Lightning crackled across the darkened horizon as Malicius leaned down upon the highest balcony of the tallest tower of his incredibly ominous castle fortress, peering down at his equally ominous domain. He was the ‘The Phosphagus Dark Magus,’ the demon lord of this land—the uncontested ruler of the heavenly demonic sect. Many years ago, in his youth, he had accidentally stumbled across an ancient tome written by some unhinged madman who coincidentally had a theory on cultivation that resonated with Malicius. The theory went, ‘Why do all the hard work yourself when you can just absorb the life forces of others? With this one trick, you too can become the greatest, most feared, most powerful, and undoubtedly the most handsome being to ever ascend from the mortal planes. Terms and conditions of the following prophecy apply…” He did not read any further.

  “Excuse me, most dreaded one…” a voice filled with absolute reverence and fear called out behind him. He knew they were there, of course; no one could sneak up on him, certainly not one of his measly acolytes. Instead of verbally acknowledging his attendant, he sent out a weak burst of chi, not enough to harm the decrepit creature but enough to remind him of his immense power. “Ah yes, my lord, your sickening aura is most… um... sickening! Vile even!” His mook kowtowed before him. Malicius allowed a slight smirk to spread across his emaciated face. Of course, he was vile; he was The Phosphagus, the devourer of light, the Antithesis of Hope. “Most despicable one, I bring news from your disciple, Vroma. She wishes to let you know she has arrived at her destination and will begin preparations for the next stage of your most nefarious plan…” his minion relayed. This really was good news. His disciples were sent out across the Hinterlands with the explicit goal of inciting fear and chaos among the plebian masses, where the artifacts he so benevolently bequeathed to his minions would harvest the dark energies said fear and chaos would generate. After a short while, the attendant left his presence without further instruction. A most excellent servant, he would allow that one to live a little longer. Malicius, content with the progress of his masterful plans, sighed with relief. He loved doing absolutely nothing and getting everything exactly as he wanted.

  After attempting to mentally collect himself from waking up in a new world, possibly gaining some kind of magical power, and then immediately being thrown into a fight with goblins, he gathered their corpses and began to go through their belongings, where he found a small sack of miscellaneous detritus and various wee trinkets, 11 bullets, nine bronze coins, and two iron coins. He also found a partially full metal flask, a small tobacco pouch, something he assumed was fire steel, a ruined wide-brimmed hat, a perfectly usable wide-brimmed hat, and another gun: a dual-action revolver like the one he disarmed from the first goblin. Upon picking it up, his head strained, and his sight was drawn to the weapon, where something strange happened.

  The description flared in his mind, startling him. For some reason, it spoke in a rather opulent English accent. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt antagonistic against the thing.

  “Uh, Hullo?” Dean started, hoping this would generate some response. There was no reply. Dean had played his share of games and read his share of comics and novels. And wanted to try it out—the thing.

  “Status!” Nothing happened.

  “Inventory!” Nope.

  “Menu! Open sesame!” Naw a bloody thing.

  “For fucks sake, man!” he cried in frustration. Realizing this was a waste of time, Dean straightened and took a resolute breath. The sun was beginning its descent, so he still had time. He had no idea where to go or what to do. No, he did know. He'd learned all this. First and foremost, Food, water, and shelter. There was a pool of water atop the rockface that housed the cave. Water: Check. He would need to purify the water, though, so maybe not. Water: uncheck. He remembered that the goblin had a flask, and when he opened it to see what was inside, it smelled fine, so he'd have enough for a day or two if he was careful. Water: recheck. He could stay here as there was the cave, but without a way to dispose of the corpses, he didn't want to risk a tangle with the local fauna or more goblins. So that was a no. As with food, the goblin threatened to eat him, and he caught it digging in the bushes, presumably looking for edible roots.

  He supposed he could eat the goblins but didn’t know if they were even edible, and after the eight-point heavenly herb incident, he didn’t want to risk it lest it ‘sow the seeds of corruption across his dantian.’ He had no idea what that meant, but it sounded cool. He made his choice. He would go North. It was a direction as good as any other.

  Over the next few incredibly uneventful hours, Dean’s mind wandered back to the past few days. He knew he was not happy. He worked a very mundane IT desk job at an unremarkable company that paid exactly the average salary for his position but demanded unpaid overtime to reach his targets. They didn’t even let him have a day off for his birthday (That was something of a sore spot for Dean). The cold-hearted corporate machine had decided to cut down on his department after they all worked their asses off to create and deploy an automated pipelining service that would do their job without asking HR about the lack of birthday-related days off. Usually, Dean would finish work around 7 pm, cycle home at 7:30 pm, play a round or two of whatever game Rob, his best friend and flatmate, was playing, pop by his girlfriend Sophie’s house for tea (read: dinner) Who had most likely eaten already, and head home to tidy up, and head to bed.

