Chapter 7: No Choice but Forward

  And like that, our journey began.

  We followed the trail south, heading back toward Mosswood Hollow. Bromm walked about fifteen paces ahead, his sharp eyes scanning the ground. Every so often, he would kneel, flipping over logs, peering beneath rocks—searching for something.

  Then—

  “Arthur, come look,” he called, motioning me over with a flick of his hand.

  As I approached, I saw that he had turned over a log and was carefully shading a small patch of growth with his palm. Delicate, faintly luminescent fungi clung to the damp wood, their caps shimmering in the dim light.

  “This,” Bromm said, voice laced with approval, “is Glimmergill Bloom.” He reached for his knife, expertly cutting a section free. “Crush it fine, and it releases a potent healing compound. This stuff can save your life out here in the Hollow.”

  He held it up between his fingers, turning it slightly. Even in the daylight, the caps pulsed with a soft, otherworldly glow. “It blooms under moonlight,” he added, tucking the sample into my palm. “That’s when it’s at its strongest. The glow makes it easier to find at night.”

  He straightened, turning the log back over with care before handing me the small bundle of fungi.

  “Here you go, lad. Put it in yer pack.” I took it, carefully tucking it away. “Lesson one of surviving the Hollow: pay attention to what thrives in the dark.”

  I don’t know why—why now, why this very second—but it hit me like I’d just been T-boned by a Tractor Trailer. This is happening. This is my life. I looked up, my thoughts spinning. “So what now? I have to grind out Alchemy before I even get a damn professional trainer?”

  Bromm glanced up, brows furrowing. "Well... aye. Kind of? Ya’ already know about potion brewin’?" I just stared at him. Of course. Of course, that was his answer.

  “No, you don’t get it. I—” I exhaled sharply, trying to grasp the words. “Yes, I know what potion brewing is, but in my world, it’s... make-believe. Fantasy. It’s just…video games.”

  “Video games?” Bromm repeated, his frown deepening. “What’s that?”

  I groaned. “It’s... not something that’s really gonna come in handy.” I dragged a hand down my face. “And besides, I wasn’t even good at it in a video game. And that wasn’t life or death..” The words started spilling out before I could stop them. “I worked as an IT support tech. I was just a lazy 25-year-old who played video games now and again and sometimes got enough motivation from YouTube videos to go to the gym. I am just... an average guy. This is—”

  —SLAP.

  The sound cracked through the air like a damn gunshot. Pain bloomed across my cheek. My head snapped sideways. I blinked. Veldrin stood before me, hand still raised, eyes gleaming with unhinged intensity.

  “What the hell?!” I sputtered, stumbling back.

  “Enough of that,” he declared, shaking out his wrist like slapping me had been some kind of noble duty.

  “I…what?”

  “You were summoned across realms. You can see between worlds. You have defied fate, reality, and quite frankly, my patience. You are not average, and I will not stand here and listen to you whimper about it like some milk-drunk babe.”

  He sniffed, folding his arms. “Now, are you going to keep sulking, or are you going to learn how to survive?”

  I gawked at him. Bromm let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Well… I’d say ya’ deserved that one.”

  Bob? Bob just snorted. Hard. Like he agreed.

  Instead of rushing the absolute insane mage for slapping me, it…it made me laugh. At first, it was just a chuckle, half-disbelieving. Then it grew until I was grinning like an idiot, shoulders shaking, full-on laughing. I laughed for a long while. Because…he was right, wasn’t he? What else could I do? I was here, this was happening. No amount of denial or logic was going to change that. That slap? It wasn’t just a slap—it was a wake-up call. A blunt, painful, ridiculous slap of reality. This was my reality now. No more respawns. No pause menu. No quitting out and reloading an old save. And I knew it wasn’t an illusion. Because that slap hurt like hell. But you know what? My last life? Regret after regret. I never even had the chance to set things right. Never had the time, the drive, or maybe just the guts to change anything. But now? Now, here it was. My wake-up call. A fresh slate. A second chance. And I wasn’t about to waste it.

