As I said, I had joined Kersey, Elandarial, and Anthonius in their guild. They were more adventurous, more daring than I was used to, and the dungeons we tackled? Definitely harder. They had every bit of confidence in my level 50 healing—far more than I did.

We were all sitting on a Skype call, the four of us, when Anth, who was leveling a fury warrior named Jono, suddenly said, “Let’s go to Stratholme.”

“Uhhhhhh, I’m level 50, Anth. I need to be a bit higher for that,” I said, feeling the nerves already creeping in. “Also, we need a fifth person.”

Undeterred, I whispered Charize, and soon enough, we had our team ready to dive into one of the most notorious dungeons in Warcraft.

For those who haven’t experienced the terror of Stratholme, let me explain. Stratholme was a sprawling, cursed city filled with the undead. There were two distinct wings: the Scarlet Crusade side, where fanatical zealots still believed they could cleanse the city, and the undead side, which was overrun with zombies, skeletons, abominations, and a constant lingering sense of doom. Either path you took was a death march in its own way. It was chaotic, deadly, and notoriously long. Perfect for a ragtag group like us.

Now, here’s the kicker. Anth, bless him, had decided to do the run as a fury warrior. No shield. Pure DPS. And Jono was level 54—barely scraping the requirement for Stratholme. I could already feel the tension in my mouse hand.

“Well, at least the others are level 60,” I muttered to myself. “Maybe it won’t be a complete disaster.”

“We got this, Lao,” Kersey chimed in on Skype. “Just keep Anth alive… kind of.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Elandarial snickered, ever the joker.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“I heard that,” Anth shot back. “We’ll be fine! You just gotta trust me.”

I wasn’t so sure, but we headed in anyway. The first few pulls went surprisingly well—until we hit the courtyard, where all hell broke loose.

“OH LAO, I AM DYING!” Anth yelled through Skype, his health plummeting like a rock.

“Use your shield! Wait… you don’t have a shield!” I screamed back, spamming heals like my life depended on it. Spoiler: it did.

Kersey, ever the rogue, was casually popping in and out of stealth, doing rogue things, while Elandarial rained arrows from the back, snickering every time Anth yelled out in panic.

“Lao, seriously, are you even healing?” Anth’s voice was a mix of mock frustration and genuine terror.

“Am I even—EXCUSE ME?! You’re the one tanking in fury spec with no shield!”

But as the run went on, I started to notice something strange. Anth kept screaming about dying, but every time I looked at his health bar, it barely dipped. It was suspiciously full for someone who was constantly “on the brink of death.”

That’s when it hit me. The bugger was doing it on purpose. Anth—or Jono, as he was in-game—was never dying. His health bar stayed topped off, and here I was, frantically healing like the world was ending.

“Wait a second… Anth, are you faking this?”

Silence. Then a guilty laugh echoed over Skype.

“Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?” he chuckled.

“You absolute troll!” I yelled, half-laughing, half-groaning. “I’ve been spamming heals for no reason!”

Kersey and Elandarial burst out laughing. “I wondered why you were freaking out so much,” Elandarial said. “Jono’s health hasn’t moved this whole time.”

“Don’t worry, Lao, you’re doing great,” Anth teased.

The rest of the dungeon was a blur of undead, chaotic pulls, and Anth “almost dying” at every turn. But somehow, we made it through. We even took down Baron Rivendare without too much drama—well, aside from the occasional fake health crisis.

By the end of it, my nerves were shot, my mana was drained, and I was fairly sure my hair had turned a few shades grayer. But we survived. Barely.

“See?” Anth said, sounding all too proud of himself. “Told you we could do it.”

“Next time,” I said, “you’re bringing a shield. Or at least stop pretending you’re dying every five seconds.”

We laughed, exhausted but triumphant. And that’s how we rolled—chaotic, reckless, but somehow, we always made it through. Stratholme was just the beginning of the madness.