  After being given that fated notice of dismissal, Dean decided to head home early only to encounter Sophie and Rob playing Naked Twister in the combined living room/ kitchen. Dean’s initial reaction was confusion, then denial; Sophie was supposed to be doing her Master’s, but she was always busy with her Master’s. That’s why he hardly met up with her anymore. His next emotion was anger, a seething white-hot anger. The fury of ten thousand suns surged through Dean’s body before dissolving away in the thick, viscous weight of depression. The whole moment was over in about 4 seconds. He entered the door, looked up at the scene before him, coughed, turned right back around left, closing the door softly behind him. He mindlessly waited in front of the lift for a short while, got inside the somewhat claustrophobic metal box, and bent over with his hand on his knees, retching. But nothing would come. His body refused to throw up anything, but the taste of bile reached his throat, causing him to hack and splutter. He quickly headed outside from the lift and walked to the nearby station; realizing that he could not be arsed to wait for the next train, he continued his march all the way down to Kelvinhall.

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  He had a soft spot for the bars here. Rob, Soph, and he would always end up in one of them after classes when they studied at the nearby University of Glasgow. He thought those were good times; he and Rob had plans to open a company that did Security consultation or Web development, but they could never decide. None of that happened. However, Soph knew what she wanted to do; she always had it planned out. Bachelor’s degree in computer science, 2 years in Development until she had the experience to be a full stack developer, back to Uni for her Master’s studying neural networks in artificial intelligence, then a PhD in the same. Dean had always admired her drive and discipline. He wanted to marry her one day, maybe start a family. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever want kids; he knew she didn’t, and that was okay. She wanted to prioritize herself, and he tried to be there to support that, but he did want to have something. Something he could call a family.

  As a teen, Dean had lost his mum after complications with her lifelong illness, and his ol’ da did not take that well. He decided that Dean was old enough to be the man of the house, and he would take the incredible burden of being a deadbeat alcoholic very seriously. He once looked up to the man; he taught Dean how to fish and start a fire, how to create his shelter from whatever he had on him and could find in his surroundings, all sorts of survival stuff. He was like some S.E.R.E trained soldier despite never being in the forces himself. He was stern and a bit distant but ultimately loved Dean and his mother. But after her passing, he changed completely. There was no stern but caring gaze, no unsolicited advice, just a cold void. A shell of the man who he once was. He, too, died a few years later, but Dean had always thought he really died that day with his ma. It was a lonely time after that.

  The drinks came quickly: Beer, beer, whisky, beer, several shots of something that tasted like poison, but he didn’t care. It didn’t feel long, but a very encouraging, substantial bald man with a beard and missing teeth eventually asked him to leave the premises. Dean explained that he was fine and not, in fact, bladdered or ‘causing a scene.’

  Then things got hazy. But he knew he ended up on the old ‘Our World’ Mural. The perspective made him dizzy, and he stumbled back on his ass, right in a puddle, where he sat and cried for a long time. After he calmed down, he realized he was shivering. He looked up into the sky and was not surprised to feel the drizzling rain. He also realized that there were very few people here. Scratch that; no one was around. In his state of great inebriation, it was only a bit strange to him that it was all so still in the center of a major city. The usual gusty winds were calm; there were no taxis blaring horns and no shouts from the fellow Weegies off on the pish. The only sounds are the soft drizzle and the gentle slosh of the Clyde nearby. Right then and there, he was at peace. He had found catharsis. Closing his eyes to embrace the feeling, the next thing he knew, he woke up in that cave.

  It was the last light before Dean decided to stop and make camp for the night. He had found a reasonable clearing; he gathered some twigs and smaller branches from the brush around him to use for firewood. The land here was less arid but still not as lush as he was used to. He was cautious of starting a fire he could lose control of in this drier climate.

  Surprisingly, he wasn’t hungry yet, perhaps a wee bit peckish, but he would survive the night without food; come morning, he was not sure he would have the strength to trek very far, let alone all day as he had planned. He would need to eat.

  Thinking quickly, he tossed his coat and the little burlap sack that held much of his things, taking only his knife. He crept away from his camp for quite some ways until he spotted what he was looking for—a hole.

  Dean had never been a hunter. Though he'd had opportunities to try, he never saw it as a fitting sport. With no pressing need for food, he had always avoided hunting for his meals—until now. He carefully unlaced his boots and began to prepare. He knew a few knots off by heart but was out of practice. He found a nearby sapling and began to set up his snare. He repeated the process with his other lace and returned in the direction he came. With no small amount of luck, he would have breakfast.

  “Cheers,” Dean muttered as he bit into the slightly charred rabbit. He was elated; for the first time in so long, he felt proud of himself. He had never caught anything to eat before, and despite the uncertainty in his effort, he was successful. He wasn’t typically the type of person to be grateful for things like this; he came from a place where food was easy to come by, so long as you had a few quid, you could buy yourself a burger or a sandwich. Obviously, some struggled, even in a big city like Glasgow. Poverty was everywhere, but so was abundance. In Dean’s eyes, it was a matter of greed.

  Dean didn’t know how to dress a kill, so he wasn’t particularly disappointed that he mostly butchered the poor thing. He also didn’t have time to bleed it, so it wasn’t the most pleasant eating he had ever had, but despite that, it felt good to be eating a campfire meal again. He would kill for a packet of crisps and an IrnBru but knew he would never taste them again.

  With his stomach full and plenty of time ahead, Dean embraced the sense of freedom. Laying down, he closed his eyes, listening as the wind rustled through the bushes when a familiar pain gouged at his brain. Sitting upright in shock as blood dripped from his nose, he opened his eyes and was met with a new screen:

  “Woah” Dean spoke out loud. “I know Kung-Fu”.