Day 100.
I can finally understand what the old man is saying.
Well—sort of. He speaks slowly now, using short sentences, breaking words up with deliberate pauses like he's talking to a child. I can catch enough to piece together a broken conversation. It's rough. But it's progress.
We even had a brief exchange this morning. Something about the weather and not storing berries near damp rocks. I wasn't completely sure, but I nodded anyway. Felt good to say anything that wasn't a drawn stick figure or pointing wildly at something.
It hit me, sometime around noon.
It's been a hundred days since I transmigrated.
A hundred.
Three digits.
If this were a game, this would've been the point I unlocked some achievement—"Survivor: 100 Days in Another World." Maybe there'd be a title floating above my head. Something stupid like Forest Recluse or Beast Whisperer.
I didn't celebrate.
Didn't feel like it.
I still hate hunting. I always did. The smell of blood, the twitching of dying limbs, the bone-crack sounds... it gets to me. If I had the choice, I'd never touch meat again. But here, that's not a luxury. It gives me energy. Keeps my body functioning.
I learned how to survive, sure—but surviving isn't the same as living.
I didn't slack off with hunting either. I still go out every three days. I've built a rhythm around it. In between, I rest, study, or scavenge.
The old man—whose name I still don't know—has taken over the cooking. He's better than me at it. Way better. I think he enjoys it too; it gives him something to do, something familiar. I don't worry about him poisoning me. He always cooks in front of me, using only the things I give him. I never let him near the cans or salt packets or anything with writing in English. Who knows what he might figure out if he saw that? One slip, one mistake… I might dig my own grave.
We still haven't bathed.
It's been weeks.
The rain helped a little. A bit of scrubbing with leaves. But nothing proper. We stink. It's the kind of smell you get used to when there's no alternative.
Something else happened today. The Lumen Core is glowing again.
It's fully charged. At least, that's what I think.
It's been a while since I used it. Maybe I was scared. Or maybe I just didn't need it.
But today... I felt like testing it again.
I went out into the woods under the pretense of hunting. I carried my weapon, my bag, a few tools, and the Lumen Core tucked safely against my chest.
When I found a safe, secluded patch, I activated it.
A pulse of warmth shot through me. Not pain—just... pressure. Like a heartbeat that wasn't mine. Then the transformation began.
I shifted into a bear.
Not just looked like one. Felt like one.
The change was smoother this time. There was no tearing sensation, no internal chaos. The Core secreted some kind of oily substance during the shift, numbing the discomfort, guiding the transformation gently. It's hard to describe, really. It's like slipping on a second skin layered over your first. Like wearing clothes that breathe and twitch with every muscle fiber.
And the strangest part?
It didn't feel foreign.
It felt natural.
The forest became smaller. My nose exploded with scents—damp moss, buried bugs, rotting bark, distant prey. I could feel every part of the earth beneath me. Every footstep echoed through my body in ways I'd never known.
I was the bear. Not controlling it. I was it.
I eventually canceled the transformation and slumped against a tree, panting.
That kind of power... it's intoxicating. It could become addicting.
But it also scared me.
What if I get stuck like that one day?
On the way back, I opened the Floating Transmigration Group Panel.
Still just one name.
Mine.
I stared at it longer than usual. No messages. No indicators. No new tabs. Nothing. The same cold, lonely interface. Then I shut it.
When I got back to the cave, the old man had prepared a stew. Root vegetables, dried berries, and a hint of something sour-smelling. He didn't ask about where I went. I didn't offer any explanations. We ate in silence, broken only by the occasional slurp or the hiss of the fire.
And then I thought about it.
A hundred days.
February 21st—that's when I transmigrated. That's when I crossed into this world. Back then, I thought it might be a dream. A game. A delusion. But the pain was real. The cold was real. The fear, the hunger, the guilt. Real.
Now it's been a hundred days.
I haven't seen another human face—not really. Not from my world.
Just me, this frail old man, and a universe that doesn't want me here.
I let myself remember.
My old room, with posters on the walls and a desk always cluttered with wires and notebooks. My friends, arguing about whether bows or traps were better for survival. That one time we spent five hours building fake wilderness shelters out of cardboard boxes and duct tape.
My mother yelling at me for spilling water near her phone charger. My father hunched over his laptop, typing away late into the night with a blanket draped over his shoulders. He always looked tired. But he'd smile whenever he caught me watching him.
I'm their only child.
And I didn't even get to say goodbye.
Something hit me hard in the chest. Like a breath I hadn't taken finally crashing into me. I stumbled outside, scooped a handful of rainwater from the cave's runoff stream, and splashed my face. Cold. Sharp. Real.
I didn't cry.
Not really.
But I felt close.
After a minute, I dried my face with my sleeve and went back inside. The fire had dimmed. The old man was already asleep, curled up in a bundle of cloth and straw.
I lay down on the other side of the cave and stared at the stone ceiling. It was rough. Familiar. Every crack and shadow looked like a painting now. I'd memorized them without realizing it.
The world outside was dark.
But I was still here.
Still alive.
They say the first hundred days are the hardest.
I hope that's true.
Because I don't know how much harder this can get.