He had dried blood all down his face like warpaint. Cillian’s body was still pleasantly warm from the portal, and his cuts on his cheek were completely closed, but when he nudged at them, he could still feel the keloids. Unpleasant, but he would have to work with what he had. Ah, when he got out of here, he was going to look so different. Would Jeremy even recognize him? His dad wouldn’t, but his dad hadn’t spoken to him in six years, so that was irrelevant.

The portal had taken him into the ruins of an ancient city that was completely overgrown with a forest. It seemed to stretch on forever, with crumbling brick and flowers growing out of the grout, and he already had a bad feeling about this. There was something discomforting about the place, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on---

No birds, he realized.

Not a single chirp of a bird, and he didn’t like that, not in the slightest. Already, his hand had gone clammy on his hatchet, and he swallowed thickly against his swollen tongue. It probably wasn’t really swollen, but it felt heavy in his mouth.

“Nothing’s here,” he mumbled and switched hands with his hatchet to wipe his palm on his pants. Nothing was here at all, and he didn’t like that, not one bit.

Attention.

The level will now begin.

Cillian braced, expecting something to happen like last time, but the silence only stretched out further. Oh, no, no, no, he was liking this less and less.

Bonus objectives: forget the hatchet, since you seem to be unhappy with it anyways. You have the strength of heroes. Kill three opponents with your bare hands.

“What, do you think I’m some kind of animal?!” he demanded. “How am I supposed to do tha---”

The branches on the trees shuddered with a low growl that had every hair on his body standing up against all odds despite the mud and sweat and blood. Cillian froze, his eyes wide in horror, and slowly turned his head back to look at his opponent.

Perched on the top of a dilapidated wall was a cat. Not like a house cat, no. This cat was massive, bigger than a tiger, with black fur and fangs longer than his forearm. Blue, piercing eyes had his knees locked, and he stumbled to take a step back.

The cat was emaciated, he realized first when his brain kicked back into gear. Ribs protruding from its sides, hips pronounced, skin sagging at the neck where it had lost muscle mass. One fang was broken, and when its lips peeled back, he could see rot at the pink gums. It was starving, he realized, and he felt…

How could he kill that? With his bare hands? No, no, he couldn’t do that. It was starving. They really wanted him to beat up a half starved cat?

“Hey kitty,” he said and backed up slightly, hand raised in a peaceable gesture. “Item box.”

The cat growled lowly and paced along the wall, and the item box flickered into existence, and he clicked on the meat.

“Just hold on,” he said, because he wasn’t going to kill this thing while it was on an empty stomach. That just seemed cruel.

The cat growled louder, and he quickly tapped at the bar and pulled out the hunk of salamander meat. He was supposed to eat that, but…

“Here,” he said, and tossed the slab out so it landed in the grass.

The cat froze, and so did Cillian. There was a sense of confusion on both ends as the cat looked down at the meat and back at Cillian, and Cillian looked down at the meat and back at the cat. A long, deliberate silence spilled out, and then the cat hopped down from the wall, crouching low to the ground. Its tail swished across the grass, cutting through it with what he realized was a razor barb on the end of it, and Cillian briefly imagined that slashing across his throat.

He could die so fast.

“It’s okay, buddy,” he said and slowly backed up a bit more with his hands raised in surrender. “Just… just take it. I’m not fighting you hungry.”

The cat slunk forward, still growling, and paused over the hunk of meat. It sniffed, once, twice, licked it, and looked up at him with suspicious eyes. Cillian stared back at it with a wary gaze, and then…

And then the cat took the meat in its mouth and bolted through the long grass and rubble, making a line before it disappeared.

Just like that, it was gone, and Cillian fell back on his ass as he let out a long, trembling breath.

He was alive. Okay. Okay, that was good, yes? He was alive.

But…

Kill three with your bare hands.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

That’s what the objective said, which meant there were more, and he was fresh out of meat. Shit. He didn’t want…

Cillian believed in kindness above anything else, and he knew these… these cats weren’t real. He knew that. But he was a gentle person. Through all of the hell he had been through, through all of the struggles and shortcomings and personal failings, he had never stopped believing in kindness and compassion. Sometimes, it was only that that kept him alive.

“I hate this,” he said out loud and slumped down to sit on the long grass. The eerily silent world seemed to watch him with eyes he couldn’t see, and he stared down at the bloodstained hatchet in his hands, turned it over to examine the smooth handle, the shine of the edge of the blade. “I really hate this.”

