Del lingered in the hazy state between waking and sleeping, dappled light filtering through his closed eyelids and a gentle breeze brushing against his skin. He could sense the shift in the air. ‘Must have left the window open,’ he mused. ‘I hope the damn cat didn’t go out.’
As he stretched, his arm brushed against soft fur, and gentle snores met his ears. Relief washed over him. He opened his eyes.
“What the fuck!” he exclaimed, a jolt of panic shooting through him.
Above him wasn’t the familiar ceiling of his room but a canopy of branches and leaves, with the early dawn sky peeking through. Beneath him, a carpet of soft grass replaced his bed, damp with morning dew. Memories came rushing back—Menolly, Teach, the Overmind.
‘So not a dream then, Del,’ he thought as his heartbeat began to steady. ‘Explains why the damn mattress felt lumpy, I guess.’
Sitting up, he took in his surroundings. He was in a wooded clearing. Birds sang in the trees, and somewhere in the distance, water rushed over rocks. The grass around him was dotted with flowers, though guessing what they were was beyond him; every houseplant he’d ever owned had suffered a slow, miserable death. The trees loomed tall, their thick trunks supporting branches heavy with broad leaves. The scene felt peaceful, the air scented with spring.
A prickle on the back of his neck drew his gaze to his side. Misty lay curled up, peering at him through lidded eyes.
“Hey, girl,” he said, reaching out to stroke her fur. She purred softly, and he almost jumped at the faint nudge against his mind. Instinctively, he reached for the sensation, recognising it as Misty’s thought.
He received a vague impression of hunger and a lazy longing for more sleep. Chuckling, he muttered, ‘Pretty much what I always imagined her priorities to be.’
Near his feet lay a small pile of items. He got up and crouched beside them, inspecting what he’d been left with.
On top of a knapsack rested a bow and a quiver of arrows, both of which seemed rough-hewn to his untrained eye. A belt lay nearby, fitted with one large and one small knife, both in leather scabbards. A coarse rope rounded out the pile.
Recalling some lessons, he picked up the bow. ‘Status.’ Nothing happened. ‘Hmm, details, info, what is it?’ He frowned. Frustration bubbled up. ‘Dammit, Overmind, all I want to do is identify what this damn bow can do!’
A screen flickered into view.
Crude bow: A bow made by an amateur hand. Good for hunting small game as long as it doesn’t move too fast. Keep string dry or replace frequently.
‘I can see you and I are going to need to learn to work together better, Mr Big Brother,’ he groused internally. ‘Could have at least given me a manual.’ He paused and then laughed aloud.
‘Really, Del? When was the last time you actually read a bloody manual?’ He answered sarcastically.
Now that he had the knack, he swiftly identified the rest of the items.
Quiver: Can hold 20 arrows.
Arrow: Rough-made, with leaf tip and goose feather fletching. Range up to 20 yards. Accurate to 10.
Hunting knife: Rough steel, heavy hunting knife.
Skinning knife: Also good for shaving; try not to skin your face.
‘Bloody BB has a sense of humour at least,’ he noted with a wry smile. ‘BB, hmph, good name for that Big Brother Overmind.’
He opened the knapsack, rooting through its contents. Inside, he found a water bottle, a bowl for Misty, and food supplies: bread, cheese, and smoked sausage wrapped in greased paper. A couple of apples and a bundle of seeds and nuts were tucked in a cloth. Tools included a leather strop, feathers, half a dozen arrowheads, and a tin containing wood shavings and flint.
‘I guess that’s for fire-making 101 class.’
Looking down at himself, he realised his clothing had changed too. ‘Identify.’
Leather jerkin: Light armour. Gives minimal protection against slashing and piercing damage. Ineffective against concussive damage.
Leather breeches: Light armour. Gives minimal protection against slashing and piercing damage. Ineffective against concussive damage.
Basic boots: Light unarmoured footwear. Not too good if you stub your toe.
Underneath, he wore a crude linen shirt, woollen socks, and something resembling rather itchy undergarments.
‘Right then, Del, better get the day started.’ He packed most of the items into the knapsack, sliced a chunk of bread and cheese, and added a few thin pieces of sausage.
“Breakfast time, Misty—wakey-wakey, girl,” he called. Misty eyed him suspiciously but eventually got up and ambled over.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Pouring water into her bowl, he added some cheese and sausage to her meal before tucking into his own. The bread, nutty and slightly sweet, paired well with the cheese and meat. He finished with a long drink of water.
Once Misty had finished, he grabbed her bowl and scanned the area once more, ensuring he’d missed nothing. Turning towards the sound of running water, he set off, Misty trailing behind at her own pace.
As he walked, Del was starting to notice something. ‘I feel good,’ he realised, the thought catching him by surprise. ‘I’m not aching. I’m yomping along, and my body isn’t screaming at me to sit down and swallow some pills.’ A broad smile spread across his face as he noticed a distinct spring in his step.
“What a glorious mor—” His words were cut off by a sharp thunk! A shaft—an arrow—embedded itself in the tree beside him. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground.
‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.’ Panic surged through him before he forced himself to focus. Mentally slapping himself, he took a deep breath, calmed his nerves, and carefully scanned the area, pulling his bow from his back.
A nudge brushed against his mind—Misty. Looking in the direction of the sensation, he spotted her perched on a tree branch above. Her gaze was fixed downward, where a small, rat-faced, green-skinned creature skulked below.
‘Identify.’
Goblin Scout
Level: 1
Aggressive hunters and scavengers.
Strengths: Dexterity, Stealthy.
Weaknesses: Being hit with pointy objects.
Attacks: Bow, short sword, dagger.
Skill: Hide in Shadows.
Lore: Usually found in small to medium-sized groups, often family-based. Known to be cowardly in nature; they prefer to run from a fight unless confident in having a distinct advantage.
Drawing his bow, Del held his breath, aimed, and released. He watched in dismay as the arrow wobbled through the air before burying itself in a bush several feet from the goblin.
‘C’mon, Del, you need to do better than that,’ he muttered, his heart hammering and his palms damp with sweat. ‘What the hell do I do if I can’t hit him? I’m bloody sure he can hit me.’
The goblin didn’t waste any time in returning fire. Del threw himself flat as a small arrow whistled through the space his head had occupied moments before. The sudden motion ended in a sickening crack beneath him. Groaning, he looked down to see his bow, snapped cleanly in two, lying in the dirt.
‘Perfect,’ he thought bitterly. ‘Just fucking perfect.’
A distinct wave of pity registered from Misty. Del glanced up to see her arching her back, bum high in the air, before she gave it a slight wiggle and leapt from her perch. She landed squarely on the goblin below, taking it by surprise. Scrambling to his feet, Del yanked out his knife and dashed forward to assist.
[Misty has performed a Sneak Pounce attack on goblin scout.]
The voice echoed in his head, surprising him. ‘Does BB do commentary now?’
[Misty has caused critical damage to goblin scout.]
Reaching the goblin just as Misty leapt off it, Del took in the sight of its bloodied back and neck. Crimson oozed from several jagged slashes. The creature groaned, struggling to push itself off the ground. Without hesitation, Del plunged his knife into its back.
The goblin exhaled a soft breath as its body collapsed lifelessly to the forest floor.
[You have killed goblin scout. Experience gained.]
Del stumbled backward, his legs buckling beneath him until his back thudded against the rough bark of a tree. He slid down to the ground, his body trembling as though the very act of standing had become impossible. He pressed his head into his hands, trying to block out the image of what he’d done, but it clung to him with a brutal clarity.
‘I killed him. I killed him.’ The thought echoed in his mind, relentless and unyielding. He tried to tell himself it was necessary, that it was self-defence. But no reasoning could erase the vivid memory of the moment his blade plunged into flesh.
The goblin’s body lay face-down in the dirt where it had fallen, its limbs splayed awkwardly. The bloodied tear in its tunic revealed the deep wound he’d made. The knife still protruding from his back, crimson blood seeping from the wound headed for the dirt he lay on. The creature’s clawed hand was outstretched, as if it had been reaching for something—or perhaps trying to pull itself away from him.
His stomach twisted. He turned his head, gagging, but nothing came up. The acrid taste of bile burned his throat regardless, mingling with the metallic tang of fear still lingering on his tongue.
It wasn’t just the sight of the goblin that haunted him—it was the feeling. The weight of the knife as it pressed into the goblin’s back, the sudden give as the blade pierced through. The shudder of the creature’s body beneath his hand, its strained, a last shallow breath before it collapsed into stillness.
His hands shook violently as he stared down at them, half expecting to see blood smeared across his skin. They were clean, of course—he’d held the knife, not the wound—but that didn’t make the sensation any less real.
A sound broke through the thick haze of his thoughts, sharp and unfamiliar. It took him several moments to realise it was coming from him—a low, keening whimper that grew louder with every unsteady breath. His face felt wet. Reaching up, he touched his cheek and found it slick with tears. He was crying.
The sobs started small, choked and ragged, but they quickly grew. His chest heaved as the weight of the act crashed down on him, raw and unrelenting. He felt fractured, torn between the horror of what he’d done and the sickening relief that he was still alive to feel it.
He had killed. Not from a distance, not in some abstract way. He had driven the knife in himself, watched as the life drained from the creature, and heard its final exhalation. The memory was a weight in his chest, pressing down on him until he could hardly breathe.
‘What kind of person does that make me?’ he wondered, the question twisting in his gut. He wasn’t a soldier or a hunter. He’d never so much as punched someone in anger, let alone ended their life. The goblin hadn’t even looked human, but that didn’t make its death feel any less real.
The forest around him felt eerily still, as if it were holding its breath in the wake of what had happened. The birdsong, the rustling leaves—all of it seemed distant and wrong, like it belonged to a different world entirely. A world where he hadn’t just crossed a line he never thought he’d approach, let alone breach.
For the first time in his adult life, Del felt a storm of grief, fear, and self-recrimination crash over him. Sobs wracked his body, uncontainable and unrelenting. He cried for what he’d done, for what it meant, and for the person he would never quite be again.