The priest’s words, "Welcome to our world, lost soul," hung in the incense-laden air, strangely clear now, the underlying buzz of incomprehensible murmurs having resolved into something his brain could parse, thanks to the wand’s tap and the subsequent jolt of pain. Alex blinked, the golden glow from the priest’s hands still uncomfortably bright. With a grunt of effort that seemed disproportionate to the action, he pushed himself up into a sitting position on the cold stone altar.

  The movement brought immediate awareness of his nakedness. Cold air raised goosebumps on unfamiliar skin. Instinctively, he clamped his legs together and crossed his arms over his chest, hunching slightly, trying to cover his exposed groin.

  A few distinct sounds detached themselves from the quiet awe of the robed onlookers – a quickly stifled giggle, a low murmur that sounded distinctly amused. Alex’s head snapped up, his gaze darting around the shadowed figures. Their faces remained mostly hidden, but the faint sounds confirmed his humiliating vulnerability. The old priest, the one with the spectacles and the glowing hands, simply watched him, his crooked smile widening slightly.

  "Who… who the hell are you people?" Alex demanded, his voice cracking, raw. It didn’t even sound like his own voice – higher, maybe? Rougher? "Where am I? Is this… is this a dream? Some weird shit my brain is doing because… because I died! I crashed, I know I did!" Panic clawed at his throat, tightening his chest.

  The priest raised his glowing hands, palms outward now, in a placating gesture. The light emanating from them softened slightly. "Peace, lost soul. You have no need for panic here. You are safe." His voice was calm, a steady rock in Alex’s swirling sea of confusion. "And yes, you are correct. By the standards of the world you knew, you did indeed die. We sensed your soul adrift, unmoored in the currents between realms. Left unattended, it would eventually have dissipated, merging back into the Source from which all life emanates."

  Alex stared, trying to process the words. Lost soul? The Source? It sounded like nonsense, like something cribbed from a bad New Age pamphlet mixed with a hit of salvia. But the cold stone beneath him felt real. The strange, incense-heavy air filling his lungs felt real. The unsettlingly calm priest felt terrifyingly real.

  His gaze dropped, sweeping over his own body again, then out towards the assembled figures. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong, beyond the mere fact of being naked on an altar surrounded by robed figures after dying in a car crash. He looked at the priest, then at a tall figure draped in dark green robes near the edge of the dais – it had sleek, scaled skin and unblinking reptilian eyes. Then back at his own hands, his feet dangling over the edge of the altar.

  "What the hell?" The realization hit him with the force of another collision. He wasn’t just naked; he was… small. The priest towered over him, not like a particularly tall man over an average one, but significantly. All the figures seemed unnaturally large, their heads nearly touching the lower curves of the vaulted ceiling from his perspective. He twisted, craning his neck. Compared to the priest, he was maybe half his height. He held up a hand. The skin was pale, almost luminous in the candlelight, lacking the faint tan he usually carried even in winter. "I'm… I’m smaller!"

  The priest chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. "Indeed. Your soul required a vessel. Fortunately, one became available." He reached behind him, and one of the robed acolytes passed him a simple, cream-coloured robe, roughly folded. The bearded priest offered it to Alex. "Here. Cover yourself. Then, perhaps, you should see."

  Alex snatched the robe, pulling the rough-spun fabric over his head. It fell to his knees, loose but serviceable. He felt marginally less exposed, though no less confused.

  The priest gestured towards the side of the chamber. "Come."

  Alex hesitated, then swung his legs over the side of the altar. His bare feet met the cold stone floor with a soft slap. It felt solid enough. He followed the priest, acutely aware of the silent procession of robed figures falling in behind them. They stopped before a tall, ornate mirror, its silvered surface reflecting the flickering candlelight.

  The priest stood beside him. "Your soul was compatible with this form. Weakened as it was from its journey, it required a vessel already attuned to the energies of this world. You have been… reincarnated. Into the body of a halfling whose own soul had departed."

  Alex stared at the reflection, his heart pounding against his ribs. Halfling. The word snagged in his memory, pulling up fuzzy images from tabletop games Nathan used to run, from fantasy RPGs he’d played on his Xbox. Short humanoids, nimble, sometimes hairy-footed… But the face staring back at him wasn’t just small. It wasn’t him.