  As we walked, I found myself asking more about the world I’d been thrust into. It was called Selion, and the continent I was standing on? Drakmora. Elunara had mentioned it offhand, but hearing it again from Bromm and Veldrin made it feel more real, more… grounded. To the south of Mosswood Hollow lay Lunareth, a kingdom that, from what I gathered, was both a sprawling territory and the name of the massive city at its heart. Lunareth wasn’t compact—it grew naturally, with buildings and walkways integrated seamlessly into the trees, as though the city had simply sprouted in place. The people lived healthy, strong lives, taking immense pride in their work, no matter how large or small. Humans, Gnomes, Dwarves, Elves, and even Tauren called Lunareth home living in harmony and purpose.

  The Ashen Peaks lay west of the Hollow, situated directly in the center of the continent, making it a constant point of reference. The peaks were known for being a Perpetual Storm Zone where continuous dark clouds roamed overhead, with lightning storms that never fully ceased and acidic rain that scarred the rocks below. Few dared to traverse them, for the storms never dissipated and the place felt as dangerous as it was desolate. Yet, despite the danger, the Ashen Peaks were seen as a geographic landmark, marking the center of Drakmora and helping people orient themselves within the vast continent.

  I wanted to keep going. I had so many questions, so-so many, but before I could ask anything further, a low, unmistakable rumbling growl started to fill the quiet air. It was Bob. What happened next occurred in the span of three seconds.

  Bromm had already unshouldered his musket, in a half-ready position. Veldrin stood firm, eyes locked ahead, his palm up, fingers extended. A shimmer flickered at the edge of his fingertips, distorting the air like heat rising from stone. Bob had dropped into a low ready stance, facing forward. I heard whispers all around me, too faint to make out but they crawled under my skin, sending a chill down my spine. Then, I saw them, and my heart dropped—shit.

  Out of the brush came skeletal figures, half plant and half undead. Grotesque nightmares made flesh. They had no legs, just writhing vines and twisted bones, crawling with an unsettling speed. Their movements were erratic, twitching and staggering as they closed in on us. Bromm made the first move. He shouted, “Wither Ghouls!” and raised his musket, firing. The first ghoul was torn apart, twitching but immobile. Another lunged at Bromm as he reloaded, but Bob charged in, goring the creature and flinging it aside.

  Whatever Veldrin had been preparing finally finished, the air around his hand distorted, rippling in waves. With a flick of his wrist, a sphere of swirling flames shot forward, erupting into a blistering wave of fire that engulfed the ghouls in fiery tendrils.

  Only one remained. It reached Bromm, raising an elongated claw to swipe. Bromm didn't flinch. He swung his axe in a smooth arc, cutting through the ghoul’s arm before following through with a powerful strike to its skull. The creature staggered back, twitching violently before collapsing, its lifeless form finally still.

  No more than three seconds. That’s all it took for Veldrin, Bromm, and Bob to dispatch those horrors. And me? I was paralyzed, just standing there, frozen in place. I was in way over my head, and that realization hit me like a ton of bricks. As Bromm retrieved his axe from the skull of the Wither Ghoul, he gave a grunt of effort, a wet splat, and it came loose.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "You’ll get used to them," he said casually, sheathing his axe. "They're pretty common out here in the Hollow."

  Pretty common... Those words echoed in my mind. What was uncommon? I was too afraid to ask. I hadn’t even fully processed what they were before Bromm had already taken the first one down. How could something like that be so common that the people here didn’t even flinch?

  I looked at Veldrin “Hey Veldrin, that was magic wasn’t it? What were you doing with your hands before your spell?”

  Veldrin turned to me, an almost pitying look on his face. "That was mana." He gestured vaguely, as if that alone should explain everything. "Wielding it means bending reality to your will, controlling the elements, shaping them like clay. But clay is simple. Mana? Mana is a wild, living thing. You don’t just throw it around like a barbarian with an axe. No, no, no. It’s an art."

  He flexed his fingers, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Your mind is the brush, and every spell is a masterpiece waiting to be painted. The stronger the spell, the finer the strokes, the steadier the hand. And if you smudge the lines? If you rush? If someone so much as sneezes while you’re concentrating—" He made a sudden poof motion with his fingers. "Gone. Useless. Or worse, catastrophic. Years of practice to master even the simplest spell, and under pressure? Triple that. Swordplay? Hah! Try shaping a storm with your bare hands and see how long you last before it rips you apart."

  Actual magic—now I had some interest in that. How could you not, coming from a world where there is none? But it seemed out of reach with how Veldrin described it. Maybe I would be better off focusing on something that doesn’t require so much patience. However, it would seem like a waste to not at least try.

