Hot breath escaped lips on a fridged morning, a frost-covered field silent and pure. Steam billowed from the rapidly cooling sweat that clung to the skin of twelve men. They stood hands on knees; some knelt clinging to the sword they had planted in the permafrost. They wore no armor, just loose fur, and their swords dyed crimson. Bodies began to appear at their feet and across the field; blood poured from wounds turning the trampled and packed snow red. The twelve men walked through the bodies and limbs. The red consumed everything.

John tossed in his sleep, groaning something unintelligible.

Twelve men sat in shadow around a large ornate circular table. A light shone down, illuminating all but the edge of the table; beyond was darkness. Only one hand of each man was visible as they held them on the table. Some of the hands were adorned by leather wraps, some by gauntlets, one by cloth, and two lay bare. One by one, the other hand of each man was revealed as it drove a knife through the hand on the table. Shredded leather, torn metal, pierced flesh, each of the hands bled, but not a sound was uttered from the twelve men. The blood fell into channels and filled the table — a tattoo formed on each of the hands holding the knives. The pommel of a sword appeared first, traveling up their two middle fingers, the hilt appeared across their knuckles and the blade traveled mid-way up their forearm. The red consumed everything.

John tossed again more fitfully as he rolled one of the axes in his waistband dug deeply into his thigh. He stayed locked in his dream state, unaware of the crimson pool forming beneath him.

Twelve men stood atop a hill, a massive city built onto a lone mountain behind them. In front lay an army of demons. Bohemoths standing seventy feet tall roared, and the horde of screaming, shrieking demons charged forth like a wave. Their clawed feet tore up the ground and the drum of millions of legs hammering the ground shook the earth. One of the men stepped forward and buried his sword deep into the ground; as he gripped the hilt, a palpable wave of power burst from within him and a massive blue translucent shield began to grow and expand from his position it split the earth and sky as it erected a vast dome around the city. The eleven other men stepped forward, melding through the dome, and began a massacre. With each swing of the sword, dozens of demons fell, red arcs of electricity crackled along blades, and blue spectral warriors appeared from thin air, taking out entire swathes of the demon wave, but one by one, the eleven men fell. As the dust cleared and the demons all turned to the city. Only a crater was left. Twelve miles across and a mile down into the earth, nothing was left. The blood left on the battlefield spilled into the massive bowl, and the red consumed everything.

John sat bolt upright, a searing pain in his arm tearing him from sleep. A thick cloud of steam hung inside the tent, and a sticky substance lined the floor; John burst from the hot steaming tent out into the crisp morning air gripping his arm. Monk stood from the stump he had been sitting on.

“John,” he said. “Are you okay what's going on?”

John hit his knees and inspected his arm, which felt like it was on fire. A dark black marking had appeared; it was the sword he had seen in his dreams. Up his middle and ring finger across his knuckles and across his forearm. The pain slowly faded as he knelt, looking at the marking.

“John,” Monk said again with a touch of amazement. “Stand up and look at me.”

John stood and turned to the enormous man who was staring holes through him. John suddenly realized he wasn’t craning his neck as far back as he had yesterday. His eyes widened and he looked down at himself. His thin arms, legs, and torso were gone, replaced by well-defined muscles. Rather than a titan like Monk, who likely carried a solid three hundred or so pounds of muscle, John stood a solid six inches taller at approximately six and half feet and had filled out with a statuesque physique. He flexed his arms, admiring the chorded muscle.

“Fuckin hell, Monk! I look like an Olympian. I’m huge too!” He bent and stretched his legs; he laughed, jumping around.

Monk raised an eyebrow at the man, who still stood nearly seven feet shorter than himself. “I don’t know what an Olympian is,” he said, sounding the unfamiliar word out. “But to my eyes, you look like a warrior, and the mark on your arm confirms that as well. It seems you have awoken some kind of bloodline.”

“Bloodline?” John asked quizzically

“Yes, bloodlines are a bit difficult to explain because there are many different types of them. There are four groups of bloodlines; the first is a born bloodline. Born bloodlines are birthed within the body through hardship and adversity; the people who birth these bloodlines range in power from the weakest to some of the most devastating they are the first of their line and may pass on their bloodline to their future progeny. The second type is a direct bloodline. These belong to the directly descended of the born bloodline users. The third is a system-granted bloodline; many wielders of these are quite powerful but there are strange drawbacks that the system uses as a way of balancing it’s worlds. I think it is safe to say that as you have no access to the system, number three is out. Your home world has no magic and you were very frail, so we can probably count the first and second out as well. This leaves the fourth as the only real possibility; an anointed bloodline. The anointed bloodlines are indisputably the most powerful. Very little is known about them on Herjalt because of our situation. From the scraps of information the system gives, the general consensus is that anointed bloodlines are granted by someone currently living who thinks you will carry on their legacy.”