  Gone was his own brown hair and brown eyes, his slightly-too-lanky frame that he constantly slouched to minimize. The reflection showed a figure barely cresting three feet tall. Pointed ears peeked through a shock of raven-black hair that fell almost to his shoulders. His eyes held irises of a startling, piercing yellow. The face itself was angular, almost elvish in its features – high cheekbones, a strong jawline – undeniably handsome, but utterly alien. And though short, the body beneath the robe looked solid, with discernible muscle in the arms and shoulders. He looked… compact. Powerful, even. But short. So damn short.

  "This isn't…" He reached up, touching the pointed tip of his ear. It felt real. Solid cartilage. He pulled at the black hair. Attached firmly to his scalp. "No. This isn't real." He turned away from the mirror, facing the priest, a wild desperation in his eyes. "I'm dreaming. Or I'm hallucinating. This is my brain firing off synapses as I bleed out in a ditch! Some… some kind of elaborate fantasy world my subconscious cooked up from all the crap I used to read."

  "Your mind understandably struggles to accept," The priest said, his tone patient, like a teacher explaining a difficult concept to a child. "And yes, compared to the realm from which your soul originates, this world might seem… fantastical. We can tell your soul’s been traveling for a long time – from a world low in magic, perhaps entirely without it? Such worlds sit further from the Source, their barriers denser, harder for souls to traverse." He gestured vaguely, as if indicating something beyond the church walls. "Yours, which seemed particularly frayed, was too weak to breach the veil of any other sphere. It required… assistance. An anchoring point."

  "So you people just… yanked my soul out of the void?" Alex felt a tremor run through him, unsure if it was residual shock or burgeoning anger.

  "We are followers of Agmoth," He explained, his glowing hands finally dimming to a normal, albeit aged, appearance. He clasped them before him. "Agmoth, the Giver of Light, Lord of the Sun and Harvests. This vessel," he indicated Alex's new body with a nod, "was found without its vital spark, some fifteen miles beyond the walls of Blackwell, where we currently reside. A band of adventurers brought it to our temple in a catatonic state."

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Adventurers. Gods. Magic. Halfling. The words bounced around in Alex’s skull, ludicrous, impossible. The sheer absurdity of it all finally crashed over him, shattering his fear and confusion. He started to laugh. Not a chuckle, but a wild, uncontrollable burst of hysteria. He laughed until tears streamed from his unfamiliar yellow eyes, until his small frame shook. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, gasping for air between peals of laughter echoing strangely in the hallowed space.

  "Adventurers!" he gasped, pointing a finger at the priest. "You pulled my soul… into a halfling… because adventurers found its body?"

  His laughter was cut short by a sharp hiss. Alex looked up, startled. The lizard-like figure in the green robes had stepped forward, its snout wrinkled in anger, revealing rows of sharp teeth. A forked tongue flicked out. "You dare?!" the creature’s voice rasped, heavy with sibilance. "You show such disrespect? High Master Pyronn and the servants of Agmoth grant you a new vessel, snatch you from oblivion, and you mock their beneficence?"

  Pyronn raised a calming hand towards the lizard priest without looking away from Alex. "The lost soul is understandably disoriented. His laughter is born of shock, not malice." He turned his full attention back to Alex, his expression serene, though his eyes held a calculating depth. "Laughter is perhaps one response. But beneath it, surely you have questions?"

  Alex wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, the hysterical fit slowly subsiding, leaving behind a shaky emptiness. He took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. The priest was right. As insane as this all was, if he wasn't dying, if this was real… he needed answers.

  "Okay," he said, his voice still unsteady. "Okay. So, I'm in some magic world." He gestured around the chamber. "In a new body." He looked down at his small hands. "And you brought me back. Why? Just… out of the goodness of your sun-god-priest hearts? Because it's the right thing to do according to your religion?" He narrowed his eyes. "Or is there something else? Some ulterior motive you're not mentioning?"

  Pyronn met his suspicious gaze evenly. "Devotion to Agmoth and compassion for a lost soul are reason enough, make no mistake. It is our calling to offer solace and reclamation where we can." He paused, his crooked smile returning, but tinged with something more somber. "However, in this specific instance, candor compels me to admit there was… another factor influencing our decision to intervene so readily."

  He gestured again towards Alex’s body. "The vessel you now inhabit… it did not lose its soul through natural causes. Our initial rites revealed faint, yet potent, traces lingering upon it. Residue of infernal energies. Demonic pact magic." Pyronn’s expression grew grim. "We believe whoever occupied this form before you entered into a warlock pact. And then, judging by the soul’s violent ejection, they likely broke its terms. Their soul was forfeit, claimed as retribution by whatever entity they bargained with."

