Jarek quickly moved out of the gully, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the bloody mess he’d just left behind. His legs were still shaky, but the adrenaline kept him upright—barely.
The terrain shifted as he pressed forward. Grass gave way to brittle ground, the color leeching from the soil. Patches of earth looked scorched, not by fire, but by time—cracked and pale, like something had drained the life straight out of it.
He found what looked like a trail, though it was hard to be sure. The earth here wasn’t marked by footsteps or wheels. It was warped—flattened in places, grooved in others—as if a hundred paths had been worn through and then forgotten.
Not a road. Not really.
More like the scar of one.
Jagged stones protruded from the earth like crooked gravemarkers. Here and there, old stone markers leaned at impossible angles, etched with symbols too faded to read.
The trees changed too—tall, thin things with bark like charred paper, their branches twisted into spirals, reaching not up, but out. Like they were listening.
And above them, the sky stayed silent. Overcast, but unmoving. Like it was holding its breath.
He followed the trail anyway. Because it was the only thing that felt like it was going somewhere.
And standing still didn’t feel like an option.
Jarek kept walking, boots crunching across the withered ground. The twisted trees thinned, and the air opened up again—still stale, but clearer. That’s when he heard it.
Voices. Metal clinking. The low, rhythmic clop of hooves.
He crept forward and saw them.
A group—half a dozen figures, maybe more—clad in full armor. Dented, ancient-looking plate that clung to their forms like it had grown there. Most stood in a loose formation around a mounted rider, tall and still atop a black horse with a silver-plated skull mask covering its face. The rider held a tattered banner that swayed in the windless air.
It was black, with a crimson symbol in the center.
A jagged spiral made of thorns.
Like something meant to catch blood more than signal allegiance.
A pistol hung from the rider’s saddle. Not sleek and modern—something older, more brutal. Barrel long, stock wrapped in what looked like braided sinew.
Jarek ducked behind a chunk of fallen stone, heart hammering.
They were human. Probably.
But they didn’t look friendly.
Still… he needed information. Anything. Even a threat made more sense than this silence.
He crouched low, slipping into the brush, moving slowly—carefully—trying to get closer. Maybe he could listen in. Catch a name. A phrase. See their faces.
Or whatever was wearing their armor.
He crept closer, inch by inch, squinting through the mist—
“CRUNCH.”
Shit.
His boot snapped a twig underfoot.
One of the soldiers turned immediately. The one on horseback didn’t move.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
And then—
CLANG. SCHNK.
Steel rang. Something moved.
Jarek blinked. The world shifted.
Huh.
Where’d he go?
He tried to turn, to look around—
But something hit the dirt with a wet, meaty thud.
His arm.
It was gone.
Severed just below the shoulder, muscle and bone exposed in a ragged, steaming stump. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, pattering across the cracked stone.
Pain didn’t just hit—it detonated. Every nerve screamed at once, white-hot lightning ripping through his chest, his spine, his skull.
Jarek stumbled, gasping, vision blurring.
The knight—if that’s what it was—stood directly in front of him now, impossibly close, blade already lowered. The others hadn''t moved. They just watched.
Jarek turned, trying to run.
He got a step. Maybe two.
Then the knight was there again. No windup. No movement. Just—there.
The world tilted.
His legs crumpled.
Huh.
When did I get so short?
Everything went black.
[You Have Died.]
Jarek’s eyes shot open.
He gasped and instinctively grabbed his shoulder—
Expecting blood. A stump. Agony.
But his arm was there. Whole.
What the fuck.
He sat up fast, heart jackhammering in his chest. He flexed his fingers. Touched his face. Patted his ribs. Everything felt solid. Intact. Wrong.
His brain hadn’t caught up yet. He remembered pain. Bone. His arm hitting the ground like raw meat.
And now he was… back?
Back here.
Grass brushed against his fingers. Cool, slick with morning dew. The air was sharp again—fresher than it should be, too clean, like someone had scrubbed reality down to the bone.
The sky hung overhead, pale and hollow. Mountains jagged the horizon like black teeth.
And beside him, the bonfire burned. Same as before.
No smoke. No scent. No warmth.
Just that shimmer—like heat rising off asphalt in the dead of summer.
Jarek slowly stood, eyes scanning the hills.
This was the exact same place. Every blade of grass, every distant ridge.
Exactly the same.
Except for one thing.
There was someone else here.
He stood slowly, brushing the dew off his hands.
“Hello?” he called out, cautiously.
The figure turned. Tall, wrapped in a long, ragged brown cloak, the hood casting most of his face in shadow. He looked like he’d walked out of a wizard loadout screen—definitely gave off mage build energy.
The man studied Jarek for a long moment before nodding.
“You’re awake,” he said, voice calm, almost distant. “I saw you resting at the flame. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Jarek hesitated. “Have… we met before?”
The man tilted his head, just slightly.
“No.”
A beat.
“But you’ve been here before.”
Jarek’s mouth opened, then shut again.
He didn’t know how to explain it without sounding insane.
“I think something happened,” he said. “I was… somewhere else. It went bad. Then I woke up back here.”
The stranger’s gaze shifted to the bonfire. “That’s what it does. The flame brings you back. If it still remembers you.”
Jarek stepped forward. “What is this place?”
The man didn’t answer.
Instead, he said:
“You’re not “…the first to die in flame…”
He paused. His eyes finally met Jarek’s. Pale. Sharp. Tired.
“…but you might be the last.”
Jarek’s chest tightened. He swallowed.
“Listen,” the man said, turning slightly, his cloak catching the breeze like paper. “If I were you… I wouldn’t take the path you took last time.”
“What—how do you know—”
But the stranger was already walking.
One step. Two.
Gone.
No sound. No dust. Just the quiet crackle of the bonfire behind him… and the emptiness where the man had stood.
Jarek stood there for a long second, staring at nothing.
“What the fuck…” he muttered to himself. “How did he know what happened?”
Was he watching me?
The clearing should’ve felt empty—open air, soft grass, nothing but sky overhead.
But he didn’t feel alone.
He felt… studied.
Okay. So don’t take the path I took last time.
Problem was—he didn’t exactly remember which way that had been.
If I see the rat’s nest again, I guess that’s my sign to turn back.
He glanced around. The field looked the same in every direction—just pale grass and hills fading into the haze. That distant ring of mountains loomed like a painted backdrop, never any closer.
No roads. No markers.
Just… pick a direction.
He paused. Then grabbed a nearby stick, snapped it clean, and planted it in the ground next to the bonfire. Tore a strip from his shirt and tied it around the top.
A marker.
Just in case I die again.
Would it even stay? Or does everything reset?
Wait—maybe I can check.
He called it up with a thought, just like before.
[STATUS MENU]
Name: Jarek
Race: Human
Class: None
Level: 1
HP: 100 / 100
MP: 50 / 50
Stamina: 60 / 100
Strength: 5
Agility: 6
Endurance: 4
Intelligence: 8
Willpower: 7
Luck: 3
“Shit. Back to level one.”
So killing that rat was for nothing.
He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair.
“Fuck me.”
With no better plan, Jarek started walking.