“Hmm,” John mumbled, sitting down in the grass. “I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why would anyone choose me?”

“Someone has seen something in you, John. Do not worry; I have no doubt you will become a man worthy of being the inheritor of this bloodline.”

John sighed and looked up at the sky; the small clearing of trees that led up to the great blue expanse was beautiful. Wispy clouds floated high in the sky; the normalcy of the scene brought a sense of peace to John.

Things might be finally looking up. I hope Monk will stay after we reach Valorwood. He is knowledgeable, and if I had to pick allies, he would be on my list.

Taking a deep breath, he looked at Monk, who was still staring at him. The massive bear of a man gave him a wry grin.“I think we will run the rest of the way to Valorwood today.” He said, laughing as John’s face fell.

Monk tossed him a small snack pack filled with dried berries and then began to break down their camp.

“I have already eaten breakfast; eat quickly while I pack these things away, and we will head for our destination.”

John stuffed the whole sack worth of dried berries into his mouth and chewed; simultaneously, he grabbed the pot and scattered the ashes of the previous night's fire. Stuffing the pot and spoon into the bag of holding, he picked it up and held it for Monk to put the neatly rolled tents in. The tents went in quickly, and he tossed the large man his bag. Quickly stretching out his legs once again, he did a few hops and jogged after Monk, who was already leaving the clearing. As he approached, the large man sinched his bag tightly to his chest and began to jog as well. Matching John’s speed, he said, “I will gradually up our pace; let me know when you reach a comfortable stride.”

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John laughed and nodded; the pair ran faster until the trees whipped by. As the pair settled into a comfortable stride, he realized he had more to give. Moving like this felt great, and he was eager to test his new potential. John whooped and sprinted ahead, moving faster than he ever thought possible. He was so elated that when he burst from the treeline and onto a dirt road, he couldn't stop. Feet sliding, John slammed full force into the side of an enormous wagon drawn by two very large ant-eaters. John’s torso and face impacted the wagon's side in between the wheels hard, and he felt several boards crack. The sudden disparity between the momentum of his upper and lower body sent him tumbling through the underside of the wagon end over end to stop roughly in the brush on the other side of the road.

“Ughh,” He groaned, spitting dirt and grass from his mouth.

“Bandits! Bandits!” A strident voice shouted, “We are under attack!”

John looked up to where the wagon had rolled to a stop. It was a vast unruly thing. As large as an eighteen-wheeler’s trailer, it had six wheels and was built entirely of wood. There were small round glass windows along the top of the wagon, and a rusty metal chimney coughed out gray smoke from the top. The door on the back of the trailer burst open and three half-armored lizard dog creatures with tufted feathers came funneling out; they skittered and scurried around the wagon on three legs carrying a spear in their free hand. They set about looking for the attackers for a full minute before they stopped and stood on their hind legs. One with blueish-tinted scales and white feathers scampered up to the front of the wagon.

“I see no bandits, Half-tail; where are they?” It shouted up.

Monk chose that moment to burst from the treeline; suddenly, the little creatures were a flurry of movement; they ran up to the mountainous man pointing their spears at him.

“You, giant man, we do not like bandits; turn away now. We will not let you take our goods.”

Monk laughed and gently swept away the three spears. “I am no bandit kobolds. Lower your pointed sticks; I will speak to your matron,” He said.

The three creatures scampered back into the trailer, and Monk walked over.

“Are you alright?” He asked, offering his hand.

John held out his own and was pulled from the brush. Monk brushed an uprooted weed from John’s hair and laughed. “I am impressed with your speed but now you know why I did not increase our pace; you will need time to acclimate to your new strength. I will help you as I can, but you will have to find many of your new bloodline’s quirks on your own. In the future, be cautious of how you move and how much strength you use in daily tasks. Rapidly gained power can often hurt the people around you even if you don't intend to. Aside from that, many of the people in this world will still far outpower you, so don't let your head grow too much. I do not want to see your death count grow if you can avoid it. You do not know when the next death will be your last, so use caution.”

