The darkness of the alley enveloped them, a sudden hush after the boisterous warmth of the Withering Whale. The only light came from the faint, greasy yellow spill from the pub's doorway and the distant starlight filtering down between the oppressive buildings. They walked a few paces down the narrow passage, then Sareth stopped, turning to face him.

  In the dim light, Kiroth could see her more clearly. She was taller than him by a good two feet, which still put her somewhere around below-average human height. Her features, framed by that riot of coppery-red hair, were sharp and intelligent, those unsettlingly familiar purple eyes studying him with an intensity that made him feel both scrutinized and deeply understood.

  "So," she began, her voice low and even, "how are you really faring? With all of this. I think I stayed inside the temple for a good three days after… after it happened to me. Couldn't face it."

  Kiroth considered her question. "Surprisingly… okay, I think?" he admitted, the words sounding strange even to his own ears. "But I’m not sure if it’s genuine adjustment or just… shock. Delayed reaction. I had a pretty crazy death. Everything since then has seemed like a dream."

  "Really?" Sareth’s eyebrow arched. "Crazy how?"

  A humorless laugh escaped Kiroth. "My own damn fault, that’s how. Drunk, high, stupidly trying to outrun my own misery in a snowstorm." He shook his head, the shame still a fresh, raw wound. "Not exactly heroic."

  Sareth was silent for a moment, her purple eyes unblinking. Then, she asked a question that sent a jolt through Kiroth, a question so direct and unexpected it momentarily stole his breath. "Are you… were you… from Earth?"

  "Yes!" The word burst out of him, elated, incredulous. The relief of finding someone who might understand that specific, fundamental point of origin was immense. He felt a giddy, almost hysterical laugh bubbling up. "Oh my god, yes! Earth!" Then a thought struck him, a sudden, chilling possibility. "Wait. Your Earth? Is it… is it the same Earth?"

  Sareth’s lips curved into a wry smile. "Let's see. When I… left… it was 1997. CDs, the dawn of the internet, and Pizza Hut buffets. That’s the Earth I left behind."

  Kiroth’s elation faltered. "Okay, no. I died in early 2024. We had smartphones, streaming, self-driving cars—well, some self-driving cars. Mostly just traffic jams and doomscrolling." He rubbed his neck. "I was nineteen."

  Sareth whistled softly. "Nineteen. Gods, that's… fucking young." She studied him for a long moment, a new layer of sadness in her eyes. "But yes. Discounting the thirty-odd year tech gap, it sounds like the same planet. Same blue sky, same yellow sun."

  "What country were you from?" Kiroth asked, eager for another point of connection.

  "Poland," Sareth replied. "Warsaw, mostly. And you?"

  "United States," Kiroth said. "East coast." He paused, then added a detail that suddenly felt important. "And, uh… my name was Alex. Before."

  "Ah," she said softly. "I used to be a guy, actually. My name was Stefan."

  Kiroth gulped. Gender swap hadn't even occurred to him as a possibility for other lost souls. Forget the body dysmorphia of being a halfling – grappling with gender dysphoria on top of everything else… that seemed like a whole other universe of mental anguish.

  "That must have been…" Kiroth began, unsure how to phrase it.

  "Jarring? Hells yes. For a while. But I had… plenty of time to adjust. And honestly?" She looked down at her own form, clad in practical leather. "I prefer it now. Being Sareth. It suits me better than Stefan ever did." She shrugged. "My death wasn't my fault, though. Unlike some self-destructive teenagers I could mention." Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were kind. "The whole story behind my… 'reclamation,' as those Agmoth priests call it, was a pretty big scandal around here for a while."

  Kiroth leaned against the damp alley wall, fascinated. "Scandal? What happened?"

  Sareth took a deep breath, the faint starlight catching the silver ring in her nose. "About five years ago, some high-and-mighty Elvish lord – the rich, powerful, heir of house Liaxidor – came to the Temple of Agmoth. His daughter, half-elf, half-human, had died. Properly died, not just ‘soul departed.’ An accident, they said. He was devastated, and he offered the priests an obscene amount of money to bring her back."

