—JAY—

  Three naked guys, shivering in a freezing river under the moonlight. Not exactly the ideal way to end the day. Or any day, by any reasonable standard.

  Yeah. No real food. No decent clothes. Annoying companions. And now—writhing, skin-burrowing parasites.

  Perfect. Just perfect.

  This whole mess had started as some bizarre, unwanted adventure. Now? It was rapidly devolving into a personal made hell.

  It took us the better part of the night to get rid of those damned things. Hours of frantic, panicked scrubbing with sand and river water, using sharpened stones to try and pick the burrowing horrors from our flesh.

  D had been a sobbing, hysterical mess for most of it. Z, true to form, had simply endured with a grim, stoic silence that was almost more unnerving. I’d focused on the task, fueled by a cold, simmering rage. Every squirming little bastard I managed to extract was a minor victory against whatever cosmic entity had decided to inflict this upon us.

  By the time the first weak rays of dawn filtered through the trees, we were raw, bleeding in a hundred tiny places, and utterly exhausted. Sleep had been a distant, impossible dream.

  Now, we trudged onward under a merciless, baking sun. The river path had opened up slightly, the trees thinning enough to let the full, oppressive heat beat down on us.

  Sweat plastered our rags to our skin, every movement an effort. The air was still and heavy, thick with the buzzing of insects that seemed to view our parasite-ravaged bodies as an open invitation.

  D stumbled along, pale and red-eyed, occasionally muttering about "nightmare fuel" and "permanent psychological scarring." I wasn't faring much better, my head throbbing with a sleep-deprived ache, my patience worn thinner than the soles of my makeshift shoes.

  The only one who looked relatively normal was Z. His usual perpetual exhaustion blended seamlessly with our current state of misery. He simply looked like Z, only slightly more bloodshot. There was a certain perverse consistency to his suffering that I almost, almost, found admirable.

  We hadn’t spoken much. There was nothing left to say. The previous night’s ordeal had stripped away any pretense of morale. We were just three ragged figures, trudging forward on autopilot, driven by the faint, desperate hope that this river would eventually lead somewhere—anywhere—other than more endless, soul-crushing wilderness.

  The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Oppressive. The kind that made every rustling leaf sound suspicious, every distant bird cry feel like a warning we couldn’t quite decipher.

  Then, the attack.

  One moment, we were slogging through a patch of tall, sun-scorched grass. The next—a blur of grey fur and snarling teeth burst from the reeds to our right.

  It was a wolf. Or, rather, what a wolf would look like if it had been fed a steady diet of nightmares and growth hormones.

  It was easily the size of a small pony, its fur matted and caked with dried blood. A fresh, ragged gash ran along its flank, oozing dark fluid. Its eyes, a feral yellow, were locked onto us with a terrifying, single-minded fury. It looked wounded, cornered, and utterly enraged. The worst possible combination.

  There was no time for a tactical discussion, no time to yell orders. No time for D to fumble with his sling or for Z to even register the threat beyond a widening of his already tired eyes.

  The beast lunged, a guttural roar tearing from its throat.

  It went for the middle target. D.

  "Scatter!" I yelled, shoving D hard to the side. He yelped, tumbling into the tall grass. I barely had time to bring my spear-stick up in a defensive posture as the wolf, its momentum carrying it forward, slammed into me.

  The impact was like being hit by a furry battering ram. Air exploded from my lungs. Pain seared through my shoulder as its jaws snapped shut, inches from my face, its hot, fetid breath washing over me.

  I grunted, pushing back with all my strength, the rough wood of my spear groaning under the strain. Its claws scrabbled for purchase on my chest, tearing through the flimsy rags.

  "Jay!" D screamed from somewhere in the grass.

  I could hear Z making a strange, choked sound. Probably the sound of him preparing to embrace oblivion.

  The wolf was immensely strong. Its muscles bunched and writhed as it tried to overpower me, to get its teeth around my throat. I twisted, using its own momentum against it, and managed to sidestep, a searing pain shooting down my arm as one of its claws raked across my bicep.

  It recovered instantly, spinning, its yellow eyes blazing. It feinted left, then lunged right. I wasn't fast enough. Its shoulder caught me in the ribs, sending me sprawling. My spear flew from my grasp.

  This is it, a cold part of my brain noted. Torn apart by a rabid, oversized dog in a world that makes no sense.

  But then, a flash of movement. Z.

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  He hadn’t run. He hadn’t frozen.

  He moved.

  Surprisingly fast, his makeshift excuse for a weapon gripped tightly in both hands.

  As the wolf pivoted, eyes locked onto me, Z brought the rock-on-a-stick crashing down in a desperate, shockingly forceful swing.

  It connected with the wolf’s already injured flank. A sickening, wet thud.

  The wolf howled, a sound of pure agony, and stumbled, its hind leg buckling. For a split second, its attention was diverted.

  "D! Now!" I roared, scrambling for my spear.

  D, snapping back to reality, let a stone fly from his sling. It cracked against the wolf’s snout—not enough to kill, but enough to send it reeling, snarling, shaking its head in disoriented fury.

