ã€ŠNerd In the Northã€‹


 I: Where Am I?

    There were many days that Greg Veder would rather have stayed in bed.

    Most of those days usually ended with him getting his ass kicked by someone bigger, stronger, and meaner.

    Today¡­ today was not one of those days.

    Greg Veder opened his eyes with a gasp, the shock of cold air hitting his lungs like a punch to the chest. For a second, he thought he was still dreaming, brain struggling to process the vast expanse of white stretching out before him.

    What the hell?Snowflakes danced chaotically in the wind, confusing him even more.It''s FALL!

    Greg Veder had never been much of a fan when it came to the cold. For a kid who lived in Brockton Bay, the chilly winters were always more "meh" at best than "magical winter wonderland."

    Sure, snow was cool to look at and all -- heck, it was great ammo for waging snowball war against Sparky, but when you got down to it, cold was cold, and cold sucked.

    But right here, right now? This "cold" wasn''t just "winter chilly." No, this was a cold that went beyond any winter he had ever experienced before, a cold that cut right to the bone. Hell, the freezing sensation that gripped his entire body was way past the point of uncomfortable and rapidly approaching genuine danger.

    He sat up, blinking rapidly as if that might somehow change things. His breath came out in visible puffs, reminding him of those old-school RPGs where characters'' dialogue appeared above their heads.

    "Hello?" Greg called out, voice almost inaudible over the howling wind. "Is anyone there? Mom?Mom!"

    No response.

    "M-mom?" The word came out much weaker this time, Greg''s eyes nervously darting from place to place.

    Nothing.

    Just more howling wind and the soft crunch of snow beneath him as he shifted.

    Greg glanced down at himself as he rose to his feet, his confusion deepening. He was dressed in a simple white t-shirt, blue jeans, and a blue windbreaker ¨C definitely not the kind of outfit you''d wear for a trip to the Arctic.Or wherever the heck this is.

    "Okay, o-okay, d-d-don''t freak out," he muttered to himself, teeth chattering uncontrollably as he wrapped his arms around his body.There''s gotta be a logical explanation for this. Maybe I''m in one of those prank shows? Or... or maybe I''m having a super vivid dream?

    He pinched himself hard, wincing at the sharp pain, as he rose to his feet. "Nope, definitely not dreaming. Unless it''s like Inception or something. Oh man, what if I''m stuck in limbo? Or VR?"

    Crunch.

    Greg flinched as his sneakers sank into the snow with each shaky, shivering step. This was way too realistic to be some sort of advanced VR simulation. No tech he knew of could make you feel this level of immersion, especially not the cold. Heck, the Tinkers probably couldn''t pull something like this off yet.

    This feltreal, way too real.

    His head swiveled left and right, wide blue eyes darting from place to place, more than a little confusion and disorientation clear on his face. Snow-capped peaks towered in the distance, jagged and imposing against the gray, overcast sky. Gnarled, skeletal trees dotted the otherwise barren landscape, their branches bowing under the weight of the snow and ice. Everything looked cold, bleak, and unfamiliar.

    "W-w-where the h-heck am I?" he wondered aloud, teeth chattering as he hugged his arms tight around his thin, shaking frame. His windbreaker and t-shirt offered about as much protection from the cold as tissue paper would against a butcher knife. The frigid wind cut right through the fabric, chilling him down to the bone.

    Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

    Definitely not in Brockton anymore,Greg thought, his mind racing.

    For one, Brockton didn''t exactly have snowy tundras and imposing mountain ranges. At least, not outside of a few niche survival games he might dive into when the mood struck. But this felt different. More real, more tangible. The biting cold was too intense, the landscape too vast and detailed. This couldn''t be a game... could it?

    "Hello?" Greg called out again, hands cupped around his mouth in a vain attempt to project his voice over the wind. "Anybody out there? Sparky?God?Uh... anyone?"

    Just more howling wind and the crunch of snow beneath his feet as he trudged on, shivering and confused.

    "C-c''mon, Greg, t-think," he muttered to himself, trying to focus despite the numbing cold. "W-what''s the last thing you r-remember?"

