22. The Man Who Speaks English

Now I am frozen in shock, on top of being frozen by magic.

The impulse to rush down Vampire Man and save Belpha is gone, replaced by the crippling need to know. To understand what is happening and why it’s happening. And here is a man who seems to know things and speaks my language.

I try to speak and communicate my desire to know the things this man knows. Can’t. My vocal cords are just as frozen as the rest of my body, by magic rather than in shock.

Now I’m annoyed on top of being deathly curious. Why ask me a question, then leave me with no ability to answer it? And if you’re gonna do the whole rhetorical question thing, at least make it something more relatable and, well, rhetorical!

Oblivious or indifferent to my racing thoughts, Vampire Man strolls over to me, hands behind his back, and starts pacing around me in a circle. In my immobile state, I can’t track the man’s movements, but I can feel the academic inquisitiveness of his gaze all the same. He’s got the air of someone examining a painting in a museum, except he’s also got the requisite expertise to say something smart and sophisticated about the piece.

And just like any expert museum-goer, he doesn’t need the painting to talk back to him. He doesn’t let me speak because he’s not interested in what I have to say. Even if it’s an answer to his own question.

Fair enough, I suppose. Not like I could say anything useful or illuminating in response. All I can offer are more questions of my own.

“Curious… most curious…” Vampire Man mutters as he continues to pace, probably more for his own benefit than mine. A sophisticated man in love with the sound of his own sophisticated voice. “Clearly of Utsushi stock, yet you’ve somehow stumbled your way into Malikor. Right on the doorsteps of the Malika herself, of all people. It’s almost as if—”

The man stops both his muttering and pacing at the same time, just on the edge of my peripheral vision. I can’t see him, yet somehow, I can picture his facial expression perfectly. Cyanotic lips curling into a knowing sneer. A bad and powerful man who understands things enough to come up with a dastardly plan on the spot.

While Vampire Man inspects me, I’m over here trying to analyze him in turn.

Clearly of Elven stock, yet you’ve somehow covered yourself in Big Bad flags. The accent is hard to place—a bit similar to the woman in my dreams, but also not quite. The closest real-world example I can think of is… a Korean soccer player speaking English in a German accent. That’s a real thing. Look it up.

I’m rudely interrupted in my analysis when I feel a slight increase to the weight in my hands. Eventually, Vampire Man moves back into my visual field, enough for me to see that he’s now shifted his focus onto the STSG, eyeing it with naked curiosity while running his bony hand over its blade.

“And this is your Relik, hm? An ever-expanding repository of crude violence. Just the kind of frivolous nonsense your kind are wont to conjure up.”

Conjure up? I didn’t do no conjuring. I woke up with the damn thing already in my hand!

“I do wonder, however, if you’ve got what it takes to bring out its full potential. The safest assumption, of course, is that you’ll go the way of all the other Reliken before you. Utsushi origin or no, a power of this magnitude is no simple thing for a—”

“Get… your hand… off my sword.”

Vampire Man stops his sword-’mirin and looks up at me, his sneer now broken up by a modicum of surprise. I’m no less shocked by the sound of my own voice, but right now, I’m driven by a far bigger impulse than surprise.

“Get… your own sword. This one… is mine.”

The man stares at me for a second, sunken eyes widening and resurfacing. He then breaks out in uproarious laughter.

His laugh is jarringly shrill, and grating on the senses. I’d wince if my muscles would let me. When the laughter mercifully ends, Vampire Man’s gaunt face is a picture of ill health mixed with sheer delight.

He reaches with a bony hand toward something at the base of my neck. I’d flinch if my muscles would let me, but right now, all I can do is brace myself for something nasty and painful.

No pain. No nastiness (at least not anything I can feel). Instead, I hear the rustle of leather and fabric being shifted around, along with something plastic falling out of my chest.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

“Mars Carver,” Vampire Man says, squinting at something in his hand.

It’s my photo ID. There’s literally no reason for me to keep wearing it, other than out of a sense of connection to my former plane of existence. It, along with my Hanes boxer briefs are the only objects that survived my transference to Malikor, and right now, I’m just glad Vampire Man hasn’t decided to pull down my pants.

Plus, the photo ID just allowed me to learn that Vampire Man can read English on top of speaking it. Not sure how useful that information is, but it’s something, I guess.

