Pray. Minka's final word echoed in his skull, bouncing around with uncomfortable persistence.
The suggestion had seemed absurd when she'd said it. Still seemed absurd now in the gray light filtering through gaps in the bark-covered roof. Prayer was for desperate people who'd run out of actual options, who needed to believe some invisible force cared about their problems enough to intervene.
But the pole sat warm in his grip. Actual magic. Real, tangible, impossible-by-every-law-of-physics magic that responded to his thoughts and reshaped itself on command. And Minka had talked about mana like it was a natural resource, something that existed in semen of all things. Monster girls who needed males for reproduction, who craved the magical energy human men supposedly produced.
If magic was real—demonstrably, undeniably real—then maybe gods were too?
The logic felt shaky even as it formed. Just because one impossible thing existed didn't mean all impossible things did. That wasn't how reality worked. Except reality had already proven it didn't work the way he'd thought, so maybe his baseline assumptions were completely fucked.
Ian pushed himself upright with a groan that scraped out of his chest. His back protested, his shoulders screaming as he leveraged against the cabin wall. The deer hide beneath him had left impressions in his skin where he'd lain, the leather cold now that his body heat had dissipated.
The doorway showed afternoon light—he'd slept for hours apparently. The eagle was gone from its perch, leaving the threshold empty. Outside, he could hear the river's constant murmur, the wind rustling through leaves. Normal sounds. The same sounds that had filled his days since arriving in this forest.
His stomach cramped with hunger sharp enough to make him wince. The food. Right. There had been food on the blanket, before the ant girl had helped herself and that fucking bird had finished the job. His legs carried him toward the doorway, moving on autopilot while his brain churned through thoughts that refused to settle into coherent patterns.
The blanket lay trampled across the clearing, wine stains dark against the woven fabric. The basket sat overturned, its contents scattered. Most of the bread was gone—just crumbs remained. The cheese had been completely demolished. One jar of preserves lay on its side, empty. But the other jar sat upright and intact, still sealed. And some of the dried meat remained, the seasoned strips that had tasted so good before everything went to hell.
Ian grabbed what was left, his hands moving mechanically. The preserved meat went into one of his pots, the jar of preserves clutched against his chest. Not much. Maybe enough for a day or two if he stretched it.
His eyes tracked toward the smoking rack. The strips hung dark and leathery over cold coals, the fire having died while he slept. He'd need to restart it, keep the smoke going until the meat was fully cured. And the deer hide from yesterday still waited, brain mixture coating its surface, the next steps demanding attention.
The tanning process. Right. That was something concrete he could do. Physical work that his body understood even when his brain was a mess of panic and exhaustion and wine-induced fog.
After restarting the fire Ian moved toward the hide, his bare feet finding familiar paths across the clearing. The leather lay draped over the log, the brain mixture darkening where it had soaked in. His hands knew what came next—working the paste deeper into the hide's surface, ensuring even coverage, then the waiting while the enzymes did their work.
But his mind wouldn't stay focused on the task. It kept drifting back to Minka's words, to that flat matter-of-fact tone when she'd told him to pray.
He'd never prayed before. Not really. That one time in the church with his mother didn't count—he'd been seven and bored and the words had meant nothing. As an adult, the whole idea had seemed pointless. Talking to empty air, hoping some cosmic force cared enough to listen.
But if gods existed here—actual gods with actual power—then prayer might work differently. Might be less about faith and more about... what? Making contact? Requesting assistance from beings who could actually respond?
His hands worked the brain mixture into the hide while his thoughts spiraled. The physical motion was automatic, muscle memory carrying him through the process while his consciousness churned elsewhere.
Different religions back home had different approaches to prayer. He knew that much even if the details were fuzzy. Christianity had that whole "bow your head and talk to God like he's listening" thing. Buddhism had meditation and chanting. Islam had the five daily prayers facing Mecca. Ancient religions had sacrifices and rituals, elaborate ceremonies meant to appease or attract divine attention.
His hands kept working the brain mixture while his mind wandered through possibilities. What would even constitute prayer in this world? Just asking seemed too simple. Too easy. Like walking up to someone powerful and demanding they solve your problems without offering anything in return.
Sacrifice felt more substantial. More like an actual transaction. The ancient religions had understood that—you wanted divine favor, you gave something valuable in exchange. Blood offerings, burnt animals, precious metals. Something that proved you were serious, that you weren't just another desperate voice screaming into the void.
