(Dylan)

> Death 3 - The Eleventh Second

>

> For ten fleeting seconds, Dylan’s soul drifted in the quiet normalcy of death, inching closer to What Comes Next. In voidspace, the seconds passed, as they always did, bringing him closer to a point of no return. As the tenth second waned, Void stirred, preparing to claim him. But in that crucial eleventh second—when Void would normally devour his soul—the tether pulled taut. Dylan was yanked back from the brink, ripped from Void’s grasp, resetting once more.

[Time orb]: [Dejavu] triggered. Wait.

Night had settled in, and Dylan sat on a short stool, his bare feet drying beside a small campfire. The rashes on his legs oscillated between 'I'm literally on fire' and 'oh my god, it itches.' At the moment, he was dealing with the latter.

“Why did she kill you?” Charles paused briefly. “What did you do to her?”

[Time orb]: Thirty-two Resets remain.

The sound of Charles' voice startled him. Dylan jerked upright, spilling tea everywhere as he scrambled to get away from the murderous tailor. Tumbling off his stool, he yelped, 'Stay away!'

Dylan frantically searched Charles for the knife that had killed him. But all he found was an elf with classic, chiseled features: shoulder-length silver hair worn in a half ponytail, a prominent jawline, high cheekbones, and deep-set green eyes. No blade in sight—just a handsome, rugged elf.

Kicking and scrambling backward, he hit the wheel of the treehouse, stopping him cold. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, fast and panicked.

“Why is everyone killing me?” Dylan asked, his wide eyes fixed on Charles. The rugged elf had quickly gotten to his feet but kept his distance. Betrayal stung—he’d genuinely thought Charles was a nice guy.

It was disturbing how disarming the rugged elf could be—luring him in with the most comfortable pants he’d ever worn one moment, then backstabbing—well, head-stabbing—him the next. Regardless, the betrayal was most foul.

Dylan’s eye caught the campfire’s flames dancing wildly. ‘Odd, there’s no wind,’ he thought.

Charles noticed the flickering flames too. Once they settled, he said, “Apologies. I thought it was just one person who’d killed you.”

Dylan felt Charles' gaze scrutinizing him. The rugged elf’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, but Dylan was paying attention now.

“There was,” Dylan said, his hand blindly searching the spoked wheel behind him. He used it to pull himself up, never taking his eyes off Charles. After a couple of tries, he finally made it to his feet and brushed himself off. “Until just now, when you killed me.” Dylan jabbed an accusing finger at the rugged elf.

Charles raised an eyebrow, pointing to his chest. “I killed you?”

“I thought we were friends, Charles…” Dylan raked his fingers up and down his thighs, trying to sate his insatiable itch.

“If I had killed you, you’d still be dead,” Charles said. “And we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Dylan detected no hint of malevolence or threat. ‘He really doesn’t remember,’ Dylan thought. ‘Maybe I’m the only one aware of the resets?’

“Murdering people without a reason just isn’t something people do,” Charles said. “There’s always a reason, even if it’s trivial. And right now, I don’t have a reason to kill you.”

Dylan didn’t like how rational the rugged elf’s argument sounded.

“Also,” Charles said, holding up a boot, “I don’t make adjustments for people I intend to kill. That’s extra work and a waste of my time.”

Dylan couldn’t fault Charles’ logic—it made little sense for the rugged elf to kill him. Yet it had happened, even if Charles couldn’t remember. The unease lingered, though; the rugged elf had been kind and logical, right up until the moment he got all stabby.

“I don’t know why you did it,” Dylan sighed. “We were just talking when it happened.”

As the fire dwindled, the cold settled in, but his legs had switched back to ‘I’m literally on fire’. Somehow, the sensations balanced each other out.

“Alright,” Charles mirrored Dylan’s posture. “What were we talking about when it happened?”

Charles spoke as if he believed him, which was odd, considering Dylan wasn’t even sure he believed himself. Maybe he was just going insane.

Charles looked so normal, unassuming even, standing there with a mismatched boot dangling from each hand—no hint of homicidal intent. Dylan searched his captivating green eyes for any glint of insanity, a twitch of rage, or some sign of murderous intent. But once again, all he saw was an attractive, rugged elf.

Stolen novel; please report.

Dylan took a breath, deciding to take Charles at his word. “I was retelling what happened when I first woke up. I found myself naked in a dark room, without my phone.” He held up a hand. “And before you ask—no, I don’t know why or how I got there. Also no, dark side batman wasn’t there either.”

“Dark side batman?” Charles raised an eyebrow.

Dylan sighed. “Christian Bale…”

Charles nodded in acknowledgment.

“Then you asked about the orb I found—”

“An orb?” Charles tilted his head, a flicker of interest crossing his features, like a pet hearing its favorite word.

“That’s what you called it. You asked me to describe it.”

“And?” Charles prompted. “What did you see?”

“I described a blue sky over an orange river,” Dylan said, noticing a breeze stirring the flames again. The treehouse behind him must be blocking the breeze—that’s why he couldn’t feel it.

Charles bent down, setting the boots beside the table before picking up his mug of tea. He peered into the mug, holding it with both hands, as he listened to Dylan recount the explosion, his missing phone, and the poor woman he’d found dead in the room with him.

Charles glanced up from his mug, and Dylan noticed the night casting a pale hue over his complexion. Sweating, Charles wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

‘I knew there was something off with that flak,’ Dylan thought. ‘Looks like it’s bothering him, too.’