  “Hey, Veldrin,” I said, leaning back against a tree. “Think you could teach me? Or at least show me how to control mana?”

  Veldrin exhaled—a long, theatrical hiss and leaned against a nearby trunk, idly twirling his dagger like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. “Teach you?” he said, voice low and dripping with disdain. “Control mana? Lad, it’s not some tavern trick—like skinning a rabbit or sweet-talking a barmaid.”

  He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like a knife’s edge. “Magic’s a gift. Selion chooses who gets it—whispers to a lucky few and lets them shape it, bend it. Not everyone’s born with the spark, and you?” He flicked the dagger, pointing it briefly at me before spinning it again. “You’re not even from here. Selion doesn’t know you. Doesn’t care. No spark for off-world strays, I’m afraid.”

  I frowned. “So... only some people can use it?”

  “Exactly.” He nodded, lips curling into something between pride and pity. “It’s a rare spark—etched into the soul, maybe the blood, maybe the bones. Me? I was chosen. You?” He let the word dangle before flashing a smirk. “Well, you’re not even from this realm. Selion doesn’t tend to hand out gifts to strangers.” He twirled his dagger lazily. “Stick to that axe for now…It won’t judge you.”

  I didn’t have a comeback for that. It was vague as hell, but in a weird way, it made sense. Still, it stung—like being told I hadn’t made the team. I shifted, glancing over to Bromm for a much-needed distraction. He was crouched by a ghoul, casually wiping his axe on a rag that had definitely seen better days.

  “Hey, Bromm,” I asked, nudging a corpse with the toe of my boot. “Are these things worth anything?”

  He looked up and smirked. “Aye. The teeth. Alchemists grind ’em for potions—say they’ve got a bit of a kick. Some claim they’re magic, others just like jackin’ up the price for ‘ghoul essence.’ Either way, they fetch decent silver.”

  He gripped the ghoul’s jaw and cracked it open with a wet pop. “Go on, lad. Pull ’em out.”

  As I got closer to the ghoul Bromm was holding, the details became even more unsettling. The thing was a twisted fusion of bone and writhing plant matter, its skeletal frame barely held together by thick, sinewy vines that pulsed faintly—like they were still clinging to some grotesque echo of life. Hollow eye sockets stared up at nothing. Its jaw hung slack in a frozen snarl. Patches of rotting flesh clung to its skull like dried parchment. Its lower body was a tangled mass of roots, coiled and tense, even in death. The thorny tendrils twitched as if whatever cursed magic had animated it hadn’t fully let go. The smell was worse than it looked—damp earth, rot, and something sharp and sour that made my stomach roll.

  I exhaled sharply and tightened my grip on my axe. With a quick strike to the exposed gums, brittle teeth cracked free. Some came loose in one pull, others splintered apart in my fingers. I wiped the filth on my pants and dropped the intact teeth into my pack. They landed with a faint, hollow rattle.It made my skin crawl, but if Bromm said they were valuable, I wasn’t going to argue.

  “Disgusting,” I muttered, shaking off the unease.

  Then I looked up. “Hey, Bromm. Why are you helping me so much? I kind of get why Veldrin’s involved, but you… you don’t owe me anything. Is there some angle I’m missing?”

  Bromm didn’t hesitate. “No angle, lad. In the Hollow, no one lasts long on their own. Ya’ help others, they help ye’ back. That’s how it works here.” He rested a hand on Bob’s bristled back. “When I was younger, Robert, Bob, saved my hide more times than I can count. A man who doesn’t repay that kind of kindness is no better than the monsters out here.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Where I came from, it wasn’t like that. Back home, people helped each other if there was something to gain, like recognition, money, or maybe just validation. Kindness always came with strings attached. The idea of helping someone just because… it felt… foreign. Almost na?ve. But Bromm didn’t seem na?ve. He was solid. Grounded. The kind of guy who did things because they were right—not because he expected anything in return. And I was damn thankful for that.

  As we moved closer to the Hollow, the forest began to change. The deep purple leaves I’d seen when I first arrived began to reappear, blending into dark greens and browns. The oppressive weight of the woods lightened. The undergrowth thinned. Clearings opened around us, thick with vibrant grass that swayed in the breeze like it was alive. White vine-like flowers bloomed in quiet patches, their petals slowly unfurling in the shifting light. The whole forest seemed to hum—not with noise, but with presence. Old. Primal. Like it was watching. Bromm stepped off the trail, motioning me after him.

