Just dirt. Sky. Breath in my lungs.
And not even the right kind of sky. It's... normal. Which feels like the biggest red flag of all.
Washed-out blue overhead, soft streaks of gold bleeding in through the tree canopy—morning light, warm and lazy, like the world’s trying real hard to pretend it didn’t just shake me loose from some interdimensional fever dream.
For half a second, I lie there and let myself believe it. That maybe it’s over. Maybe I made it back. Maybe this was all some brain-fried hallucination brought on by blood loss and trauma and a touch of divine comedy.
I think.
Thank the gods.
The second I try to sit up, my body files a formal complaint. Every rib protests. My spine feels like it lost a bar fight. And the air—hell, even the air’s wrong. Not stale or chemical or scorched like home. It’s clean. Too clean. Alive in a way that doesn’t make sense.
It tastes like pine sap and melted snow. Fresh, crisp, wild.
No smog. No distant hum of highways. No static buzz of cell towers soaking into my skull. Just... earth. Damp, fertile, loamy earth beneath my palms. Leaves crunch under my fingers, half-rotted and soft, and moss glows between them—luminous green veins casting faint halos that make the forest look like it’s stuck halfway between fairy tale and fever dream.
And the trees? God. The trees.
These aren’t trees. They’re monuments. Living skyscrapers. The trunks are so massive they could swallow a cabin whole, bark all twisted and dark like storm-worn driftwood. Their branches stretch upward forever, coiling like smoke, leaves shifting colors with every flick of light—emerald, bronze, gold. Not normal gold either. That weird bug-shell iridescence, like they were painted by someone with a flair for the dramatic.
I stay sitting. Breathing. Watching. Listening.
It’s not quiet, not really. Just… alive in a way that hums under the skin. Birds chirp somewhere overhead, but I don’t recognize their songs. The leaves above move like they’ve got lungs of their own, rustling in long, slow waves. Rhythmic. Steady. Like the whole damn forest is breathing.
It’s foreign. And familiar. Both at once. Which is worse.
Then it hits me.
Elwynn Forest.
It’s the first thing that pops into my head—and it sticks. Like someone took the nostalgic memory of a World of Warcraft starting zone and cranked it up to eleven.
Except this isn’t some digital forest backdrop with scripted patrols and quest markers. This place has weight. Has presence. It’s watching me. I don’t know how, but I feel it.
Something here’s aware.
And that’s when I notice it—the second thing.
A pressure. Right on my chest.
Not painful. Not panicked. Just... there. Like a heavy blanket with a heartbeat.
I tilt my chin. Blink through the sunlight.
There’s a girl...
...There’s a girl, sitting on me.
No. Correction—there’s a very pink girl sitting on me. Pale as porcelain, with a waterfall of deep crimson curls spilling from beneath what looks suspiciously like... a hooded onesie. Yep. That’s what I’m seeing. A hooded damn onesie.
It’s oversized, practically swallowing her whole, all shades of cotton-candy pink and blinding white. Like a thrift-store mascot and a Valentine’s Day clearance bin got in a bar fight and she’s what walked away. The hood’s stitched with dead cartoon eyes—Xs instead of pupils—and a floppy tongue that hangs out like the bear gave up on life mid-roar.
Designer? Cosplay? Interdimensional sleepwear catalog? Hell if I know.
But the real kicker isn’t the outfit.
It’s the horns.
Actual, physical, curved little horns poking out from under her hood like they grew there naturally. Ivory smooth. Almost elegant. They’d be cute if they didn’t scream not from around here. And as soon as I clock those, something else shifts behind her—something that really doesn’t belong.
Tail.
A long, scaled, moving tail that flicks out from behind her like it’s thinking for itself. It curls once, scratches the side of her head like a lazy cat, and vanishes beneath the folds of her plush monstrosity.
Okay. Nope.
She’s wrapped in this absurdly thick scarf, too—more like a fabric cocoon than actual clothing. The whole look should be laughable.
It’s not.
She’s beautiful. Uncomfortably so. Not filtered or fake or dolled up—just real, soft-lipped, high-cheekboned, glowing kind of beautiful that hits your lungs first, then sucker punches your sense of self-worth a beat later. Her skin’s like milk warmed by sunlight, her features delicate but not fragile. Her eyes are closed, but there’s something about her face that makes you feel like you’re interrupting something sacred just by looking.
And she’s completely passed out. Right there. On top of me. Like I’m the damn mattress.
No bag. No weapon. No gear. No explanation. Just her, me, and a forest that feels like it’s been enchanted by six different gods who all had very different opinions about what “subtle” meant.
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I shift my head. Scan the treeline. No signs of a struggle. No camp. No footprints. Nothing.
“Uh…”
My voice comes out like gravel dragged over sandpaper. Dry, unused. Afterlife hangover edition.
“Young miss?”
No reaction. Not even a twitch. She’s out cold.
Weird.
I raise a hand and tap her shoulder—gentle, respectful, the universal sign for hey, maybe get off me.
That’s when her eyes snap open.
They’re massive. Glowing red with flickers of orange around the edges, like fire behind glass. Wide, alert, and fixed right on me like I’m either a miracle or a monster.
And she just stares.
Unblinking. Mouth parted slightly. Like she’s seen something sacred.
Me.
