Alex stared at the treetops rushing up to meet him. Below, just past the canopy, he could already make out the jagged terrain—a slope littered with uneven rock and bark-shredded stumps. If he didn't change his path, he'd land spine-first on what looked like a half-buried boulder.
Absolutely Perfect
But he didn't panic. Yet.
First, he did some quick mental math.
Altitude: ~150 meters.
Terminal velocity (estimated): ~55 m/s (standard human skydiving speed, belly-down)
Mass: 38 kg
Kinetic Energy at impact: KE = ½mv² = 0.5 × 38 × (55)² = 57,475 Joules.
Impact time with roll (if he somehow landed "well"): 0.2s best case.
Force spread across joints and limbs: F = Δp / Δt ≈ ~290,000 N (if he rolled).
Upper limit of human bone failure: ~40,000 N (on a good day, with prayer).
Conclusion: Instant death most likely.
Slow death via massive internal bleeding if lucky.
Either way, he was very screwed.
100 meters...
50...
30...
He didn't scream or brace.
Instead, he reached deep inside—into that place beyond thought, where his "Planeswalker essence" was apparently stored—and shoved the cooldown out of the way like a locked door with no handle.
It didn't give easily.
Pain wasn't the right word. It felt like trying to push through concrete with his nervous system. His vision dimmed, his soul howled—or maybe that was his brain—but he didn't stop.
Space rippled.
Not like water, more like meat being torn open from the inside.
And in the instant before the rocks below could punch through his skull, Alex disappeared.
Predictably, everything went back.
--------------
When Alex came to, he did so face-first in something cold, wet, and acidic.
His throat burned like he'd tried gargling bleach. His stomach spasmed, trying to eject contents that no longer existed. His limbs twitched, detached and floaty, like they'd been left unplugged for hours too long. His head spun so hard he couldn't tell if he was upright or sideways.
Whathefuckjusthappened...
It was the only thought that managed to crawl out past the static in his brain. It slurred like he'd bitten his tongue, though he hadn't. Probably.
He was lying on the basement floor. Dressed in full armor, minus the helmet, which lay beside him—overflowing. There was vomit everywhere. Splattered across his torso, pooled in the seams of his bodysuit, spiked with reddish threads.
Some of it had dried. Some hadn't.
His hands felt like paper. He pushed against the floor. Shaky arms. Trembling knees. Vision swam. Almost passed out again, but didn't.
Barely.
That's the downside of a restricted-level, dumbass. The maid can't fucking find your comatose body.
He staggered over to the nearest console. Checked the timestamp. A day had passed since he came back, apparently.
He grabbed a water bottle. Chugged half. The rest came back up in a dry heave, then went down again on round two.
Let's see what's going on he thought as he began examining himself.
Heart rate erratic. Blood pressure normal-ish. Pupils responsive. Reflexes lagging. Coordination garbage. Blood sugar low. Zero neural damage. Organs fine. No internal bleeding.
Whatever he'd done had definitely hit something. Metaphysical or not, he didn't want a repeat performance.
He summoned his skill's description.
Planeswalker - RWBY (S)— Cooldown: 2 years, 363 days.
He stared at the number for a few seconds. Then he shrugged.
"...Shitty. Very shitty. Sure as hell beats dying, though. I can't fucking complain."
His voice was hoarse and dry, barely a whisper.
But he could move. So he washed, ate something simple and went straight to bed.
The next day, same thing.
And the day after that.
And the one after that too.
By Day Four, the pain started to fade—receding like an infection finally losing its grip. His head still felt floaty, but less like helium and more like a light hangover.
By Day Five, he could stay awake a full eight hours without his body trying to shut down in protest.
By Day Seven, the fatigue was just a whisper. A constant low-grade drowsiness and a faint sense that his limbs were on a half-second delay. Annoying, but manageable.
He stood in front of the mirror that morning, brushing his teeth like usual.
Then he caught sight of his eyes.
"Well, not all's bad," he muttered through a mouthful of mint foam.
There were two tomoe now spinning in each eye.
Did it happen on the way there or the way back? Hmm, the way there is more likely. I thought it was adrenaline making time slow down even more when I arrived, but apparently I unlocked the next stage. Damn, what I'd do for some chakra...
He leaned back on the sink.
I'd hoped I'd get my aura unlocked during the first trip. That would've let me start messing with things over here already… Too bad, but far from the worst outcome. I've got three years to prepare...
He held out his hand and turned it slowly, flexing his fingers. He didn't really feel the "light of the soul" coursing through his veins, but then again, he didn't know much about aura. Especially how to awaken it.
But how hard can it be anyway? My soul's already been semi-shredded, maybe. That should give me enough access to start poking at it.
Of course, as if to mock him, golden letters immediately took shape in front of him.
Quest: Kindling the Flame
Objective: Awaken your Aura on your own, no matter how long it takes!
Reward: C+ grade roll
"..."
Ok, maybe not that easy, given the reward...
But it was a good incentive to have.
Also, I really hope 'time is frozen in the origin plane' refers to the world I just left every time... and not just the one I was born in this life. Otherwise, I'm coming back to ruins in three years...