As the first fruit fell, Frank nearly lost control. His body screamed for him to rush forward, to grab it and devour it instantly, but a sobering thought held him back.
If he ate so openly, what guarantee did he have that he would enjoy the fruit safely? What if an angry predator, drawn by the same fragrance, appeared at that very moment? The risk was too great. Resolving to be cautious, Frank decided he would gather all three fruits first, then secure a hidden, comfortable place to consume them in peace.
With a few more determined thrusts, the remaining fruits dropped from the tree, landing sweet and succulent upon the forest floor. The sight of them was almost unbearable—his stomach clenched violently, pain surging through him each time his eyes lingered on the ripened treasures. Hunger gnawed at him like a beast, but discipline kept him steady, reminding him that survival required patience as much as desire.
Frank bore the pain for as long as he could, his stomach growling viciously as he clutched the fruits. With trembling hands, he gathered them close and then sprang forward, sprinting once more in search of a safe place to hide. His bones ached with exhaustion, yet hunger drove him onward.
When his legs faltered, he forced himself into long strides, desperate to escape the open field that left him exposed. Fear gnawed at him—the fear of predators lurking nearby, and the greater terror of soul beings from Darkovia arriving to reclaim him. But the field stretched vast and merciless, offering no refuge, no cover from unseen pursuers.
His body screamed with hunger, fatigue, and sharp waves of muscle pain. The smile he once wore, born of hope at regaining his humanity and returning to Earth, had vanished. Now, he no longer knew what kept him moving. All he knew was the primal truth echoing in his mind: he needed to run, he needed to hide, he needed to escape.
Figuring out what he needed to do gave Frank a fragile sense of direction, a faint idea of how he might solve his problems and perhaps finally taste the delicious fruits clutched in his hands. Mile after mile, he ran relentlessly, pushing himself past the limits of his body.
Yet as his thoughts sharpened, he discovered that the soul beings and officials were not his greatest threat, nor was it the possibility of a hungry predator stalking him through the jungle. His true enemy was fear itself.
Fear of dying, fear of being utterly alone in a strange and hostile world, fear of the unknown that pressed against him like a suffocating shadow. It was fear that drained his strength, fear that gnawed at his resolve, and fear that threatened to undo him more than any pursuer ever could.
Instead of endlessly running from an abstract concept like fear, Frank realized he needed to confront it—defeat it, or better yet, escape it. And if there was one thing Frank excelled at, it was escaping. Yet this time, the challenge was unlike any he had faced before; he had to escape not just from pursuers or predators, but from the unknown itself, from everything and anything that fed his fear.
He knew he couldn't accomplish such a feat alone, but that didn't mean it was impossible. Summoning his resolve, Frank whispered the word "status." In that instant, he understood—it was time to call upon the one ability that had always defined him, the skill that had carried him through countless trials. It was time to use his escape skill.
Escape was the very first skill Frank had ever acquired—his first true active skill. Yet he had never used it for one specific purpose, because its consumption was far too high.
If Meditation was a sentient skill that activated only when it desired knowledge from him, then Escape was something far more ruthless. It demanded his very life force in exchange for its power.
Up until now, Frank had resisted, refusing to feed the skill the essence it craved. But as fear gnawed at him and the weight of survival pressed down, he realized that if he was ever going to find peace of mind, he had no choice.
He needed to escape—not just physically, but from the terror itself—and the only way forward was to surrender to the dangerous promise of his Escape skill.
After checking his initial status—his skills, life, and class—Frank turned his attention to the dreaded Escape skill. The words glowed before him like a warning carved into stone:
[Status
Escape (C)
You have a 60% chance to escape targets on land.
You will never escape targets in air.
You will never escape targets in water.
Skill Conditions: You must be meditating for 12 hours for Escape to be activated.
Skill Consumption: - 50 life
Skill Duration: 3 seconds
Skill Cooldown: 6 hours]
Frank's heart sank as he read the conditions. The skill was powerful, but merciless. It demanded a heavy toll—his very life force—and offered probably only three fleeting seconds of freedom in return.
Meditation was the key to unlocking it, but the cost was brutal. He had avoided using it for so long, refusing to surrender the essence it craved. Yet now, clutching the fruits and trembling under the weight of fear, Frank realized that if he wanted true peace of mind, if he wanted to survive, he would have to gamble everything on the dangerous promise of escape.
Frank sat down on the forest floor, his body drenched in sweat, his nakedness raw and vulnerable beneath the heavy air. The musky scent of his own exhaustion clung to him, a reminder of how far he had pressed on. At last, he remembered the battered backpack hanging feebly behind him, its straps torn from the collision with the life energy that had ravaged his clothes and gear.
With trembling hands, he reached for the bag and carefully stuffed the three precious fruits inside, securing them as though they were treasures of survival. He then placed the bag a few meters away, close enough to guard but far enough to keep his focus clear.
Lowering himself into a squatting position, his legs crossed to form an X, Frank assumed the stance of meditation. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to stillness, preparing his mind and body for the long hours required to awaken the dangerous promise of his Escape skill.
If Frank was going to meditate for twelve long hours, he needed to decide what he would meditate upon, for that was the only way the meditative skill could truly function. As he settled into his stance, he didn't bother calling out the skill to activate it—he knew it would not respond to commands.
Meditation was not a tool to be switched on or off at will; it was a sentient force, one that awakened only when it chose. Instead, Frank directed his thoughts toward the subject he wished to explore, shaping his mind around the theme of survival and escape. He understood that meditation was not instantaneous—it was a gradual descent, a slow unraveling of distractions until the mind slipped into stillness.
Closing his eyes, Frank surrendered to patience, knowing that only through persistence would he reach the meditative state required to unlock the dangerous promise of his Escape skill.