I opened my status sheet.

Attributes:

STR 4 (6), PER 2 (4), END 7 (9), DEX 7 (9)

INT 5 (7), WIL 3 (5), V.F 2 (4), MGK 3 (5)

The three points to Endurance had helped swing things in my favor, but I’d survived due to the timely intervention of [Scaredy-cat].

The perusal of my status sheet brought my attention to a curious matter—one which I’d formerly ignored:

VP: 24/20

MP: 26/22

My VP and MP values both exceeded the maximum by four. Seeing as each stack of [Fear] raised my stats by a single point, it meant the two values worked differently from attributes. Either that, or they were influenced by the latter.

I added the puzzle to the growing pile of stuff on the back burner and wiped my used weapons on the grass. I’d lost six stakes in the course of my adventure, leaving me with four. I still wasn’t any closer to finding the Dark Elf village. Frustration began to mount.

C'mon, man. Deep breaths. The Flame Guardians couldn’t kill you despite their best efforts. This wouldn’t either.

I resumed my trek. The sun fell toward the horizon, casting long shadows beneath the canopy of trees. Sharp jolts shot up my spine with each step, a consequence of my aching feet. I trudged through the dense understory and emerged from the line of trees onto a knoll, populated by harper's grass. The sound of running water reached my ears.

A clear stream traveled just beyond the knoll, babbling its way through the forest. It meandered between the trees, cutting a path through swaths of green. The sight of water reminded me that I’d drank nothing since my reincarnation, though thirst was yet to register. More than that, running water provided a useful clue about where a settlement might be located.

I turned around—an act that saved my life. A Dread Tiger had been creeping toward me, and it broke into a run the moment we made eye contact.

Dread Tiger LVL 6.

Crap.

[Scaredy-cat] fired a notification at the edge of my sight, but I ignored it in favor of tossing a stake at the beast. It sailed over the tiger which in turn pounced up the slope.

I dug a second stake out of my belt at about the same time that the Dread Tiger lunged for me. Sharp claws tore through my health. The attacks blew out my footing and threw me onto my back. Large fangs snapped near my face.

The Dread Tiger must have weighed over a thousand pounds because its weight cut off my ability to scream. Hot, fetid breath bathed me in its attempt to find purchase on my neck. We wrestled down the slope, a process that nearly cost me an eye and a limb. Monster cores tumbled out of my pocket.

I glanced at the sparkling red gems and slapped one—quicker than thought—onto the tiger’s face. It disintegrated with a bang. The Dread Tiger tumbled sideways from the shockwaves, though no real damage had been done.

I grabbed a new stake and leaped after the creature with a scream. Health armor protected it, blocking my attempt to stab into its neck. Black claws rose in retaliation, and—

Fuck. I couldn't finish the thought. Blood, like flowers, blossomed on my chest.

Uh-oh. You have been harmed by the skill: [Bleed]. You are now afflicted with an instance [Bleeding].

Heal yourself if you don’t want to die!

The blood loss triggered a consequent drop in HP until my miniature health dwindled into nothing. The Dread Tiger swiped again with its claws. Why did it have skills of its own?!

Without the protection of HP, its next strike would certainly disembowel me. Go hard or go home, Damien. Please.

“Just. Fucking. Stay down,” I screamed, pounding the stake into the Dread Tiger's neck. Its health meter plummeted, but my strikes didn't penetrate.

A vicious blow knocked me senseless and tore strips out of my flank. Fireworks went off in my brain. I gritted my teeth against the pain and plunged a second stake into the other side of Dread Tiger’s neck.

More [Fear] notifications appeared.

The twin attacks carved deep into the monster's HP, at the cost of snapping my weapons. The Dread Tiger curled in a panic. Wicked jaws closed around my forearm, splintering bone and painting black spots across my vision.

I won’t die here.

The broken stake in my free hand begged to be used. Screaming in defiance, I raised the short length of wood and buried it deep into the monster’s eye.

The Dread Tiger grunted. Its health meter emptied and vanished into nothing. Warm blood gushed profusely, coating my hand and chest.

The great beast offered a final shudder, and then it collapsed, splaying across the grass.

Hurray! You have killed a Dread Tiger. You are now level 3.

Visit your status sheet to assign your free stat points.

I pried my arm out of the dead tiger’s mouth, sobbing at the pain and the mangled mess it had become.

You have unlocked an ability!

[Fear Aura] is now available for use.

I couldn't even celebrate. Fatigue bowled me over like a monster truck, leaving me face down in the dirt. The forest blended in a series of colors—a murky potpourri that warned of my impending doom. I was dying, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Damn . . .

