Genius In A Woman World

The sun was setting like a knife wound over the walls of the Iron Roost.

Niklas crouched behind a low stone ledge just beneath the main fortress's outer curtain, breath shallow, the taste of rust and mud thick on his tongue. He was soaked, bare-footed, wrapped in a scavenged kitchen cloak with a broken pulley hook hanging off one belt loop like a badge of rebellion.

His body ached. His muscles screamed. But he was out.

Almost.

Not yet.

Behind him, alarms howled. Brass bells clanged in intervals—three strikes, pause, three more. That meant escape confirmed. Protocols would be shifting. Gatehouses sealed. Outer patrols rerouted.

He peeked over the ledge.

One torch-bearing guard. Woman. Slouched gait. Spear dragging behind her like it was an afterthought. She'd already done one shift and probably thought this one would be routine.

Niklas wrapped the ends of his cloak tight and crawled low along the gravel path. Sharp stone scraped his knees. But he was silent.

At the corner of the wall, he paused beside a crate of arrow shafts. Left flank. Gate to the stables first. Then out the south field.

The kitchen blade he'd stolen pressed against his thigh, warm from his own blood and sweat. His breath came in slow hisses.

He moved.

Twenty feet of open space. No cover. He counted the guard's steps.

Three…

Two…

One…

She turned.

Niklas bolted.

The silence shattered like glass.

"HEY!"

The spear thudded into the wall behind him.

He didn't look back. Didn't need to. He could hear the whistle of steel, the thunder of booted footsteps as a second, heavier guard came barreling from the right. Her warhorn blasted once—one short blast.

No time.

He dove over the stable's fence, shoulder first, rolling through a mess of hay and dung. Two horses reared, panicked. A third kicked a trough over.

He seized a blanket from the saddle post, grabbed the broken stirrup for weight, and hurled it toward the barn door.

Crash.

The guards redirected instinctively. Noise drew them like blood.

Niklas slipped out the side, sprinting through a cracked fence gate that led down into a ravine behind the stables.

The incline was steep—too steep to run. He half-slid, half-fell down the muddy bank until thorns caught his foot and sent him tumbling. A sharp branch raked across his ribs.

He hit bottom hard. Didn't move for a full breath. Then two. Then forced himself up, wheezing.

Torches danced above on the ridge. Voices cursed. Arrows zipped through the air and thunked into bark.

But he was in the tree line.

Free.

For now.

Niklas kept moving.

He knew he couldn't run forever. But neither could they follow him easily through this terrain. The hills were uneven, bramble-choked, with wolf signs everywhere. He'd seen tracks.

Still, he ran. Barefoot. Every root a dagger, every stone a trial.

Eventually, the lights faded behind him.

He didn't stop until the moon was high.

When he finally collapsed near a dry creek bed, his entire body was shaking. His breath came in shudders. Alerik's endurance had carried him farther than any seventeen-year-old nerd back on Earth ever could.

But he knew he'd burned through it fast.

He leaned against a boulder, wiped mud from his brow, and took in his surroundings for the first time.

Massive pine trees towered above him, their silver-blue needles rustling in the wind. Owls hooted somewhere far off. The stars were impossibly bright—no light pollution to drown them.

And the air... The air was clean. Alive.

Niklas exhaled. For the first time since waking up in this world, he wasn't in a cage.

He closed his eyes.

And slept.

He woke up to birdsong.

His entire body throbbed. His left foot was swollen. His right arm had dried blood from the thorns. The kitchen blade was still in his belt, but his cloak had been torn during the fall.

But he was alive.

He forced himself upright and scanned the forest.

No sign of pursuit. But that wouldn't last.

He needed water. Food. Shelter.

And tools.

First: water.

The creek bed was dry now, but that meant a source upstream. He followed it for an hour until he found a small pool collecting from a seep in the rocks.

He hesitated. Then remembered something from a documentary—solar purification.

He didn't have plastic. But he did have a metal food tray.

He used moss to filter sediment, then set the tray in the sun. It wouldn't purify perfectly, but he also remembered another trick: boiling. If he could get fire…

Flint. Dry bark. Maybe a hand-drill.

His mind buzzed with possibilities.

I'm not dead yet.

He broke off thin branches and peeled bark for tinder. It took hours, but by evening, he had smoke.

Then flame.

He built a small fire pit inside a hollowed stump, placed stones around it, and set the tray atop to boil filtered water.

As the fire crackled, he leaned back and let himself laugh.

Science wins again.

Near sunset, he heard rustling. Movement down the slope.

He dove behind a bush, heart pounding.

A group of riders came into view—four armored women on horseback.

One of them dragged something behind her by a chain.

Niklas's eyes widened.

A man. Half-naked, bruised, hands bound behind his back. A collar was fastened around his neck. The woman holding the chain laughed and cracked a whip over his shoulder.

"Learn your place, swine," she barked.

They passed within twenty yards of Niklas's hiding spot.

He didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

This world… really is upside down.

When they were gone, he exhaled and looked down at his hands. The collar. The chain. The blood. The indifference.

If he was going to survive this world, he needed more than just brains.

He needed allies. Leverage. And power.

For now, though—he had fire, water, and silence.

And that was enough.