Chapter 2 — Awakening Without an Interface

Cold moisture soaked his cheek, and a thick, heavy scent filled his nostrils—blood mixed with wet earth and something green and fresh, almost out of place after a city rain. His body ached as if it had been put through a meat grinder: his chest throbbed, his back responded with a dull pulsation, and his legs felt foreign. Alex lay motionless, afraid to move, while consciousness slowly returned to him, layer by layer. His eyelids flickered. A bright light broke through his lashes—too bright, devoid of neon glares and the gray skies of the metropolis.

He opened his eyes.

Above him stretched a clear, almost painfully blue sky, framed by the crowns of unfamiliar trees. Leaves trembled in a light breeze, letting through sunbeams that fell upon the grass in golden patches. This was not the alleyway by the "24/7." There was no asphalt, no screech of brakes. Only grass, damp with morning dew, and a forest, dense and alive, smelling of resin and flowers.

His heart hammered so hard that the pain in his chest flared up anew. "It worked... Damn it, it worked!" The thought exploded in his head like a firework. He sat up abruptly, ignoring the protest of his muscles, and stared at himself. His office jacket—the same one that had been soaked in the rain—was now covered in dried brown streaks of blood. Tread marks were clearly visible on the fabric: coarse imprints of tires pressed into the material, as if a truck had driven right over him. His jeans looked no better—stains, abrasions, dirt. But the fabric remained intact. No rips, no holes. Only those absurd marks, like a reminder of how "Truck-chan" had finally fulfilled its mission.

Alex ran his palm over his chest. Beneath his fingers was only a sticky crust and pain, but no open wounds. He laughed—shortly, nervously, almost hysterically. "I'm in another world. I'm the Chosen One. Finally. After all those years in the testing department, after all those nights with anime..."

The inner voice, which just a second ago had been full of delight, began to pick up speed. He leaped to his feet, staggered, but managed to stay upright. His hands were shaking. "Alright, let's do this by the canon. Status!" he shouted into the void of the forest. His voice sounded too loud, almost pathetic. Nothing. No window, no blue screen, not even a slight tingling in the air. "System! Menu! Inventory!" Silence. The trees rustled in response, indifferent.

Panic began to creep in, like cold air under a jacket. "Goddess? Are you here? Come on, appear! There has to be a white-haired goddess with... with explanations!" He spun around on the spot, searching for any sign. Nothing. Only birds somewhere in the canopy. "Mana! I have to feel the mana!" Alex closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to catch that very flow of energy he had read about in hundreds of stories. Nothing but the beating of his own heart and a slight dizziness from standing up so quickly. "Spell... Fireball! Or... 'Instant Magic Mastery'! 'Physical Damage Immunity at Level One'!" The words spilled from his lips faster and more desperately. He waved his hand, as in cheap anime, but the air remained just air. No spark, no flash.

Every failure hit like a slap in the face. Irritation grew, mixing with a creeping, slight panic. "Hero's Mark! There must be a mark!" He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and examined his forearm—clean skin, only an old scar from a clumsy fall in childhood. Nothing. No tattoo, no glow. "What the hell... This isn't according to the rules. I died under a truck. I should be a hero. The Chosen One. With skills. With a harem... or at least a first companion. Where is all of this?!"

He stood in the middle of the clearing, breathing heavily, feeling the euphoria melt away, leaving a bitter residue. His clothes clung to his body—not from rain, but from dried blood and dirt. The tire tracks on the jacket now seemed not like a trophy, but like a brand. He brushed himself off, but that only smeared the brown stains. Physical discomfort intensified: the fabric chafed his skin, and the smell of blood clogged his nose, causing nausea. "I look like a madman. Or like a killer who was just pulled from under some wheels. Who will accept me like this? I need a story. A plausible one."

Alex cleared his throat and began to rehearse aloud, pacing through the grass. "Hello... I... I'm lost. I... uh... bandits attacked me. No, too cliché. I... a pilgrim from distant lands, and I was attacked by... a bear? No, tire tracks... Damn, how do I explain truck tracks in a world without cars?" His voice sounded ridiculous, even to himself. "I... a victim of an accident. I was... run over by... a cart? No. Sounds like nonsense." He stopped and rubbed his face with his palms. Shame burned his cheeks. "That's it," he thought with a sudden emptiness in his chest. "No goddess, no salvation. Just another absurd mistake in a foreign world. You dreamed of a grand start, and now you're standing in a forest in bloody office clothes, muttering nonsense."