But what did he have worth sacrificing? His fingers pressed deeper into the hide, feeling the leather give under the pressure. The deer had already been killed, its meat already claimed for survival. Offering up food he desperately needed seemed counterproductive. The pole was the only other thing of value he possessed, and there was no fucking way he was giving that up.
Maybe prayer here worked on intent rather than material offerings. Minka had mentioned mana existing in semen—magical energy that monster girls craved. If that was real, if humans naturally produced something with supernatural properties, then maybe gods responded to that same energy? Some kind of spiritual currency he didn't understand yet?
The hide was evenly coated now, the brain mixture worked into every section. Ian stepped back, wiping his hands on his ruined jeans. The leather would need time to absorb everything, hours at minimum before the next step. His stomach cramped again, reminding him he'd barely eaten since the wine and whatever scraps remained from Minka's spread.
The jar of preserves caught the light where he'd set it near the fire pit. His fingers found the lid, working it free with a soft pop. The dark purple contents gleamed wetly, berry preserves that smelled sweet enough to make his mouth water. He grabbed a piece of the dried meat, dipping it into the jar before shoving both into his mouth.
The flavors hit his tongue—savory and sweet mixing together, the meat's seasoning cutting through the preserve's intensity. Better than fish. Better than the bland venison jerky he'd been smoking. His hand reached for more before he'd finished swallowing the first bite.
He forced himself to slow down. To make it last. This was all he had until the smoking rack finished curing today's meat, until the fish trap provided more protein, until he figured out what the hell came next.
Prayer. The thought kept circling back despite his best efforts to focus on immediate survival. If he was going to try it, he should probably do it properly. Not half-ass it while his brain was still foggy from wine and exhaustion and panic.
But properly meant what? Kneeling? That felt performative, like mimicking religious practices he'd never believed in just because they looked official. Standing seemed too casual, like he was asking a favor from a friend instead of requesting divine intervention.
Ian stopped trying to figure out the mechanics. He'd just wing it. Like everything else in this goddamn forest.
Tonight. He'd do it tonight. Offer up some of the food he could spare—maybe a portion of the dried meat, some of the preserves. And his semen, apparently. The thought made heat flood his face despite being alone. But Minka had been clear about that being valuable, about monster girls craving the mana in it. If gods existed here and operated on similar principles, then maybe that's what they wanted too.
The embarrassment sat heavy in his chest, mixing with the hunger and exhaustion. Jerking off as a religious offering. That had to be a new low, even for someone whose life had devolved into pure survival desperation.
But he'd do it. Because what else did he have? Minka's words echoed too clearly—pray that you get lucky. The ant girl was probably already spreading the word through her colony. Forces were mobilizing. Winter was coming. And he was one bad day away from complete collapse.
Ian shoved another piece of meat into his mouth, not bothering with the preserves this time. The seasoning hit his tongue while his brain catalogued everything that still demanded attention. The deer hide needed monitoring, would need stretching and working once the brain mixture finished its job. The smoking rack required constant feeding—green wood to keep the smoke thick, checking the strips to ensure they were drying properly instead of cooking. And the roof still needed sealing before the first real rain hit.
His eyes tracked toward the cabin, toward the bark covering that kept most of the weather out but wouldn't hold against a serious storm. The fat rendering from yesterday's deer could help with that. Mix it with ash, work it into the gaps between bark sheets. Not perfect, but better than nothing.
The day stretched ahead of him, hours of work that his exhausted body barely felt capable of completing. But standing here spiraling about prayer and gods and monster girls hunting through the forest wouldn't accomplish anything.
Ian forced himself toward the fire pit. The coals had burned down to almost nothing while he slept, just faint heat radiating from gray ash. He fed kindling into the remains, blowing gently until small flames caught. Green wood went on next—branches with enough moisture to smolder instead of burning hot. Thick smoke rose immediately, gray-white columns that would keep the jerky curing.
The strips on the rack were darkening nicely. He rotated them, ensuring even exposure, his hands moving through the familiar motions. This he understood. Physical work, tangible progress. Not like prayer, which felt like shouting into a void and hoping something shouted back.
The hide demanded attention next. Ian moved toward it, his bare feet finding the worn path across the clearing. The brain mixture had soaked in during his sleep, darkening the leather, the smell sharp and organic. His fingers tested the surface—still damp, still pliable. Good. That meant the enzymes were working, breaking down the proteins that would make the hide stiff and useless.
But it needed working now. Stretching and pulling while the mixture did its job, ensuring the leather stayed supple instead of drying into something rigid. His hands found the edges, pulling with steady pressure. The hide resisted, then gave slightly, fibers sliding against each other.
