I gawked at the elven matron.

She stared back, dead serious.

“Pardon?” I stuttered.

“Look at your chest, child,” Nana snapped.

I indulged her.

A black crest curled around my left breast in the form of a tribal tattoo. I hadn’t noticed it back when I was clothed, but it sat now visible atop my exposed skin.

Nana watched me with feverish eyes. “That crest marks a Dark Elf as a member of the Irithiel family. In particular, the branch to which I belong. I have a similar carving etched upon my breast.”

“So . . . we are long lost kin?” I joked, ridding myself of the mental image of her chest.

Nana glowered. “Do you not have eyes? Surely, you can read the script. You know what it says.”

A script? I studied the tattoo again. Markings that had erstwhile seemed like meaningless harsh strokes revealed themselves to be some kind of cursive, framed with leafy vines. Alas, whatever magic that governed communication didn’t extend to elven writing. The cursive might as well have been gibberish.

“Look, I don't want any trouble,” I started.

“It says Cyran Irithiel, you fool. And I marked it with my own hand.”

A shiver ran up my spine. “You can’t be serious. I’ve never met you before now, lady.”

“Yet, you show up bearing the black leaf crest I created in the same spot it was drawn.” Nana's stone-cold expression didn't falter. “That’s not a coincidence, child.”

“I’m not your son.”

“And there’s no way you can be. My son is dead.”

I blanched at the comment. The rest of the elves watched our interaction with uneasy eyes, shifting their feet. Only one of them showed any emotion other than unease, and that was the tall, handsome guard positioned on Nana’s right. He sneered at me instead through thick dreadlocks and tightened his grip on his spear.

Oh, for fuck's sake. What was this malarkey? For an entity like the [System], with vast amounts of raw power at its disposal, forging a new vessel for my soul shouldn’t have been a problem. What then was the reason for this mess?

I went over the details of the quest log in my head. The answer struck me like a slap across the face:

You have received an Origin quest!

New quest: [Lost Kinsman]

Find the Dark Elf village.

Oh, hell no.

“So, let me get this,” I said, wetting my lips. “Your son is dead. And you think I am him returned from the grave?”

Nana didn’t speak.

“Umm, can you tell me how he died and where?”

A longbow rapped against the ground. “You abuse our hospitality, stranger,” the sneering guard said, “if you think we owe you answers to your questions. We’ve had enough of your deceit!”

“Tybalt . . .” Nana warned.

The furious elf didn’t relent. “Grandmother, I warned you about this. Strike down this evil creature before it gets a chance to sink its hooks. We are dealing with a changeling!”

“I’m not a changeling,” I said in my defense. “And, I’m not an evil creature. Heck, before today, I’d never even met an elf.”

“Speak another lie and forfeit your tongue.”

I made a fist and narrowed my eyes at Tybalt. Did all alternate versions of me need to encounter some kind of bully? Why was I being dressed down by this ass?

“Tybalt,” the only other elf-woman in the hall said in a measured tone, "We found him together. And the High Priest performed an inspection. If the stranger is as dangerous as you say he is, he wouldn’t have come undone by a regular Dread Tiger.”

Tybalt waved her off. “All part of his ploy. It’s not unusual for weak monsters to be highly intelligent.”

Weak?

The elf-woman spoke before my mouth could run away from me. “We debated this extensively. He had no idea we would arrive at his location. He couldn’t have staged his injuries in the light of those circumstances.”

“What’s your name, child?” Nana interrupted. “What do you call yourself?”

I halted in my tracks. “Umm, Damien.”

“And how old are you?”

I wasn’t quite sure how my real age translated to elven years. No point in lying. “Twenty-five.”

Nana’s eyebrows rose. “You’re only twenty-five? Yet, you look like this? Where do you hail from?”

Ah, the loaded question. However, a reply still eluded me. Would it be too much of a faux pas to say, ‘out of this world’?

“Well . . .?” Nana pressed.

“Apologies,” I said. “This might sound unreal, but I . . . can’t describe my origins. All I can say is that this is my first time visiting your forest. I do not know my way around.”

“What nonsense!” Tybalt said.

