By the gods.

  I... stand corrected.

  Well played, darling. You actually pulled it off.

  Ah—language, Grant. Honestly. Is that how you celebrate not dying? Look at you. Still standing—barely. Heart pounding like it’s trying to jackhammer its way through your ribs. That, sweetheart, is the sound of survival.

  Mmm. Tempting. I do adore your curiosity when it’s wrapped in that grumpy growl. But let’s not ruin the mood with answers. Mystery keeps the blood warm. Suspense? It suits you.

  Besides—here’s the twist—you already know.

  I am you.

  And you? You’re me.

  Like reflections in shattered glass. Off-center. Still familiar.

  Of course not. Denial always comes first—textbook stuff. We’ve danced this dance before, haven’t we? You just don’t remember the song. Not yet.

  you mutter, dragging a shaky hand across your mouth. Your fingers come away tasting like blood and smoke—like failure wearing victory’s skin.

  Your legs twitch, threaten to fold under you. The adrenaline’s leaving fast, like a tide in retreat. What’s left behind is aches and tremors.

  The ruins creak around you—stone shifting slow, like the ground itself just took a breath. The walls groan. Dust rains down.

  And the scent…

  Gods, the scent.

  Blood, thick and bitter, clinging to your tongue. Smoke winding through the cracks. Something’s still burning. Maybe someone.

  Another test, I whisper—voice like velvet pulled over blades.

  And still, you're breathing.

  You exhale like the fight’s finally won. But your shoulders slump, heavy as guilt. You’re not a victor. You’re a survivor. Strings cut. Marionette hanging by nothing but spite.

  Oh, Grant.

  That’s the best part.

  Now… we begin.

  Soft chime. Barely a whisper in the back of my skull.

  “Serious—”

  Never finish the line. A shield hits me square in the chest like a pissed-off dump truck. Not a polite nudge. Not a cinematic push. I mean bone-deep, tectonic-plate-shifting kind of hit. My ribs protest with a wet crack as the air gets punched out of me and I leave the ground in slow-motion disbelief.

  I crash through a wall like bad writing through a plot hole. Masonry scrapes fire across my spine. Dust floods my throat. My lungs scream. The world forgets which way is down.

  Perfect. Just—chef’s kiss—perfect.

  I groan. Half-cough, half-choke on grit and that weird metallic tang that can only mean blood. Everything aches. Even the ache aches. The floor shivers beneath me like it’s trying to tap out too.

  I get my elbows under me. Push up. Vision narrows—classic vignette effect—edges dark, pain center-stage. Nice.

  What the hell just hit me?

  Shapes stalk forward through the haze. Three of them. Lined up like a splash art for "Fantasy Combat Formations: Deluxe Edition."

  They’re not random mobs. Too clean. Too composed. The kind of stillness that’s earned—not trained. These are survivors. The “last one standing in the final circle” kind. And now I’m their warm-up round.

  [Assessment Protocol Engaged]

  [Scanning…]

  Hobgoblin — Threat Level: High

  

  Wolf-kin — Threat Level: Moderate

  

  Elf — Threat Level: Low

  

  The hobgoblin steps forward. Measured. Precise. Zero wasted movement. She's done this before. A lot. Like… a lot a lot. Her stance says “professional.” Her eyes say “try me.”

  When she speaks, her voice scrapes low—rough around the edges. Not angry. Just... deliberate. The kind of voice that wraps steel wire around something older. Softer. A harsh accent tugs at the words. Not her native tongue. But every syllable is wrapped in intent.

  She’s not sizing me up to kill me. She’s studying. Testing.

  Then the wolf-kin beside her grins. Tilts her head like I’m a curious animal she found rooting through her stuff. Arrow notched. Casual. Fluid. Her voice is smoother, still foreign, but cleaner. Same language? Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. I can’t understand a damn word either way.

