Day 1, 7:00 AM

“The world is yours to explore.”

— Motivational Poster

I expected the bitch would send me to the back of the line, but she didn’t. The slap still echoes in my now physical ears, snapping me from an unnatural drowsiness spell. At first I think my eyes are closed, then I realize I’m submerged within twilight gloom.

Man, this place is great for sleeping. I must be really tired to entertain such thoughts after what just happened. Then I sniff at the air and catch the reek of decomposing vegetation mixed with shit and iron.

The pain hits me, but it’s not that bad. My body aches like I’ve slept in a particularly nasty yoga pose, and my head hurts like a truck hit me, which is technically true, I guess.

I draw a shallow breath and try to gather my bearings, but the blue screen pops up before my eyes.

[You are a level 2 Anarchist, reincarnated.]

Reincarnated? I don’t feel like I’ve been reborn. Where are the doctors? Where’s the nurse? I dismiss the notification with a thought, trying to focus on my surroundings, but another pop-up jumps to take its place and blocks my sight.

[You have leveled up.

Select a defining feature within sixty seconds or a random one will be assigned to you.

Heavy Handed - Bodies you inhabit deal increased damage when unarmed. Your choice affects your personality.

Thick Skin - Bodies you inhabit have increased defense. Your choice affects your personality.]

Well… I want to dismiss it immediately, but choosing skills was permanent in most games I played, and I have no idea what will happen if I just close the window.

I better take this seriously. I’ve never played tanks. And building yourself towards getting beaten instead of avoiding attacks is at least partially masochistic. Besides, Heavy Handed seems to work well with Blunt.

“Heavy Handed,” I whisper after a short hesitation and realize my mouth is too dry to make a sound. Still BSD understands what I said.

[Anarchist Level 2

To level up, start a small-scale riot or a medium-scale public disturbance.]

Well, that’s vague. How can I tell what’s a small-scale riot? Maybe I can doogle it later? I dismiss the third screen, hoping I could focus on my present situation, but a fourth pop-up jumps me. I feel like trying to skip ads on YouLube.

[You slapped the Judge while facing Judgment.

Achievement unlocked.

You are the first to even consider this action.

Reward - Godly, each body you inhabit will gain a major bonus to all attributes.]

How many of you are there? I dismiss it, but a fifth one appears.

[You have brought the reincarnation device down with you.

Achievement unlocked.

Reward - Vengeful - your body explodes upon death, harming friend and foe alike.]

That’s got to be the crappiest skill ever. I dismiss the window, noting how I wasn’t the first one to trigger this achievement, but then several blinking messages show up before disappearing on their own.

[Your body is critically wounded. It is dying.]

[Attribute bonus applied to your body. It is injured.]

[You are now inhabiting a body. To see your body’s statistics, say f-one.]

“F1,” I whisper, and against all odds, a new blue window opens.

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If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

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I don’t understand a word it says.

“What the hell? Translate,” I croak somewhat louder, but nothing happens.

“Menu, help, alt F1,” the last one turned out to be the magic word.

[Anarchist Level 2

Abilities - Rage, Redo, Blunt, Heavy Handed, Vengeful ✦, Godly ✦✦✦✦

To level up, start a small-scale riot or a medium-scale public disturbance.]

Well, that’s useless.

I dismiss the window and look around. I’m sitting, my back pressed against some tree with a rough bark. Something’s oozing down my temple and cheek. I touch my head, it’s wet and sticky, and as I place my hand before my eyes I make out fresh blood in the gloom.

I look around, but I don’t see much from the bushes. I do smell blood, though. Lots of it. I take a deep breath, and sharp pain pierces my chest. I move my hands down, feeling my body, and sure enough my ribs hurt. The poor sod, whose body I’m possessing, had suffered a professional beating.

I draw another deep breath, trying to get used to the pain. My arms and legs don’t seem overly wounded, and I stand up. Stupid thing to do, really.

“There’s a live one over there,” a gruff male voice shouts in an unknown language, which I understand perfectly for some reason. I even know he’s got a funny accent. But before I get to consider the oddity, I spot a handful of darker outlines moving in the shadowy half-darkness.

A man with a club reaches me first. He swings towards my head. His movement is crude, but smooth enough to get the job done. He’s no martial artist, but I reckon he’s bashed his fair share of heads.

My head pounds and my ribs protest as I duck under the blow, and strike his neck with a fist. He crumples into a bush, trashing with his legs, his hands clawing at his throat.

“What’s wrong, Daren?” another deep voice shouts, but Daren doesn’t reply. Reasonable, considering I just crushed his windpipe.

I crushed his windpipe? I just killed a man with my own two hands. Well, one hand.

The feeling is odd. I’ve killed quite a few humans before, but I’ve never seen them die. Technically, I can’t see Daren, either. He’s slowly suffocating down in the dark, tearing at his own throat in a desperate bid for air.

