Sunday listened carefully, soaking in all the information he could. Talents, spells, worshippers and betrayers. Little Pearl had also asked him if he was a ‘believer’, so he assumed all of those were words that referred to the same thing. But worshippers of what? The village people did not seem concerned with the fact that the children had tried to summon a demon at all. It was barely mentioned.

However, the single suggestion by the skinny man had sent the villagers into maddening fear. Even mentioning a ‘flesh trader’ hadn’t elicited such a response, and it sounded like a bad line of work.

The Chief waved a hand. “He is neither a mage nor a worshipper. I highly doubt his talent, if he has any, would allow him to come here unnoticed or need the weak spells dwelling in the swamp.”

Sunday nodded. He felt some relief at that. Maybe there was some chance to convince them that he had no chance of running a rescue operation. He was about to open his mouth when the chief continued.

“But!” he said, “He is at the very least a high undead, possibly of the ghoul variety which will guarantee him safety. A very young one at that. I’ve met a few in my day. They are odd and typically keep to themselves. Even if what he’s saying is true, and he has no memory of what preceded his coming here, we cannot simply allow him to stay or kill him ourselves. If someone is after him, and that’s a high possibility, they will find him soon enough.”

Sunday recalled the narrating voice and the mention of the hunter and his hounds. A shudder went through his body and he found himself suddenly hyper-aware of each trembling shadow. He tried his best to remain impassive and not show it, but it was difficult.

No one seemed to notice his sudden discomfort and the Chief continued. “High undead are strong, resilient, and famed for their strange ways. What I think we should do for the sake of all…,” he eyed Sunday with one eye, “Is to arm him, and send him to look for Arten, as per my first suggestion.”

Silent conversations washed over the crowd, but they only lasted a minute or so. No one objected or spoke this time. Sunday was glad he’d at least get a weapon. Having something sharp to hold tight when lost in a strange place was a blessing he knew well. There was a sliver of shame inside of him too, but as much as the little Pearl was innocent in all of this, he wasn’t about to risk his life for a dead man. Or any man for that matter.

“I’m fine with that. I have no place among you, and I’d rather make use of all of your knowledge and the resources you are willing to share than run blindly into the swamp. If I can save a life in the process, then I’ll do so,” Sunday said. He let some bitterness and fear seep into his voice.

The Chief nodded and looked around until he found what he was looking for. He grabbed a rusty spear from a nearby woman. She didn’t object. It was the worst of the bunch but Sunday accepted it all the same. Were they going to send him out immediately? That was less than ideal as he’d hoped to squeeze some more information.

“Vela, prepare some of your medicine. Arten might need it,” the Chief said and the woman with the pouches and vials nodded and pushed through the crowd, disappearing into one of the huts.

“The swamp has many dangers. Most poisonous creatures shouldn’t affect the undead. You should be wary of the large lizards though. They might take a limb.”

Sunday nodded, half-listening.

I don’t plan on testing my poison resistance any time soon. I need to find civilization. Learn to blend, how people live, and get stronger before the hounds find me. Was that the purpose of the fear? To push him? Was he playing to some twisted god’s tune?

“You’ll find my uncle, right?” the little girl asked, coming next to him and pulling at his shirt.

Sunday met the gaze of the Chief. They both knew that’s not what he was doing. The old undead had struck him as someone quite perceptive. Giving him a ‘bag of medicine’ and a weapon was just a continuation of the theatre.

“I’ll do my best, little Pearl,” he said. He hated lying to kids the most. He remembered what it was like. Even at his current age, if it was still applicable, many were still treating him like a kid. Once you got some scars things changed, but nothing beat the marks of time for one to get taken seriously. Apart from money or a gun.

Vela came back soon after with a bag that seemed mostly empty. Sunday didn’t check what was in it, just thanked her and took it. The woman gave him a charming smile that bordered on both pity and mockery.

Once he picked up the spear some tensed, but the Chief didn’t react. It was a solid piece of wood. Sunday had swung quite a few in his day, even if they were not sharpened at the end.

“So… this is it then. Which way?”

The village people silently led him in a random direction – they all looked the same to Sunday – and a few men unhooked the fishing net fence, allowing him to pass. Sunday briefly wondered if there was a point in asking for shoes, but most of them were barefoot so he gave up.

“Arten will know the way back when you find him,” the Chief said. The acting was probably for the sake of the children. Sunday was pretty sure if it was not for them, they’d have already cut him apart and gotten rid of the problem he presented. This wasn’t just a village. He had read enough to know that no one wants to build a village in a swamp. Those people were hiding something, and they wouldn’t stop thinking about him until his bloated corpse made it back, one way or another.

Hopefully, they built their little village close to the exit of the swamp and not in the middle. Otherwise, I’m truly and irrevocably fucked.

They watched silently as he took his first steps into the unknown. Pearl's voice echoed behind him, cheering him on and Sunday smiled and waved on reflex, playing the part he was supposed to. The hero goes to save the dying.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Something was nagging at him, but things were happening too fast and he knew too little. This world was unlike anything he had experienced. He felt as if the time spent in the empty city as a struggling corpse, as short or as long it had been, had made him more adaptable. That was good.

He stopped and turned, finding tens of pairs of eyes stabbing at his.

“Can undead get drunk?” he asked no one in particular.

There was a pregnant pause, before Chief Hark responded in a confused, tense voice, “If we have the right kind of drink.”

This was not a part of the hero send-off you planned, eh you old bastard? At least I’ve one more thing to look forward to if I survive. I feel strangely thirsty.

Sunday kept walking without looking back.

