“So Pa’ stares at me uncle’s jarred eye, dead serious, and says, ‘And that’s why you ain’t never trust an orc with a red ring!’” Hathgar’s booming laugh erupted, shaking the cob-web infested lamps that floated freely above. The dwarf shoved the last blood red couch into place.

“That bastard’s antics do make me miss Stonehollow, still haven’t done nothing with them weapons though,” Hathgar added in his gruff accent, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.

Mitch silently polished glasses with a rag behind the bar, hands burning from cutting through hundreds of limes. He tried to focus on the simple task, but the weight of his one Affliction Skill cast a constant shadow over his mind. Curiosity had gotten the better of him earlier, and now he could feel the singular ‘currency’ sitting in his core.

It was attached to the single Skill he discovered that he had.

Abyssal Vault

Level 1

Collect and store Souls, Flesh, and Credits within. A living account for your Abyssal Debt. Meet a Collector to transfer the sum.

Settlement Amount: 1 Soul, 0 Credits, 0 Flesh

1 Soul? Whose? I have someone else's soul inside of me?

With the knowledge of his Skill came more unfurling memories about Skills in general. People were lucky to have one. Monstrously strong individuals had three or four, but they were exceedingly rare. All Skills had some sort of cost, but mana didn’t exist in this world. Some people exhausted quickly with use, others depended on their life force, slowly withering away with each subsequent use. Many Skills simply recharged gradually, or had allotted uses that replenished and could grow with Skill levels.

Couches ringed the dance floor. The painted black walls lined with empty, non-reflective frames seemed to observe the club in silence. Hathgar, ever the chatterbox, waved his muscular arms as he yapped about Crae’s Agency’s ridiculous booking requests.

Mitch barely listened as he processed the news of his ability.

“Aye, I reckon if you’ve got pockets deep as theirs, you can pay for any damned thing ye’ want,” Halthgar grumbled, though his grin never left as he wiped down the bar. He eyed Mitch suspiciously, “You alright, lad? I know yer the muscle and I'm the looks of the operation, but yer awful somber today, even with our buyout bonus.”

Mitch flinched at Hathgar’s question and forced a smile that felt more like a mask.

I’m already wearing someone else’s skin. It is a mask.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he lied, pushing the words out of his mouth. “Just tired, didn’t sleep well at all. Kept…uh…tossing and turning,” The corners of his mouth curved, but his eyes remained hollow as his anxiety began to get the better of him.

Hathgar eyed him seriously, bearded grin disappearing, before he let out a deep chuckle. “Aye, don’t we all know that feeling, lad. Crae’s lot might be particular, but we’ll rake in a fortune tonight. Maybe I’ll have enough for a decent keg of ale for us, none of that swill Robin serves!”

He patted Mitch’s arm roughly with a heavy hand, the warmth of his jovial friendship cutting through the fog.

Maybe I am being a bit of a lug. It could have been worse, I could have been reborn into a worm.

Yet Mitch’s hands trembled on the dirty glass he cleaned with a dirtier cloth. The Abyssal Debt. The soul he carried in his core. He wasn’t imagining it. It was there, locked away, sitting solemnly in a corner like a cowed animal. The cold reality settled in: he’d been so sure that he could handle whatever came his way. Now, knowing the Soul was inside him, he wavered.

What happens when the Collector comes to collect?

His grip tightened on the glass, and with a sharp crack, it shattered in his hands.

Pain surged through his palms as jagged shards dug into his skin. Blood welled, dripping and pooling on the surface of the bar. Mitch winced, but a strange sensation followed.

The pain felt different. Fitting.

Affliction Skill Gained

Agony’s Embrace

Level 1

Pain is power. Harness every drop of suffering, turning agony into unrelenting strength. Your torment permanently fortifies your body and amplifies your strength.

Hathgar rushed over on short legs, thick body almost knocking Mitch over. “Damn it, lad! What’re ye doing? Look at yer hands!” He wrapped Mitch’s dripping hands tightly with dusty cloth. “They be strong as hammers, take it easy.”

