The days blurred together as Shaoran worked tirelessly. He'd realized something crucial: to truly survive here, he would need more than a shelter. He needed a home. It wasn't enough to simply exist in the jungle. This place, strange as it was, could become his base of operations, his stronghold. But it would take time. And effort.
He started with the foundation.
The trees of Solva were immense, towering over him with thick trunks and deep black bark veined with faint glowing blue streaks. Their roots snaked out across the ground, like the tendrils of some forgotten giant. They were strong—strong enough to withstand the pull of time. And that was exactly what Shaoran needed.
He chose a clearing just off the edge of a river, where the ground was solid but not too dry. He spent the first day clearing away the underbrush, hacking away vines and thick weeds that clung stubbornly to the earth. His machete cut through them with ease, though his muscles ached after hours of chopping. It wasn't the hardest task, but it was tedious. Clearing a proper space was necessary to avoid any surprise encounters, particularly with the wildlife lurking around.
By the second day, he had cleared enough space to lay down the first beams of the house. He knew that he needed something sturdy to support the weight of the structure, so he used the thickest trunks he could find. He chose four of the strongest trees around the clearing. The process was slower than expected. The trees were large, far too large for one person to handle without assistance. But Shaoran was resourceful.
He began by cutting them into manageable lengths, using the sharp blade of his machete. The logs were heavy, far heavier than anything he'd worked with back on Earth, but that only made them more durable. Once cut to the right size, he began laying the logs into place, forming a simple rectangular frame. It wasn't much—just a rough shape—but it was a start.
Once the foundation was set, he moved to the walls. This was where things got tricky.
The trees in this jungle weren't like the ones on Earth. Their trunks were sturdy, yes, but they were also thick and dense, resistant to being carved easily. Shaoran realized that he would need to split them, use the inner wood for support beams and other necessary parts. His machete wouldn't be enough for this. He needed something finer, something sharper.
After several attempts and an entire day spent searching for materials, Shaoran discovered a natural stone that was sharp enough to cut through the thick bark. It was a rough-edged rock, jagged but effective. He spent hours sharpening his makeshift tools, using the stone to split the logs and break them into smaller, manageable pieces. The work was exhausting, his hands calloused from the constant grip of the stone.
For the next few days, he focused entirely on the walls. He used the thicker logs to form the base, while thinner, more flexible branches weaved between them like a lattice. It was slow work, but it felt right. There was something therapeutic in the repetitive motion, in the way the structure began to take shape. Each log, each piece of wood, fit together as if it had been designed for this very purpose. The walls slowly grew higher, section by section. Shaoran worked meticulously, making sure that each joint was secure, each piece tightly bound.
By the end of the fifth day, the walls were up. The structure was taking form. It wasn't elegant—far from it—but it was solid. There was a strength to it that Shaoran admired. The house felt like an extension of himself, something he had put everything into. The jungle, which had once felt like a threat, now felt like a backdrop to his creation. He was no longer a wanderer. He was a builder. A survivor.
But he wasn't finished yet. The roof would be the hardest part.
The trees around him were tall, but the branches were thin. Not the type of branches that could bear the weight of a roof. Shaoran knew that he would have to create something different. He needed to reinforce the roof with thicker materials, something that would hold under pressure, something that would protect him from the rains that were sure to come.
He spent the next day climbing the trees, selecting the strongest branches he could find. The task wasn't easy. He had to balance on precarious limbs, his body tense with the fear of falling. But his agility, honed from years of fighting, kept him steady. With each branch, he carefully trimmed it down to the right size, measuring and testing to ensure it was sturdy enough to support the roof.
Once he had enough, he began weaving the branches together like a massive thatched roof. He secured the frame with vines he'd harvested from the jungle, using them as ropes to hold everything in place. The work was slow, but the roof gradually began to take shape. By the end of the seventh day, he had a solid structure. The roof was steep enough to prevent the water from pooling, but not so steep that it would be difficult to climb.
But the house wasn't truly complete yet. He needed furniture. A place to sleep. A place to eat. A place to live.
Shaoran turned his attention to the interior. He used the same materials—wood, vines, and stone—to craft the basics. He started with a simple bed, using thick logs to form the frame, covering it with a layer of woven vines to create a mattress of sorts. It wasn't soft, but it was better than the cold ground. He fashioned a chair next, a rough but functional piece of furniture to sit in. A table followed soon after, sturdy enough to hold whatever food or tools he might need. He carved a few shelves into the walls, arranging them neatly to hold his tools, weapons, and supplies.
The process was simple, but every item felt like a small victory. With each piece of furniture, he made his mark on this world. This wasn't just survival anymore. It was civilization. His civilization.
By the tenth day, the house was almost complete. The walls stood tall, the roof was secure, and the interior was furnished. It wasn't a mansion. It wasn't even a proper home by most standards. But it was his. Every piece, every log, every nail made from stone and wood was a reminder of his strength, his resilience, and his will to survive.
As the final pieces of the house came together, Shaoran stepped back and surveyed his work. It was rough, but it was real. The jungle no longer seemed so threatening. He had carved out a space for himself here, a space that was more than just a shelter.
3 weeks passed since Shaoran first set foot in Solva. It felt like nothing, and everything, all at once. The days blended together in a series of survival tasks—hunting, gathering, and building. But as the week stretched on, something changed. He felt stronger. The hunger that gnawed at him was satisfied, the thirst quenched, and yet, there was an unshakable sense that his progress here had little to do with food or water.
He was leveling up.
It had started with small, almost imperceptible changes—an increase in stamina, a quicker reaction time, a sense of his body moving with more precision. After the battle with the massive rabbit, Shaoran had felt it. The system had chimed a notification in his ear:
[System Notification: Level Up] [Current Level: 3]
The strange part? It hadn't felt like a standard "level-up" in a game. No flashy effects. No sudden surges of power. But there was an undeniable shift. He felt different. Stronger. Faster.
It had been a slow process at first—two, maybe three days of hunting more rabbits, the occasional wolf, and the odd, fantastical creature that showed up out of nowhere. The jungle was full of surprises, and Shaoran's battle-hardened instincts were sharp. Each fight was a lesson in endurance.
One day, as the sun started to dip behind the horizon, he spotted a wolf-like creature—a dark, sinewy beast with glowing red eyes. It was fast, more cunning than any ordinary predator. The fight lasted longer than he expected, but with a well-aimed strike, Shaoran pierced its neck. It was the same feeling he'd gotten after slaying the rabbit—a quiet, almost mechanical satisfaction.
[System Notification: Level Up] [Current Level: 5]
That was the moment. The world had shifted.
Each kill brought more strength. A wolf gave him power. A rabbit gave him endurance. The jungle, with all its dangers, seemed less daunting the more he fought. He noticed the trees a bit more—how their branches looked like weapons, how the rocks could be used as tools.
The next few days blurred in a haze of work and survival. Shaoran hunted down more creatures: a massive boar with tusks that could rip through flesh, a creature that resembled a large eagle but with the strength of a lion. Every fight made him feel stronger, faster, more in tune with the land. He didn't need the system to tell him anymore. His muscles rippled under the strain, and his reflexes were sharper than ever.
By the end of the week, he was level 30.
It wasn't an explosive leap—there was no flash of light, no grand reveal. Just a steady increase, like the gentle rise of a tide. But with each level-up, the power he felt grew. His senses sharpened. His speed increased. A pack of wolves attacked his house one night, their eyes glowing red, their growls low and guttural. Shaoran fought them off easily, his spear cutting through the air with precision. By the time the last wolf fell, his muscles were singing with the effort.
Another notification came, but this time, Shaoran didn't bother to read it.