The moment I swung open the front doors of the Jakobster estate and strode toward the carriage, I already knew I had to be careful. Forty-five minutes later, the coachman probably thought I was dragging my heels on purpose. Perhaps I was; if “purpose” meant surviving the trip without vomiting over the upholstery.

  Yes. That had been the problem last time. Breakfast. The weak stomach of mine had betrayed me, and Jabbelore had laughed. My memory replayed every jolting lurch, every sudden twist, every nauseating bump. The forest didn’t kill me directly. No, my own poor timing and digestive mismanagement had done half the work.

  This time, I had prepared. Breakfast and lunch packed neatly into the ornate boxes, I had spent a meticulous thirty minutes consuming and expelling. Carefully and deliberately, everything that could possibly rise up to sabotage me. A strategic strike against my own gastrointestinal system. I would not be a helpless mess this time. Not in my father’s twisted little experiment.

  As I climbed aboard, the coachman gave me that same look he always gave—equal parts exasperation and confusion. Poor man. He had seen me squirm, rant, swing wooden swords, and throw luggage like a violent puppet last time. Today, though… I sat. Unmoving. Bolted to the seat. My hands folded neatly in my lap, my back straight. Not a twitch. Not a grimace. Eyes fixed ahead, staring as if the bumps of the forest were merely polite suggestions.

  “Well… this is unusual.” muttered the coachman.

  Huh, the coachman seems to be more talkative this time.

  The carriage began to roll. Out of the estate gates, past the familiar estates, the orderly fields fading into the distance. I kept my movements minimal, my mind running through a mental checklist of every bump, root, and treacherous puddle the path could offer. Every jolt I had endured last time had been cataloged. Memorized. Indexed.

  This time, I would survive.

  The first shudder of the wheels over uneven ground sent a tiny thrill up my spine. Nothing more. Not the nausea. Not the dread. Just… observation.

  “Pardon the bumps, young master, Jabbelore’s road doesn’t take kindly to carriages. Mud and roots… you know the sort.,” murmured the coachman, breaking the silence. His lips quivered faintly. It was like watching someone tiptoe through a minefield, oblivious to the mines because I’d already died to them.

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t even glance at him. I could feel the weight of his eyes, sure, but I had work to do. Each bump was a variable, each jolt a potential trigger from the last loop of death I had survived.

  Minutes passed. Then more minutes. The forest approached, that looming wall of twisted boughs and deep shadow. Jabbelore. My stomach did not turn. My hands did not tremble. I stayed seated, still as stone. The carriage rocked, threatened, bucked, but I met it with the same calmness a sculptor might meet a hammer striking marble, controlled, intentional.

  The coachman spoke again, probably out of nervousness. “We’ll get through this, young master. Just a little longer. I… apologize for the discomfort.”

  …was this guy always so talkative?

  Anyways, I ran through the facts in my head. Last time, I had left the carriage. My body, unprepared, betrayed me. My attention faltered. That was the trigger. That moment outside the carriage; gastrointestinal weakness coupled with the forest’s treacherous terrain, had made me vulnerable. And that had been it.

  Not this time. This time, I had anticipated. My meal was complete, my body emptied, my mind focused. There would be no forced stops, no collapse by twisted roots, no choking on bile. Only observation. Only control. Only survival.

  I let myself watch, despite my imposed stillness. The canopy thickened. Shadows grew long and sinister. The horses’ hooves sank into mud, jostling the carriage violently. The left wheel bumped a jagged root. The forward axle grazed a buried stone. The right wheel sank into the softened earth. The carriage creaked, shuddered, groaned. My fingers flexed lightly, testing my composure, but I did not move. Not a flick of an eyelash.

  The coachman kept speaking. I paid just enough attention to track his tone, his concern, his frustration. “...This section is particularly… treacherous. Mind the bumps.”

  This awkwardness is killing me.

  Time became an abstract concept. Minutes turned to hours. Each lurch, each groan, each squeal of leather or wood was a data point. I cataloged everything with the precision of a scribe. No, not just cataloged; this time, I could anticipate. I adjusted subtly, leanings of the body against the seat, tiny shifts of weight, subtle breath control to absorb motion without disturbance. If the forest tried to kill me, it would fail. I was ready.