The motion was meditative in a way his spiraling thoughts weren't. Pull, release, shift position, pull again. His shoulders protested the repetitive movement, muscles still exhausted from yesterday's work. But the hide was responding, stretching properly, the leather becoming more pliable with each pass.
The sun tracked across the sky, afternoon light shifting toward evening. The smoking rack needed more green wood. The fire pit required feeding. The hide demanded constant attention, couldn't be left to dry improperly or the entire process would fail.
Ian worked through it all mechanically. Feed the fire, rotate the jerky, pull the hide, check the fish trap. The river had provided three more fish—smaller than yesterday's catch, but protein was protein. He gutted them by the water's edge, his knife moving with practiced efficiency, before adding them to the smoking rack alongside the venison strips.
The fat rendering came next. Yesterday's deer had provided chunks of white tissue that needed processing before they'd spoil. Ian cut them into smaller pieces, dropping them into one of his pots positioned over the fire. The heat would melt the fat, separating it from tissue, leaving rendered tallow that could seal the roof.
The smell hit him as the fat began melting—rich and slightly gamey, mixing with the smoke from the green wood. His stomach cramped despite having eaten, his body demanding more fuel than he could provide. The preserves called to him from beside the fire pit, the jar catching the fading light.
He grabbed more dried meat instead, forcing himself to leave the preserves alone. Save it. Stretch it. Make everything last as long as possible because there was no guarantee anything would come after.
The hide was ready for the next step by the time the sun touched the tree line. Ian removed it from the log, carrying it toward the smoking rack. Not to cure it exactly—that came later—but to dry it properly. The smoke would help, would add preservation properties while the leather finished its transformation.
He positioned it carefully, draping it over a makeshift frame he'd lashed together from branches. The smoke billowed around it, gray-white columns that smelled of burning wood and curing meat. Everything was in motion now—jerky drying, fat rendering, hide smoking. His entire survival infrastructure operating simultaneously while his exhausted body moved between tasks.
The rendered fat had separated by the time darkness started creeping in. Ian poured the liquid carefully into a smaller container, leaving the tissue remnants in the pot. Tomorrow he'd mix it with ash, work it into the roof's gaps. Tonight he had other priorities.
His chest tightened as he banked the fire, ensuring it would smolder through the night without his constant attention. The jerky needed smoke, the hide needed drying, but both could continue while he slept. While he attempted whatever passed for prayer in this world.
The cabin waited across the clearing, darker now with only faint light filtering through the doorway. Ian grabbed what remained of his food stores—a portion of the dried meat, some of the preserves, the jar clutched against his chest like it might escape. His fingers found the pole automatically, the metal warm and reassuring against his palm.
The offering. Right. Food and semen. The thought made his face heat even in the cooling evening air, embarrassment flooding through him despite being completely alone.
His feet carried him beyond the clearing's edge, maybe fifty yards into the forest where the trees thinned slightly. Open enough. The pole stayed warm in his grip as he knelt, scraping away leaf litter until bare earth showed in a rough circle. His hands gathered stones from the surrounding area, arranging them in what he hoped looked intentional rather than desperate.
The fire pit took shape slowly. Too slowly. His fingers fumbled with the rocks, trying to make them sit properly, creating a ring that looked ceremonial instead of just functional. Did gods care about aesthetics? His brain offered nothing useful, just mounting anxiety that he was already fucking this up before he'd even started.
Kindling went in the center. Dry leaves, small twigs, anything that would catch fast. His hands moved through the motions automatically while his chest tightened with something that felt uncomfortably close to panic. This was stupid. Completely stupid. He was about to jerk off into a fire and hope cosmic forces took notice.
The flames caught on the first try, small tongues of orange licking up through the kindling. Ian fed larger sticks into it, building the fire higher. The light pushed back against the darkness, casting dancing shadows across the surrounding trees. Smoke rose straight up, gray columns disappearing into the canopy overhead.
He set the dried meat beside the fire. The jar of preserves next to it. Both offerings laid out on a flat stone he'd positioned near the flames. His throat felt tight as he stared at the arrangement, trying to figure out what came next.
Words. He should probably say something. That's what people did when they prayed, right? They talked. Asked for things. Made their case to whatever divine forces might be listening.
Ian cleared his throat. The sound came out rough, too loud in the quiet forest. His face heated despite the cool evening air.
"So, uh." His voice cracked slightly. "I'm not really sure how this works. Never done this before." The words felt absurd leaving his mouth, talking to empty air like it might respond. "If there are gods here—and I'm guessing there might be, since magic is apparently real—then I could really use some help."