  He let the words hang in the air for a moment. "Agmoth, as the Lord of Light, stands in eternal opposition to the darkness of the Hells and the temptations they offer mortals. To reclaim a vessel tainted by such forces, to potentially thwart some sliver of their influence upon this material plane… that aligns deeply with our sacred duty."

  Demonic pacts. Warlocks. Souls claimed as retribution. The words echoed in the cavernous space, sinking into Alex’s already overloaded brain. It was madness. Utter, certifiable madness. And yet… the explanation, fantastical as it was, offered a strange kind of logic within the impossible situation. It addressed the lingering 'wrongness' Pyronn mentioned, the reason this specific body was available.

  A slow moment of clarity, or perhaps just weary resignation, settled over Alex. Arguing about whether this was a dream, a hallucination, or some bizarre afterlife seemed suddenly… pointless. The cold stone floor beneath his bare feet was undeniably solid. The incense smelled acrid and real. The concerned gazes of the robed figures – human, reptilian, and otherwise – felt intensely present. This new body, short and unfamiliar, responded to his will, however weakly.

  The crash felt distant now, obscured by the sheer immediacy of this. Whether this was objective reality or an illusion constructed by his dying brain hardly mattered. It was his reality now.

  He let out a long breath, the last dregs of hysterical laughter finally gone. He looked at Pyronn, meeting the priest’s patient gaze. "Okay," he said, his voice low but steadier. "Okay. Let's… let's assume I'm buying this. For now. What happens next? What do you people normally do when you… uh… reincarnate someone?"

  Pyronn nodded, apparently satisfied with Alex's tentative acceptance. "A practical question. First, you need proper attire." He glanced down at Alex's bare feet and the simple robe. "And sustenance. Reclamation is taxing on both the soul and the vessel. We shall speak further over a meal." He turned slightly and beckoned to one of the figures standing near the back – a stout individual whose scarlet beard flowed down over dark, priestly robes. "Brother Hyggor, kindly fetch our guest's provisional effects. And make sure there’s a character sheet in his room."

  "Aye, High Master," the dwarf rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together, before turning and disappearing through a side archway.

  Seriously? A character sheet? He clamped down on the urge. This whole situation felt ripped straight from one of the countless 'isekai' stories – Japanese anime and manga about ordinary people transported to fantasy worlds – that had exploded in popularity back home. Ordinary guy dies, wakes up in a fantasy world, often with special powers or a unique class. It was a tired trope, something people daydreamed about to escape mundane lives.

  And yet, as the absurdity brushed against him, a deeper, colder feeling began to stir beneath the surface. A subtle, aching yearning. If all this was real, then everything he knew was gone. His parents – their worried phone calls after he hadn't texted back for a day, his mother’s slightly overbearing love, his father’s quiet pride. Nathan and all the faces gathered just hours ago, laughing and drinking cheap wine. He'd never see them again.

  A pang of guilt, sharp and bitter, twisted in his gut. He remembered storming out, drunk and high, ignoring Nathan's concern. Driving like a moron. The crash… That final, fleeting image of Alice and Ben embracing on the couch felt pathetic now, irrelevant in the face of this irreversible severing. He was here, in this impossible place, because of his own stupid, reckless despair.

  "Come," Pyronn said gently, interrupting Alex's spiraling thoughts. "Let us find you your quarters."

  Numbly, Alex followed the High Master away from the altar room, the remaining robed figures bowing respectfully as they passed. They walked through cool stone corridors, lit by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls. The architecture was ancient, solid, imbued with a sense of profound history utterly absent from the suburban sprawl he’d known all his life. They entered what looked like a wing dedicated to residences – rows of simple wooden doors lining the hallway. Pyronn stopped before one and pushed it open.

  “A few items were found with the body,” Pyronn said. “I hope they can be of use to you. Take all the time you need.” He walked away, leaving Alex to his assigned quarters.

  Alex stepped inside. It was a small, sparse room. A narrow bed with a thin mattress, a wooden washbasin and pitcher, a small wardrobe, and a sturdy wooden desk with a matching stool. Folded neatly on the bed were clothes: a pair of sturdy brown trousers, a linen tunic, woolen socks, and surprisingly well-made leather boots, all sized for his new, compact frame. A worn leather backpack lay beside them.

  And there, resting squarely in the middle of the desk, was a single sheet of parchment. It was thick, yellowed with age, covered in neat, slightly archaic script. His "character sheet." The vital statistics of the halfling body he now inhabited, laid out for his inspection.