The Gate Traveler

I dreamed of Sophie. Then, all of a sudden, she licked my face. It took a few seconds for my sleep-fogged brain to register that the sensation wasn't part of the dream.

I jolted awake to find a wolf's head hovering inches from mine, breath hot and damp on my skin.

Reality clicked back into place with a groan. I pushed the wolf's snout away. "Stop that," I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

The blinking red light was still there. It had started last night, probably something to do with my Healer class, but I didn't have the energy to check then, and still didn't. The way messages dropped straight into my head sometimes caught me off guard. There was something unsettling about it, even now.

I stirred up a new fire, brewed a cup of coffee, and took a few slow sips. Once the warmth settled in, I finally felt human enough to deal with the blinking.

What the hell?

"Seriously?" I asked, glaring up at the sky. "Are you mocking me or just trying to be cute?"

Of course, there was no answer, which made me even angrier. It could send me creepy feelings, but was unwilling to answer when I asked?

"You want me to take a class that sounds like it's all about magic when I don't understand anything?" I threw my hands up in dismay, sloshing some coffee onto the ground. "I don't even know how my mana works. How exactly do you see this working, huh? Or are you just looking for free entertainment?"

Silence.

I jabbed the 'No' button in frustration, grumbling under my breath about the ridiculous system and its lack of common sense.

The message didn't say that I learned a skill or spell. Just learned. That also threw me off. I looked in the abilities list and couldn't find anything of the sort. I actually scrolled through the whole endless list, and nothing.

Curious. And annoying.

My red light was still blinking.

Nice!

At least I got some good news. It also helped to somewhat cool my annoyance.

After that message, I was no longer annoyed. Starting the day with good news was fun, and it even helped me overcome the unsettled feeling that those messages still invoked in me. It was still strange that things appeared before my eyes out of thin air, as if some invisible force was flipping pages in my mind. But if it was good news, it was easier to live with. At least that.

I added the free points to Luck, mostly because it was the lowest, and I didn't need them anywhere else.

Profile handled, I got up, splashed some water on my face, and brushed my teeth. The wolf sat nearby, watching me with an intense focus that made me feel like I owed him something.

"What do you want?"

He wagged his tail.

I poured some water into a bowl and tossed a few logs on the fire. He lapped up the water eagerly, then turned those eyes back on me—tail still going like a metronome.

"I'm not going to keep feeding you. Go hunt something."

The tail wagging intensified.

When I started frying up bacon and eggs, he turned into a full-blown pest. First, he tried to swipe the bacon straight from the pan. Then, when that failed, he switched targets and went for my plate. I kept shooing him away with my free hand, but he was stubborn—relentlessly so.

"NO!" I snapped, completely exasperated.

He paused, his head tilted, then wagged his tail even harder, as if I'd just told him he was a good boy. His persistence was impressive. And irritating. Then he started whining. A long, low sound that made me feel guilty.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

"I'm not going to keep feeding you. Go hunt something," I said again, more firmly this time.

He wagged his tail. Again. And stared up at me like we'd never had this conversation before.

I turned sideways, just so I could turn my back on him. He immediately circled around and settled beside me, then licked my hand and looked up with that same hopeful expression.

I decided, right then and there, to create a new skill called "Ignore." It was a must. I tried to eat my breakfast. It wasn't easy—he kept sticking his muzzle into my plate or trying to shove his nose under my hand, like sheer persistence might earn him a bite. I focused on leveling up my "ignore" skill.

Eventually, I finished eating and got up to pack. My original plan had been to stay put and regenerate mana, but with him pestering me non-stop, I knew that wasn't going to happen. I gave him some more water, broke camp, and set out again.

He followed.

Sometimes, he'd trot ahead, then stop and turn to make sure I was still following, his tail swaying like we were on some grand adventure. Other times, he walked beside me in companionable silence. Occasionally, he'd wander off to investigate something in the underbrush, then rush back a few moments later—never letting me get too far. We walked for hours, the rhythm of our steps and the occasional birdcall the only sounds keeping us company.

When I stopped for lunch, I gave him water again and pulled out some sushi, assuming fish wouldn't tempt a wolf. I figured he'd be indifferent to it. I was wrong. So, so wrong. He was instantly interested. I had to eat standing up and go back to practicing "ignore" while he circled me like a furry shark.

I crossed my arms and looked down at him, trying to sound firm. "Listen, buddy, this isn't going to work. I don't have dog food, and I have no intention of feeding you steaks for three meals a day. I'll run out fast."

He tilted his head, ears perked, as if listening.

"On top of that," I continued, pointing a finger at him. "I don't want you to lose your hunter instincts. If we part ways, or something happens to me, you'll be helpless and get emaciated again."

He sat down, tail thumping against the ground.

"When you were hurt, it was part of the treatment," I said, softening my tone. "But now you need to hunt for yourself. You're a wolf. You know how to hunt."

He licked his muzzle, then my hand, and gave a low whine.

