“I’m dead.” The thought seared through Jack's mind as he tore through the pitch-black forest, his heart pounding louder than his footsteps. The night was a suffocating blanket of darkness, broken only by the flashes of moonlight that illuminated the monstrous bird hunting him. Its presence was a nightmare made real—massive, relentless, and terrifyingly close. One moment, he stepped into his bathroom; the next, he was thrust into this deadly chase.
The air crackled with the bird’s shriek as it swooped down, its razor-sharp beak slamming shut just above his head. Jack ducked instinctively, his breath ragged as he dodged between the towering trees. The creature was massive, its wingspan wide enough to blot out the sky, yet it moved with an agility that defied its size. It was gaining on him, its talons clawing at the air behind him.
Jack’s only hope was his ability to juke left and right, to twist on a dime and throw off its trajectory. But the bird was intelligent, and with every second, it closed the gap, forcing him to push harder, to run faster—even as his lungs burned and his legs screamed in protest. He had been running flat-out for five minutes now and was starting to get winded. This was a mistake.
The last thing Jack remembered was waking up in his room, groggily stepping over a couple of passed-out drunks, and heading to the bathroom. Then—poof—he was suddenly atop a rock formation in this twisted forest. The fall from that cursed rock was the beginning of the end. He’d grabbed a loose stone, tumbled five feet, and slammed into the ground with a bone-jarring crunch—just in time to hear the enraged screech of a massive, pissed-off bird. And from that moment, it was a sprint for survival.
“SCREECH!!” The bird dove again, its cry splitting the night. Jack leaped over a fallen log, but in mid-air, he felt the creature’s talon rip through his left calf. Agony exploded up his leg, and he hit the ground hard, rolling through the dirt. His vision blurred with pain, but he forced himself up, hobbling forward, blood streaming down his leg, soaking his ankle and staining his feet. The wound was deep, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He couldn’t afford to stop.
His old drill sergeant’s voice echoed in his mind: “Pain ain't a good reason to quit!” The memory fueled him, even as every step sent a fresh jolt of pain through his body. But he knew he was running out of time. This wasn’t a hunt for food—this was vengeance. The bird wasn’t just after him; it wanted to tear him apart for smashing its unhatched eggs. And it wasn’t going to stop until one of them was dead.
Just as he felt his strength waning, he spotted something in the distance—a crypt, its ancient stone structure looming out of the darkness—a desperate plan formed in his mind. Jack slammed his left foot down as the bird launched another attack, pivoting sharply to the right. Pain seared through his leg, but he pushed harder, sprinting toward the crypt. The distance was agonizing, each step a battle, but he reached the door just as the bird closed in.
With a final burst of adrenaline, Jack threw his shoulder against the heavy stone door, pain shooting up his arm as he forced it open just enough to slip inside. He shoved it shut the moment he was through, the heavy door slamming closed with a resounding thud.
Collapsing against the wall, Jack’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His whole body trembled, the pain in his leg a constant, throbbing reminder of how close he’d come to dying. He reached up, fingers brushing against his shoulder, feeling the sharp sting of bruised flesh. But he was alive for now.
---
Catching his breath, Jack quickly surveyed his situation, his chest heaving with frustration. His right shoulder throbbed, bruised but functional. The real damage, though, was his leg—a chunk of his calf was gone, leaving a gaping wound that pulsed with every heartbeat. Grimacing, he ripped off his tank top, wrapping it tightly around the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. The pain surged as he forced himself to stand, nearly collapsing from the sharp sting in his leg.
The space around him was almost barren, lit only by the faint light seeping through cracks in the walls, where roots had forced their way through the stone. The only other thing in the room was a black double door; ancient text scrawled across the edges, and a strange sigil in the center. He stared at it, feeling the absurdity of the situation building inside him until it burst out in a bitter laugh.
“What the fuck kind of horror movie bullshit is this?” he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. A loud bang slammed against the door behind him as if in response.
