I Eat Monster and Gain Powers

Chapter 1: The Forest Doesn’t Care About Your Stats

Eto Shapan’s first conscious thought was that the ground was unreasonably hard.

His second thought was that it smelled like pine and wet soil and something ancient, the kind of smell that belonged in a nature documentary narrated by someone with a British accent, not in his immediate personal space.

His third thought, arriving with the slow horror of a man who has just remembered he left the stove on, was that he had been crossing a street about thirty seconds ago.

He opened his eyes.

Trees. Massive, towering, impossibly old trees with bark like the wrinkled skin of creatures that had decided aging was something that happened to other things. Their canopies stretched so far above him that the sky was more of a suggestion than a fact, filtered down in thin grey shafts of light that illuminated absolutely nothing useful. Moss covered everything. Rocks, roots, fallen branches. The whole place had the visual personality of a painting that wanted you to feel small and slightly afraid.

”Okay,” Eto said to nobody.

He sat up and looked down at himself. Blue tracksuit, white stripes down the sides, slightly muddy at the knees now. His phone was in his left pocket. He checked. Dead. Of course it was dead. He had been meaning to charge it since yesterday and the universe had apparently decided that this was the moment to punish him for that.

He stood up, brushed the dirt off his elbows, and turned in a slow circle.

Trees. More trees. Trees behind those trees. In the distance, more trees, which he assumed were concealing additional trees behind them. The forest went on in every direction with the confident permanence of something that had been here long before human beings developed opinions about scenery and intended to remain long after.

It looked, and he was not being dramatic about this, exactly like the forests from those fantasy films his roommate had made him sit through. The ones with the long walks and the dramatic music and the short men with large feet. He expected, genuinely expected, to see an elf materialize between two trunks and say something cryptic about the ancient song of the world.

None did.

”Right,” Eto said, because saying something out loud made him feel slightly less like he was about to become part of the ecosystem.

He was, by any reasonable interpretation of available evidence, in another world. He had been crossing Kimura Street at half past eight in the morning with his coffee in one hand and his dead phone in the other, there had been a light, and now there was a forest. The logical conclusion required no great leap of intellect. He had read enough web novels during slow evenings at the office to recognize a truck-kun situation when he was standing in one, minus the truck, replaced by what he assumed was either divine intervention or a very localized atmospheric anomaly.

He was in another world.

He took a breath. He was taking this rather well, he thought. He was not screaming. He considered that an achievement worth acknowledging.

He started walking, because standing still in a forest accomplishes nothing except giving insects more time to locate you.

The trees here were not friendly trees. They were not the kind of trees you saw in parks, domesticated and content, dropping leaves in polite seasonal schedules. These were ancient things with roots that erupted from the earth like the knuckles of something buried underneath, trying to get out. They had personality. Aggressive, unwelcoming personality. More than once he had to step over a root that seemed placed specifically to catch a foot, and the ground between them was uneven in the way that suggested the forest had never once considered the convenience of pedestrians.

After perhaps twenty minutes of walking without direction, he found the cave.

It was set into a low rocky outcrop that had been almost completely swallowed by the surrounding trees, their roots crawling over the stone like they were slowly consuming it. The entrance was narrow, taller than it was wide, framed by hanging moss and a smell that he identified as damp rock and nothing more sinister. He stood at the opening and peered in.

Dark. But not completely. Light came through cracks in the stone ceiling, thin beams illuminating a floor of packed earth and scattered pebbles. The cave was not large. Perhaps the size of a modest bedroom, low-ceilinged enough that he would have to crouch slightly at the back, wide enough that he could spread his arms without touching the walls.

He picked up a rock and threw it in.

It hit the floor, skipped twice, and settled. Nothing reacted to this. No growling, no movement, no sound of wings. Whatever had been living here, if anything had, was currently elsewhere.

He went in.

The cave was empty in the most straightforward possible way. No bones, no equipment left behind by some previous occupant, no convenient chest containing starter gear. Just stone and earth and the faint sound of wind moving through the crack in the ceiling. It was, objectively, a perfectly functional cave. It was dry. It was defensible in the sense that only one thing could come through the entrance at a time. It was shelter in the most honest interpretation of the word.

”Good enough,” he said.

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He went back outside and spent a while collecting branches, not because he knew what he was doing exactly, but because it seemed like the kind of thing a person should be doing. He piled them near the cave entrance. He found a large flat rock and dragged it to the opening to serve as a rough seat or a surface for putting things on. He had nothing to put on it yet but that seemed like a future problem.

The immediate present problem was water.

He knew this from the same source he knew most practical things, which was an accumulation of information absorbed from media and never meaningfully tested. A person could go three weeks without food and about three days without water. He was not currently dying of thirst but he was aware that the clock on that had started the moment he arrived here, and the forest offered no shops, no vending machines, and no taps.

He listened.

This was something else he had absorbed from some source or another. Water makes noise. Rivers, streams, they move, they talk, they announce themselves if you are quiet enough to hear them.

He was quiet.

There. Faint and distant, the sound of moving water. He turned his head until it was clearest, then started walking toward it.