Nana gripped her handrest. “You claim to suffer from amnesia?”

“No, great Nana,” I said, picking my words. “My memory remains intact. However, I do not belong here. Not in Dreadwood or the rest of your world. I found myself emplaced within your forest against my will.”

“Great this, great that.” Nana gestured impatiently. “I need clearer answers. Who brought you to Dreadwood?”

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“An entity I cannot describe.”

“And what was its purpose?”

“I do not know.”

Nana’s expression contorted for a fraction of a second before slipping back into neutrality. She studied me with those red eyes of hers, warring with thoughts beneath the surface.

The urge to share the full details of my ordeal nearly overtook me, but I kept my cards close to my chest. Nana could react in unpredictable ways upon learning the true purpose of my reincarnation. Especially if said purpose had been granted at the expense of her loved one.

“Everybody, out,” Nana said. “Save for you: Tybalt, Mavari.”

The elf guards bowed and exited the hall, leaving the idiot boy and elf-woman whose name I had just learned.

“Nana . . .” Mavari said, glancing at the matron with concerned eyes.

Tybalt spun his bow. “This is getting ridiculous. How much longer must we suffer this scoundrel? I propose incarceration until he perishes or learns to speak the truth—whichever first occurs.”

Nana frowned at him. “Do not let me summon the wind to toss you out on your ass, boy. You are not Harkon yet. At least, not until I cease. You will listen, and you will obey.”

Tybalt glared at her, and then at me, a sour look on his face.

Ah. So, that was his bone of contention. Seeing as he was next in line to inherit the, err, high-backed chair, my arrival threatened to disrupt his ambitions. If I truly occupied the body of Cyran Irithiel, son of Nana the chieftain, did that make me Tybalt’s dad?

Gosh, no. I’d rather sire earthworms.

Nana settled into her chair. “You asked, child, how I lost my son?” She waited for my affirmation. “He died in his first year, sickly from birth. Unlike his twin, he never grew old enough to bless these halls with laughter.”

That . . . complicated things, what with my current appearance looking nothing like a toddler. “How long ago was this?”

“Sixty years.”

“Then, you are mistaken. I am not Cyran Irithiel.”

“Maybe not,” Nana said. “But my eyes do not deceive me. Cyran died before reaching adulthood, but I chose to mark him in the way of his fathers all the same.” She pointed at my chest. “That crest was painted on before I swaddled him in robes and sent him downstream on a bier. If you are not the real Cyran, then you are a ghost.”

Dust filled my mouth. The [System] wouldn’t do that, would it? Use a long-dead infant for reincarnation material. The corpse should have decomposed long before my arrival, and the entire affair reeked of inelegance.

But, what if that was the point? I had been summoned to this world as some kind of hero to undertake a quest of grand design. What was a noble hero without a noble origin?

“Maybe he was resurrected,” Mavari offered. “Some evil caster got hands on his corpse and performed this abomination.”

Nana shook her head. “If he was, I wouldn’t have gotten the dreams.”

That got my attention. “What dreams?”

“Nana saw a vision,” Mavari said. “A couple of them really, about a strange elf coming to life on Tukor's mound. She sent us to investigate.”

“Tell my story for me, why doncha, girl?” Nana said dryly.

Mavari flushed and ducked beneath her hair.

“Wait,” I said, glancing at each elf in turn. “You knew about my arrival?”

Nana smirked. “How else do you think Tybalt and Mavari found you? You dare to claim the luck of the heroes in stories?”

Tybalt looked unhappy that the Dread Tiger hadn’t finished the job, but I could only wince at the timing of it all. Had I remained at the mound for a few more hours, the Origin quest would have ended much quicker than it had. Curse you, Dread Tigers!

“So, that’s why you didn’t put me in shackles,” I murmured, more to myself than them, “With dreams like that, you must have imagined some kind of miracle.”

“I imagined nothing,” Nana said. “But that begs the question too. If you are no son of mine, by necromancy or other means, who are you?”

I glanced down at my hands.

“Speak, child. Before the skin wears off my bones.”

“I don't know,” I said at length. “But I have a name, and it is not Cyran. It is Damien. Damien Njoku. Beyond that, I am unsure of everything else.”

