Jackson was sitting in the dusty classroom playing a board game with two people he barely knew.

The next moment he was riding a massive horse which was galloping at a breathtaking speed along a narrow dirt path through a forest. The pine trees were so dense that Jackson—flying up from the saddle—failed to avoid a branch. It struck his head, and he whirled through the air before smashing onto the ground.

You have taken 70/100 damage, a strange voice said. 30/100 health remains.

He groaned and clutched his head. In all the confusion, he hadn’t noticed that someone was riding another horse behind him. The sound of more hooves which had been thundering in the back of his mind ceased for a moment, replaced by a disturbing whoosh which was followed by more thundering—a horse shrieking up ahead—and another rider yelling: “Whoa!”

The fall had knocked the wind from Jackson’s lungs. He lay writhing on the dirt path gaping at the other rider, who jumped down from his horse and dashed over to him.

“My lady!” the rider shouted. “I almost ran you down! Are you hurt?”

Although Jackson was still stunned from his fall, he thought: My lady? Are you talking to me?

“My lady,” the rider said again, helping Jackson to his feet. “We must keep moving. We have no time. Come on!”

Because Jackson was still gasping for breath and could hardly stand, the other rider helped him toward his horse, and then picked him up and placed him on the saddle. This was the moment Jackson noticed that something between his legs had changed.

Though he could barely breathe and still had no idea what was happening, he gripped his pelvis and even stuffed his hands into his clothing—he was wearing some kind of silk purple robe—but his penis was gone. In its place was a vagina. Not only that, but when he lifted his hands to his chest, he felt two soft fleshy lumps. They were breasts! He was a woman!

Oh, shit, he thought.

But the revelations were far from over. Jackson’s hands were pale, and he stared at them, turning them over. They were elegant, too, almost glassy, and the fingers were long, the nails clean and trim. He wore several rings; they were golden and studded with jewels. On his right forearm was a scar shaped like the letter B.

Did these hands belong to him? Did any part of his body?

Jackson felt dizzy and worried that he would fall off his horse again. It took seconds for him to realize all of this. Just then, the other rider—whoever he was—slapped the rump of Jackson’s horse and shouted: “Ya!” The horse took off along the dirt path. This time Jackson gripped the reins and kept his head down. Somehow he worked his feet into the stirrups.

Riding skill has increased to 6/10, that voice said again. You are now a Journeyman Rider.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

What? he thought. Who said that?

Yet riding the horse was easier, and he felt more comfortable in the saddle, like he wanted to keep going. Still, Jackson couldn’t believe how fast the horse was moving. He had never ridden a horse before—never even seen people riding horses with his own eyes. But now he was hurtling along this tunnel of light and shadow—the walls made of gnarled branches and rushing leaves; the ceiling a blue sky filled with puffy white clouds; the ground overgrown with roots, a path barely wide enough for one person.

The other rider caught up and was soon behind him. Jackson looked back. The man was some kind of cosplayer. He wore light medieval armor and had long curly black hair. To Jackson’s surprise, butterflies fluttered in his chest because the man was beautiful.

They must have drugged me, Jackson thought. Somehow they put a shitload of drugs into that game board or something.

Jackson looked ahead to keep himself from hitting another tree—his head still hurt from the last one—and then he glanced back at the rider behind him. In the distance, at the end of the winding path, more people on horses were riding after them.

The rider saw that Jackson was looking behind him. He looked back for a moment, then whipped his reins and spurred his horse so hard that blood ran down the poor creature’s sides. Foam was puffing from the horse’s lips as it gasped for breath.

“Faster, my lady!” the rider shouted. “You must go as fast as you can!”

“Why?” Jackson shouted back—surprised at the feminine sound of his voice. “Where are we going? What are we doing?”

The rider shook his head. “That branch must have hit you harder than I thought. Are you alright?”

“Not really!” Jackson yelled.

“You must ride for all you are worth,” the man said. “Or else the uprising is doomed. We must get the manual to Dionysios!”

“What manual?” Jackson said.

The rider narrowed his eyebrows. “The one you’re carrying in your pocket!”

Jackson looked ahead. Keeping one hand clutching his horse’s reins, he used the other to search his body—frightened of touching his more feminine parts. Some kind of lump was in one of his pockets. When he withdrew it, he found a booklet made of soft white expensive-looking paper. The spine had been woven together with string. Out of curiosity he opened the booklet. Inside were diagrams of people in kung-fu poses labeled in Chinese.

What the hell? he thought.

The thunder of the horses behind them was getting louder. Several pursuing riders had nocked arrows on their bows and were aiming at him.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Jackson said to his companion. “I don’t want to cosplay with you guys. Let me go!”

“My lady, what has gotten into you?” the rider shouted. “We must deliver the manual to the uprising!”

“Then you take it.” Jackson handed him the booklet. “You do whatever you want. I’m out of here. Now tell me how to slow this horse down so I can—”

Just then, an arrow was loosed from a twanging bow, and it whistled through the air, gleaming in the sun as it punched straight into the handsome rider’s back. The man gasped and fell from his horse, tumbling into the woods as the pursuing riders raced after Jackson.

Eyes widening, Jackson raised his hands into the air and shouted that he gave up—he surrendered.

One of the pursuers loosed another arrow which buried itself with a loud fleshy thump into Jackson’s horse. Screaming, the horse threw him off. This time, however, the pursuing horses crushed him—their legs striking his skull like sledgehammers. The last sound in his ears was that strange voice telling him that his health was low.