“I think I know what happened,” Charles said, holding out his empty mug. “Would you like some more tea while I explain? It’ll help calm your nerves.”

Dylan still saw no weapons in sight, but the ungodly itching had returned. Unable to help himself, he ground his legs together and twisted at his hips like a child with an overfull bladder.

“Sure,” he said, taking a tentative step toward Charles and holding out his mug.

Charles picked up the teapot and slowly made his way toward Dylan, stopping at a respectful distance. He held out the teapot with one arm to refill Dylan’s mug. Then, returning to his stool, he topped off his own mug, carefully using both hands.

Dylan watched as Charles took a long pull of tea, then followed suit. It tasted like peppermint, with the same cooling, fresh menthol flavor. The tea did wonders to cleanse the lingering flak from his mouth. He leaned back against the rounded corner of Charles’ treehouse.

“Somehow,” the rugged elf said, “you found an orb. They install magical frameworks when absorbed, which allow you to unlock magic abilities. Even the least desirable orbs are both expensive and powerful.”

“Holy crap, does that make me a wizard?” Dylan’s excitement completely overtook him, his recent demise forgotten. He had dreamed of this moment his entire life.

Since his tenth birthday, Dylan had been waiting for his owl to arrive. Twenty-five years passed, each one making it less likely. By now, he’d given up on that dream. But Charles, a spicy tailor with a touch of the tism and a penchant for spontaneous murder, had just told him he had magic powers—which, in Dylan’s book, was close enough to calling him a wizard.

Charles shrugged. “The official title is adventurer, but magic users go by several monikers—wizard being one of them.”

‘Fuck yes! He said it. I’m a motherfucking wizard,’ Dylan thought.

“How many abilities can I get? Are they like spells? Can I learn spells? Is this gonna be on the test? Are you an adventurer?” Dylan rapid-fired questions at Charles.

‘I need to sit down,’ Dylan thought. Lightheaded and buzzing with energy, he grabbed his overturned stool and plopped it down near the treehouse. He sat, eager to learn more about magic.

Charles began, “I used to be an adventurer like you—”

Dylan snorted, nearly getting tea up his nose.

“What’s so funny?”

“Sorry, it’s not important. Please, continue,” Dylan said. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to talk about one of his favorite games—not when they could talk about actual magic.

Dylan enjoyed the conversation and didn’t want his ADHD to drag him into another sidequest. The warmth of the tea replaced the lost heat from the fire. Charles had been right again—the tea helped relax him.

“All magic is both potent and dangerous,” Charles said, “but some types are far more dangerous than others. The League calls it restricted, and it’s unsafe to possess, let alone use.”

Dylan had almost forgotten about his boots. They sat unfinished where Charles had left them when he started explaining the magic system. But Dylan didn’t mind—learning about magic was far more interesting.

“The orb you found was a Time orb,” Charles said.

“Right,” Dylan said with a sigh. He knew he had a Time orb, but he wished he understood how his ability and passive worked.

“Time is one of the restricted magic types,” Charles said.

“Oh.” Dylan hadn’t realized he had a restricted orb, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. “That doesn’t sound good.” He noticed a strange absence of anxiety, knowing he should be more concerned—but he wasn’t.

“And what happens if they catch you with restricted magic?” Dylan took another sip of the warm, delicious tea.

“There are open contracts for collecting restricted magic items and practitioners,” Charles said, picking up a twig and flicking it into the fire.

“Was that your reason for killing me?” Dylan no longer felt afraid.

Charles swirled the contents of his mug. “No. That’s not why I would’ve killed you.”

“Oh, good.” Dylan realized there was no burning or itching in his legs anymore. He’d definitely be drinking this tea until they could get some of that ointment Charles had mentioned earlier. Slurping, he took another sip while listening to Charles.

“Although not claiming the contract after you were dead would’ve been wasteful,” Charles said, feeding another stick to the flame. “And it would’ve been important to confirm your murder was lawful and clear my name.”

Dylan chuckled. ‘A contract killer,’ he thought.

“Then why’d you do it?” Dylan noticed his mug was empty and set it down next to his stool. His arms found a warm spot on his lap to rest.

“Because there are worse things than death,” Charles said.

‘That was grim, and a touch dramatic,’ Dylan thought.

“How do I get rid of the orb? Can I return it or—” Dylan stifled a yawn, unable to finish his question.

“No,” Charles said, his full attention on the campfire. “Absorbing an orb is permanent.”

“What do I do now?” Dylan crossed his arms and nestled into a comfortable spot against the treehouse.

“Nothing. I’ve already taken care of it.”

“Thanks.” Dylan’s eyelids grew heavy. It would be nice to close them for a bit.

“I’m really sorry about this, Dylan,” Charles said, his voice heavy and distant, like it was coming from a million miles away.

Dylan remembered—those were the exact words he’d heard moments before dying last time! Forcing his eyes open, he sat up unsteadily, trying to focus on Charles. The world wouldn’t stop spinning.

‘Fuck.’ He glanced down at his empty mug, struggling to stay on the stool. The mugs seemed to multiply as his vision wavered. Realizing exactly what Charles meant, Dylan muttered, “Oh, you mother—”

He slipped off the stool, unable to finish his sentence. He didn’t even feel it when his body hit the ground. The toxin worked in stages: first taking away his ability to move, then to feel, and finally to breathe. With no pain and no fear, Dylan died.