Kai sat in the shade beneath the house, his back against one of the thick timber support beams, legs sprawled out as he shaved the end of a long stick into a vicious point. One of dozens already lay in a neat pile beside him—punji stakes, they called them. Simple, brutal, and effective. And something he could do without getting in the way.

Out in the yard, the sun beat down across the gravel and dirt as the rest of the family worked on the defences. His mum and Lily were a whirlwind of chatter and laughter as they fitted sensor lights onto the poles and hammered down tent stakes to steady their frames. From here, he could hear their voices rise in warm bursts of joy. It was strange. Surreal, even.

Because his mum—his Mum—was supposed to be dying.

But there she was, alive and more energetic than he'd seen her in years. The change still messed with his head. One day she was too weak to walk across the lounge room. Now she was swinging tools and laughing like she'd just stepped out of a yoga retreat. A miracle, born of monsters and madness.

Nearby, his Dad was having an absolute blast in the excavator, swinging the boom arm like a kid with a new toy, following Tarni's exaggerated pointing and dramatic thumbs-ups as they dug more lines of trenches near the property's fence. Gravel crunched under the machine's weight as it chewed up the earth with methodical force.

It looked like they were all exactly where they were meant to be.

And Kai... was under the house, sharpening sticks.

He paused, his fingers tightening around the machete. The edge of the blade gleamed in the filtered sunlight. He had used it to carve stakes, not to fight. Not like the others.

His chest tightened with the weight of everything he hadn't said out loud.

He had been so angry. Angry at his mum—for being sick, for not fighting harder. Angry at his Dad—for not telling him, for keeping him in the dark, for deciding when he should know his Mum was on death's door. He'd carried that fury with him, packed it into the space between his ribs, and used it to keep himself upright when the rest of him wanted to fall apart.

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Then the System had let him in.

Very Basic Healing Touch, the screen had told him. A miracle in his palm. His anger hadn't melted away—it had just shifted. Became fear. Hope. Desperation. When His Mum entered the System, he'd rushed to her side and used the skill instantly, praying it would be enough. That he could fix it. That he could be the reason she stayed.

It had helped. A little.

But not enough.

It was the red potion—His Dad's gamble—that had saved her life in the end.

Kai had felt the hope drain from him when he realised his skill couldn't do it alone. It didn't matter how badly he wanted to help, how hard he tried. He was just support. Optional. Extra. Not essential.

And then came the goblin hunt.

Training wounds? Sure, he'd patched up bruises, sprains and small cuts. But when it came down to the real thing—when Tarni was bleeding out in the dirt, unconscious and half-dead—he hadn't been enough. It had been another potion, not his hands, that had saved him.

The machete slipped slightly, nicking the wood, throwing off the angle of the point. He grunted and started again.

He knew he wasn't useless. He wasn't nothing. But he couldn't shake the feeling that everyone else was stepping into their new roles with purpose. Dad was the fearless leader with quick instincts. Uncle Tarn was the wild card with his deadly drive. Lily was sharp, eager, bursting with potential, and Mum with her great shooting skills.

And him?

He made pointy sticks. He healed scraped knees. He tried his best.

The wind picked up, rustling through the leaves above. It carried the distant rumble of the excavator, the clang of tools, and the occasional burst of laughter. It carried a strange sense of peace, edged with adrenaline. This place—this weird new world of rules and stats and danger—it was fast becoming home.

And Kai did love it.

He loved being near his family again, loved the excitement and uncertainty. He loved the idea that he could level up, grow stronger, learn spells or maybe even real healing someday. That one day, he could be the reason someone survived—and not just the kid who handed over a potion someone else found.

He shoved the sharpened stick into the pile, wiped sweat from his brow, and grabbed the next.

He would make punji traps. He would carry the net and spear. He would heal scraped arms and bruised egos. And he would keep pushing.

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