The World of Fractured Realms

Scene Title: Under Twin Moons – The First Hunt 

Darkness wrapped itself around Ren like a burial shroud. The world pressed in on him—cold, damp, unfamiliar. His cheek lay against uneven earth, the skin already numbed by the chill. Dirt and damp leaves clung to his face, the gritty texture of crushed pine needles scratching against his jaw. His breath ghosted faintly in the air, shallow and ragged, drawing in the sharp scent of loam and resin. The ground smelled alive—deep and ancient, pulsing with the quiet rot of a forest that had never known fire or road.

Above, the trees loomed like sentinels—black-trunked and moss-veined, their twisted limbs clawing at the sky. And in that sky, two immense moons hovered low—pale giants suspended impossibly close, pouring silver light through the canopy. Their glow painted every branch in frost-blue sheen, casting sharp shadows that stretched and twitched with each whisper of wind. Leaves stirred high overhead, moving in rhythms that felt more ritual than random.

A dull ache pulsed behind Ren's eyes, blooming outward from a knot at the back of his skull. He winced. Pain lanced through his head as consciousness returned in pieces. His fingers twitched, digging instinctively into the soil, grasping for something solid to prove this wasn't a dream. Then memory returned in sharp flashes—laughter in a car, a younger voice beside him singing off-key, a blinding glare of headlights—and then, everything breaking.

His breath caught as panic threatened to seize him. But he forced it down. His hand flew to his scalp and found the tender swelling there, sticky with half-dried blood. He gritted his teeth, rolled onto his side, and groaned as muscles screamed in protest. His clothes were damp and torn, streaked with grime and sweat. Bruises were blooming beneath the fabric. His joints throbbed as if he'd been dropped from the sky and stitched back together wrong.

He forced himself upright on trembling knees and took in his surroundings. There was no road. No houses. No distant lights. Only forest. Endless, ancient, unknowable. The kind of forest that held its breath when something watched. The kind that had never known cities.

Ren's survival instinct kicked in before logic could argue. He began to sweep the area around him, pushing away pine needles and moss, searching. His hands closed around two solid stones—rough, cold, and jagged. He gripped them tightly, letting their chill center him.

Then he struck.

Crack. Crack. Snap.

Sparks leapt and a sharp flake split from one of the stones. It sliced the side of his thumb, and he welcomed the sting. It was real. It meant this world had rules. He turned the shard in his hand, testing the edge, feeling it bite faintly into his skin. Good enough.

Nearby, a fallen limb caught his attention—thick and curved, about the length of his forearm. He pulled it free from the brambles, sat on a patch of cool ferns, and began shaving it with his makeshift blade. The work was slow. The blade caught and slipped, bark flaked in uneven strips. His shoulders burned. His breath misted in shallow clouds.

Sweat beaded at his temples despite the cold, dripping down his jawline to mix with dirt. But slowly, steadily, the tip began to shape—a crude spear. Rough. But sharp enough to kill if it had to.

Something in the woods groaned.

Ren froze, fingers still. The forest seemed to pause with him. The leaves stopped rustling. The wind held its breath. A low, dragging growl echoed through the trees, and something ancient inside him responded.

Danger.

He crouched beside a tuft of tall grass, tearing up thick stalks. His fingers worked quickly, braiding them into a twisted cord. He lashed the stone to the tip of the spear, tugging the knots tight. Then he rose to his feet.

It wasn't perfect. It didn't have to be.

A branch cracked to the left.

Then again—closer.

Three shadows emerged from the tree line. Massive. Hulking. Their fur was midnight black, matted with soil and dark bramble. Eyes like molten gold stared from beneath low-slung brows. Jaws drooled strings of thick saliva that hissed when it hit the cold earth.

Dire wolves.

Not just bigger than normal wolves—wrong. Their proportions were too fluid, their movements too precise, like predators that remembered being men.

Ren backed slowly behind the nearest tree. His breath slowed. His heartbeat did not.

Then came the betrayal.

A breeze.

A subtle shift in air.

The wolves lifted their snouts and sniffed. And all at once, their eyes locked onto him.

They charged.

He didn't hesitate. He couldn't. As the first lunged, he pivoted and drove his spear upward in a clean, instinctive motion. The point pierced through the underside of the wolf's jaw, driving deep into its throat. It gave a wet, gurgled snarl before collapsing at his feet.

But the second was already on him.

Its weight crashed into him like a battering ram, teeth snapping around the shaft of the spear. Wood cracked and splintered. Ren let the spear go and jammed his blade up into the wolf's face—straight into its eye. It howled and thrashed, blood spurting hot across his chest. Ren rolled free, gasping, pain flaring in his shoulder where claws had raked deep.

Only one remained.

It stood back—watching.

Its growl was low and steady. Its eyes were fixed, calculating. It circled him slowly, and Ren mirrored the motion, breath wheezing, body screaming for rest.

He reached the edge of a ridge. Behind him—no more space.

The wolf lunged.

Ren stepped into the strike and thrust the shattered spear upward, catching the beast midair. The point plunged through the roof of its mouth and buried deep into its skull.

It twitched. Once. Then collapsed with a thud.

Silence.

The clearing was littered with bodies, the ground soaked with blood. Steam rose from the corpses. The metallic scent of iron hung thick in the air. Ren stood trembling, the spear still clutched in one hand, fingers numb, breaths ragged.

Then—

A chime.

Soft. Ethereal. Mechanical.

It resonated inside his skull, not through his ears.

And then it appeared.

A translucent panel hovered before him, glowing softly in the air.

[You have defeated: Dire Wolf x3]+150 EXP[Skill Unlocked: Primal Instinct (Passive)]Activates automatically during high-threat combat. Heightens perception and reflexes.

Ren stared.

Blood dripped from his elbow. Pain throbbed in his neck. The cold clawed at his skin. And still, that panel floated gently before him like a dream he didn't remember falling into.

A game interface.

In the middle of a killing ground.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then the panel flickered—vanishing like mist in wind.

Ren lowered his head. His breath hitched.

He knelt beside the final wolf, pressed two fingers to its throat, and felt warmth still clinging to the flesh. Its fur was thick. Coarse. Its blood was real.

He pulled the spear free from its skull with a sickening squelch. His hand trembled.

This was no hallucination.

Whatever had brought him here—whatever system had chosen to wrap itself around reality—he was in it now. Entirely.

He looked up. The twin moons glared down, unblinking, pale and cold. Their light made his blood shine black. His eyes narrowed.

"I'm not dead," he whispered.

His grip tightened around the weapon.

"Not yet."

And with that, Ren turned away from the corpses and disappeared into the dark.