The pounding at the door and the memory of that damned bird chasing him here made his head spin. Was this better or worse than being out there? He couldn’t tell if he’d just traded one nightmare for another. But with the banging growing louder, he had no choice. Sighing heavily, he limped to the door, pressing his hand against the stone. It was warm—surprisingly warm. Bracing himself, he placed both hands on the door and pushed with all his strength, grunting through the pain. But the door didn’t budge. A sharp pain shot through his leg, and he had to stop, frustration boiling over as he clenched his fists.
As he stumbled back, the sigils on the door flared to life, glowing a sinister dark red. The room filled with the ominous grinding of stone on stone as a pedestal slowly rose from the ground, its emergence sending vibrations through the floor. The pedestal stood about four feet tall and was made from a smooth black material with a cold, polished marble look. It gleamed faintly in the dim light, an unsettling presence in the otherwise barren room.
Atop the pedestal rested an ornate black chalice, its rim adorned with a red glowing symbol that pulsed with a life of its own, fading in and out in sync with the door's throbbing. The glow emanated from deep within the chalice, casting eerie reflections onto the pedestal's surface as if the symbol was alive, breathing with a dark rhythm.
Beside the chalice lay a sharp dagger, its blade about nine inches long with a thick fuller that made it three inches wide at the base before tapering to a deadly point. The guard of the dagger extended over most of the handle, which was wrapped tightly in gray leather, offering a firm, comfortable grip. The weapon was disturbingly pristine, almost too perfect as if it had never been used. Yet, in its unblemished state, it seemed all the more menacing—a tool waiting patiently for its purpose.
Sighing, Jack looked at the ominous setup and turned for the exit. Limping up to the door, he gave it a solid shove, then another—nothing. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. It was sealed shut, probably by some mystical nonsense.
“What fucking utter bullshit cheap D&D mechanic is this?” Jack muttered, scowling. He might have been a soldier once, but he was a nerd too, and this was the kind of crap that would piss off any self-respecting geek. It was the kind of nonsense that felt like it was ripped straight from the pages of a lousy dungeon master’s playbook.
Sighing in frustration, he limped back to the pedestal, glaring at the blade as if mocking him. Grumbling under his breath, he grabbed the dagger and, with a resigned shake of his head, lifted his arm over the bowl. “This better be worth it,” he muttered, making a shallow cut down his forearm, watching the blood trickle into the chalice as the dark ritual unfolded.
Any idiot who slashes their palm never realizes how long it takes to heal—or how much it hurts whenever you try to use your hand afterward. Jack knew better. He sighed, watching as the runes greedily absorbed the blood, making the door glow brightly before slowly creaking open.
He adjusted his grip on the dagger, gripping it firmly with his thumb pressed against the handle. He opted for a reverse grip, the blade pointing downward in what was known as the ice pick grip, designed for close-quarters combat and self-defense. His elbow was bent, wrist aligned—he knew the worst thing in a fight was to have a sloppy grip. The ice pick grip, though unconventional, provided control and power at close range, something he might need if things went south.
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With the pain throbbing in his leg, Jack hoped he wouldn’t have to fight. In a knife fight, mobility is vital, and he was sorely lacking in that department. As the door creaked open, torches flickered to life down a long hallway, casting an eerie glow on the smooth, flat stone walls. The space was vast, with pillars placed every eight feet, stretching down the entire corridor. The torches were evenly spaced, their light barely pushing back the darkness.
Jack moved forward cautiously, keeping his knife hand close to his hip, ready to strike if necessary. The oppressive silence was broken only by the faint echo of his footsteps, and the unsettling feeling that he was being watched crawled up his spine. He shivered but pressed on, the hallway seemingly endless. As he neared a corner, a faint rattling sound reached his ears. He froze, every muscle tensing, and pressed his back against the wall. Slowly, carefully, he peeked around the corner, ready for whatever might be waiting in the shadows.
