Colin pulled the blade from its sheath, the weight of it pressing heavily in his grip—not just steel, but the gravity of what he was about to do. He took a shaky breath and moved, instincts kicking in as he rounded the wagon to find the source of the scream.

  The first thing he saw was a group of ruffians standing in a circle, their boots striking at something—no, someone. Colin’s blood turned to fire. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. His legs carried him forward, and the sword arced through the air.

  His panic sharpened his senses, driving his body into the practiced stances Sskarin had drilled into him. They weren’t perfect—she’d have torn them apart—but they were enough.

  The bandit he targeted didn’t even know Colin was there. The blade bit into his neck, grinding through bone, and the man crumpled in a heap, blood spraying in a wide arc.

  The others froze, momentarily distracted by the sight of their comrade’s headless body. Colin’s eyes flicked down to the figure on the ground—Lyra. Bloodied and unconscious, her body lay limp and bruised in the mud.

  Rage erupted in Colin’s chest, hot and all-consuming. The fear evaporated, replaced by a wild, desperate fury. He swung his blade with reckless abandon.

  The first strike caught a woman in the chest, sending her sprawling as blood gushed from the wound. The next cleaved through a man’s abdomen, eviscerating him as his scream cut short, collapsing into a heap.

  The remaining two bandits recovered quickly, moving to counterattack. One went high, swinging an axe, while the other lunged low with a dagger. Colin barely managed to block the axe, the clash of steel jarring his arms. The dagger struck his gut—but stopped short, caught by his armor.

  Gritting his teeth, Colin slammed his elbow into the dagger-wielding bandit’s back, knocking him off balance. The momentary opening was enough. Colin turned on the axeman, charging him with a frenzied overhand strike.

  Steel met wood—the axe haft—then kept going. Colin’s blade sheared clean through, continuing into the man’s skull. The blade stopped halfway down, and Colin was forced to kick the man off his blood-slicked sword. The body landed with a dull thump.

  Colin turned to the final bandit. A boy, barely older than himself, stared back in terror. The sharp scent of urine hit Colin’s nostrils. The boy had pissed himself.

  Colin’s arms trembled. His fury ebbed, replaced by exhaustion and something colder—guilt.

  “Get out of here,” Colin said, his voice hoarse.

  The boy scrambled to his feet, tripping over himself as he fled into the woods. Colin let out a shuddering breath and knelt beside Lyra. Two fingers pressed to her neck found a faint, fluttering pulse. Relief surged through him.

  “Still alive,” he murmured. Gently, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the wagon’s front seat. She looked bad, but alive was good enough for now.

  But where had Nectarine gone...

  Colin’s gaze caught on drag marks in the mud leading toward the trees. His stomach turned. “Oh no. Nectarine.”

  Stumbling forward, he followed the marks into the underbrush. Muffled screams and grunts reached his ears, chilling him to the core.

  He burst through the bushes and found two men struggling to subdue Nectarine. One had his knee pressed to her back, pinning her face into the mud while tying her hands. The other was fumbling with his belt.

  “Let her go, scumbags,” Colin growled, raising his sword.

  The bandit with the belt turned, drawing a dagger as he charged. Colin’s arms ached, especially the one still pierced by a crossbow bolt, but he forced himself into a defensive stance.

  The dagger struck at him. Colin barely managed to parry, stepping aside and kicking forward with all his strength. His boot connected, driving into the man’s groin. The bandit collapsed with a strangled cry.

  Colin didn’t hesitate. He drove his blade down, piercing the man’s back and burying itself into the mud below. The body shuddered, then went still. Colin pulled the sword up and out of the corpse, leveling it at the final enemy.

  The other bandit stared in stunned silence, his grip on Nectarine loosening. She seized the moment, her hand glowing with an eerie green light as it plunged into the mud.

  Vines erupted around them, thick and thorned, wrapping around the bandit. He screamed as they tightened, lifting him off Nectarine.

  “Rend,” she hissed, her voice like steel.

  The vines twisted violently, thorns tearing into flesh. Blood sprayed in all directions, pooling beneath him as the bandit was shredded apart.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Nectarine collapsed to her knees, clutching her head.

  “I couldn’t breathe with that idiot on my back,” she muttered, looking up at Colin. “Thank you... for saving me.”

  “Of course,” Colin said, his voice soft. “You’d have done the same for me. Let’s get back.”

  Wrapping an arm around her waist, he helped her to her feet. Together, they staggered back to the wagons.

  The battle had waned. Guards were tending to the wounded and counting the dead. Bram and Kae stood near their wagon, their expressions a mix of relief and exhaustion.

  Sskarin spotted them first, her toothy grin breaking the tension.

  “Bram, Kae! They’re alive. And in one piece!”

