The simple robe Pyronn had given him pooled around his ankles as Alex let it drop to the stone floor. He needed to see properly. He stepped closer to the small, slightly warped mirror hanging on the wall above the washbasin, turning this way and that, examining the stranger staring back.

  Yes, definitely short. Compact. The muscle definition was clear – pectorals, biceps, sturdy legs. Not like a bodybuilder, but like someone strong from constant, practical use. He ran a hand over the raven-black hair, still marveling at the texture, so different from his own old brown locks.

  “My dick looks alright.” Alex chided. It was uncut and adequately sized, looking proportional to his body and hands. But he realized - he was smaller now, approximately half the size of his old human body. Fuck! Alex thought, palming his temple in sudden frustration. Could be a lot worse, I suppose.

  The pointed ears felt sensitive to his touch. Yellow eyes, bright and alert, stared back, reflecting the flickering candlelight from the hallway and the dim light filtering through a small, high window. It was a handsome face, he had to admit, in a sharp, almost feral way. But it wasn't his.

  He tore his gaze away from the unsettling reflection and picked up the sheet of aged parchment from the desk. The paper felt thick and slightly rough beneath his fingertips. He held it closer to the faint light, and the ink on the page shifted, transforming into new letters and characters.

  At the top, inscribed in elegant, slightly archaic calligraphy, was a name: Kiroth Highmeadow.

  "Kiroth Highmeadow," Alex murmured, the name feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue. It had a certain ring to it, he supposed. Definitely not my name. Must have been the guy who lived here before... before his soul got repo'd by demons.

  Below the name he saw his race, “Hafling,” and his age—41. The number glared back at him. Alex’s breath caught, fingers tightening around the parchment as a weight settled in his chest. He didn’t look particularly old. Perhaps halflings aged differently?

  The character sheet was divided into sections. One prominent section listed six primary attributes, the abbreviations instantly familiar, triggering years of dormant gamer knowledge.

  STR: 10

  DEX: 12

  CON: 11

  CHA: 15

  WIS: 8

  INT: 13

  He frowned at the Strength score. Ten? That seemed… average. Vanilla. He flexed an arm, watching the bicep bunch under the pale skin in the mirror’s reflection. He looked strong, felt relatively solid. Had his strength in his old body been even lower? Probably. He couldn't remember the last time he'd lifted anything heavier than a textbook or a case of beer. Zero workouts, a diet of pizza and cheap noodles. Maybe a 10 was actually an improvement. Still, it felt strangely anticlimactic given the physique.

  Dexterity 12, Constitution 11, Intelligence 13 – fine, nothing shocking there. He'd always been reasonably quick on his feet, generally healthy aside from self-inflicted abuse, and smart enough, even if he rarely applied himself. Charisma 15 felt… generous? He hadn't exactly been Mr. Popularity, but maybe this 'Kiroth' fellow had been a smooth talker.

  Then his eyes landed on Wisdom: 8.

  Eight? A spike of indignant offense flared. Are you kidding me? That's... below average. He glared at the number as if it had personally insulted him. Then, just as quickly, the anger deflated, replaced by a cold wave of self-awareness. He thought back mere hours – or was it lifetimes? – ago. Getting stupidly drunk and high because he couldn't handle seeing his ex with someone else. Storming out against his friend's advice. Flooring it onto a snowy freeway. Crashing his car and dying. Yeah. Okay. An 8 in Wisdom felt… brutally, depressingly accurate. He'd acted like a complete, self-destructive moron. Point taken, universe, or Agmoth, or whoever was keeping score.

  He scanned the rest of the sheet. Level: 0. Feats: None listed. Skills included basics like Athletics, Perception, Stealth, and Survival, though none seemed particularly high. Languages: Common. That explained why he could suddenly understand Pyronn and the others after the wand-zap; they must have cast some sort of translation spell on him.

  Level 0. So, a blank slate, more or less. Not even a starting class. Alex found himself wondering, almost instinctively, what it took to level up here. How did one become a Fighter, or a Rogue, or… whatever classes existed in this world? The thought sparked a flicker of morbid excitement. He was, against all odds, in a fantasy world. The kind of place he used to escape to in games and books. Part of him, the part that had wasted countless hours grinding levels and collecting virtual loot, buzzed with the potential. He could learn magic, swing a sword, explore dungeons, fight monsters…

  But another part, the part still reeling from the visceral memory of shattered glass and crushing metal, recoiled. He'd just died. Horribly. And somehow, inexplicably, been given a second chance. Was his first instinct really to figure out how quickly he could get back into life-threatening situations? Being an adventurer sounded exciting in fiction, but the reality likely involved gruesome injuries, painful death, and questionable hygiene.

  Maybe… maybe there were other paths? Were there non-combat classes? Could he just… be a baker? A particularly short, pointy-eared baker? The thought felt simultaneously comforting and deeply disappointing. He had a literal new life. What was he supposed to do with it?

