that he had to craft the items he equipped—the ingredients could come from anywhere.
He still had over a thousand gold left from the Breach, plus now the 1.5k from [Royal Jelly]. He could afford some sticks and rope.
Once he was done, he ran back to the woods.
Summon!
The massive sloth appeared with a blink and a low grunt. She regarded Jack with sleepy acknowledgment, her wide eyes half-lidded and unreadable.
Then, without haste, she turned toward the nearest tree. Rising onto her hind legs, she gave it a slow shove. The trunk cracked loudly. With another deliberate push, the tree toppled, sending birds skyward and foxes darting through the underbrush.
Jack chuckled softly. “You haven’t changed.”
He stepped closer and pressed a hand to her thick fur. The warmth beneath it was steady and deep, like coals under a blanket. Without thinking, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around her massive shoulder.
“I missed you,” he murmured.
He held the embrace a little longer than he normally would. She was several tons of calm, and right now, he needed every ounce of it.
Snowy’s saddle had broken during her transformation. Without a new one, she couldn’t carry the pot hives, and without them, Jack wasn’t going anywhere.
He stepped back and stretched out his hand.
Time Field!
The world shifted. Leaves rustled at half speed. A bird’s call stretched into a drawn-out, echoing warble. Everything moved as if wading through syrup.
He pulled out the materials—ropes, cords, thick bark strips, and sticks. This saddle would need to be bigger than the last.
Jack took out sixteen sticks and began tying them with cords. His fingers moved from muscle memory, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
Half a million credits. Three months. His dad’s condition. The pressure pressed in from all sides.
He fumbled a knot, untying and retying it three times before he could move on.
He stopped, his shoulders tense. “I need to get myself together.”
Closing his eyes, he let out a slow breath. He thought back to the beginning of the game—those first days when everything in his life had felt like it was falling apart. Back then, he'd had to deal with the breakup, the judgment from his parents, and the ache in his chest that never quite went away.
Back then, crafting had been his anchor.
There was something about the quiet repetition—the weaving, the knotting, the shaping—that steadied him. It was just him, his hands, and the work. There was no pressure, just progress.
He drew in another breath and tried to channel the chaos into the tips of his fingers. This, at least, was something he could control.
Slowly, his hands found their rhythm and the frame took shape.
He finished tying the joints with cord, double-looping each knot and testing the tension with a pull. The frame groaned softly, but held.
This frame was half again as long as the first and nearly twice as wide. Once the base was secure, he began setting up the ropes.
He looped the first rope across the frame, anchoring it to one end and weaving it over the central supports before tying it off at the far side. Then another, and another. Row by row, the frame began to resemble a stretched-out loom.
That part was easy. Now came the weaving.
He rotated the frame.
Over and under, over and under.
The rhythm came back with his muscle memory. The focus that had eluded him earlier finally settled in, and for a few moments, he lost himself in the pattern—the fibers pulling snug beneath his fingertips. A knot here. A tuck there.
He hadn’t stopped thinking or worrying—those thoughts were still there—but it felt like he was watching himself from the outside. One version of him wove calmly, hands moving with quiet purpose, while the other paced in circles, panicked and helpless. He felt like both of them and neither.
Snowy watched from nearby, chewing on her second tree. Even now, she moved with that same unbothered slowness, like the world could rush past and she’d never feel pressed to follow. Inside the Time Field, she looked practically frozen in thought.
When he finally finished the weave, he checked the tension. It was firm, but springy.
He loosened the support ties, pulled them free, and then fastened the final knots with deliberate care.
He repeated the process. The second mat came together more smoothly. His hands moved with confidence now, the rhythm more sure with every loop and pull.
Now that he had the components, he called Snowy over. She strolled toward him with her usual slow, plodding grace.
Jack brought the saddle over and laid one rope mat carefully across her broad back. He layered bark strips over the weave for padding, then set the second rope mat on top.
Finally, he cinched it tight using long cords. It took a few adjustments, but soon the frame hugged her securely.
Congratulations! You’ve crafted [Sedgegrass Saddle]!
+850XP in [Bushcraft].
Sedgegrass Saddle (Common)
A sturdy, handmade saddle woven from thick sedgegrass and layered with bark padding. Surprisingly comfortable, especially for long rides.
Crafting grade: C+
Durability: 42
Item effects:
+12% movement speed when riding a mount;
+6 satiation;
Grass and bark-based foods restore more.
Jack nodded, while Snowy blinked slowly, unimpressed.
“Don’t get too excited. Still got the saddlebags to go,” he said.
He took out an empty pot hive and crouched beside it, using it as a mold for the new spiral. The shape held. Each coil locked into the next.
He made a second basket the same way. Then, wasting no time, he looped them to the saddle—one on each side.
Congratulations! You’ve crafted [Sedgegrass Saddlebags].
+800 XP in [Bushcraft]
Sedgegrass Saddlebags (Uncommon)
A pair of saddlebags woven from resilient sedgegrass, designed to transport fragile or living goods with care. Breathable, flexible, and surprisingly tough.
Crafting grade: C
Durability: 42
Item effects:
Allows transport of live goods;
Perishable item durability remains unchanged for the first 60 minutes of travel.
Jack placed the hives into the baskets and gave them a small nudge to test their stability.
“That’ll do.”
He opened the world map. He had to get to a city if he was going to make any headway, and Embersgate was now out of the question. They hadn’t decided on a new destination yet, so Jack picked one that was two gates down from Embersgate.
It seemed far enough to avoid trouble and close enough to reach on a sloth.
He urged Snowy forward. She lumbered into motion, one massive step at a time.
Dark thoughts stirred, threatening to take hold again. Jack grabbed the black-blown horn and played Hunter’s Call, so that he could stack Retreat Calls. His speed surged.
Then he reached for his ocarina and brought it to his lips. He began to play Morning of Spring.
With [Swing Step], he’d move ten percent faster as long as he was playing, and the bees would grow faster under the influence of the song.
He poured himself into the melody, note by note, letting the music carry away the weight he couldn’t set down.
And together, they vanished toward the starlit horizon.