“Kill the slave,” that person doesn’t seem concerned with Daren. He would never have guessed his friend is going purple on the muddy ground.

Then I realize something else. Slave?

“Wait, stop,” a softer, older voice echoes in my ear, and the rustling shadows stop moving.

There’s three of them standing, I realize, but remain silent.

“You are just a slave, a mere porter,” the smooth old voice continues. “There’s no reason to risk your life here. Tell us where your little missy is, and we can let you escape. If your luck is good, this time next year you might be a free man.”

I wanted to say ‘she went that way,’ but for some reason I can’t fathom, my mouth moves on its own, and I answer honestly.

“Sorry, can’t help you. Someone bashed my head, and I just woke up with one hell of a headache.” I realize I’ve done something stupid, and my mouth moves once more. “You’re not going to let me go, are you?”

My eyes grow keener still, and I can see one of them shake his head. I still can’t make out his features, but my eyes got accustomed to the dark well enough to spot the bodies on the ground.

“Kill him. We’ll join the rest in a bit.” The older man doesn’t move, but his two helpers spring towards me, one from the left and one from the right. I lack real combat experience, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what to do.

I turn around and bolt, going left. I round the tree I was leaning against a moment ago and keep running. The men behind me curse and speed up. Bile churns in my guts, and my head grows woozy from the sudden exertion.

A concussion. Unfortunately, understanding my condition doesn’t help resolve it. I gulp down some spit, but it doesn’t help either. The footsteps behind me grow louder.

They have shoes, while I’m barefoot. I smile despite myself.

Don’t they know that barefooted men don’t fear those wearing shoes?

I duck behind another tree, but instead of running I pivot. The pursuer appears before me just as I finish my spin. My heart is pounding, my ears are drumming, I can’t imagine how much adrenaline is coursing through me when I punch the unknown club-wielder square in the chest.

My body moves on its own, aligning the fist to add my momentum to the strike.

His sternum snaps, and a warm spittle rains on my face. I’m shocked to see the man fly back from the force of my fist. I don’t have the time to think about what just happened, the other thug is upon me.

He brings his club down, and because of my shock, I fail to react in time. I parry the blow with my forearm and pain explodes in my arm.

For a moment, I regret not taking Thick Skinned, but there’s no time to dwell on the thought.

I retaliate, and my fist lands right on his nose. I hear a squish, and slime squirms against my knuckles before the squish grows into a crack. The man’s head snaps backwards, and he spins in the air like a cartoon cat before crashing face first onto the ground.

I need to take out the old man too. He will call reinforcements.

Fortunately, the thugs didn’t make a sound before I floored them. I guess Blunt and Heavy Handed synergy works.

“Perin, Martin, did you get him?” the geezer shouts, but I hear no rustle of grass or leaves. He’s either moving extremely stealthily, or he’s staying put. I bet it’s the latter and walk towards him, staying out of his sight for as long as possible.

“Martin?” His smooth baritone gains a slightly nervous tone, but that higher note is music to my ears. If he was confident, he wouldn’t have sounded like someone was squeezing his balls.

I dash for him, and I catch the rustle as he also starts running.

“Help! Help,” he shouts, but I’m upon him before he cries for help for the third time.

I’m about to smack him in the back of the head, but change my mind at the last moment and chop down with my hand.

I aim for the neck, hoping to karate chop him unconscious, but I miss. I hit his shoulder, which makes a hair-raising crack. The geezer squeals like a pig being slaughtered, but I cup his mouth with my hand.

“If you make any more noise, I’ll crush your head like an egg,” I say a line I heard B movie villains say several times. It sounded cringy, but the old man still freezes, his muffled scream strangled.

“Now, you’re going to tell me what happened. Who are you people? Who are you attacking? What am I doing here? Where is here?” The torrent of questions floods out of my mouth, threatening to drown Abe, an irrelevant pawn in a skirmish between two viscount households.

Apparently I, whatever my name is, Abe has no idea, am a common laborer, a slave in the house of Hassel, while Teemurs, the enemies of the Hassels, hired Abe and his criminal associates to eliminate us.

They attacked our camp in the middle of the night, their target was the little missy, the Hassels’ scioness, whom Teemurs wished to kill. Abe and his friends stayed to clean up the corpses after the sun rose, but one of the corpses was more alive than expected, and now Abe is alone, stuck with more corpses to clean up.

After a round of more forceful prodding, Abe begs me to stop through clenched teeth, insisting he has told me everything he knows. I decide to believe him. I tie his hands behind his back with his shoelaces, and stuff a dead man’s sock into his mouth. I feel sorry for the oldtimer, but I can’t let him run around, calling for reinforcements.

So, I’m a slave of the Hassels. That sucks. But I should get a reward for saving their young lady, plus clearing such a mission should be worth a bunch of experience, maybe some achievements and such…

Without a plan, or any idea about what I’m about to do, but full of dreams and hope, I decide it’s time for my first adventure in this new world.