  The coachman’s gaze betrayed him occasionally. He stole looks, whispered apologies, and tried to gauge my reaction. I allowed none. Every inch of my posture radiated unshakable composure, calculated control. Let him theorize. Let him wonder if I had suddenly grown ascetic, meditative, possessed, or… just insane. Perhaps all three.

  The forest thickened, swallowing the daylight, until even my carefully planned mental map became a challenge. The stench of wet rot, the chill in the air, the oppressive darkness—all were factors I had cataloged. I noted them. Each sense input became a layer in my predictive model of survival.

  And through it all, I remained unbroken. Calm. Observant. Deliberate. Every single bump, every twist, every jolt; anticipated, analyzed, survived. No nausea, no collapse, no uncontrolled stop. This was how it should have been the first time. The loop had taught me its lesson.

  Then, at the cusp of dusk, the forest finally gave way. The canopy opened, the air grew lighter, warmer, less oppressive. The carriage wheels adjusted to smooth soil, the horses snorted with relief.

  Finally, I had escaped that dreaded fucking forest.

  Foklunn. A small settlement, peaceful, quiet. I allowed myself the faintest of smiles, almost imperceptible, as the coachman exhaled beside me.

  We had arrived at Foklunn.

  ```

  The first thing I noticed when the carriage pulled into Foklunn was how small everything looked. Small houses. Small farms. Small fences. Even the people seemed small, though I suspected that part was just because they were staring at me like I was some prince from a fairy tale.

  Two hundred people at most. I could count the chimneys. I could count the chickens. I could probably count the cows too if I felt like it. After the crushing weight of Jabbelore Forest, the open air of this village felt almost unreal. I inhaled the warm dusk breeze and let the relief wash over me.

  Finally, Solid ground. No more shaking. No more bumping. No more feeling like my insides were trying to crawl out of my mouth. I had lived. I deserve a fucking medal. Maybe two.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  People gathered around the carriage as it stopped beside a long wooden building with creaky steps. They whispered to each other. Some bowed. Some looked like they wanted to bow but forgot how. Their awe clung to me like fog.

  Right. To them, I was royalty. Or something close enough. Pseudo… Royalty…? Anyways, out here, far from the main Jakobster estates, the villagers barely saw anyone from the Jakobster Dynasty. I was practically the closest thing to a shooting star.

  I gave them a lazy smile just to see how they reacted. Several gasped. A child ducked behind his mother as if my grin held the secrets of the universe. Hehe. I could get used to this.

  A plump elderly man in a faded green tunic rushed forward. He carried a bundle of scrolls under one arm and had the frantic look of someone who had not slept in days. He bowed so low his nose almost scraped the dirt.

  “Lord Jakob. Welcome. Welcome to Foklunn. A great honor. A very great honor. Please, this way. I am Wilmoris, the current head of this humble village. Please forgive the lack of preparation. The day has been busy. The crops. The rains. The chickens. Everything.”

  He talked like he was trying to chase after his own words.

  “Nice to meet you. You can slow down a bit,” I said with a wave of my hand. “I think the chickens can wait.”

  He blinked twice, then laughed nervously. The crowd behind him laughed too, though I was not sure they understood the joke. I think they were laughing because I was laughing…

  He added, “We did not expect your arrival at this hour. The letter said afternoon.”

  Afternoon.

  So they really were expecting me earlier.

  This was confirmation. Last time, I never made it this far. Which meant these people were likely completely untouched by the reset. The reset was not likely global. It only applied to the people and things I had interacted with. Most likely. My brain clicked through the likely pieces like falling dominoes.

  I forced a casual smile and waved a hand.

  “Jabbelore was quite a hindrance. That forest is never kind.”

  I technically wasn’t lying, since that godforsaken forest was the reason why I’m late.

  Wilmoris nodded quickly as if the forest had personally offended him. “Of course. Yes. A shame. The forest is troublesome.”

  Wilmoris cleared his throat and guided me up the wooden steps and through the double doors of what I assumed was the administrative manor. The hall inside smelled like warm hay and wood polish. A long table sat in the center, covered in maps and bundles of dried herbs.

  “Young master, please allow me to explain our situation,” Wilmoris said. “Foklunn is a small farming village. One of our responsibilities we take pride in as a village this close to the northern border is helping the northern Watch. Without them, the monsters and demi-humans from the northern Oasis would pour into the territories.”