The undead skeleton stood menacingly, clutching a rusty, ancient sword in its bony hand. Its hollow eye sockets glowed faintly with an eerie light and tattered, decayed armor hung loosely from its skeletal frame. Jack stared at the creature, confusion swirling in his mind. Was this some kind of hallucination or a nightmare? But the reality of the situation hit him as the skeleton turned away and began to walk back the way it came.
It was only about ten feet away—typically, that wouldn’t be a problem, but every step sent a sharp pain shooting through Jack’s injured leg. Rushing wasn’t an option. Taking a deep breath, Jack lowered his body to waist height and began to approach slowly, rotating his grip on the dagger so the blade faced forward, ready to strike.
As he closed the distance, creeping ever closer, Jack was just within striking range when the skeleton suddenly froze, its head snapping up as if listening for something. Instinct took over. Without hesitation, Jack planted his right foot firmly and launched himself forward. He raised the dagger high above his head and brought the pommel down with all his strength, shattering the back of the skeleton’s skull. The creature collapsed into a pile of bones with a sickening clatter.
Jack exhaled deeply, trying to calm the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He bent down and grabbed the tattered cloak from the remains. It was ragged and a bit moldy, but he wasn’t keen on wandering around shirtless any longer. As he draped it over his shoulders, he searched through the bones and found a belt with a pouch attached. Inside were two vials of strange green liquid. He wasn’t feeling brave enough to test them out, so he secured the belt around his waist, sliding the dagger snugly alongside without it pinching or stabbing him.
Next, he picked up the sword. It was about 18 inches long and a bit rusty on the smaller side, but it was far better than the dagger. He took a couple of practice swings, feeling out its motion. He knew using a weapon he wasn’t familiar with could be more dangerous than not having one, but it would have to do.
Staring down the hallway, Jack exhaled, steeling himself for what would come. This was going to be an exciting journey, he thought, as he began to walk steadily forward.
---
After hours of relentless walking and battling, Jack’s body was screaming for rest, but rest was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Exhausted, he crept to another corner, pressing himself against the cold stone as he peeked around the edge. A lone skeleton stood ahead, its back turned. Jack’s heart pounded in his chest, and each beat was a painful reminder of his fatigue, but he couldn’t stop now.
He waited, every muscle tense until the moment was right. Then, moving swiftly despite the numbing pain in his leg, Jack approached, his sword ready. He aimed to slam the pommel into the skeleton’s skull, but just as he was about to strike, a rattle echoed farther ahead. The skeleton reacted with unnatural speed, dodging left just in time.
Jack’s stomach dropped. He stumbled into his swing, his head dipping as the skeleton’s blade whistled past, barely missing his neck. He hit the ground hard, rolling forward to create distance, but he barely had a moment to breathe before another skeleton rushed him from the right, spear aimed to impale.
Instinct took over. Jack stepped back as the spear thrust past him, missing by inches. Seizing the opportunity, he brought his blade down in a desperate overhand strike at the skeleton’s skull. But his weapon, dulled from constant battle, glanced off, sending a jarring numbness up his arm.
A sharp hiss filled the air. Jack heard it before he felt it—a thin line of pain sliced across his ear as an arrow whizzed by. He spun around just in time to see a third skeleton, bow drawn, preparing to fire again. The skeletal warriors were unnervingly coordinated; the first skeleton lunged at him as soon as Jack turned his attention to the archer.
Its sword arced downward, a deathblow in the making. Jack met it with his blade, barely deflecting the strike. Without thinking, he grabbed the skeleton’s ribcage and yanked it before him. The archer’s arrow struck true, piercing the skull of its ally.
But Jack had no time to savor the victory. Pain exploded in his thigh as the spear-wielding skeleton stabbed him, the cold metal driving deep into his flesh. He screamed, agony ripping through him as the skeleton wrenched the spear out. Jack’s leg buckled, dropping him to one knee.
