Raif opened his eyes to the taste of moss and blood.
The world above him wasn't blue. It was green—an aching, humid green that pressed down like a fog-drenched tarp. The sky, if it could be called that, filtered sunlight through so many canopies that everything shimmered like algae in water. The light moved wrong. Too soft. Too thick.
He blinked several times, but the colour remained. No tricks of the eye. The air glowed faintly, as if the very atmosphere were coated in bioluminescent algae. His breath was shallow, his body tingling with an electric hum that refused to leave.
He sat up too fast, his shoulder screaming in protest. His hand sank wrist-deep into mud, the vine-choked ground squelching beneath him. A mosquito the size of a ten-cent coin landed on his neck before he could blink. He slapped it away, only to feel the sting of its bite burning beneath his skin.
Raif Monet.
The name floated to the surface of his mind, as if it had always been there, waiting. But everything else—the city he came from, his job, his family—hung just out of reach like apples behind glass. The name was all he had.
He took a few shaky breaths. The air was thick with plant rot, water, and something vaguely acidic—like rusting copper wire after rain. His clothes clung to his body, damp and dirty. No bag. No shoes. Only a shard of glass pressed into his back pocket, its presence strangely familiar.
His trousers were canvas—durable but soaked. His shirt, cotton, ripped down the sleeve. Faint cuts on his forearms, nothing deep. His right ankle ached as if twisted recently, but it held weight when he stood.
And then came the sound—the jungle's breath. It wasn't quiet. It breathed between the movements of creatures, between the chirps, the rustles, and the distant bird shrieks. Somewhere to his left, something large stirred in thick ferns, but didn't emerge. The buzz of insects was constant, but they didn't sound familiar. Not even close.
Raif took a tentative step forward. His boot sank into the earth with a wet pop. He glanced down, his foot sinking into something more than just mud—something fibrous, like sinew. A tangle of roots, knotted so tightly they formed a second skin for the ground. Each step squelched and tugged, like the earth itself was reluctant to let go.
He scanned the jungle line. Ferns taller than his shoulders. Trees whose branches twisted like coiled ropes, hanging with vines that swayed despite the still air. Every plant looked just a little wrong—too large, too sharp, too aware. Leaves glittered with moisture, but the droplets didn't fall. They hovered, vibrating slightly, like they were waiting for something.
The smell deepened as he moved—earth and rot, yes, but also something almost sweet. Fungal. Mushrooms grew in strange clusters around the trees—wide, fan-shaped things with pores that contracted and expanded in rhythm. One of them hissed softly when he got too close.
Raif backed away. "Right. Don't touch the mushrooms."
He got to his feet slowly, his joints protesting. His balance was off, and the ground wasn't level. He stood in what looked like an overgrown depression—a basin where swamp and forest met. Trees with moss-curtained limbs formed a ring around a clearing ahead, maybe twenty metres wide. The only open space in sight.
In the middle of the clearing, something impossible sat.
A ruin. Not ancient stone or vine-wrapped temples like in the stories. This was more recent—half a building, four blackened walls rising like broken ribs around a smooth slab of dark grey stone. Embedded in the stone like a frozen star was a softly pulsing orb of sapphire light.
Raif didn't approach immediately. Instead, he wandered the clearing's edge, testing the feel of the air. A strange rhythm filled the atmosphere, like the world around him had a heartbeat. The trees bent inward, their roots snaking over each other like veins. Flowers—strange flowers—bloomed in unnatural colours—violet with black veins, orange petals that bled green at the tips.
He crouched beside one, hesitant before touching it. The surface was rubbery, too warm. The centre of the flower twitched slightly at his touch.
He stood and backed away. "What kind of place is this?" he murmured.
There was no echo. The trees swallowed sound.
The closer he got to the orb, the less natural the jungle felt. The trees tilted away from the ruin, as though bowing or recoiling. The buzz of insects faded. Even the wind seemed to avoid this place. A fine mist clung low to the ground, swirling in unnatural patterns the closer he came to the orb.
He stood in the ruin's shadow and stared down at the stone. The orb thrummed, faintly, like a distant heartbeat.