  The two turned to face them, visibly relaxing at the sight of them.

  “Good to see ye, lad,” Bram said with a tired smile. “And ye brought the lass. The caravan took a mighty blow tonight—lost a dozen guards at least. But none of ours, thanks to ye.”

  Colin glanced toward Lyra, now cleaned and bandaged. She looked stable. A sigh of relief escaped him.

  As the adrenaline drained, Colin’s injuries screamed for attention. His arm throbbed, his gut ached, and exhaustion weighed him down like lead. He slumped beside the wagon, allowing Bram to check his wounds as Kae tended to Nectarine.

  The battle was over, but its scars would linger.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Removing the bolt had hurt, as expected. The sharp agony burned through Colin’s arm, but Bram’s healing touch worked quickly, dulling the pain. Magic flowed through him, knitting bone, muscle, and skin. It wasn’t seamless—more like patchwork—but it held.

  Lyra had regained consciousness but wasn’t her usual, talkative self. She sat quietly with Kae by her side, the two locked in a shared, wordless silence. Nectarine and Sskarin appeared unharmed, though the shadow of what had almost happened to Nectarine lingered in Colin’s mind. For her part, Sskarin was cheerfully boasting about her kill count, much to Nectarine’s visible discomfort.

  Colin’s gaze shifted across the group—his team. The word stuck in his mind, strange and heavy with meaning. These were his people now. When his eyes finally settled on Bram, a shiver ran through him.

  The dwarf hadn’t yet healed himself. Cuts and bruises crisscrossed his stocky frame, evidence of the fight he’d endured.

  “Ye’ alright, lad?” Bram asked, his gruff voice tinged with concern. “Heard ye’ helped Nectarine out of a tough spot.”

  “I died.”

  The words tumbled out of Colin’s mouth before he could stop them. He blinked, stunned at his own admission. “Bram, I died.”

  The dwarf frowned. “Did ye’ take a hit to the noggin’, boy? Yer alive and well—least as far as I can tell.” He leaned closer, scanning Colin’s head for signs of trauma.

  “Not here, Bram.” Colin’s voice dropped to a whisper, hurried and urgent. “I’m not from here. Not from this world. I died and somehow ended up—”

  Bram’s hand clamped over Colin’s mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  “Boy, yer talkin’ nonsense,” Bram hissed, his eyes darting around as if afraid someone might overhear.

  But there was no hiding the sudden tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders squared. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “IF what ye’ say is true, that’d make ye’ one of four known Otherworlders. And IF that’s the case, the guild would have to report ye’ to the citylord. Some folk might find a way to make ye’... disappear.”

  The words hung in the air like a blade poised over Colin’s head.

  Slowly, Bram removed his hand and pressed something into Colin’s palm—a slip of paper.

  “Nothin’ but a head injury,” Bram said loudly, with forced casualness. “Not a big deal, lad. Ye’ll be up an’ about soon enough.”

  Colin felt the final pulse of healing magic course through him as he glanced down at the note. Scrawled in quick, heavy strokes were the words:

  Not here. Talk at camp.

  Before he could reread it, the paper disintegrated, crumbling into ash that scattered across his lap.

  Bram rose with a grunt, brushing his hands off as he made his way to Kae and Lyra. He knelt to check on Lyra’s injuries, his broad frame casting a shadow over her pale face.

  Colin didn’t move. His gaze drifted to the treeline in the distance, the dense woods swaying gently in the evening breeze. Exhaustion weighed him down, but his mind was clear now. The adrenaline had drained away, leaving behind an unsettling stillness.

  At the bottom left of his vision, an exclamation mark pulsed faintly—a notification from the system. He ignored it. Whatever it was, it could wait.

  For the first time, Colin let himself think. Not about the fight, or the team, or even the strange system that governed this world, but about what had happened to him.

  He had died.

  The realization hit him like a wave, cold and unrelenting. He could still feel the panic, raw and visceral, but now it was mingled with something else: disbelief.

  It wasn’t real—not until he’d spoken the words aloud. The panic? Real. The fear? Real. But the situation itself? Impossible.

  How could he have died?

  His mind churned with questions, but no answers came. He couldn’t process it, not fully. The only thing he could do was accept it. Somehow, Colin had died—and here he was.

  What did that mean?

  Heaven? Hell? Neither seemed to fit. The world he found himself in wasn’t divine or infernal—it was something else entirely. A new universe? That made more sense.

  But why did it feel so much like a game? The integrated system, the notifications—it was all too structured, too artificial.

  He needed answers.

  Colin glanced toward Bram. The dwarf’s words echoed in his mind. Not here. Talk at camp.

  That conversation would be the first step. Whatever this was—whatever had happened to him—it wasn’t something he could face alone.

  And the steps ahead? They’d be massive.