  She snorted. "Initially, even Pyronn and the other High Masters were hesitant. Reanimating a truly dead body, even for a lost soul to inhabit, is… tricky. Not their usual M.O. But the gold talked." Her voice dripped with cynicism. "They twisted their own doctrines, found some convenient loophole about 'preserving a vessel of noble lineage' or some such crap, and justified it. They performed the rites, reanimated her body, and then… well, then my lost soul, Stefan’s soul, came drifting by at just the right moment, apparently."

  Kiroth stared, aghast. "So they… they put you into a dead girl’s body just because her dad paid them?"

  "Bingo," Sareth said grimly. "And their instructions were clear: feign amnesia. Pretend to be the grieving lord’s daughter, given a miraculous 'second chance at life' by the benevolent Agmoth. Play the part. It was… complicated."

  "Wow," Kiroth breathed, shaking his head. "That's… that's a lot more morally dubious than I thought. Than Pyronn let on. That’s extremely messed up." He remembered the priest's calm pronouncements about helping lost souls, about countering demonic pacts. This sounded like something else entirely.

  "You have no idea," Sareth said. "I lived with that Elvish family for nearly two years, playing the dutiful, slightly confused daughter. It was… an education. Eventually, the truth slipped out. Couldn’t keep up the charade forever. Big blow-up. Moved out shortly after that." She gestured vaguely. "Started barbacking here at the Whale – I was a bartender back in Warsaw, so some skills transferred. Picked up some odd jobs, a few quests with people like Corym. Figured out how to survive."

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  A thought struck Kiroth, a sudden, hopeful spark. "So… there are others? Like us? From Earth, I mean?"

  Sareth’s expression turned more thoughtful. "I’m not sure; it’s not exactly common knowledge. After the… unpleasantness surrounding my resurrection became public, the Temple of Agmoth got a lot more secretive about their 'reclamation' efforts. They wouldn't want another scandal, especially not one involving souls from other worlds being shoehorned into convenient local corpses. Any they’ve brought back since, they’ve likely done it very, very quietly.”

  Kiroth processed Sareth’s story, his mind reeling at the implications. The priests of Agmoth, for all their benevolent posturing, were capable of some seriously shady dealings when it suited them, or when enough gold was involved. It cast Pyronn’s earlier pronouncements in a much more cynical light.

  "So," Kiroth said, shifting his weight against the damp alley wall, "my other question… is about all the… fantasy shit. The video game notifications popping up in my head. The skill checks. What’s with that?"

  Sareth’s purple eyes widened, a look of genuine shock crossing her face. "You can see those?" she exclaimed, her voice a hushed whisper. "The rolls? The success and failure notices?" She stared at him intently. "Gods, I thought I was the only one! I just assumed it was some… weird side effect. A special feat I unlocked somehow from being… Otherworldly. From Earth."

  Kiroth reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the folded parchment – his character sheet. He unfolded it, the faint alley light just enough to make out the script. He scanned it quickly. And there it was, a new entry under the ‘Feats’ section that definitely hadn't been there when Pyronn had first given it to him in the temple:

  Feats: Gameified

  "It's on here now," Kiroth said, tapping the parchment. "'Gameified.' So it's… real? For us, anyway?"

  Sareth nodded slowly, still looking a little stunned. "The stats, Kiroth – Strength, Dexterity, all that – and the concept of 'rolling' for success or failure in certain actions? That's common knowledge in this world. It’s considered a fundamental aspect of how life, how ability and chance, interact. But it's largely… theoretical for most people. They understand that someone with high Dexterity is more likely to succeed at a nimble task, or that a charismatic person might sway an argument." She tapped his parchment lightly. "But they can't see the numbers. They can’t see the rolls happening in real-time. They just experience the outcome. We can."

  "So this character sheet," Kiroth mused, looking at the strange document, "this is their only real frame of reference for understanding their own abilities numerically?"

  "Yeah, pretty much," Sareth confirmed. "For most, it’s an abstract. For us, with this 'Gameified' feat… it’s literal. Quantifiable. It’s somewhat useful, I suppose. Allowed me to connect a few dots, understand why certain things happened, when I might have otherwise been clueless. But mostly," she admitted with a wry smile, "it just makes this whole insane experience feel even more like some bizarre, overly immersive video game."