He didn't know why, but he whispered. "…What the hell are you?"
The orb brightened slightly, as if hearing him. Then a symbol glowed beneath the surface—an angular spiral, etched like a scar. A voice, not spoken but embedded directly into his skull, rang out in emotionless clarity:
"Seed of Kingdom detected. Begin?"
Raif flinched backward, fists clenched. "No—wait—what do you mean? Begin what?"
No answer. The orb's glow pulsed gently, waiting.
He stepped back. Tripped. Landed on his arse in the mud and stared at it from a safe distance. The jungle breathed again. As if nothing had happened.
He got up, wiped the grime from his hands on wet trousers, and turned around—trying to see what else lay in the clearing. Broken stone tiles spread in all directions, half-swallowed by weeds. This had once been a foundation. Maybe a house. A small one. Just one room.
His room now?
He explored the perimeter again, slower this time. He ran a hand along the warped timber of the walls—smooth, but brittle. The corners of the ruin looked melted, like they'd been flash-burned in a single moment. Ash clung to the seams of the cracks, old but undisturbed.
Whatever had happened here, it hadn't happened long ago. At least, not in a way time could erase.
Raif walked toward the treeline, eyes narrowed. Maybe the orb was some ancient artifact. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe he was dead. Whatever it was, the jungle was real. His empty stomach was real. The insects were very real.
He kept walking—past vines and rotted logs—until something stopped him cold.
He hadn't seen it. He hadn't heard it. But the moment he crossed a certain invisible threshold, his legs locked. His teeth clenched involuntarily. His mind recoiled as though struck with a sudden, deafening note.
He stumbled back, gasping, and the sensation vanished.
He threw a rock toward the trees. It soared maybe five metres—and vanished midair with a faint ripple. Gone. No sound. No splash. No rustle.
Boundary.
He rubbed his forehead. "I'm in a box."
A voice in his mind—his own voice—answered bitterly: Cage.
He circled the clearing and confirmed it. About thirty metres in every direction, the same wall existed. No signs. No damage. Just… refusal. A mental wall that said you don't belong out there.
Raif sat back against the cold stone of the ruin, staring up at the green sky until his eyes hurt. He'd done nothing wrong. At least—he didn't think he had.
So why here?
Why him?
What kind of god builds a box?
The questions weighed on him like stones. He couldn't remember what he'd lost, only that something was missing. Someone. He tried to picture a face. Any face.
Nothing came.
The jungle rustled.
Something moved at the edge of the clearing—something sleek and low to the ground. A shadow with claws.
He froze.
It didn't attack. It watched. Then slunk back into the trees.
Raif exhaled slowly. His body shook from the adrenaline dump.
Something else moved closer—small and wet and sudden.
A frog leapt out of the underbrush and landed on the stone slab next to the orb. It was no ordinary frog—its skin shimmered in a deep violet hue, with iridescent flecks that caught the light like tiny jewels. Its eyes were larger than they should've been, luminous and slit-pupiled like a cat's. It puffed once, warbled a half-croak, and turned as if to jump again. Its hind legs were longer than expected, tipped with faintly hooked toes. Along its spine ran a faint glow, a bioluminescent ridge that pulsed with breath.
Raif crouched slightly, staring. Even the creatures here weren't right. The frog blinked slowly—too slowly—like it was calculating.
That's when the vine came.
It moved so fast Raif barely registered it—a long green tendril shot from the jungle's edge, snaked across the ruin floor, and wrapped the frog in a noose of thorns.
The frog shrieked once—a sound too high-pitched for something so small. It twisted, luminous skin flashing violently, legs kicking once, twice—then still.
Then silence.
The vine dragged its kill into the brush, leaving only a smear of mucus and two small specks of blood.
Raif stood slowly. His pulse thundered.
He turned to the orb.
It still pulsed. Still waited.
"Seed of Kingdom detected. Begin?"
He looked around one last time. Jungle. Stone. Isolation.
No help was coming.
Raif walked forward, raised a hand, and pressed it to the stone.
"Begin."