The forest between him and the sound was not cooperative. He pushed through undergrowth that grabbed at his tracksuit with small thorny fingers, stepped over two more massive roots, and descended a short rocky slope that he navigated by holding onto exposed roots and hoping they were attached to something that wouldn’t pull free. He was not graceful about any of this. He was, in fact, quite undignified about the slope specifically, arriving at the bottom by a combination of controlled sliding and a brief unplanned sprint to avoid falling on his face.

The river was worth it.

It moved fast and clear over a bed of smooth grey stone, wide enough that jumping across would have been ambitious, narrow enough that he could see the other bank clearly. The sound of it was immediate and clean, the kind of sound that replaced whatever ambient anxiety had been building since he woke up on the forest floor. He crouched at the bank, cupped his hands, and drank.

Cold. Genuinely cold in the way that water from a plastic bottle in a refrigerator is pretending to be. He drank until the edge of his thirst was gone, then sat back on his heels and looked at the river.

He had shelter. He had water. He was alive and not currently being pursued by anything.

He was also wearing a tracksuit in a forest with no food, no tools, no knowledge of where he was, and no discernible plan beyond the next thirty minutes.

This seemed like a reasonable moment for the part where the protagonist’s new life actually started. He had read enough of these stories to know how they worked. You arrived, you struggled a bit, and then something happened that revealed your nature as someone chosen. A status screen materialized in the air before you. A voice spoke in your mind with a pleasant neutral tone and introduced itself as the system. You opened your hands and light gathered in them and you discovered that your latent ability was something absurd and convenient like Absolute Memorization or Infinite Growth or Gravity Manipulation.

He stood up and faced the river.

”System,” he said, with appropriate gravity.

Nothing.

”System activation.”

The river continued to move. A bird somewhere made a sound that may or may not have been commentary.

He tried the outstretched hand, palm forward, the way they did it in approximately every novel he had read on the subject. He concentrated on the space in front of him. He thought about stats and status windows and the faint blue glow of a beginner’s interface.

The air in front of him remained air.

He tried a different approach. He closed his eyes, breathed slowly, and reached inward the way the meditation scenes always described it, looking for something that felt like power, like a reservoir, like anything that didn’t feel exactly like his ordinary self on an ordinary morning.

He found nothing except a growing awareness that he had not eaten breakfast.

He tried movement next. He had seen enough of these things to know the basic vocabulary. He swept his arm in a wide arc, the kind of gesture that said fire in the body language of anime. He pointed two fingers at the river. He held his hands together at his chest, pulled them apart slowly, and pushed forward. He did the one where you cross your arms over your chest and then throw them outward. He felt, during the last one, extremely foolish.

No fire appeared. The river did not part. No light gathered in his palms. The trees stood where they had always stood and looked at him with the complete indifference of things that do not have eyes.

He tried calling for magic without movement. He just stood and wanted something to happen. He thought the word mana at the air several times. He tried chakra. He tried ki. He thought very hard about aura and whatever the made up energy from that one fighting story was called and the specific terminology from three separate novel series that he could remember off the top of his head.

The forest produced a breeze. That was all.

Eto Shapan stood at the edge of a river in a forest that belonged in an epic fantasy film and understood, with a clarity that arrived like cold water on a sleeping face, that nothing was coming. No interface. No chosen one notification. No small glowing entity appearing to be his guide. No mysterious old man stepping from between the trees to tell him that he had been summoned for a great purpose and that his latent ability would save the world.

He was just a man in a tracksuit next to a river.

He said several words that would not be appropriate to transcribe in polite company, directed at no one in particular, covering his general situation, the apparent absence of any supernatural acknowledgment of his arrival, the specific injustice of being in an isekai story as the one guy who apparently came with no features, and the particular cruelty of a universe that would drag a person across dimensional boundaries and then not even give them the basic courtesy of a skill tree.

He ran out of words eventually.

He sat down on a rock at the river’s edge and looked at the water.

He was, as far as he could tell, the single most boring isekai protagonist in the history of whatever genre this was. Every novel he had read, the guy woke up and within the first chapter had confirmed at least one supernatural ability. Titles appeared above heads. Gods spoke in prologue. Even the stories that pretended to be realistic had the protagonist rapidly discovering that their completely ordinary skills from their previous life were somehow revolutionary in the new world.

He worked in data entry.

He tried, briefly, to imagine a scenario in which his ability to accurately transcribe tables into spreadsheets would become a world-altering power in a fantasy setting. He could not construct one that held together for more than thirty seconds.

The river moved. The trees stood. The grey light continued to filter down through canopies that had been growing since before anyone who was currently alive had learned to walk upright.

Eto Shapan picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the water. It bounced three times before sinking.

”Okay,” he said, to the forest, to the river, to whatever force or accident of physics had deposited him here without the decency to include instructions. ”Okay. Fine.”

He had a cave. He had water. He had a tracksuit and two functional legs and whatever information was stored in a brain that had spent thirty-one years absorbing things of wildly varying usefulness.

He was going to need food soon.

He looked downstream.

He started walking.