It hadn't taken long for him to gather the wood. The forest was quiet, save for the sound of twigs snapping underfoot and the low rustle of wind brushing through the leaves. As Richter dragged Sophie's body toward the makeshift pyre, his breath hitched. Guilt clung to him like the blood still drying beneath his fingernails.

  He paused, fingers trembling as they adjusted her limbs. Was this for her? For Dave? For Jason? Or was this about him—about trying to wash away something that could never be cleansed? The thought dug deep.

  Those birds he had fought off—they weren’t monsters. They hadn’t killed anyone. They had only come to do what nature demanded of them: return the dead to the earth. In some cultures, he remembered, letting the bodies of the fallen be taken by birds was considered sacred. A final offering. A way to let go.

  So why had he risked his life? Why had he lashed out at them with such fury? Was it pride? Guilt? Rage? Or just the need to feel like he could still do something in a world where everything seemed to spiral beyond his control?

  He swallowed hard, throat tight. The weight of Sophie's body in his arms felt heavier than it should have. As if the world itself was reminding him that there was no undoing what had been done.

  It only took a small infusion of mana into the flint to spark the fire. The dry wood caught quickly, the flames licking upward with greedy hunger. The pyre crackled to life, smoke curling toward the canopy, thick with the scent of burning flesh and pine.

  Richter stood in silence for a long moment, the flickering light painting his face in shades of orange and gold. The fire's heat stung his eyes, but he didn't blink. He couldn’t. Not yet.

  "I’m sorry," he said at last, his voice rough and low. "For not being strong enough. For not saving you."

  The flames roared louder in response, as if to drown out his guilt.

  He took a shaky breath, his gaze fixed on the dancing embers. "Dave... you were the shield we all hid behind. You didn’t hesitate. You died saving someone you barely knew. I hope that means something, wherever you are."

  His voice cracked. "Sophie... I didn’t get to know you, but you fought like hell. You didn’t deserve this."

  A long silence stretched between each sentence, broken only by the crackling fire.

  "And Jason... I—" He faltered, the words turning to ash on his tongue. "I wish things had been different."

  The flames reflected in his eyes, bright and relentless. He wanted to say more, but his throat closed up. In the end, there were no words powerful enough to make it right.

  So, he just stood there and watched.

  Until only embers remained.

  Richter made his way back to the cave, his legs heavy, not just from exhaustion but from the weight of everything he'd seen and done. The forest had quieted again, as if holding its breath after the pyre.

  Over one shoulder, he carried two staffs—his own Healer's staff, and Jason's Caster staff. The latter was a slender thing, lined with faint runes and pulsing with a dormant kind of energy. He wasn’t sure why he brought it. Maybe it was practicality—it enhanced intellect-based skills. Maybe it was something else. A reminder. A burden.

  In his other hand hung the limp body of one of the scavenger birds, the least damaged of the three. He’d never plucked a bird, let alone cooked one over an open flame, but he’d figure it out. Hunger gnawed at him now, cutting through the fog of grief.

  Entering the cave, Richter felt an unexpected sense of safety wrap around him. It was strange, almost surreal—but this place, hollowed and shadowed by stone and silence, was his now. His shelter. His home.

  He dropped the bird beside the cave wall and stepped back into the forest, gathering dry wood with a quiet focus. When he returned, he cleared the debris from the fire pit and began building the flames, methodically placing kindling, layering branches. The repetition grounded him. It gave his hands something to do, something to build instead of destroy.

  The fire came to life slowly, casting its warm, flickering light across the stone. Richter sat close, not for the heat but for the silence it offered. He didn’t want to think—but thoughts crept in anyway.

  His eyes flicked to the back of the cave, to the strange markings etched into the tablet embedded in the wall. That puzzle. It called to him still, a mystery whispering just beyond reach. Even grief couldn’t fully drown out the curiosity. And that scared him more than anything else—that even now, he wanted to understand.

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  Picking up the bird, Richter began plucking the feathers with unsure hands. He wasn’t certain if this was the right method—he’d only seen it done in passing, maybe on a video once—but it was working. Slowly. Messily. Still, the motion gave him something to focus on, a task with a clear start and end.

  He was careful with some of the feathers, setting them aside on a flat rock. Not for warmth, and not for fletching arrows—though those were still possibilities. No, this time he had something else in mind. A writing tool.

  The markings on the tablet had been haunting him since he first saw them. He needed a way to record, to draw, to copy the symbols and break them down piece by piece. Ink, charcoal, blood—he could make something work. But first, he needed the quills.

  "Feather quills," he murmured under his breath, eyeing them more carefully now. "Crude... but they’ll do."