  I grunt. Push myself up on legs that feel like Jell-O in a thunderstorm. My HP bar’s blinking red—already down a third.

  "A full adventuring party straight outta high-fantasy hell," I mutter. "And of course I can’t understand a single one of you."

  I raise a hand. Palms open. Universal sign for hey let’s not do murder right now.

  “Listen—ladies. Hate to be that guy, but… English?”

  The goblin’s eyes go wide. Mouth parts. Not shock. Recognition.

  That same look the orc gave me before.

  "...Holy shit," I breathe. “You understand me?”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The elf says something under her breath—voice soft, distant, layered like a lullaby with a blade tucked inside. She’s kneeling over the orc, hands glowing faint, and the air around them buzzes with static.

  Magic. Actual magic. The kind that makes your skin crawl in a way nothing artificial ever could.

  My ears stay glued to her voice, even as my brain registers the crackling charge.

  There’s something familiar about the way she speaks. Not the words—those are alien—but the rhythm. The cadence. Like I’ve heard her read bedtime stories in another life.

  [System Update]

  

  [Language Comprehension – Elven (68%)]

  

  Wait. Elven?

  No way.

  So... all those Lord of the Rings marathons? Not a waste after all. I catch a phrase here, a word there. Just enough to guess tone. Probably not enough to order tacos or discuss elven ethics.

  Then—movement. Fast.

  My spine tenses.

  Instinct screams. I twist.

  A blade whispers across my side. Not friendly.

  [Status: Laceration]

  

  Pain flares hot. I hit the ground in a roll, palms scraping over dirt and loose stone until my fingers find the carbine.

  [Reassessing Threat…]

  

  Her golden eyes glow, locked on mine. Not just angry. Hurt. Furious in a way grief sometimes is—loud and quiet at the same time. Her voice hits my ears like broken glass and fire.

  “Seriously?” I bark, staggering to my feet. “I. Don’t. Understand. Any of you!”

  That gets her. She freezes, brows furrowed. Not confusion. Recognition.

  Then she turns to the others. “Did he just—?”

  They all nod, slowly.

  “Let me guess." I snort. "Monster Tongue? This world’s knockoff English?”

  Silence. A thick kind. Like everyone’s waiting for someone else to move.

  Except the orc.

  She’s standing now.

  Healer-elf must’ve patched her up while I was busy dodging claws and sarcasm.

  The orc cracks her neck, flexes her shoulders, and grins like I just gave her permission to fight dirty.

  “Yeah,” she rumbles, voice low and solid. “That one? Not human.”

  Oh, cool. Guess I’m the weird one.

  I tighten my grip on the carbine, even though it’s trashed. Casing’s split, mana core’s sputtering like it owes me money, and the sights are melted halfway off. Pretty sure it couldn’t scare a squirrel right now.

  A shot gun would be nice right about now.

  A soft chime hums in my skull—like a whisper against the back of my neck.

  The carbine pulses violet. Metal folds in, reshaping itself with clean clicks and glowing runes that slide across the surface like cyberpunk ink. Barrel retracts. Grip locks into place. New stock. New shape. Still warm in my hand. Still mine.

  No time to admire the upgrade.

  Tiger-girl lunges. Her eyes flare gold. Daggers flash.

  She’s coming for my throat.

  I raise the shotgun.

  Pull the trigger.

  BOOM.

  The recoil slams into my shoulder like a freight train with feelings. She flies backward in a blur of fur and steel, limbs scattering across the stone.

  [Status: Critical Hit — Concussive Force Impact]

  

  She hits hard. Dust blooms. She groans—alive, thankfully. Not looking to add murder to my growing list of achievements today.

  The HUD flickers. A soft, satisfied chime rolls through the system.

  “Need a hint, darling?”

  The voice slides across the back of my neck like silk with bad intentions. I let out a breath through my teeth.

  “No, but I could use a hand?”

  “Oh, come now. You know the rules.”