A rustle behind the trees made him freeze. Two people emerged from the bushes—a man and a woman, clearly locals. Peasants. The woman, about thirty, with a basket in her hands full of some herbs and flowers, froze first. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. The man, broader in the shoulders, with an axe at his belt and a sack on his back, instinctively stepped forward, shielding her. His hand rested on the hilt of the axe.

The woman—Martha, though Alex did not yet know her name—stepped back, pressing the basket to her chest. Garrett looked on warily, assessing the strange outsider: wet strands of hair clinging to his face and gray, frightened eyes, but most importantly—this clothing. Foreign, absurd, covered in blood and pressed-in tracks, as if he had been dragged under a wagon with iron wheels. But no wounds were visible.

Alex tried to smile—friendly, like an anime hero. "Hi... Hello. I'm... not dangerous." The words came out in Russian. They looked at him with blank eyes. He switched to English: "Hello? I’m... lost. No harm." Nothing. The language barrier stood like a wall. Their faces remained tense. Martha said something quietly to her husband in an unfamiliar, melodic language—it sounded like a mix of Old English and something else. Garrett nodded, never taking his eyes off him.

Garrett stepped forward, crudely pointing a finger toward the dried blood on Alex's jacket. A low, demanding stream of unfamiliar words erupted from his mouth—the tone was sharp, full of obvious suspicion. The woman beside him—Martha—added something quickly, her voice sounding higher, with a note of anxiety, her gaze darting between Alex's face and the marks on his clothes.

Alex gestured desperately, trying to depict with his hands spinning wheels, a sudden impact, a body flying. He hummed, clapped his palms, imitating a "boom," and stretched his lips into a pathetic smile, showing how something large had hit him. It looked even worse—like a confession of madness or an attempt to intimidate. Garrett frowned deeper, his fingers gripping the axe tighter. Martha, however, looked closer. Her gaze slid over Alex's chest, then his legs. No wounds, no fresh blood. Only drying stains.

She uttered another phrase—short, trembling, with clear fear in her voice, stepping back half a pace.

A micro-conflict was brewing. Alex felt his "heroic start" turning into an interrogation in a clearing. His heart pounded. Everything was going wrong. No status, no goddess, no welcoming speech. And now this—suspicious peasants with an axe. He took a step back, but realized there was nowhere to run. The forest around him now seemed not like an adventure, but like a trap.

In desperation, Alex dropped to his knees right in the wet grass. He spread his arms wide, showing his empty palms. "Please... I'm not an enemy. Just... lost. Help me." His voice trembled. His throat tightened with humiliation: "This isn't canon. It shouldn't be like this. I'm supposed to be cool. Instead, I'm on my knees before two peasants in bloody clothes." Shame and panic mixed into a tight knot.

Martha, more compassionate than her husband, placed a calming hand on his elbow. She indicated the shaking Alex with her eyes, then the path leading out of the forest, and made a soft, persuasive gesture with her palm. Garrett hesitated, grumbled something dissatisfied, but nodded. He pulled a rope from his sack—coarse, but not too thick—and tied Alex's hands in front. Not tightly, more for appearance than for actual restraint. Martha stayed to the side, pressing the basket of herbs to her chest like a shield.

They led him along a narrow path toward the village. Alex walked between them, feeling the rope slightly chafe his wrists. Humiliation burned his throat. But somewhere deep down, beneath the layer of disappointment, a strange, almost unfamiliar relief stirred. There were living people nearby. Not imaginary elven archers from fantasies, but real ones—with the smell of herbs, with cautious glances, with a practical solution. Loneliness in a new world suddenly seemed scarier than he had thought. Much scarier.

The path led them to the edge of the woods. The roofs of the village appeared ahead—thatched, with smoke rising from the chimneys. The smell of smoke, bread, life. Alex looked at them, and instead of the expected excitement of adventure, a quiet, almost painful longing spread through his chest. To simply be accepted. Not as the Chosen One. Not as a suspicious stranger. Just... accepted. Somewhere in the distance, over the fields, the sharp cry of a bird rang out—high, piercing, like a warning signal. Alex flinched. A fragmented thought flashed through his mind that all of this had happened somewhere before, but he pushed it away, focusing on how the rope slightly chafed his wrists with another step.