“Mars Carver,” the man says again, slower this time, as if he’s savoring the taste of the words on his lips. That is kind of nasty, and I’d shudder if my muscles would let me. “I’ll remember the name. If only for me to see if others will do the same.”

Vampire Man lets go of my lanyard, then makes to turn around and leave.

As you might imagine, I’m caught in two minds. First, the relief that this powerful and clearly evil weirdo is finally leaving me and Belpha alone. And second, the absolute panic that my only intelligible source of lore and information is about to leave me, having answered a grand total of zero of my questions.

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” The man stops mid-turn. I think to myself, that’s right, at least unfreeze me before you go.

But then the man, in one smooth motion, reaches his bony hand back toward my chest and shoves it in there.

No, that is not a metaphor. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but he’s doing it. I can feel Vampire Man’s spindly fingers crawling around inside my chest cavity and snaking their way through the anatomy contained therein.

What in the everloving fuck is this shit?

It’s not even pain that I feel. Just… an overwhelming sense of invasion. Not really of privacy, but more an invasion of my very sense of self.

Vampire Man rummages around inside my chest for several seconds that feel like eons. He does so with a perfectly neutral expression—one of academic disinterest. Then his fingers stop, evidently having found what they were looking for.

He then proceeds to mumble something under his breath. I strain to hear it, before realizing that it’s wasted effort. Whatever Vampire Man is mumbling now, it’s in Malik-Ennar, and I can’t catch or understand a single word of it.

“There,” he eventually says, switching back to English for my sake. What a gentleman. When he slides his hand back out of my chest (ugh!), I can see that it’s perfectly clean and dry—free of blood or organ bits or any of the gunk you’d expect to accumulate from digging around inside someone’s living, breathing chest.

“In the interest of expediency, I’ll leave you with something of an explanation.”

Vampire Man goes on, now clearly addressing me and expecting me to listen. Only listen.

“What I’ve just applied to you is what the Portallen call a [Contract] spell. It’s exactly what it sounds like. You now have 90 days to uphold your end of the bargain, or face the consequences for a breach of contract. In this case, I’ve set that to death. You have 90 days to honor your contract, or you will perish. In this or any other plane of existence you may have ever lain claim to. It’s not that I’m particularly interested in you dying, Mars Carver. It’s just, over the years, I’ve found this is the simplest way to motivate someone to perform their task.”

Somehow, I take all this in with a calmness that belies the import of what I’m hearing. It’s almost like I’d expected something like this since the moment a man was able to dig around in my chest without the context of open-heart surgery.

This the best you can do, Isekai? Where’s the drop? But… I am also genre-aware enough to know that the drop is coming, fast and hard.

“And lucky for you, Mars Carver, the task is also a simple one,” Vampire Man announces with all the air of someone who genuinely believes they’re giving good news. “You have 90 days to kill Leto Iriden, the Princess and Heir Apparent to the Malikor throne. 90 days to kill the Malika, and failing that, you’ll be the one to die.”

And there it is. Now I’m frozen in horror, on top of being frozen in shock.

“Simple, but not an easy task, I’ll grant you, given her position in society and her own passing competence as a Portallen. But that’s what makes this a good test, isn’t it? Show your worth, Mars Carver. Show that you have what it takes to leave your mark on this world, unlike all the other Reliken that failed before you.”

With that, Vampire Man abruptly turns and leaves, this time not stopping to remember One More Thing ™. The fog—that Silent Hill shit—reappears in an instant, visibility toggle switched on. The man disappears into the fog, and soon after that, the fog too dissipates—slowly, like how real fog should behave.

My muscles too gradually regain their use. The first thing that gives are my arms, exhausted from the strain of holding up a claymore all this time. Then my knees buckle and I stumble, having to catch myself by digging the STSG into the ground.

At the same time, Belpha the Tiefling too stirs, groggily, as if waking from a nap that’d been longer than intended. She sits up, looks about her with uncharacteristic confusion, then immediately shoots to her feet at the sight of me, shield and halberd at the ready.

She says a few stern words in Malik-Ennar, and I have neither the strength nor the inclination to respond. Her mistrust for me, so soon after we’d just fought back-to-back so valiantly, does sting a bit.

It stings, but I can also understand it. After all… I’m the Reliken Nadira Apados. The man who’s now contract-bound to kill the Princess.