  “Lady,” I mutter, glancing between the rubble, and the very motivated death squad circling in, “I genuinely don’t.”

  “It’s simple strategy,” she purrs. “Eliminate threats in order—weakest to strongest.”

  I roll my shoulder, shift my stance, and get my feet under me. The hobgoblin’s already coming. Shield raised, expression grim. Like a walking fortress with attitude issues.

  Wolf-Lady flanks her—bow in hand, eyes cold and calculating. Her movements are too smooth, too precise. She's not aiming. She's solving for X.

  And in the back? The elf. Pale magic winds around her fingers like ink drifting through water. Calm. Too calm. The kind of calm you only see right before someone casually ends you.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  The hobgoblin charges, shield-first. I twist out of the way—almost. An arrow slices across my thigh. Just enough to sting.

  BOOM.

  I fire point-blank at her shield. The blast rattles the room but barely budges her. She digs in, snarling like she’s enjoying it.

  Tank class. Of course.

  Wait.

  I have a sword.

  I draw it, and the blade hums—eager, but also... weirdly unsure. Doesn't feel right in either hand. Right? Left? Still don't know.

  She swings.

  I pivot—shotgun up, blade low. Her shield slams into the shotgun with enough force to pop a shoulder, but it gives me an opening. I drive the sword between the plates in her armor, straight into the meat.

  She grins like I just complimented her casserole. “HAH! Me Hob-Goblin. Not weak little goblin.”

  Oh good. She’s proud of it.

  “Yeah?” I grunt, stepping back. “What’s the difference? Goblin, Hob-Goblin, Gob-Goober—you all still look like boiled potatoes.”

  She freezes. “Wha—What?”

  “You heard me. Lumpy. Greasy. Full of starch.”

  Above us—motion. A blur of silver and gray streaks along the wall.

  Wolf-Lady. Running sideways like gravity’s a polite suggestion. Her body moves like smoke trapped in a glass jar—graceful, unnatural.

  “How—?”

  [Notice]

  

  [Moon-Blooded]

  

  A rare Wolf-Kin variant. Capable of manipulating gravitational mass.

  Light as air, heavy as sin.

  Of course she is.

  Twang.

  Something sharp and pissed-off digs into my shoulder.

  [Status: Piercing Damage]

  

  Health bar dips. Not great.

  Then the ground groans. A deep, grinding moan. Stone splits. Walls crack. Giant sentinels start dragging themselves out of the ruins with the energy of very annoyed statues.

  Second wave?

  “No…” The voice says again, softer now.

  One sentinel swings—not at me. At her. At Wolf-Lady. But she’s already gone, ducking through rubble like wind wrapped in skin.

  “Thanks for the assist,” I mutter.

  “That… wasn’t me, darling.”

  My stomach sinks. Instincts flare like warning sirens.

  Wolf-Lady’s already drawn another arrow. She smiles like she knows something I don’t—and she probably does. I dive—Too late.

  A pillar erupts from the floor, slamming up between us like the earth’s had enough of this crap. Her arrow pings off the stone and spins harmlessly away.

  I don’t question it. Just rip the previous one out of my shoulder with a wince and a creative curse.

  Fire. Blistering heat explodes beside me, searing across my ribs. I hit the ground hard and roll. Dust coats my tongue. Pain blooms.

  Then. Tiger-Lady. She’s back—somehow—flipping through the air like a damn circus act, blades spinning. Laughing like this is a party and I forgot to RSVP.

  A stone sentinel steps in—just materializes—and intercepts the strike mid-air, catching her blade like it’s routine. She plants her foot on its chest and launches into another somersault, still laughing.

  “I like you, outsider,” she says mid-flip. “Too bad we have to kill you.”

  “Could always not,” I mutter, shotgun snapping up. “Y’know. Talk it out. Civilized murderers and all.”

  Then—agony. Something rips into my back. Sharp. Deep. Wet.

  “FUCK!”