  I had my spear. I surged to my feet. The wolf, enraged, ignored its injuries and launched itself at Z, who was too slow to back away from the counter-attack.

  Its jaws closed around Z’s torso.

  I heard a sickening crunch, a muffled scream. Z’s eyes went wide, a look of profound, ultimate surprise replacing his usual weariness. Then, he went limp, a rag doll in the wolf’s grip. The beast shook him violently, like a dog with a rat.

  "ZETA!" D shrieked, his voice cracking.

  Rage, cold and absolute, flooded through me. I didn't think. I reacted. I charged, screaming, and plunged my spear deep into the wolf’s exposed side, just behind its foreleg, aiming for where I hoped its heart would be. I put every ounce of my strength, my fear, my frustration, into that thrust.

  The wolf yelped, a choked, gurgling sound. Its jaws loosened. Z fell to the ground in a heap. The beast staggered, trying to turn on me, but the spear was lodged deep. It took a few stumbling steps, then collapsed, a final, shuddering sigh escaping its lungs. Its yellow eyes glazed over.

  Silence.

  Except for D’s ragged sobs, my own harsh, gasping breaths, and—because this damn System had no sense of timing—

  [Combat Victory!]

  [Garmr (Lesser Beast) Defeated!]

  [Party Members Gained: 30 Experience Points Each!]

  I stared at Z. He lay twisted, unmoving, a dark stain spreading rapidly on the tattered cloth around his middle. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the merciless blue sky.

  Dead. He was dead.

  A strange numbness settled over me. We’d known this was possible. Likely, even. But seeing it…

  D crawled over to him, tears streaming down his face. "Zeta? Zeta, no… Wake up, man, please…"

  I leaned heavily on my spear, adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a hollow ache. Another failure. Another life lost under my supposed leadership.

  Wait—another life?

  A distant memory? Or just my mind playing tricks on me? Fuck.

  I tried to grasp onto anything—any shred of my past—but the moment I reached for it, a sharp, blinding headache tore through my skull.

  Then Z coughed.

  It was a small, wet sound. D and I both froze.

  Z coughed again, harder this time, and then he started choking, gasping for air as if he were drowning. His limbs twitched. His eyes, which had been vacant, suddenly focused, wide with a dawning, horrified awareness. He clawed at his own throat.

  "He's… he's alive?" D stammered, incredulous.

  Z rolled onto his side, still gasping, his face contorted. Then, with a final, shuddering heave, he seemed to suck in a massive breath.

  The color slowly, impossibly, returned to his face. He sat up, clutching his chest, looking around wildly. He looked down at his torso. The massive, bloody wound that should have been there… wasn't. His rags were torn and bloodstained, but his skin beneath was unbroken.

  He stared at his hands, then at us. His expression was one of utter bewilderment, quickly followed by his signature weary cynicism.

  "This world," he rasped, his voice hoarse, "is a fucking illusion." He took another shaky breath. "Or the universe has a really sick sense of humor."

  "What… what just happened?" D whispered, staring at Z like he’d just risen from the grave. Which, arguably, he had.

  Z glanced past his own shoulder, presumably at his status screen. His voice, flat and unimpressed, broke the tense silence. "Passive skill unlocked."

  He read aloud, dripping with irony:

  "'One Last Farce'—Once per day, any single instance of damage or effect that would result in incapacitation or death can be entirely negated as if it never occurred. User experiences momentary phantom sensations of the negated trauma."

  He paused, then looked directly at us. "Basically? I’m a goddamn cheat code with a cooldown."

  Z exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Oh, and before you get any ideas—there’s fine print. 'Do not abuse this, or the Universe will take notice and likely implement ironic and painful countermeasures.' So, yeah. Try not to use me as a meat shield."

  I stared. D stared. The dead wolf stared, though its opinion no longer mattered.

  "So… you can’t die?" D asked, a flicker of his usual inappropriate excitement returning. "Once a day, anyway?"

  "Apparently not easily," Z grunted, gingerly touching his side where the wolf’s teeth had been. "Still felt it, though. Every delightful, crushing moment." He shuddered. "Zero out of ten. Would not recommend."

  Before I could process this latest absurdity, a new sound cut through the air. Not an animal sound. It was the clink of metal, the crunch of heavy boots on dry grass.

  My head snapped up. D and Z followed my gaze.

  A figure was approaching from the direction of the riverbank. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad head-to-toe in dully gleaming, well-maintained steel armor. A closed-face helmet obscured their features, but the way they moved radiated confidence and… anger. A longsword, its blade catching the harsh sunlight, was strapped to their hip.

  They stopped a dozen paces away, their unseen gaze sweeping over us, the dead wolf, Z’s bloodstained (but miraculously whole) form.

  The armored figure’s hand went to the hilt of their sword. The sound of steel sliding from a scabbard was unnervingly loud in the sudden stillness.

  They raised the blade, pointing it directly at us. A voice, muffled and distorted by the helmet but clearly hostile, boomed out, "Poachers! And defilers! You will pay for trespassing on sacred ground and slaying one of the Guardians!"

  Well. Shit. Again.