John nodded soberly. “You are right, Monk I got carried away, and I appreciate you setting me straight.”

“It is good to find enjoyment, but that must come with a wary disposition, as you have already come to realize this world is dangerous and unforgiving.”

Someone behind Monk cleared their throat, and they both looked over. A four-foot-tall Kobold stood in the road holding a small wooden cane. Its scales were a bright green that belied the age of the creature. The robe it wore was a bright orange that matched it’s feathers; John could somehow tell she was a female because of the feather patterns. The long tufts of feathers started at the crown of her head and went down to her shoulders, where the males who had been scampering about had tufts of hair on their jawlines, chests, and upper arms.

“Mon-Kanger, it has been some time. What are you doing this far west of the Wraserat mountains?”

Monk’s face lit up with a bright smile, “Mama Kreb!” He stooped down and picked the woman up in a big hug.

“Put me down, you oversized oaf,” She wheezed, whacking his ribs with her cane. John smirked as the tiny woman nearly disappeared into Monk’s arms.

The massive man set the old kobold down and said. “I had thought you dead! You never returned to the Wraserats.”

“What do you mean, boy? I missed two seasons because of the snow, and then I returned to find you and your den gone.”

Monk's face fell, and before he could say anything, she slapped his shin with her cane. “I already know; fel-bardin told me of your den’s fate. That old pot was quite sour you didn’t come to speak to him before you left.”

Monk snorted. “That old pot is a year younger than me, Mama Kreb.”

“Yes, well you long-lived races are quite blessed. You are what, one hundred and eighty-six? Eighty-seven? I will finish my ninetieth year this summer, but my time is nearly upon me. I have lived a good life though my levels stretched me out sixty years past when most of my kind usually kick it. Enough about us, though; who is this elf that goes around breaking my poor old wagon?”

Monk started to say something but the old Kobald cut him off with a wave of her hand and turned to John with an inquiring sparkle in her eye. John’s eyes widened, “I am so sorry, Mama Kreb I wasn’t watching where I was going and I couldn't stop.”

Monk laughed and interjected, “He is just a cub learning his strengths; I assure you he meant your wagon no ill will.”

“Hmph, well, I suppose you’ll just have to pay for the damages then.” She said, turning to her wagon.

Johns's mouth dropped open and he looked to Monk pleadingly. The giant bastard was purposely looking away from where John stood and Mama Kreb noticed. She scampered over far faster than her years should allow and began to repeatedly whack Monk’s knees with her knarled cane.

“You claim responsibility for his actions yet leave the boy out to dry when I make demands of him? Your father taught you better Mon-Kanger!” She shouted at the much older, much larger man.

Monk boisterously laughed as he danced away from the small yet surprisingly spry old woman. “What is it you want, Mama Kreb? I know full well your boys are already fixing the cracked planks. You don’t take handouts either, so what is it you require of me?”

“Valorwood was attacked; there are still Drow and a great monster in the bowels of the town. They seek a way to breach the stronghold.” She replied, her features becoming less playful and more stern. “My youngest son stayed behind as we left, saying he would help the people in the stronghold. He is a fool, but a mother must know when to let go. He had that look in his eye. The same one you had when you were made gaffer of the den. The look that says. “I dare the world to try.” So I let him go.”

She looked to Monk and then to John. “You two are headed there, aren’t you?” She asked, eyes narrowing. John and Monk both nodded mutely. “Make sure my boy doesn’t die, I know I will likely never see him again. So you two.” She paused, pointing the cane at them. “You two make sure he gets strong. And tell him his mother loves him and she is proud of him.” Tears had come to her eyes. She quickly turned from the men wiping away the signs of the deep care she held for her son.

“We will, Mama Kreb, and may the last of your days be the best of them, old friend,” Monk said with a bit of fire in his words.

“I will do my best, ma’am,” John said, feeling a bit out of place in the solemn atmosphere.

The matron nodded, not turning back as she climbed back into the wagon. The other Kobolds scurried up the ladder into the wagon as well; only the last in line stopped at the door turning back to John and Monk; he nodded at the two of them and swung the door shut. Moments later, the wagon rolled down the road away from Valorwood.

“Let’s go,” Monk said and the pair kicked up a cloud of dust as they ran towards the space cruiser only a few miles down the well-trodden road.