Which... okay. Let’s be real. I’m not exactly angelic material. I’m forty-two, recently undead-adjacent, and I’ve got the body of a man who spends more time hauling feed than flexing in front of mirrors. Scar on my jaw. Calloused hands. Lines under my eyes from too many late nights and too much disappointment.
So why’s she looking at me like I hung the moon?
I try a smile. Non-threatening. Casual. The kind of smile that says this is probably a misunderstanding and also please don’t eat me.
I move to sit up.
Mistake.
Her hand slams down on my shoulder with the force of a goddamn airstrike. I don’t even see it coming. Just—bam. One second I’m halfway up, next second I’m a pinned insect. There’s no wind-up, no strain. Just pure, unnatural strength holding me like I weigh nothing.
“Holy shit, you’re strong,” I grunt, blinking up at her.
She beams.
And then, because this scene wasn’t strange enough, she throws her arms in the air and cries out, “Master!”
Voice like chimes. Bright. Joyful. Like she’s waited her whole life for this exact moment and the universe finally delivered.
“…Mas—wait, what?”
“You’re finally awake!”
The words barely register before instinct takes over. I shove her off, stagger back, boots grinding against loose dirt as I scramble for space. She’s light. Too damn light. Like throwing a pillow—not a person.
"Whoa there!" I bark out, more breath than voice. "Lil’ miss, can I help you or...?"
Her smile folds in on itself, all soft and soggy. Pink eyes—too pink, like someone dropped strawberries in milk and called it a mood—go wide, then glassy.
“Aww…” she sniffles, clutching her scarf like it’s the last rope tethering her to the planet. “You offer it so freely? To me? Truly? You are a good Master…”
I freeze.
Offer what, exactly?
My soul? My spine? Whatever scrap of peace I had left after waking up in this nightmare?
I stay still. Don’t move. Don’t blink. Just scan the clearing like I’m making sure nobody caught the moment I accidentally sold myself into eternal servitude.
And then I see it.
A rabbit. Left side. Perched on a moss-covered rock like a tiny woodland judge. Nose twitching. Eyes narrowed.
Confused.
No. Judging me.
I point at it. “Hey. Not what it looks like.”
It tilts its head. Real slow. Real smug. Then—it snorts. Honest to god snorts. And hops off like it just decided I’m not worth the trial.
I blink. “Did… did that rabbit just shame me?”
Behind me, scarf girl giggles. Soft at first, then full-blown snickering into her sleeves like this is comedy hour and I’m the headliner.
She peeks out, mouth curled. Smirking now.
“It’s alright, Master,” she says, smug as sin. “I am your loyal servant.”
“Nope.” I jab a finger at her like I’m calling out a demon mid-sermon. “Absolutely not.”
She gasps. Grabs her scarf like I slapped her. Eyes wide. Lower lip trembling just enough to make it look practiced.
...Adorable. Unfortunately.
No. Nope. Not going there.
I clear my throat and jab again. “Don’t corrupt me, devil.”
That earns me a laugh. She presses a hand to her hood, tilts her head with way too much confidence, then peels it back in one slow, theatrical pull.
Crimson hair spills out in waves. Messy, wild.
“Silly Master,” she purrs. “I’m way too young to be a devil. I’m a demon. A succubus.”
Of course she is.
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Real smooth, Ish,” I mutter, tossing a fist up at the sky like I’m submitting a divine complaint.
And that’s when I really look up.
The sky’s wrong.
It’s a deep turquoise—like ocean water just before the storm hits. Two moons hang low. One silver. One cracked and red, bleeding light like a half-healed wound. The sun? Looks like someone smeared a burnt orange crayon across the treetops. Long shadows. Crooked branches. All of it humming with a quiet, unspoken otherness.
Definitely not Kansas.
She cocks her head. “Ish?”
“The goddess,” I mutter. “Ishtar.”
“Ohh!” She lights up, clapping her hands like I just named her favorite pop idol. “Why do you yell at her like that, Master?”
“Because she’s obviously screwing with me.”
Her eyes go wide. Sparkly. “Oh! I love games. Can I play too?”
She wiggles her fingers. Like she’s reaching for an invisible controller.
“No,” I say flat. “I don’t wanna play this game.”
“Aww…” Full pout. Tilts her head. Big eyes. Absolute weaponized cuteness.
I sigh, drag a hand down my face. “Look, miss…?”
She just blinks at me. No response. Not even a name.
I raise a brow. “This is usually the part where you introduce yourself.”
Another blink. Then—lightbulb. She straightens, pats down her ridiculous onesie like she’s heading into a job interview, and lifts her chin like she means business.
“I am an emissary of Gaia,” she says, hand over heart, voice full of holy reverence. “And I have traveled many realms in search of you, my new Master.”
Then she bows. Deep. Extra flourish. The whole damn ceremony.
I just stare. Brain buffering. Already feel the migraine forming—left side, pulsing behind the eye.
And then… movement.
Something shifts at the edge of the clearing. Quiet. Steady.
I turn.
The rabbit’s back.
With friends.
Foxes. Squirrels. Birds. Even a fat raccoon waddling into place like it overslept but still made curtain call. All of them staring at me like I just violated some ancient sacred law.
A whole damn tribunal of woodland disappointment.
I let out a breath. “I hate this world already.”