His vision blurred with pain, but he forced himself to move, swinging his sword with the last of his strength. The blade's flat struck the skeleton’s leg, knocking it to the ground. Jack lurched to his feet, barely avoiding another arrow, and threw himself on top of the fallen skeleton. He dropped his sword, grabbed the skeleton’s skull with both hands and slammed it into the ground, shattering bone with a sickening crunch.
Jack gasped for breath, but it was stolen from him as an arrow buried itself in his left shoulder. He cried out, the pain unbearable, but he couldn’t stop. He forced himself up, each movement torture. The archer stared him down, readying another shot.
With a grunt, Jack stumbled to the side, taking cover behind a column. An arrow zinged off the stone, followed by another five seconds later. Jack’s mind raced, calculating. The archer was methodical, firing in a pattern. He had to move now.
He pushed off the column, his body screaming in protest as he staggered toward the archer. Blood loss and pain slowed his pace to a crawl, but he kept moving, swerving left and right to avoid the arrows. The skeleton loomed closer, just twenty feet away. Jack gritted his teeth, enduring the searing pain, and when he finally reached it, he grabbed the skeleton’s head, fingers digging into its eye sockets, and slammed it into a pillar.
The skeleton crumpled, lifeless. Jack fell back, his body collapsing under the weight of his injuries. He whimpered, the pain overwhelming, as he fumbled for one of the green vials at his belt. With trembling hands, he chugged the foul liquid, gagging as the taste of rotten apples, onions, and soap filled his mouth. He forced it down just as the darkness closed in, pulling him into unconsciousness.
---
Not knowing how many hours had passed, Jack awoke with a jolt. For a brief moment, he desperately hoped it had all been a nightmare, but reality set in quickly. Panic began to creep in, but Jack forced himself to focus. He remembered his time as a 19 Delta, or "Cav Scout," and the lessons he had learned there. He began a breathing technique—inhale for four counts, exhale for four counts—slowly bringing his heart rate down and pushing the fear away.
Once he regained some calm, he assessed his condition. Surprisingly, he felt no pain. His leg and shoulder were completely healed, and as he moved, he realized the arrow and its head had popped out while he was unconscious. He let out a relieved breath and tapped his pouch. Three vials of the foul-tasting healing solution remained, collected from the fallen skeletons. Despite the taste, he was grateful for their effectiveness.
Standing up, he walked over to the remains of the skeletons, giving them a quick search. He found another vial on the swordsman, bringing his total to four. He also found a decent pair of boots that barely fit but were in good enough condition and a sheath that fit his short sword. The spearman had nothing of interest, but Jack took the spear. It was always better to have options in a fight. He glanced at the archer’s bow but noticed it was heavily damaged, with only a few arrows left. He set it aside, knowing his poor aim would likely put him in more danger than help him.
After gathering his gear, Jack took a moment to assess himself. He no longer looked like a desperate lunatic but more like a beggar—wearing a dirty, torn shirt, pajama pants, and dirty boots. A sword was sheathed at his left side, a pouch on his right, and a torn black cloak hung from his shoulders. With a spear in hand, he took a deep breath and moved on, determined to be more cautious after the last fight.
After several hours and a few more skirmishes, he found himself two vials richer. Smiling at his good fortune, he peered around the next corner and froze in shock. Before him stood two massive steel doors adorned with intricate runes and archaic text. Slowly, he approached, feeling none of the dark power that had permeated the rest of the place. He placed his hand against the door and pushed. It swung open smoothly despite the thick dust layer suggesting it hadn’t been touched in ages.
The room beyond was surprisingly well-lit, thanks to a gem-encrusted chandelier hanging above. It was a lounge area, a bit dusty but well-maintained. A Victorian-era couch and chairs formed a seating area, and across from them was a small kitchen with a wood stove. A dining table dominated the center of the room.
But what shocked Jack most was the woman sitting calmly at the head of the table.