You have taken damage from [Bleeding].

Heal yourself if you don't want to die!

I glanced down at my wounded arm and flank, unable to understand the obstructive text. Heal myself? How?

Your HP has been depleted.

Your stamina has been depleted.

You have taken damage from [Bleeding].

Heal yourself if you don't want to die!

“Heal me yourself, asshole.”

A prompt to loot the Dread Tiger hovered over the creature’s corpse. I blearily selected it, blinking as the creature turned into dust. The lesser monster core was something I recognized, alongside the bundle of meat. The fang, however—now, that was new. It looked like the canine of the dead monster, stained in my blood.

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All three items failed to enter my nonexistent inventory. Neither could I retrieve them, impossible as it was to lift a single muscle.

Blood spread out in a pool beneath me.

You have taken damage from [Bleeding].

Heal yourself if you don't want to die!

My eyes fluttered closed. The soft expanse of grass gave way to pitch-black darkness, and then to an aromatic garden of bush lilies. Beautiful, orange petals spun in the wind.

Maybe . . . if I embraced the bliss, I could leave this unending hell and awaken on Earth again, free to resume the morning commute.

Maybe . . .

“Who is this supposed to be?”

Two strange creatures peered down at me. Their dark skin and rich, long braids identified them as humanoid, but their sharp ears and bright eyes were anything but. Both stood over six feet tall, dressed in leather gear tailored for hunting. Long, green cloaks billowed behind them, stained with mud and grass.

I recognized these creatures—the concept of them, at least. Their race’s name hung at the tip of my tongue. But, I couldn’t piece it, not with my brain too muddled to ensure proper coherence of my thoughts.

The one who had spoken prodded me with a bow. “We are late. A fact that you'll notice is no grief to me. We’ve done what we can. All that is left is to raise a pyre.”

“Quiet, Tybalt,” the other said, and her voice rang light and feminine. “He is wounded. We should help him.”

“Help dubious strangers? Has Dreadwood taught you nothing, my love?”

The second speaker ignored him. She cradled my head and pressed a vial against my lips. “Drink.”

A warmth like the rays of the sun blossomed in my belly. The pain in my arm and side receded. I moved my mouth in a bid to issue my thanks, however, given my depleted stamina, the words never made it past my lips.

I faltered and succumbed to sleep.

Night met me when I reopened my eyes.

Not night per se—wooden rafters that marked the ceiling of a hut. The structural beams crossed beneath the roof, illuminated by a small fire that burned within a hearth. A bed of straw lay beneath my back, and a lone window provided a view of the world outside the hut. Stars twinkled across a night sky, untouched by pollution.

Ah, yes. I had lost consciousness while fighting a Dread Tiger and would have perished, but for the timely arrival of elves.

I sprang upright. Elves! Wasn’t there something about them in one of the quests?

“Umm. [System] log?”

A series of notification boxes populated my vision. I perused them carefully, organizing each one with mental instructions.

You have found the Dark Elf village.

Quest: [Lost Kinsman]

Objective complete.

[10] spirit orbs have been added to your inventory.

Error: Inventory not found.

As you do not yet have an inventory, this quest will remain active. Unlock your inventory to claim your rewards.

I sighed in relief. The whole business with the missing inventory rankled me, but I had arrived, at the very least, where I needed to be. No more Dread Tigers.

I swiped down the list.

Quest: [Heroic Adventure]

You have been transported from another world! Gather strong allies and avert the Apocalypse.

Time remaining: 364 days.

Ugh. This one again. Still, I could afford to ignore it in the interim, considering its healthy duration.

364 days was a lot of time, right?

Warning: Migrant souls must ingest spirit orbs to survive.

Time left till next ingestion: 14:12:50.

How long had I been out? I patted down my pockets, which remained attached to the bloodied linen clothes I’d started with in the forest. All of my loot had been divested . . . or robbed—including the raw piles of meat, which annoyed me more than I wished to admit.

My health and stamina meters had also been refilled. I pawed my forearm and lifted my shirt to inspect my flank. Smooth, unmarred skin met me, tender to the touch. Got to give it up for magic, yeah? Had I been back on earth, three months would have been insufficient time to recover.

“[Map].”

The circular screen jumped up, with a single title: Harkonean, Dark Elf Village.

Not much to go on, probably as a consequence of my skill level. Zooming out on the map didn't provide any more information by way of text, but it did supply a layout of my surroundings.