Mitch stared at his wrapped palms, twisted thoughts making him grin wildly. A faint surge of power flickered through his veins, the wounds granting him permanent power. The thought turned his stomach, yet he couldn’t shake it.

I can use this. They have no idea how much I can take. Already died once, haven’t I?

Memories from his past life brushed his mind. The torment he had endured. How far he had already come.

He laughed darkly, smiling genuinely at Hathgar for the first time. Hathgar paused, frowning slightly, before smiling again. “Thanks, I’ll manage. I need to head to Mathilda’s anyway. Package for Robin. You know how he is,”

“Mmm,” Hathgar groaned, squinting at Mitch. “Watch yer neck. Never liked vampires. Sneaky blokes, cordin’ to me father.” Hathgar clapped him on the shoulder, his warmth helping pull Mitch back from the unsettling thoughts. “Just be careful, lad. And Crae’s crowd isn’t easy, you’ll need both hands tonight if we’re going to keep up.”

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

He grinned, squeezing Mitch’s arm before stepping back. “Ye’ve heard how they can be.”

Mitch nodded, feeling the pulse of his throbbing hand, pain humming through his body. Settling in. “We’ll be fine, what’s the big deal, anyways? How bad can they really be?” He answered, but his mind was elsewhere. He had a package to pick up.

Mathilda’s package. Need to learn all that I can. I need more than these half memories.

Slipping away from the bar, he snatched up a small backpack, and walked towards the back alley exit. Robin’s office stayed shut, as it always did. Somehow, he knew he had never been inside.

Mitch needed to walk. Perhaps the cool night air would help clear his head.

“Hey! Ye didn’t do the damned espresso! Yer leaving it to me again, eh?” Hathgar’s warm timber echoed down the hallway. It was made by Robin to always feel overwhelmingly long. With each step, the idea that he could embrace the pain to grow stronger lingered.

“I’ll buy you a beer after! You still owe me a bunch, by the way. Think of the espresso as the start of your payment plan!” Mitch shouted over his shoulder. It was the oddest feeling, to meet someone entirely new, yet feel like they had been friends forever.

It’s my body. My body has these memories. Not me. But I do really like him…

Pushing open the rusted metal door, Mitch hunched his large frame as he stepped into the cold, endless night of Shadowreach.

The scent of garbage hit Mitch, forcing a grimace on his face as he stepped into the alley. Trash left to fester, weeks of rot piled up; Shadowreach had no sanitation crews, just the small crime lords who traded only in Credits or favors. Their rule was the only order the city knew. A fattened rat scurried over his boot, vanishing into the pile of filth it called home.

As he stepped onto the main street, the city of endless night buzzed with life. Humans of all sizes alongside elves, orcs, and dwarves jostled for space along the narrow streets. Floating candles drifted lazily on their own currents, casting light and shadows across the looming, gothic architecture.

Creepy. But cool.

Mitch wished he had a collar to pull tighter, the cold nipping at his neck. Even with the bustling energy of the city around him, Shadowreach was forever frigid. The city was surrounded by the Depths on all sides, where earth cracked, leading to the underground cities, and further, the Abyss.

Ok, these half memories are useful. I'm not totally clueless. But what goes on in the Abyss?

Knowledge scratched at his mind, but wouldn’t surface. His hand found the glass in his pocket, still warm. Out of the corner of his eye, he felt the stony glares of the enchanted, watching gargoyles that stood guard on their roof perches.

Food stalls lined the cobblestone streets, run by all forms of life. The scent of roasting meat mingled with something that set Mitch’s stomach on edge. A Ground Troll waved a skewer in his direction, but Mitch ignored it.

My body knows that smell…grilled human flesh.

