Desert World: My Stolen Primordial Forest

The office lights were so bright they hurt my eyes.

I stared at the parchment map in front of me, my fingers gripping the quill pen until my knuckles turned white. Two territories were marked on the map with gold lines: to the north was the SS-level Forge Fortress, with its continuous mines and towering walls; to the south was the B-level primeval forest, lush and green, marked "Resources to be explored".

In my previous life, I chose the forest.

Because my sister Emily said, "Brother, the forest is so beautiful, I want the fortress." My father, Robert, glanced at me, his eyes like he was looking at a pile of garbage: "You let your sister have it." My mother, Helen, didn't even look up, continuing to flip through her fashion magazine. I nodded, gave her the fortress, and went to that damned forest with a few loyal old miners.

Then, after the super sandstorm hit, her whole family came to me for refuge. When I was at my weakest, she stabbed me in the back.

I remember the feeling of that knife piercing my lower back. Cold, dull, like a red-hot iron rod being plunged into my internal organs. I looked back at her face; she was crying, but not out of guilt—it was because I wasn't quite dead yet, and she wanted to finish me off.

"Brother, I'm sorry, the fortress's defenses can't hold, we need your supplies."

She kept stabbing while crying.

With my last breath, I detonated all the gasoline in the warehouse. Two hundred and thirty-seven barrels. As the flames engulfed everything, I heard her scream. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

Then I opened my eyes, sat in this chair, quill pen in my hand, map on the table.

Footsteps sounded behind me, with a familiar, deliberately soft rhythm. The sound of my skirt rustling, the scent of perfume.

"elder brother--"

Emily peeked out from behind me, her light chestnut curls cascading over my shoulder, a harmless smile on her face. She was eighteen, five years younger than me, and the Chamber of Commerce's undisputed "sweetest heiress." No one knew what lay beneath that sweet face.

"Can you give me the forest? I like those big trees. The fortress is dark and dirty, I don't want to go there."

Her voice was as sweet as honey, and her finger pointed to the green area on the map, her nails painted with light pink nail polish.

I stared at her fingers without saying a word.

In my past life, she said the same thing. The exact same words, the exact same smile, even the angle at which she tilted her head. I thought she was cute back then, and that as an older brother, I should give in to my younger sister.

Now all I want to see is whether her blood is pink too.

"Okay," I said.

My voice was so calm it surprised even myself. Emily's eyes lit up, but instead of cheering immediately, she glanced cautiously at her father, who was sitting to the side flipping through documents. Robert Klein, a director of the Chamber of Commerce, was the absolute authority in the family. He raised an eyelid, glanced at Emily and me, and then said to the clerk behind him, "Assign Forge Furnace to Joseph."

This isn't a discussion, it's a notification.

My mother, Helen, finally looked up, her gaze lingering on my face for a second before turning to Emily and saying, "It's damp in the forest, remember to bring several boxes of skincare products." Then she continued flipping through the magazine.

Nobody is watching me.

In this family, I was ranked after my father, mother, sister, housekeeper, and even the poodle. The dog's name was Bella, and when she was sick, the whole family went to the vet. When I was sick, I went up the mountain to gather herbs myself.

This is my family.

"Thank you, brother!" Emily kissed me on the cheek, and as she turned away, the corners of her mouth curved into a smile.

That wasn't a laugh.

That's the arc a hunter sees when its prey steps into a trap.

She walked out of the office and glanced back at me. It was a quick glance, so quick that neither my parents noticed. But I caught it—mockery, pity, and a hint of satisfaction that said, "You really are a good-for-nothing."

I put down my quill and picked up the territory allocation document stamped with the Chamber of Commerce's seal. SS-class Fortress, heavily indebted, plagued by a miners' riot, rampant disorder, and the former lord's head smashed open by miners' pickaxes.

But I know its value.

Three thousand meters underground lies the purest iron ore vein on the entire continent. Its mountains contain enormous natural caves that can be converted into sand shelters. Its underground water veins reach depths of five hundred meters; with a circulation system, it could be self-sufficient even during sandstorms.

In her previous life, Emily squandered all of this. She only knew how to exploit the miners, pile up luxury goods, and make the fortress a mess. When the sandstorm came, her fortress was the first to collapse.

In this life, it's my turn.

I stood up, folded the allocation document, and put it into my inner pocket. The clerk handed me an iron key—the key to the fortress gate, heavy, rusty, and covered in years of dust.

I gripped it tightly and turned to walk towards the door.

At the end of the corridor, a woman leaned against a stone pillar, waiting for me. She had short black hair, a scar running from her brow bone to her cheekbone on her left cheek, and two short blades at her waist. A metal badge was attached to her belt buckle—Fortress Sheriff.

Vera.

In my previous life, she died in the forest. To protect my mining crew, she was dragged underground by sandworms. I never even found her body.

In this life, she is the first person I want to take with me.

“Let’s go,” I said as I passed her without stopping, “to the fortress.”

She caught up with me, keeping pace with me, without asking any questions.

I stepped out of the Chamber of Commerce building, the sunlight warming my face. The distant sky was an unbelievable azure, so blue that it made me forget that in forty days it would turn the color of hell.

Behind her, Emily's laughter drifted out of the second-floor window, mingling with her mother Helen's coquettish complaints.

I didn't turn around.