He had always known people didn’t come out of the Tower the same. It was probably unavoidable. But he didn’t…

“For the first time in my life, I actually liked myself,” he whimpered, and tears sprung to his eyes. That was right. Even if he was pathetic, and weak, and incapable of living life on his own terms, he had liked himself. He had well and truly liked himself.

Cillian watched as a red-stained tear landed on his knee. He wiped at it, smearing his own blood across his face, up to his temple, and took a deep, shaky breath.

There was no changing it. This Tower was going to change him fundamentally, down to his very bones, his soul, and he would have to learn how to like himself again. If he had done it once, he could do it again, right?

Cillian sniffled and wiped again, forcing himself to his feet. First… the sun was high in the sky. He had no idea how long this dungeon would take, since he had only been approached once, but the other dungeons had passed suspiciously quickly. This one would probably take longer. So, he should make his way through these ruins and find shelter first. That’s what he would have a main character do if he was writing this.

He had spent a lot of time holed up in his apartment, but he kind of wished he had someone to talk to right now. That would make things a hell of a lot easier. It felt too lonely, too quiet.

Gathering up his courage, he started making his way through the long, tall grass. The basics of hunting were coming back to him, and he started watching for tracks in the ground.

“Dad, why can’t you take me hunting?” Cillian demanded, his hair pulled back so tight the beginning signs of traction alopecia were showing, a heavy pout on his lips, and Dad sighed as he finished pulling on his shoes.

“Because I don’t want you hunting,” Dad replied and started tying his shoes with that familiar air of ‘this is such a bother’.

“Because I’m a girl?!” Cillian demanded, and Dad looked up to stare at him with sad eyes.

“Because as much as you think you’re a little badass, you’re a gentle soul,” Dad replied and stood up, patted Cillian on the head, and grabbed his jacket. “Go get your backpack. You’re going to be late for school.”

“I’m not gentle!” Cillian shouted and promptly stomped on Dad’s foot. “See! I can do that!”

“That wasn’t very nice, kiddo. You should apologize.”

“Well, you should apologize for telling lies!”

“Alright. Fine. You’re a little badass. Will you apologize for stepping on my foot now?”

“... Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Great. Go get your backpack, please.”

In hindsight, Cillian had been such a brat as a child. He didn’t remember much from his hunting lessons, when he finally convinced his dad to fold and teach him, but he remembered enough to check for tracks and marks of passage. Some were more obvious, and some were not. But, he could see bits of flattened grass here and there, some broken twigs, but there wasn’t much else. All the paw prints put directly in bits and pieces of mud were of the same animal, and looking around for evidence of other life yielded no results.

It was like the cats were the only beasts here, and the lack of birds, insects, anything, spoke to complete devastation to an ecosystem.

He didn’t like this, but there was a positive. The further he got into the city, the less evidence there was of the cats. Everything was pristine and undisturbed, completely overgrown, but alive and thriving. Though he had to wonder how pollination worked without any bugs or rodents whatsoever. There wasn’t even a hint of wind. Overall, in his opinion, this was very bad game design, and entirely unrealistic to the real world.

The problem with the lack of other animals was that he had nothing left to hunt but the cats. That was a very, very big concern.

The closer he got to the center of the city, the more it was left intact. Buildings had more form, some ceilings were left in place, walls were sturdier and less crumbly. It was still very obviously an ancient, abandoned city, but it was intact.

And, then, he found it.

Cillian came to a stop before a great, broken entryway. It seemed to be some kind of holy place, an old cathedral, with arches and shattered stained glass. In the center of it, through broken cobblestone, was a massive, twisted tree that reached up through the ceiling, with shafts of light dappling through the leaves. It was blossoming with deep red flowers, with a coating of them on the floor, and Cillian found it difficult to breathe as he stared at it.

There was a sense of serenity here.

Congratulations!

You have discovered the Holy Tree!

Would you like to receive its blessings?

Y/N?

Oh, this was a stopping point. Okay. Blessings didn’t seem too bad…

Julius Strange has requested to accompany you.

Y/N?

Irritably, Cillian dismissed the pop-up, and hit ‘yes’ on the blessing.

That was a mistake. Immediately. Pain ricocheted through his body, and a scream broke through his lips as his vision went white hot. Cillian seized up, falling to his knees, and in less than two seconds, he was nothing more than a lump on the ground.

The last coherent thought was maybe… just maybe… he should have told Julius yes.