The fire crackled, sparks rising into the darkness. Ian grabbed a piece of the dried meat, holding it over the flames. The heat made his fingers uncomfortable, the seasoned strip starting to darken further.
"This is for you. Whoever you are." He dropped it into the fire. The meat landed on the burning wood with a soft sound, immediately starting to char. The smell hit him—burning protein mixed with whatever spices had been used in the curing process. His stomach cramped at the waste, at food disappearing that he desperately needed. "I'm offering this because... because that's what people do, right? When they want divine intervention?"
The words sounded hollow even to his own ears. He grabbed another piece of meat, dropping it into the flames before he could second-guess the decision. Then another. The fire consumed them quickly, grease sizzling as it dripped onto the burning wood.
He grabbed the jar of preserves, unscrewing the lid with trembling fingers. The preserves gleamed wetly in the firelight. Ian tilted the jar, letting the dark purple contents pour out onto the flames. The berry mixture hit the fire with a wet hiss, steam rising as sugar and moisture met intense heat. The smell changed—sweet and burnt mixing together, smoke carrying it up into the darkness.
"So I'm asking—no, I'm begging—for help." His chest felt tight, the words coming faster now. "Show me what to do. Give me a sign, or guidance, or just... anything. Because I'm out of options here. I don't know how to survive this."
The jar was empty now, the last of the preserves dripping into the flames. Ian set it aside, his hands shaking slightly. The fire burned brighter with the additional fuel, orange light casting harsh shadows across his face.
And now came the part that made his entire body flush with embarrassment.
His fingers found the button of his jeans, working it free. The zipper followed, the sound loud in the quiet forest. This was insane. Absolutely insane. But Minka had been clear about mana existing in semen, about it being valuable, something monster girls craved. If gods operated on similar principles...
Ian shoved his jeans down just enough, his hand wrapping around himself. The motion felt mechanical, clinical, his exhausted brain struggling to generate any response beyond mounting humiliation. He was jerking off into a fire as a religious offering. The absurdity of it made his throat tight.
"This is, uh." His voice came out strangled. "This is supposed to be valuable? The mana in it, I mean. So I'm offering this too." The words felt ridiculous, his face burning hot enough that sweat beaded along his hairline despite the cool air. "Please accept this offering and... and help me figure out what the fuck I'm supposed to do."
His hand moved with practiced efficiency, trying to get this over with as quickly as possible. The firelight danced across his exposed skin, heat from the flames uncomfortable against his bare thighs. His brain kept screaming that this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, that he was alone in a forest jerking off to empty air and hoping cosmic forces cared enough to intervene. Maybe they were even watching him right now, judging his desperate attempt at prayer.
The thought made his movements falter, his rhythm breaking as fresh embarrassment flooded through him. Gods watching him do this. Divine beings observing his clumsy offering with whatever passed for cosmic judgment.
His hand moved faster, trying to push through the mortification. This had to work. Had to mean something. Because if it didn't—if he was just alone in the forest wasting food and dignity on empty ritual—then he truly had nothing left.
The pressure built despite his humiliation, his exhausted body responding to familiar stimulus even when his brain wanted to crawl into a hole and die. His breathing came faster, ragged gasps mixing with the fire's crackling. Close. He was close.
"Please." The word came out as a whisper, desperate and raw. "Please help me."
The release hit him suddenly, his body tensing as he came into the fire. The flames hissed where his offering landed, steam rising in gray wisps that mixed with the smoke. Ian's hand kept moving through the aftershocks, ensuring everything went where it was supposed to, his face burning with shame so intense his vision blurred.
Then he just knelt there, his hand still wrapped around himself, staring at the fire like it might suddenly speak. Like divine voices would boom from the flames, offering wisdom and guidance and solutions to problems he couldn't solve alone.
The fire crackled. Smoke rose steadily into the darkness. The forest around him stayed quiet, just wind rustling through leaves and the distant murmur of the river.
Nothing happened.
Ian's chest tightened as the silence stretched. His throat felt raw, his eyes burning with something that might have been exhaustion or might have been the beginning of tears he refused to acknowledge. He'd just degraded himself completely, had offered up food he needed and performed the most humiliating ritual imaginable, and the universe had responded with absolute fucking silence.
"Right." The word scraped out of his throat as he tucked himself back into his jeans, fingers fumbling with the zipper. "Of course. Why would gods care about some random human who got dumped in a forest?" His hands shook as he fastened the button, the motion automatic despite the trembling. "Stupid. This was so fucking stupid."