    Birthday. New game. Then... nothing.

    The memories were fuzzy, fragmented, like trying to recall a dream that was already fading away. He remembered turning fifteen, the excitement of a new RPG to dive into, the title screen loading up, and then... blank. Next thing he knew, he was waking up here, in this frozen wasteland straight out of some post-apocalyptic survival game.

    Okay, let''s think this through logically,he thought, trying to calm his racing heart.Either this is the most realistic game ever, or... or I''m not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

    Suddenly, something caught his eye amidst the endless white expanse.

    A glint of... metal?

    Huh?

    Squinting against the glare of the snow, Greg stumbled closer to investigate. As he approached, the object came into clearer focus: a sword, its blade buried point-first into the frozen ground like some sort of Arthurian legend come to life.

    Whoa... no way¡­

    Greg blinked, then blinked again, half-expecting the sword to vanish like a mirage. But no, it stayed right where it was, its presence an almost defiant contrast against the harsh, unyielding landscape.

    The sword was a minimalist masterpiece. Its sleek, bone-white blade had a flawless sheen, untouched as if freshly forged and never used. A bright blue gem was embedded near the hilt, glowing like a perfect sapphire caught in sunlight. The hilt itself flowed seamlessly from the blade, with a simple, streamlined design that balanced elegance with function.

    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    It was, in a word,majestic.

    Like something straight out of a video game or like one of his Japanese animes.

    It''s beautiful,he thought, his hand reaching out almost of its own accord. He shuffled towards it, drawn by an inexplicable pull.This has to be a dream, right? Or maybe I hit my head really hard and now I''m in some kind of fantasy coma?

    Without even thinking, Greg reached out, fingers wrapping around the hilt with a sense of reverence. The moment he gripped the sword, a sudden warmth flooded through him, driving back the biting cold with a surge of invigorating energy. It wasn''t enough to completely banish the chill, but it took the edge off, steadying his shivering and clearing some of the fog from his mind.

    "Whoa," Greg whispered, blinking rapidly.Whoa... this is unreal...

    With a gentle tug, the blade slid free from its snowy prison with surprising ease, as if it had simply been waiting for Greg to come along and claim it. He could almost swear he felt a connection forming, a resonance between himself and this magnificent weapon, like some unspoken bond clicking into place.

    This is mine,Greg realized with startling certainty, feeling just as sure as his name was Greg that the sword belonged to him and no onebuthim.H-how? Why?

    As if in response to his unspoken questions yet answeringnoneof them, a name popped into his mind with that same unyielding certainty, imprinting itself onto his thoughts like it was his own name:Celestial Greg Blade.

    "Celestial Greg Blade," Greg repeated aloud, testing the words on his frozen, chapped lips. "Celestial Greg Blade. Celestial Greg Blade," he repeated slowly, testing the feel of the words a third time. They rolled off his tongue with an odd sense ofrightness. "Right, okay then. Magic sword made for me, I guess."

    Swinging the blade a few times, Greg marveled at the gleaming metal. The craftsmanship was exquisite, like nothing he had ever seen before, and that included all of the most high-end collectibles or props.

    And yet, this feltreal, solid and perfectly balanced in his grip.

    I have absolutely no idea what''s going on right now, but... it''s kind of awesome?

    Sword in hand, Greg took another look around, the desolate landscape seeming just a little less daunting than it had a moment ago. He wasn''t sure why, but the blade gave him a sense of security, of purpose.

    "Alright, Greg, you got this. It''s like the start of every hero''s journey, right?" he muttered to himself, a stream of observations and half-formed questions tumbling out. "Just gotta figure out where ''this'' is. And why. And how. And... pretty much everything else. No biggie, right? Strange new world, magic sword, zero idea what''s going on... totally classic setup. Just roll with it."

    Taking a deep breath of the frigid air, Greg chose a direction and started walking, the sword a comforting weight in his hand. Off in the distance, he could make out a denser cluster of those gnarled trees.

    Shelter, maybe?

    At the very least, it was a goal, something to work towards.