He pushed his finger into the shard in his pocket, stabbing himself and sending a tiny, sharp pulse of power through him. It absorbed into his muscles, dark and alive, feeding on his self-inflicted wound. For years prior to his death, Mitch had worked through his self-harm tendencies. He had stopped, mostly, and made strides on working through his trauma.

And now it’s making me stronger in this new body. Morbid, man. Seriously morbid.

It was how he dealt with the years of neglect and bullying. Mitch was accustomed to pain, and dark humor filled his mind at the process. Instead of hurting himself for a semblance of relief, the pain now permanently strengthened him.

Down the street a Goblin peddled cursed relics, crooked fingers wrapped around a tarnished pendant that pulsed with dark energy. The crowd unconsciously steered clear, and Mitch could feel the circle of despair around the stall.

“Ho’ there!” The vendor hissed, its hand fetid and black. “Memory stone on a real Abyssal chain? Only used once, perfect for hiding things you’d rather forget.”

As Mitch moved on from the bustling stalls, the true rot of Shadowreach revealed itself.

Grimlace addicts, bodies twisted and deformed in unnatural ways, huddled in corners or hobbled on ulcerated legs. Each Grimmer was easily identified by their permanent grimace and black eyes, no matter their race.

Some stood frozen, mouths peeled back to show blackened teeth ruined by the smokable sludge of a drug. Others hunched with clenched, tight jaws; hollow eyes vacant. One twitching Grimmer clawed itself as Mitch passed, picking at her smiling lips, seeping blood onto her bare, thin chest. Mitch smellee the sweet rot of the drug that wafted off her ashen skin.

This one’s close. Too far gone. Any day now, pretty sure she’ll lose what’s left of herself.

As Mitch approached Dread Alley, the floating candles thinned. A group of Grimmers huddled together near the final corner. Unlike many of the others, their grimaces were erratic. Black colored eyes darted around as they sensed something different about Mitch. These weren’t new addicts. They were on the brink of losing all control of themselves.

Passing, Mitch felt their eyes lock onto him. Wild, contorted expressions tracked his heavy steps. The soul in his core pulsed faintly.

They smell it. They know my core is holding something valuable.

The largest addict’s remaining eyeball flickered with recognition, like he could sense what Mitch carried. He lunged forward towards Mitch, and his legs froze at the sudden confrontation.

“We know what you’ve got, boy,” the skeletal man rasped, his voice broken from the harsh drug. “It’s inside, right there,” a too-long finger stabbed into his chest. “They’ll come soon ‘nuff. No hiding from it.” The other Grimmers cackled, their laughter sharp and hollow as they returned back to their huddled state. To smoke more Grimlace.

Mitch’s heart raced as he scurried off, half expecting the Grimmers to follow. Hungry eyes burned into his back, but they stayed together, mingling in their filth. Laughing, they whispered to each other in nonsensical sentences only they understood.

Finally arriving at his destination, his pace faltered as his reflection caught his eye on Mathilda’s polished red door. The first time he was able to see his new body.

A tall, muscular figure stared back at him. Broad-shouldered and towering. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. Long, wavy hair the color of white frost parted across his forehead, framing his face. Dark, endless red irises stared back. He waved, and the stranger reflected in the door copied him. This body didn’t belong to him, yet here it was, mimicking his every move.

That’s me?

He wasn’t sure if the reflection staring back at him was a dream or a nightmare. It was like looking into a distorted mirror. He saw a body that could break bone and crush souls. It wasn’t his body. Not really.

This new body might be his now, but it didn’t feel like it. Not yet.

I am fricken jacked, though. Holy shit.

Unable to help himself, Mitch flexed and posed. There was something like pride that bubbled within him. His whole life, he had been picked on, but now, he had the body he wished he had. The body he always wanted.

His fists clenched at his sides, the ache from the broken glass wounds throbbed, helping to ground him back to his new reality. The pain felt real, at least. Not like the skin he now wore.

Shivering, he raised a giant fist and knocked three times, just like Mathilda asked of old friends.