His feet were soon covered in mud. No matter how much he tried to avoid the mushier parts it was just impossible. The trees grew thicker overhead, creating a canopy that let through only the occasional ray of light. The cold water and mud didn’t bother him that much though. It didn’t feel as if he would freeze or anything. Maybe there were advantages to being whatever he was. He didn’t feel dead, that’s for sure.

When he was sure he was far enough from the village he sat down at the trunk of a large tree and listened to the sounds of the swamp, remembering all the narrating voice had said. The yew tree, the young man with the slap, the liar and thief, the chaos, and lastly the golden page he had only seen unfurl for a moment.

What was the point of gifts, if he couldn’t understand or use them?

Trying to remember the short glimpse from the page was impossible, but as soon as he focused on the thought of it something changed. The world grew dim and a translucent leaf of gold paper appeared before him, unfurling like a scroll. It was blank.

Sunday gaped at it. Now that, was magic.

“Gifts,” he whispered automatically. Ink immediately started spreading on the page and soon the words became legible. The first word, the one on the very top of the golden page, made him grin like a child with a stable home on Christmas. The villagers had put quite a heavy weight on that particular word, so it was bound to be something good.

Talents

Yew Tree’s Favor (Growth) – You have earned the favor of the yew tree in the forgotten cemetery. It will guide you.

The first one was as vague as they came, but at least it followed the theme of the narrating voice. Maybe it would change in time and the ‘favor’ would be expressed in some helpful way. He read further.

Slap (Martial) – Some learn the sword, others the spear. You, however, wield an open palm, welcoming the world and at the same time slapping all those who stand in your way. A slap does not recognize defense, nor does it need to inflict damage to the flesh. An empty palm can bring about harm and change. You wield yours with unordinary skill. The path is long and twisting and your hand is itchy to start practicing...

Sunday laughed. Was slapping people considered a talent? A martial one at that. The narrator had made it seem like it was something terrifying, but Sunday simply couldn’t imagine himself slapping away a mountain. It was a silly thought.

He moved on.

A Fable’s Strength (Fame) – Words float in the wind like autumn leaves and take root in people’s minds. From mouth to mouth they spread like an everchanging disease, and even lies turn into truths as belief shapes them. Stories or rumors of your deeds can grant you a small portion of power, as long as there’s someone to believe them.

He stared at the third of the gifts flabbergasted. He had expected something related to lying or stealing. He was good at both. However, what he received was much more bizarre and would require a lot of preparation to work. It was treating him like the character of a story. What sort of power was it talking about? Could he make people believe he was immortal and then become immortal? Could he convince people he could fly, and then become able to fly? It certainly didn’t seem to matter if the stories were lies or not.

It does specify that it is a small portion of power. Still, as long as a rumor is spread wide enough it could be an unimaginable thing, depending on what the limits are. I’d probably have to acquire some reputation to use this with any success first. Without the internet and phones spreading word of myself will be hard. Building connections is a must. This talent will remain useless for a while. It’s too conditional and strange. I guess I’m going to be famous…

He moved on to the second to last of the Talents. The one that scared him.

Chaotic Step (Chaos) – Close your eyes and let a single step change the course of your story. Sometimes the feet lead you to places the mind wouldn’t allow. There are opportunities in blind chance. Who cares if it’s a dice roll or something more?

I care, damn it. This is what most likely got me into this swamp and away from the original destination I was headed toward. The narrator was pretty weird about it too. I wonder… will I just get thrown into strange situations and places because there’s something to be gained? I hope it’s not a literal dice roll. Either way, I cannot deal with it right now. Unless…

“I want to give up Chaotic Step,” he whispered. Being thrown around the world on the whim of a superpower from nightmares was not his cup of tea.

Nothing happened.

“Delete talent.”

“Talent, fuck off!”

He tried a few more variations and felt sillier and sillier. What happened to customization and free will? Watching every step, worrying it would send him into an active volcano or in front of a car – no, there were no cars here. In front of an angry bull… That was no way to live.

The last one at least, was simple.

Golden Page (Knowledge) – Knowledge is better than gold.

Straight forward and what he was doing now. He briefly wondered if others could see the golden page. He’d have to be careful when he summoned it.

Now what else can you tell me…

“Name.”

The page went blank and new words instantly started filling it.

Names and Titles

Sunday – a name given to you by a thieving caretaker. It’s unoriginal and dim, but it’s all you have. Perhaps your deeds will make it shine one day. No one knows of it for now.

That’s not what he was going for. He knew his name. He thought for a bit then tried something else.

“Status.”

Rank: Zero

Race: Origin Corpse

Hunted – a hunter knows of your existence. They have decided you are prey worth chasing throughout the realms. Listen closely for howls when the sun goes down, as his hounds scour the night for you. Run, little prey, for they are coming… Beware the shadows.

His status made his eyes widen. The terror came back again. It was instinctual, all-encompassing, and coming from the depths of his soul. Sunday knew he was in no immediate danger but still looked around and huddled closer to the tree trunk, trying to make himself small. The feeling slowly went away and the shadowy corners of the swamp lost their edge.

Sunday frowned at this instinctual show of cowardice. It had happened a few times now. Whatever the purpose of his current life was, he would make full use of it, not cower like a fool. He had been chased, threatened, beaten, and betrayed throughout his life, and it was all probably going to happen again. A few random mutts wouldn’t scare him when magic was real and the world could be his oyster. There was too much to see, too much to eat.

Maybe there was also a way to get back home and ruin someone’s day.

As long as he managed to get out of the swamp first.