  “Ain’t just about coin, lad. It’s about what’s useful. Right now, that’s food.”

  “And we’re finding that… where, exactly?” I asked, raising a brow at the untouched wilds around us.

  “Right under yer nose.” He knelt, parting the brush. “Wild grains grow all over if ya’ know where to look. Nuts, too. And if we’re lucky, maybe even a beehive.”

  I squinted at him. “You sniff out beehives now?”

  He shrugged. “Figure of speech. But Bob’s got a nose for ’em.”

  He stood and wiped his hands. “If we gather the right ingredients—herbs, grains, maybe honey—we can trade with Elunara. She’s got a room to spare, and extra meals in exchange for what we bring in. Give ya’ a way to get on yer feet. And,” he added with a glance at Veldrin, “I imagine yer’d prefer a room of yer own too, eh?”

  Veldrin groaned, dragging a hand down his face like the idea physically pained him. “A room at The Frog Leg… must I sink to such pedestrian accommodations? Elunara’s inn is barely a step above a livestock shed.”

  Bromm grinned. “Sounds like we’re all in agreement then.”

  Hours passed. My pack became filled with herbs, nuts, and grains. We were nearly ready to head back when Bob gave a sharp squeal and trotted to the base of a tree. We followed his gaze upward. A massive honeycomb clung to a thick branch high above—golden honey dripping down in slow, tempting globs.

  Bromm squinted and grinned. “Now that’s a haul. Normally, we just knock it down and run like hell.”

  I shot him a flat look. “That sounds… incredibly stupid.”

  Above us, a swarm of bees formed a humming cloud. They moved in rhythm, their black-and-yellow bodies buzzing around the hive in a slow, hypnotic spiral. Some were bigger than any bee I’d ever seen, their abdomens gleaming in the light. They hovered near the entrance, twitching and ready to strike.

  “Aye, it usually is,” Bromm said, pulling out a bundle of dried leaves and bark. “But let’s do it the smart way, eh?”

  He struck flint to the bundle, sending up a thin column of smoke. “Smoke calms ’em. Makes ’em think the hive’s on fire—puts them into a haze.”

  As the smoke rose, the buzzing softened. The bees grew sluggish. Bromm nodded in satisfaction. “Now, while they’re dozin’, we work.”

  He produced a rope with a rock tied to one end, swung it overhead, and let it fly. The rock caught a branch near the hive. He pulled the rope taut and lowered the branch.

  “That’s the trick,” he said. “Now we’ve got the right angle. Make it clean.” He handed me a knife.

  I took a steadying breath and cut the hive free. Honey oozed out immediately, but Bromm had already pulled out a clay jar. He caught the dripping nectar with practiced ease, sealing the lid tight with a woven cloth.

  “Keep it sealed, or it’ll sour quick.”

  With our packs full, we started back toward the Hollow. The path felt longer this time, more tense. There were no attacks, but I felt the weight of the woods pressing in.

  “Didn’t you say the roads are usually quiet?” I asked. “Why were we attacked earlier? We’ve got four of us now.”

  Bromm’s eyes swept the trees. “Aye. Thing is—the Hollow gets bolder when the sun starts to dip. Less light? Means more of the bad comes crawling out.”

  Veldrin cut in, voice sharp. “The mana here… it’s dark. Chaotic. It twists things. Warps them. Those ghouls you saw? They weren’t born like that. They were men once. Elves. Maybe even children. Dead long ago, but still part of this place. And the Hollow doesn’t let go easily.”

  I swallowed. “So… should we be worried?”

  “Worried?” Veldrin scoffed. “Worry is for peasants. And pigs.” He gestured to Bob, who grunted in response. “This mana, this chaos, it’s just another variable. A snarl of threads. But I? I am the hand that weaves.”

  We were close now. The scent of Ferowen flowers thickened in the air, mixing with the distant thump of drums and the haunting notes of flute. Light from the village torches flickered through the trees, casting long shadows on the path. The golden-purple leaves shimmered as the last rays of sun bled through them like tongues of fire in the twilight. And just beyond the next bend, Mosswood Hollow came into view.