I currently occupied a hut that sat among a row of many. A large circular area opened up beyond it, an approximation of a village square. Thin walls surrounded the perimeter, almost asking to be breached.

. . . Not that I intended to do so. Memory informed me that my elven saviors had both been armed to the teeth. If the same rang true for the rest of their people, conviviality not rashness was the best chance of getting my way.

I nudged open the door and peeked out into the night. A dimly lit village peeked back at me.

For all the myths surrounding elves, Harkonean looked no different from the typical rural village. Smelled like one too. Wooden huts sat squat on the ground, not high in trees like I’d expected, bearing shabby, rundown roofs. Strange, flameless lamps burned on tall posts interspersed throughout the village. They illuminated narrow dirt paths that formed the network of streets, as well as the animal pens that framed the huts beside them.

A Dark Elf kid—five, maybe six years old—played with sticks some distance away from the door.

“Stop right there,” someone said.

A tall guard, dark of skin and face, with tribal markings and long, flowing hair leveled a spear at me. “Come out slowly, stranger.”

I did as he asked.

The guard didn’t relax his stance, even when I raised my arms in what I hoped was the universal gesture of surrender.

Dark Elf Guard LVL 16.

Really, [Identify]? Not even a name?

I didn't miss the stated level, however. A world’s worth of difference existed between levels 3 and 16. Heck, a level 6 monster had almost sent me on a one-way trip back to the pyramid. This confrontation called for my best behavior.

“Um, hello?” I said.

The elf guard ignored me. “Little one,” he said to the child, “please, inform granny that our guest has risen.”

“Okay,” the child said, brimming with the massive exuberance common for his age. “Right away!” He ran off into the night, faster than I could blink.

“Look, man,” I started. “I don't mean any harm.”

“Man?” The Dark Elf bristled.

That was probably the wrongest thing to say. “I mean, elf. Elf! I just want to explain—”

The Dark Elf's scowl deepened. “Nana will hear your case. Just stay right there. The last thing I want is to spill elven blood.” He trailed off with a thought. “Not dark-elven, at the least.”

I could respect that. I didn't want my blood spilled either. A few questions wormed their way into my head concerning his capacity to communicate in English, but that could wait for a more opportune time.

A few minutes later, another elf appeared. She approached from a side street, footsteps noiseless as feathers. Bright eyes burned like a cat's, shadowed by thick hair that hung partly braided around her head. Her leather armor looked well-maintained, even in the dark of the night. A longbow jangled on her back, paired with a full quiver of arrows. Long knives completed the ensemble, but I ignored the weapons in favor of staring at the soft features of her face.

“Nana will speak to you now,” she said, hoisting one of those strange lamps aloft, the kind that burned without flames. “Please, come with us.”

I followed the two elves through the empty village square. Despite initial impressions, Harkonean was much sturdier than I’d thought. The village had been built on a hill, providing a nice vantage point over its surroundings. Elven guards patrolled walkways atop the main entrance to the village, armed with bows and torches. Running water gurgled somewhere in the distance, and a smith's hammer rang across the clearing.

I’d really left my bed in Lagos, Nigeria to appear in a fantasy world of all places. And, if that wasn’t clear enough, three pale moons glowed in the sky. Three.

Yep, definitely not Earth.

The elven girl led me to the biggest hut yet. Some kind of longhouse, with an adjoining pen set aside for goats.

Surely, not Dread Goats, I thought, passing the bleating creatures. We walked up the short stairs to the longhouse and entered a well-lit hall. A hearth crackled in the center, providing warmth. Lamps hung from lampstands on the walls.

Nana the Dark Elf sat draped in heavy native robes, on a high-backed chair carved with intricate leafy designs. Two elven guards towered behind her, bows held at the ready. Unlike her moniker suggested, she didn't look much older than fifty. Even that figure seemed like a reach when juxtaposed with her short stature.

Nevertheless, Nana bore the carriage befitting her age. A certain aura surrounded her that exuded from none of her kin. White, downy hair tumbled around her head, held in place by trinkets. Her small feet failed to reach the ground. And her eyes . . . okay, that was scary. Red eyes burned in a pretty face marked by tribal designs.

First impressions matter, Damien. How did one greet a noble elf chieftain?

“Great Nana,” I said, inclining my head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Nana’s eyes hardened. “The pleasure is yours alone, stranger. You have five seconds to explain what you were doing in my corner of the forest.”

“Uh—”

“Especially with this.” She nodded, and the male guard who had escorted me gripped the front of my shirt.

He tugged and split the linen across the torso.

“Tell me,” Nana said. “Why did you come wearing the body of my son?”