  Alex dropped the stiff parchment back onto the desk. He tugged on the tunic, the linen settling over his torso. The trousers were sturdy, hugging his legs more snugly than the loose jeans he was used to. He stamped his feet into the leather boots; they felt solid, well-worn but well-cared for. Dressed, he looked less like a lost soul and more like… well, like a halfling. The thought was still absurd.

  His eyes fell on the backpack lying beside the clothes on the narrow bed. Curious, he picked it up. It was mostly empty, made of thick, oiled leather, smelling faintly of travel and earth. Inside, however, nestled at the bottom, was a sturdy leather belt with a plain iron buckle. And attached to it, hanging in a well-fitted sheath, was a knife. More than a paring knife, less than a short sword – a dagger, perhaps, with a blade about eight inches long. A simple leather harness accompanied it, presumably for strapping it to his chest or thigh.

  He unbuckled the sheath and drew the blade. The steel was dark, slightly tarnished, but the edge looked keen. He held it up, angling it to catch the faint light. Reflected in the flat of the blade, distorted and miniature, was his face – the sharp cheekbones, the dark hair, and those piercing yellow eyes staring back. He saw himself, but not himself. Kiroth. A halfling who’d made a deal with a devil and paid the price. A shiver traced its way down his new spine. He slid the blade back into its sheath with a soft shlick.

  Knock, knock.

  Alex startled, instinctively tightening his grip on the sheathed knife before setting it down. The knock came again, firm and decisive.

  "Yes?" he called out, his voice still sounding slightly unfamiliar.

  The door opened a crack, and a scaled snout poked through, followed by the reptilian eyes of the lizard priest.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  "Supper is prepared," He rasped, his forked tongue flicking briefly. His gaze swept over Alex, lingering for a second on the discarded robe on the floor. "The High Master awaits you. Mess hall. End of this corridor, then left."

  "Okay. Thanks!" Alex replied, forcing a brightness he didn't feel.

  The lizard priest didn't return the pleasantry. He just gave Alex a long, unblinking stare – a reptilian side-eye that managed to convey both disapproval and cold indifference. Then he withdrew, pulling the door shut with a quiet click.

  Alex let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Charming fellow. He waited a beat, listening until the soft padding of his footsteps faded down the corridor. He then picked up the character sheet, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the pocket of his new trousers. It felt weirdly significant, like carrying his own improbable identity card. Buckling the belt around his waist felt natural enough, though the knife felt heavy and conspicuous hanging at his side. He left the harness for now. Taking one last look around the sparse room, he stepped out into the stone hallway and headed towards the mess hall.

  The refectory was simple but large, lit by more torches and the warm glow from a large hearth at one end. Long wooden tables were arranged neatly, and perhaps a dozen other priests of varying races – human, dwarf, another lizard-like figure, even one who looked vaguely avian – were already seated, eating quietly. Pyronn and the dwarf sat at a smaller table near the fire, beckoning him over.

  A bowl of steaming stew, similar to what he’d seen priests eating, was placed before him, along with a chunk of dark bread and a mug of water. Before anyone picked up a spoon, Pyronn raised his hands slightly.

  "Let us give thanks," he announced. All the priests bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Alex awkwardly mimicked the posture, half-closing his eyes and bowing his head, feeling like a fraud at a church service.

  Pyronn began to chant, his voice clear and resonant in the hall, joined by the lower tones of the other priests:

  "Great Agmoth, Sun Above,

  Light our path, warm our hearths.

  From field and furrow, grant this bounty,

  Nourish the vessel, cleanse the soul.

  Shield us from the encroaching shadows,

  Blind the eyes of the Unseen Foe.

  May Your dawn break eternal upon the worthy.

  We accept Your gifts with thanks."

  There was a collective murmur that sounded like "Amen," and then the quiet clinking of spoons against pottery resumed. Alex picked up his own spoon and dug into the stew. It was thick with root vegetables and chunks of some dark, savory meat – better than anything he usually cooked for himself. He ate quickly, hunger gnawing at him more fiercely than he’d realized.

  After a few minutes of comfortable silence, punctuated only by the sounds of eating and the crackling fire, Pyronn dabbed his lips with a cloth napkin and looked at Alex.

  "You seem to be settling into the vessel, somewhat," the High Master observed. "It is often disorienting at first." He paused. "You recall your own name, from the life before?"

  Alex froze mid-slurp. My name. Panic flared briefly. Should he tell them? Did it matter? What if they started asking questions about his old world he couldn't answer, or worse, that sounded insane? He almost said "Alex," the name feeling unfamiliar on his lips even in thought now. He glanced down, stalling, then remembered the parchment in his pocket.

  "The… the sheet you gave me," he mumbled, then cleared his throat. "It said Kiroth. Kiroth Highmeadow." It felt like putting on a costume, but it was easier than explaining 'Alex' from Earth.

  "Oh, my. Highmeadow," Pyronn repeated, nodding slowly. "A noble halfling lineage, though far removed from its roots here in Blackwell. The Highmeadow clan proper resides beyond the Eyeb Mountains, a formidable range hundreds of miles north of here. Your immediate ancestors, it seems, journeyed south generations ago, becoming estranged." He sighed softly. "A common enough tale, sadly. Families fracture, branches wither or wander."

