I looked around my home. A tiny nest, crudely woven from dry straw and leafy twigs, perched in the crook of a high tree. Not much of a fortress, but it had kept me safe through the night. A whole day had passed. No rustle of wings, no calls from others. No fellow avians.
So I suppose I am alone. No family. No nothing.
Hmm... I guess I ain't got no choice.
As the sun rose—its golden rays piercing through thick mist and the canopy above—I took my first steps into the sky. I stepped off the edge of the nest.
I flew.
Or not.
"Ahhhh!"
How do I fly?!
[Flap your wings. Use your skill: Windborne Flight.]
Windborne Flight. Windborne Flight. Windborne Flight. WINDBORNE FLIGHT!
Just as my small, downy body hurtled toward the mossy forest floor—close enough that I could see individual rocks with frightening clarity—a gentle gust surged upward. It caught under my wings, lifting me with startling grace.
The wind curled beneath me, like soft hands catching a falling child.
Flap.
Flap.
I swung my wings in a panicked rhythm, air slicing past my feathers as I clawed for altitude. And just like that, the wind guided me higher, rising in swirling streams through gaps in the forest's emerald ceiling.
I am flying?
Hell yah.
As I soared, the vastness of the forest unveiled itself. The Great Jura Forest stretched endlessly beneath me—a lush, ancient woodland where thick trunks towered like natural skyscrapers, their roots snaking over mossy ground. Vines hung like curtains from high branches. Strange bird calls echoed through the trees. In the far distance, the Canopy Mountains stood like silent guardians, their snow-capped peaks cutting into the sky.
As I swept over the treetops, something caught my eye—a thin trail of smoke winding into the air, barely visible between the foliage.
Flapping my wings with newfound determination, I glided toward it, cutting across a patch of sunlight-dappled sky. I dipped down and landed on a low, crooked branch, my claws skidding slightly on the bark.
Hmm... what's that?
I focused on a small clearing below. A ragtag cluster of huts stood at the center—made of mud, straw, and branches, arranged in a loose circle around a tiny fire pit. Figures moved about—short, green-skinned, humanoid creatures in tattered clothing.
Many of them.
Are those... goblins?
[Affirmative. Within the Great Jura Forest, there are many species living in coexistence or conflict—including intelligent races such as goblins, orcs, lizardmen, and more.]
At least do your job properly, man. And did you just say "Great Jura Forest"—as in, the one from that anime about the slime?
[Affirmative. Within the vast existence, your world intercepted a timeline of this world through a Skill. The resulting distortion was unconsciously interpreted and translated into fiction by an individual on your side—believed to be an author. However, this was simply the consequence of his Skill reacting to Temporal tempering .]
Huh. So wait—skills existed even back on Earth?
[Affirmative. Skills are tied to each soul. However, without the necessary fuel—i.e., magicules—they remain dormant. For example, a practitioner of a family sword technique may, over generations, engrave it into their soul as a Skill. But it only manifests as an actual Skill in worlds saturated with magicules—like this one.]
I guess that makes sense.
I continued observing the camp, watching the goblins shuffle about. From one of the slightly larger huts emerged an old goblin, hunched and wrinkled, walking beside a younger one with sharper features. And beside them… floated a small, jiggling, translucent blue slime.
...Shit.
So I'm at the start of the series.
Damn. So I can't finesse a friendship with Veldora. There goes the quick way to get named.
My big, beady bird eyes shed a single, lonesome tear.