    "Trees mean wood, wood means fire, fire means warmth," he reasoned aloud, going off nothing but optimism and what he''d learned from countless hours of gaming. "Plus, maybe there''s a save point or a merchant hiding out there. That''s usually how these things work, right?"

    He blinked after a moment, eyes narrowing in thought. "Or¡­ if thisisa game or something, there''s gotta be some sort of tutorial or hint system, right? Like, a quest log or an NPC to talk to?"

    As he trudged through the snow, the initial awe of the sword shifted to curiosity about its origins and its apparent connection to him. He tried a few experimental swings with the sword as he walked, the movements clumsy but not entirely unfamiliar. It felt almost instinctual, like some part of him already knew how to wield this blade.

    "Man, if the guys at school could see me now," Greg grinned, blade slicing through the air with growing confidence. "Let Mal try to stuff me in a locker if he knew I had a freaking magic sword." The thought brought a grin to his face, even as his teeth chattered from the cold. This was straight out of his daydreams, a chance to be the hero for once instead of the sidekick or the comic relief.

    He paused mid-swing, a thought striking him. "Wait a sec, did I get Isekaied or something? Am IThe Chosen One?" he said the last three words with emphasis, somehow managing to add gravitas to his reedy shuddering voice. What if this was his call to adventure, the start of some epic quest where he had to save the world or defeat an ancient evil?

    The idea sent a thrill down his spine. The grin widened as he tightened his grip on the sword, giving it another practice swing. "Sick."

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    Starting Roll:Weapon of Power -This magical weapon has some additional powers, like being able to chop through concrete walls like butter, or parry incoming magical attacks. If it''s a thrown weapon, it will always return to your hand afterwards, and ranged weapons like bows and guns will shoot magical blasts instead of arrows, so you never have to worry about running out of ammunition.

    While effectively indestructible while the user is alive, and super light (to the user), it''s sharpness varies from Wolverine level to just a really good sword, depending on the user''s stamina. Improve your physicality and you''re basically swinging around a foot of adamantium all day.

 II: The Wild Ones

    "N-n-not s-s-sick at all," Greg muttered to himself, his voice shaking as violently as the rest of him as he trudged through the snow. "T-t-totally not s-s-sick at all."

    He''d been trudging through these woods for who knows how long, searching for anyone that could help him before it actually started getting dark.

    Greg glanced up at the gray sky. Darker? He pulled a face. Semantics.

    Anyway, he had been walking for what felt like hours now, the adrenaline from his initial awakening in this frozen wasteland having long since worn off. The Celestial Greg Blade, as cool as it was slung across his back ¡ª the sword somehow staying stuck there like his name was Dante ¡ª could only do so much against the relentless cold. Sure, it gave off this weird, comforting warmth that kept the worst of the chill at bay, but it was like putting a band-aid on a gaping wound.

    Long story short, he quickly learned that being a little bit warm wasn''t all that good. Helpful as his sword was, it wasn''t the best comfort against blizzard conditions.

    More like torture, really, Greg thought miserably, his breath puffing out in little clouds of white. Just enough warmth to keep me from going numb, but not enough to actually, y''know, help.

    Problem was he stayed warm enough to feel the cold in full, making it hell on earth for him more than anything else. At the very least, the trees managed to buffer some of the wind but the cold was still as sharp as ever. Greg''s teeth chatter, and his breath comes out in visible puffs of white air. He wraps his arms around himself, the windbreaker hardly sufficient. He continues walking, complaining to himself and hoping he doesn''t die. "I got a cool magic sword soul-bonded to me, I need to save the world or something first." No, no, stay positive. Gotta be something more to this.

    The wind continued to howl through the trees as Greg trudged onwards, each step feeling like an effort all its own. His sneakers, already soaked through from the snow, squelched with every movement, sending icy tendrils of discomfort up his legs. He could barely feel his toes anymore, which was probably a bad sign, but what could he do? It wasn''t like there was a handy-dandy North Face store out here in the middle of Frostbite Forest. Speaking of, the forest around him felt endless, a sea of snow-laden pines and skeletal deciduous trees that all started to blend together after a while.

    He was beginning to think he was really lost out here.

    Come on, