The deeper into the fungal field Muffet went, the heavier the air became. Mildew and rot caked every breath, and the ruined tuffet structures closed in like the ribs of some ancient carcass. Stewart advanced one careful step at a time, scanning for movement with the discipline of a squad leader on patrol.

  At twenty meters from the stone platform, he saw the shadows start to flicker—something shifting inside them, too regular to be wind. He froze, lowering his center of gravity. The fear bar at the edge of his vision quivered.

  He waited, hands loose at his sides, every muscle tensed.

  It came out of nowhere—a skittering, high-frequency click. Then, at the edge of the fungal cluster, something emerged. At first, it looked like a gigantic centipede, but as it moved into the open, Stewart saw that it was made of silk. Not the gentle kind from childhood crafts, but wet, glistening cords, each segment woven tight over a frame of nothing. The creature’s head was a hollow dome, inside of which blue sparks flared and died. It advanced on too many legs, each foot spooling out a dragline behind.

  The fear gauge in Stewart’s sight jumped by twenty percent, the color deepening from orange to red. He could feel his heart pounding in the avatar’s chest.

  The insect came fast, following an arc designed for herding prey. Stewart’s mind ran a quick threat assessment: speed, tensile strength, distance to cover, escape routes.

  He went for the chemical pouch on his belt, popping the stopper with his thumb. The air was filled with the scent of ammonia and protein. The silkworm recoiled, antennae flicking. Stewart held his ground. The bug clicked again—a series of escalating snaps, like bubble wrap detonating under a boot—and launched itself forward.

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  Instinct took over. He threw a vial of whey extract at the bug’s head and followed up by emptying the rest of the curd mixture in a spray. The bug’s silk flashed white-hot where the liquid landed, hissing and melting the strands into sticky goop. The creature flailed, letting out a screech pitched just above conscious hearing. Its legs tangled. It collapsed, writhing, and Stewart sprinted past while it fought to right itself.

  He ran as fast as he dared in the unfamiliar body. Each step in the fungi threatened his stride. Still, Stewart kept low and fast, never stopping to look back until he hit the safety of a dead tree trunk. He ducked behind it, pulse hammering.

  With the fear gauge nearly complete, the world was tinged with a subtle red at the edges. Stewart/Norris focused on his breathing—four-count in, hold, four-count out—until the color began to recede. His hands still shook, but less so with each exhale.

  He peeked around the trunk. The bug had righted itself and was limping away, dragging damaged segments. Stewart felt a surge of relief, tempered by the awareness that relief was probably just a chemical lever in the game’s code.

  He checked his resources. There is only one intact vial left. He would need to improvise more weapons—and soon.

  The system pinged, unbidden:

  ENEMY REPELLED. SUSTENANCE: 95%.

  FEAR RESPONSE: ACTIVE

  NOTE: EXCESSIVE FEAR MAY CAUSE UNPREDICTABLE OUTCOMES

  Stewart spat out a laugh. “Great. Thanks for the warning,” he said to the air.

  He surveyed the clearing for other threats, but nothing else moved. He slumped to the ground, back against the trunk, and let himself shake for a full minute before moving again.

  The fight had made the next steps clear: this world would not wait for him to catch up. He needed weapons, shelter, and a map of the area. He required, above all, to keep the fear gauge in check. He’d survived worse than simulation monsters, but never with a meter watching his every reaction.

  He pressed the exile seal again, as if it could offer more memory or insight, but nothing came. The only way forward was to keep moving, learning, and adapting. If there was a mission here, it was survival—by any means necessary.

  Stewart pushed himself to his feet and began to forage, already planning what he would craft next. In war or exile, it was always the same: adapt, or die.

  He preferred the former.