  "You can say that again," Kiroth muttered, shaking his head. The idea of his life, his successes and failures, being openly dictated by invisible dice rolls was both absurd and strangely comforting in its weird logic.

  Sareth’s smile softened, her purple eyes holding a warmth that made Kiroth feel, for a moment, less alone. "You're doing well, Kiroth. Considering you were literally born today in this world. You're a natural at this."

  The unexpected praise caught him off guard. "Natural? I feel like I’m just stumbling around in the dark." He looked at her, the immediate anxieties resurfacing. "So… what are my next steps? I mean, I don’t exactly have a wealthy Elvish lord’s family to fall back on for room and board."

  Sareth’s smirk returned, a playful glint in her eye. She tilted her head slightly. "What do you think, Kiroth? What does your gut, or your new character sheet, tell you?"

  He thought for a moment. Practicalities. Survival. "I think," he said slowly, "I need to get a job. A way to earn some coin. Pay for that hostel Thargon mentioned." He looked towards the dim yellow light of the pub. "Would you… recommend working here? At the Whale?"

  Sareth laughed, a clear, bright sound in the quiet alley. "Did Billy happen to mention he recently… let go of our old dishwasher?"

  Kiroth frowned, then remembered. "He… he said he needed to hire one, yeah."

  More laughter from Sareth. "Yes. He did. Dishwashing at the Whale. It definitely builds character." Her tone was light, but he could hear an underlying weariness. "Some nights are gruesome – festivals, big market days, whenever a rowdy band of adventurers stumbles in flush with dungeon loot. A lot of nights, you’d be here until the pre-dawn hours, scrubbing grease and god-knows-what-else off tankards and plates."

  Kiroth waited. "...But?"

  "But," Sareth conceded, "it’s honest work. It pays. And it beats begging on the streets, or trying to learn farming from scratch, or signing up for a seven-year apprenticeship to a surly dwarven blacksmith who'll mostly use you as a bellows-pumper." She paused, her gaze thoughtful. "Of course, I'm sure that’s not the only kind of ‘work’ you’re curious about…"

  Kiroth met her knowing look. "Adventurers?" he ventured. "Guilds? Thargon did mention you might say something about that."

  A genuine smile lit up Sareth’s face. "Yes. Adventuring." She sighed, a wistful sound. "There is always danger, Kiroth. More danger than washing dishes, that’s for sure. A lot more. But it’s also the fastest way to… grow, in this world. To find your footing. To get riches, if that’s your aim. To become more skillful, more powerful."

  "By killing enemies," Kiroth stated, the gamer terminology feeling natural on his tongue now.

  "Yes," Sareth admitted, her smile fading slightly. "Often, yes. But it's not as straightforward as in the games we knew. It's messy. It's brutal. And progression is slow." She held up two fingers. "I'm still only Level 2, after nearly three years of doing this off and on. And that’s with a few lucky breaks. It usually takes someone years, dedicated years of training and dangerous work, just to achieve a Level 1 combative class."

  "Combative classes?" Kiroth latched onto the qualifier. "So, that means… there are non-combative classes? Like… could I be a baker? A Level 5 Master Baker?" He wasn't entirely joking.

  Sareth chuckled. "Not exactly like that, with 'levels' in baking, but there are skilled professions, master craftsmen, scholars… people who excel without ever picking up a sword. But their 'progression' is measured differently. More in skill ranks, reputation…"

  She was interrupted by a sudden, deafening crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very stones beneath their feet. Almost simultaneously, the heavens opened. Rain, not a gentle shower but a torrential downpour, began to lash down, instantly soaking them both to the skin. Fat, cold drops hammered against the alley walls and splashed loudly in the puddles already forming at their feet. The dim light from the pub seemed to shrink, overwhelmed by the sudden deluge.

  "Gods damn it!" Sareth yelped, shielding her face with an arm. She grabbed Kiroth’s arm. "Come on! Let's get inside before we drown out here!"

  Turning, they scrambled back towards the inviting, if now somewhat distant-looking, yellow glow of the Withering Whale's doorway, the unexpected storm chasing them through the suddenly treacherous alley.