"Okay, let's do something else. But first, you need a name."

I looked at him more closely. He was longer than a "normal" wolf, like someone had grabbed his torso and legs and stretched them out a bit.

"I'm going to call you Stretch," I declared.

His tail wagged in approval, a happy thump-thump against the ground. My newly christened companion seemed pleased.

"Let's go hunt something together. You need to learn to fend for yourself," I said. And maybe it will inspire you, I thought to myself.

We set off into the forest, the underbrush soft beneath our feet. I kept scanning the surroundings, trying to spot any signs of game—a skill I had yet to master.

I walked slowly, deliberately, eyes on the ground as I searched for tracks, droppings, anything useful. Unfortunately, all I spotted were leaves, small sticks, and the occasional flower.

Hours passed in a frustrating blur of failed hunting attempts. Stretch's constant presence didn't help—he moved like a shadow but somehow managed to scare off anything worth chasing. By the time dusk settled over the forest, we were both hungry and tired. I finally gave in and accepted the day as a loss.

With a sigh, I set up camp. The fire crackled to life, the tent went up without issue, and I settled in with a simple meal, trying to ignore the pair of eyes burning into me. Stretch hovered nearby, nudging my arm with his nose every few seconds. I stood up to eat and resumed practicing my "ignore" skill, chewing slowly while pretending he wasn't giving me the saddest, most dramatic look imaginable.

Teaching him self-reliance was turning out to be way harder than I expected.

I gave Stretch some water, then cracked open a beer and took a long sip. He circled once before flopping down beside me, resting his head on my lap and gazing up at me with massive, guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes.

It won't work on me. It won't work on me. If I break now, I'll have to continue feeding him. He has to learn to feed himself; I'm not a steak dispensary, I told myself, over and over, to help myself stay strong in the face of his sad puppy eyes. You don't feed wild animals; you let them fend for themselves, or they won't survive. I will not break. I'm strong. I will not break.

The next morning, the now-familiar "tongue alarm" woke me up again.

I drank my coffee and ate a sandwich for breakfast, standing up and practicing my "ignore" skill.

We continued walking. I kept scanning the ground, trying to spot tracks or signs of game, but came up empty. No broken branches, no scat, no hoofprints—just more leaves and sticks. I wasn't surprised. I had no hunting skills to speak of. Growing up in Birmingham, Alabama, and later in Chicago hadn't exactly prepared me for wilderness survival.

Stretch looked less perky today; his steps were slower, and his head hung low. Probably hunger.

In a show of solidarity, I skipped lunch too.

"I will not break. I will not break. He's a hunter and needs to hunt. I will not break," I chanted over and over like a mantra, as my guilt grew with every passing hour.

Then something changed. Stretch's body tensed. His ears perked. He let out a low, menacing growl.

I paused mid-step, alert, and followed his gaze cautiously.

Lunch?

I looked in the direction Stretch was facing but saw nothing. Still, I crept toward it slowly, each step careful not to snap a twig.

Stretch let out another growl. I reached over and grabbed his muzzle. "Shh!" I whispered.

He kept growling anyway, a low rumble vibrating through his closed muzzle.

Suddenly, something burst out of the underbrush. A green, lizard-like creature with a mouth full of short, jagged teeth and a stubby tail. It launched itself at me, jaws wide. I swung my bow reflexively, smacking it midair, and sent it flying back into the bushes.

I squinted, trying to see where it had landed, but the undergrowth was too thick. There was no movement. Stretch stopped growling, so maybe it was dead?

I stepped closer to check, peering into the tangle of leaves—

The red dot started blinking again.

That's it. That was the entire message.

What am I supposed to do with that?

I took out gardening shears and cut away some of the bush. After a few snips, I found the jurber's body, grabbed its leg, yanked it out, and dropped it in front of Stretch.

"Bon appétit," I said, hoping he'd get the message.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. If wolves could roll their eyes, I was pretty sure that's exactly what would have happened.

I nudged the creature toward him with my foot. "Yummy lizard?"

He turned and walked away without a glance back.

I sighed—long and deep—and kept walking.

By dusk, I found a decent spot to set up camp and got a fire going. I was starving. Stretch looked even worse—droopy ears, slow steps, and a sad, hollow stare. I caved.

"Fine," I said and tossed him a whole chicken from Storage. He tore into it like he hadn't eaten in a week, devoured it—bones and all—in under three minutes, then trotted over to me with his tail wagging, sat down, and looked at me expectantly, like I was his personal chef.

"You're not going to get more," I told him, pointing a finger at his snout. "I'll keep you from starving, but if you want a proper meal, you'll need to hunt."

He wagged harder and licked my face. We were back to square one.

I shook my head and let out a long, exasperated exhale, half in amusement, half in defeat. After giving him some water, I ate a "standing" dinner while practicing my elite-level "ignoring," and pretended not to notice the big, fluffy guilt machine staring holes into me. Then I finally crawled into the tent and went to sleep.