  "So," Alex continued, pushing aside the slightly depressing thought of being an estranged noble halfling, "halflings. How do they generally get on in the world? What are they… like?"

  The dwarf priest finished draining his mug and let out a satisfied noise before chuckling. "Like? They like stout ale, good pipeweed, and feasts! Got hearts bigger than their bellies, most times."

  Pyronn gave him a tolerant smile. "While Brother Hyggor mentions certain… popular perceptions, there is more to them. Halflings are adaptable, Kiroth. You'll find them integrated into human cities like Blackwell, often working as merchants, artisans, couriers, or in professions requiring nimble fingers and sharp wits. Others prefer their own quiet communities, often burrowed into hillsides, focusing on agriculture and craft. They value hearth and home, loyalty to friends and family."

  "And how long do they live?" Alex asked, remembering the number 41. "The sheet said this body… that I’m forty-one. That seems… a little too old." He didn't want to think too hard about how long a 'year' was here. Best not to borrow trouble.

  "Forty-one!" Hyggor boomed, slapping the table gently with a broad hand. "Bah! Barely broken in, lad! Halflings see a century and a half as a matter of course. Many reach two hundred if they avoid trouble or too much rich food." He peered at Alex again, his brow furrowed under his red hair. "Generally good-natured folk. Steady. Resilient." He squinted. "Though most I've known aren't quite so… pale. You look like you haven't seen the sun in a decade, Kiroth."

  Maybe Kiroth was locked in a dungeon doing demonic rituals, Alex thought morbidly. The idea of potentially living for another 150 years stretched before him like an immense, empty landscape. It was terrifying.

  They finished the meal soon after. Alex felt restless, the information overload buzzing under his skin. The reality of the stone walls, the strange priests, the alien body – it was solidifying, becoming undeniable. But he needed more.

  He approached Pyronn as the High Master was preparing to leave the refectory. "High Master," Alex began, trying to sound respectful. "Thank you for the meal. And the… information." He took a breath. "I think I need to see this place. Blackwell. I'm going for a walk."

  Pyronn stopped, turning fully towards Alex, his expression shifting from benign priestly warmth to something more serious, more concerned. "Kiroth, I strongly advise against that. At least for today. Your soul is newly anchored. Your senses are still adjusting. This world, even a relatively lawful city like Blackwell, operates under rules and dangers unknown to you. Why not spend time in the temple library? Read some historical texts Brother Hyggor can provide. Familiarize yourself. Prepare."

  The advice was sound. Sensible. Exactly what someone with a Wisdom score higher than 8 would likely do. But Alex couldn't shake the feeling of being caged, of needing visceral confirmation. The memory of the car crash, the feeling of fading out, the sheer impossibility of being here – it demanded confrontation, not quiet study.

  "I appreciate the concern, High Master. Really," Alex said, meeting the priest’s steady gaze. "But I need to see it. Just… walk around a bit. Get my bearings. I get the gist," he added, perhaps a bit too quickly, a bit too dismissively. "Magic world, different folks, stay out of dark alleys. I'll be careful."

  Pyronn studied him for a long moment, his eyes seeming to weigh Alex’s shaky confidence against his palpable restlessness. Finally, he let out a slow sigh, the air whistling softly through his nose. "Stubbornness. Perhaps it served the previous occupant well, in some ways. Or perhaps it led him to ruin." He shook his head slightly. "Very well. I cannot compel you to stay. But heed my warning: remain within the city walls. Keep to the main thoroughfares, especially as dusk approaches. Trust no one too readily. And if you sense trouble," he tapped his own temple lightly, "trust your instincts, however underdeveloped they may yet be. Return before the city gates close for the night."

  He gestured for Alex to follow. "Come. I will see you to the foregate."

  They walked in silence through the now-familiar stone corridors, their footsteps echoing. The route took them back towards the entrance chamber where Alex had first woken up on the altar, but Pyronn guided him past it, towards a massive set of double doors crafted from dark, ancient wood and banded with thick strips of black iron. This was clearly the main public entrance to this Temple of Agmoth.

  Pyronn stopped before the doors. "Agmoth's light guide your steps, Kiroth Highmeadow. And may it give you enough sense to keep out of trouble." He gave Alex a final, searching look, then stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back.

  Alex nodded, his throat suddenly dry. This was it. The moment of truth. He reached out, his small hand – Kiroth’s hand – surprisingly strong as it grasped the huge, cold ring of the iron door handle. He took a breath, smelling the lingering scent of incense mixed with the cool, damp air of the stone entryway. Then, he pulled.

  The massive door groaned, protesting its disturbance, but swung outward on well-oiled hinges, heavy yet balanced.

  Daylight spilt in. Sounds rushed to meet him – the distant clamor of voices, the rumble of cartwheels on stone, the sharp cry of some unknown bird. And beyond the threshold, lay the world.