  I listened with half an ear. Mostly I admired the wooden ceiling beams. They were low. Very low. I could reach up and tap one with my fingertips. I did exactly that. Wilmoris flinched as if touching the ceiling beam were a divine act.

  I lowered my hand before he fainted.

  Still, the northern Watch caught my attention. As far as I know; its a special detachment and technically the youngest branch of the Jakobster Garde, our family’s fighting force, and it serves as a patrol unit stationed at the northern Fences that borders the northern Oasis. Their main purpose is to keep out the various monsters and demi-humans from the other side of the fence.

  Rumors always painted the northern Oasis as a place so beautiful that even the air glittered, yet so dangerous that entire armies could disappear without leaving bones behind.

  It was hard not to imagine it glowing like a dream on one side and growling like a nightmare on the other.

  Honestly, It made sense for my father to create an entirely new detachment unit. Since I imagine fighting humans and subjugating monsters to be very different job descriptions.

  Wilmoris continued. “The northern Watch uses Foklunn as one of their supply points for food and water. They visit often. Sometimes weekly. Sometimes monthly. It depends on the threats they face. They always alert us when danger rises. Because of that, we try to maintain strong relations with them.”

  I nodded slowly. “So the village feeds them and they keep all of you alive. Very fair trade.”

  Wilmoris swallowed. “Exactly, my lord.”

  He was sweating again. I was starting to wonder if I should pat his back or hand him one of my handkerchiefs before he dissolved into a puddle.

  He continued explaining the various inner workings of the village, the different ways of how they meet ends meet, and all the other stuff that comes with being in charge of a local municipality.

  I sighed internally. My social battery about to give out.

  So this is how royalty feels. Exhausting.

  Eventually, I held up a hand.

  “I understand everything. Thank you. I will do my best here.”

  Wilmoris nearly cried. “We are grateful, young master. Truly.”

  Relax, old man. I am not here to save the world. I am here because my father probably wants to bury me behind a bush.

  Once his explanation finally reached an end, Wilmoris led me through a narrow hallway toward the guest quarters on the second floor. The stairs creaked under our weight. Every step sounded like the wood was praying.

  “You will stay in the finest room, Lord Jakob,” Wilmoris said proudly. “We cleaned it three times. New curtains. New sheets. New pillows. We arranged everything carefully. We hope it suits your needs.”

  He opened the door with a flourish, as if revealing a treasure chest.

  The room was simple but comfortable. A wide bed sat near the window. The mattress looked soft. The pillows were bright white. A small desk sat in the corner with a lantern and ink pot. There was even a bowl of fruit on the bedside table.

  “Thank you. Looks perfect,” I said with a nod.

  Wilmoris nearly fainted again from joy. He bowed one more time and excused himself, promising that dinner would be prepared soon.

  Once he disappeared down the hall, I finally let myself fall face first into the bed. The mattress swallowed me. It was soft. Warm. Safe. A thousand times better than being stabbed in the spine. Jabbelore Forest felt like a fever dream now.

  I stretched out on the bed and let my limbs sink into the blankets.

  I survived the forest.

  I survived the reset.

  I survived my own stomach.

  I survived it all.

  Maybe I really am a genius.

  I let my eyes fall shut. My muscles relaxed. Sleep crept over me like a warm blanket.

  Then someone knocked on the door.

  I groaned into the pillow. Of course. Of course someone wanted something the moment I tried to rest. This world hated me in very specific ways.

  The knock came again. Quieter this time. Almost nervous.

  I dragged myself off the bed and opened the door. A young servant stood outside. He looked around my age. Maybe younger. Probably freshly hired. He wore a clean tunic and clutched a folded note in his hands.

  “Lord Jakob,” he said softly. “I apologize for disturbing you. A request has been sent for you. It is urgent.”

  “A request. At this hour.” I rubbed my eyes. “From who, Wilmoris?”

  The servant shook his head quickly. “No. Not from the village head. The request came from the nearest fence outpost.”

  My sleep vanished instantly. “What a request.”

  He glanced down at the note in his hand, double checking the written words before looking back up. His expression was serious. Nervous. Almost frightened.

  “The sender has requested a midnight meeting with you, young master. The details of this meeting, other than its location in the nearest fence outpost, weren’t stated…”

  I stared at him. Midnight. Fence outpost.

  At fucking midnight of all times?

  “From who.” I asked, half-irritated.

  He hesitated for a second and looked down on the note again, then he read a name aloud.

  “Kens Kaeluse”