Besides, I already had a birth mother, who held a special place in my heart. No two-bit elf was going to replace her in this world or another.

Nana scoffed. “Damien.” She rose to her feet and strode toward the back of the hall.

“Nana?” Mavari called.

“It's getting late,” the elf chieftain said. “We all need some shuteye. Mavari will escort you back to the guest house, Damien. We will continue this tomorrow.”

I didn’t have enough tomorrows. “Um, there’s a matter I was hoping we could discuss.”

“Daybreak,” Nana said, raising a tattooed hand. “I need to be left to my thoughts.” She glanced at me from over her shoulder. “Our kin are swift to extend hatred, Damien. You would do well to remember that. Do not give us a reason.”

“Come,” Mavari said, touching my arm. “Let’s head back.”

Tybalt followed me with keen eyes as I left, smoldering behind the high-backed chair. He kept up his glare, even as the door slammed shut in his face.

For all Nana’s warnings, hatred had already been extended.

Good times, eh?

Mavari led me back to the wooden hut. A few curious eyes peeked out of nearby windows, following our movements. Word had probably gone around about the strange Dark Elf who had appeared with the Irithiel crest.

“Don't let Tybalt get to you,” Mavari said. “He's very protective of the village. Our people are beset with enemies.”

“Oh no, I'm not mad,” I said. Tybalt was nothing next to some of the bosses I’d suffered during my brief stint in construction. “With how strange the situation is, I'd probably act likewise if I were in his shoes.”

Mavari smiled. “That's gracious of you. It's not every day your deceased uncle returns from the dead.” She clasped a hand over her mouth. “Not that you have to be. His uncle, I mean. But with the crest . . . and the visions . . .” She stopped rambling and narrowed her eyes. “You’re certain that you’re not from around here?”

“I’m not,” I confirmed. “I know nothing about this world. Heck, just this morning, I could have sworn your people didn't exist.”

“Even though you look the way you do? Elves are one of the oldest species on Vizhima!”

Species. Plural. Which implied more than one. “What other species are out there?”

“You really don't know?” Mavari said, wide-eyed. “Never matter, we can discuss that at length tomorrow. I should probably let you get settled.” We stopped in front of the hut. “Dinner was delivered while you were away. I suggest you satiate yourself and retire as soon as you’re able. You’ve been yawning all night.”

I hadn’t even noticed. “What language do you speak, Mavari? I’m confused about how we manage to understand each other.”

Mavari eyed me dubiously. “The [System] handles real-time translations. All races understand each other, no matter the language. Except when written, of course.”

“Of course.”

Mavari glanced at the distant walls. “Damien, was it? I'll speak the truth to you, because of your politeness. Nana currently stays her hand because of her visions, but all that would change the moment you endanger the village.” Her eyes narrowed.

In a single instant, she seemed less like a genial young woman and more like a feral hunter. Eerie laughter cackled in the air. Or maybe, it was just my imagination.

Mavari hissed. “You do not intend to bring harm to this village, do you?”

“I do not.”

Her expression relaxed. She backed away without another word and vanished around the corner.

I entered the hut. Someone had indeed visited in my absence to kindle the fire, lay fresh beddings, and leave a warm pot of soup. I dove first for the soup, unbothered to learn its contents.

A full stomach allowed me to focus once more on the matter of spirit orbs. I had ten of them—rewarded by the Origin quest—which I couldn’t access. The timer had run down to thirteen hours, a count that would put me in dire straits by the time I awoke.

I yawned at the ceiling. “I don't suppose it is possible to request that quest rewards land directly in my pockets?”

No reply.

“Figured as much.”

I lay on the bedding. Sleep proved elusive, dancing just beyond my grasp. The events of the day hammered over my head. They brought along an unnatural chill that left me shivering beneath the blanket. Warm sweat beaded my forehead.

I had been running on autopilot ever since my time as a homunculus, doing my best to survive one disaster after another. I'd made it this far by sheer force of will, but the battles for my life were far from over.

The damned timer blinked behind my eyelids, haunting me even in my dreams.

Time left till next ingestion: 13:04:28.