  In this world, anything could be a tool—or a key. And he had a puzzle to solve.

  With a steady breath, he summoned the dagger back to his hand, the blade materializing with a shimmer. Working with quiet determination, he severed the head, wings, and feet, setting each aside with precision. The lifeless bird was now nothing more than food.

  He found a long, sturdy stick just outside the cave and drove it through the cleaned carcass, fashioning a crude spit. With care, he placed it over the fire, angling it to avoid burning. The scent of singed feathers gave way to the faint aroma of cooking meat, and despite everything, his stomach growled.

  "Guess this is dinner," he muttered, watching the fat begin to sizzle.

  The fire popped, and for a moment, the cave felt just a little more like a home.

  Richter picked up the first feather, twirling it between his fingers. He vaguely remembered a video he’d seen years ago—something about how quills were made. It had looked simple at the time, but now, with only a knife and trial-and-error at his disposal, he realized just how delicate the process really was.

  "It’s not just dipping it in ink," he muttered to himself, narrowing his eyes. "Has to be cut just right. Hollowed. Shaped."

  His memory was sharp, one of the few blessings he’d brought from his old life. He recalled the demonstration clearly: the way the feather's tip had to be carved at a precise angle, the inner shaft hollowed to form a reservoir for ink. But knowing and doing were very different things.

  With careful hands, he made his first cut. The result was jagged, useless. The second feather split. The third curled at the end. Each failure stung, a frustrating reminder that he wasn't in a world that allowed for wasted effort.

  By the time he reached the seventh feather, the result resembled something usable—a rough but workable quill, its tip sharp and clean. He exhaled slowly, holding it up to the firelight.

  "Good enough," he said softly, more to the cave than to himself.

  It wasn’t perfect. But it was a start.

  Richter fashioned two more quills from five additional feathers, each one slightly better than the last. He wanted backups—this puzzle might take more than one attempt, and mistakes were inevitable. By the time he was finished, the cave had filled with a mouthwatering aroma, rich and smoky, like roast chicken over a campfire.

  He’d planned ahead. Earlier, he had peeled bark from a tree near the pond—thin sheets that flaked easily, almost like parchment. After scrubbing them clean and leaving them to dry near the cave mouth, he now had makeshift paper. Crude, but usable.

  Carefully, he pulled the spit from above the flames and laid the roasted bird onto a flat stone slab covered with the clean paper like bark. Summoning his dagger—now sterilized in the fire—he carved chunks of meat from the crispy surface. The blade sliced through easily, steam rising from the tender flesh.

  The first bite hit his tongue like salvation. He closed his eyes and sighed. It was simple, slightly charred, but full of flavor. He didn’t know if it was his cooking or just his starvation talking, but it was the best thing he’d tasted in this new world.

  Once he was done eating, Richter made his way to the pond. He knelt beside the still water, rinsing his hands and splashing his face, letting the cold wash away the grime and smoke. Night was closing in fast—the sky above the trees dimming to a deep indigo. But for the first time in what felt like forever, he was fed, clean, and prepared.

  His firewood was stacked neatly inside the cave. He had bark parchment drying near the embers, and a few serviceable quills ready for use. All that remained was ink.

  He stared down at his hand, flexing his fingers. There was really only one option—and it was going to hurt.

  With a resigned breath, he drew his dagger and, without hesitation, made a clean slice across his palm. Blood welled instantly, hot and thick, and he tilted his hand over his four empty potion vials, filling each one slowly.

  "There. Ink," he murmured, voice tight as he clenched his fist, forcing the last drops into the vial. His jaw locked against the sting, eyes narrowing not just from the pain—but from the strange satisfaction of creating something, even from his own blood.

  The sting faded quickly as he focused mana into his other hand. A soft glow flared around his fingertips, and within moments, the wound began to knit itself closed, leaving only a faint line where the cut had been.

  No bandage needed.

  Just magic, pain, and resolve.

  Richter walked to the back of the cave and sat down, letting the fire warm his back while shadows flickered along the stone walls. The soft, orange glow stretched out across the darkening space, giving the illusion of comfort where none truly existed.

  He set the bark parchment down with care, each sheet bearing the faint scent of dried sap and smoke. Uncorking one of the blood-filled vials, he dipped his freshly carved quill into the crimson ink. The liquid clung to the tip, thick and dark.

  His gaze lifted slowly to the tablet carved into the cave wall—the puzzle that had haunted him since he first saw it.

  "Alright," he whispered to the runes, the firelight catching in his eyes. "Let’s see what secrets you're hiding."