He should go back to the cabin. Should sleep, should prepare for whatever came next. The ant girl was probably already telling her queen. Forces were mobilizing. And he'd just wasted precious food and what remained of his dignity on empty ritual that accomplished nothing.
Ian pushed himself upright, his legs unsteady beneath him. The pole warmed in his grip as he grabbed it, solid and reassuring despite everything else falling apart. The fire still burned, consuming what remained of his offerings, smoke carrying the smell.
Ian turned back toward the fire, already reaching for dirt to smother the flames. No point letting it burn when nothing was—
The flames surged.
Pink light erupted from the fire pit, shooting upward in a column that reached higher than his head. The color was wrong—completely wrong—not the orange-red of normal fire but something else. Something that made his eyes hurt to look at directly. The heat intensified, washing over his face and chest with force that made him stumble backward.
Ian's feet tangled over themselves. His ass hit the ground hard, sending pain shooting up his spine. The pole clattered beside him as his hands flew up instinctively, shielding his face from the impossible pink flames that roared where moments ago there had been nothing but dying embers.
Then it stopped.
The pink vanished. The heat cut off like someone had flipped a switch. Normal flames crackled in the pit—small, orange, exactly what they'd been before the surge. Smoke rose in lazy gray columns, carrying the smell of burnt meat and charred wood.
Ian's chest heaved with breaths that didn't seem to reach his lungs properly. His heart hammered against his ribs hard enough to make them ache. The afterimage of pink light burned in his vision, making the surrounding darkness seem deeper by contrast.
What the fuck was that?
His fingers dug into the dirt beneath him, grounding himself. The fire looked normal now. Completely normal. Like nothing had happened at all. But his face still felt hot from the blast of heat, his eyes still watering from the intensity of that impossible color.
He waited. His entire body coiled with tension, muscles locked and ready to bolt if the flames did—whatever that had been—again. The seconds stretched into a minute. Then two. The fire just burned, crackling softly, giving no indication it had just exploded into pink light.
"Does that mean you'll help me?" The words burst out before his brain approved them, his voice too loud in the quiet forest. "Was that—is that a yes? A sign?"
The fire crackled. Smoke rose steadily. The forest stayed silent except for wind rustling through leaves.
Ian's throat tightened. "Please. I need—I need to know if that meant something."
Nothing. Just the normal sounds of a dying fire, of a forest at night, of emptiness pressing in from all sides.
His chest felt too tight. The panic from before threatened to surface again, that crushing awareness that he was alone and desperate and talking to flames that had probably just flared up from the fat content in the meat. Natural causes. Physics. Not divine intervention.
But pink. The flames had been pink. That wasn't normal. Couldn't be normal.
"Fuck." The word scraped out rough and defeated. Ian pushed himself upright, his legs trembling beneath him. The pole's metal warmed against his palm as he grabbed it, solid and reassuring despite everything else being chaos.
He should put the fire out. Should smother it properly before heading back to the cabin. The last thing he needed was a forest fire on top of everything else going wrong.
Ian grabbed handfuls of dirt, tossing them onto the flames. The fire hissed and spat, smoke thickening as earth smothered the burning wood. He kept going until no light remained, until only the smell of smoke and the faint heat from covered coals indicated anything had burned here at all.
The walk back to the clearing felt longer than it should. His bare feet found roots and rocks in the darkness, sending sharp pains up through his soles. The pole stayed warm in his grip, its light weight the only familiar thing in a world that kept proving it operated on rules he didn't understand.
The blanket. Minka's blanket still lay trampled where they'd eaten, wine stains dark against the fabric even in the dim light from his banked fire. Ian grabbed it, shaking off leaves and dirt. The material was good quality—woven tight, soft despite the abuse. Better than the single deer hide he'd been sleeping on.
His feet carried him toward the cabin. The doorway gaped dark and empty, the interior nothing but shadows. The deer hide lay spread across the earthen floor where he'd left it, still holding the shape of his body from earlier.
Ian stepped inside and collapsed. His back hit the wall with a thud that sent pain shooting up his spine but he couldn't bring himself to care. The blanket settled over him as he slid down, the fabric warmer than the cool evening air. His fingers found the pole automatically, pulling it against his chest.
The pink flames surfaced in his memory. That impossible surge of light and heat that had come from nowhere, that had vanished just as quickly. His brain tried to parse what it meant—if it meant anything—but exhaustion dragged at his thoughts with insistent hands.
The last thing he registered before darkness took him completely was the memory of pink flames, and the crushing uncertainty of whether they'd meant anything at all.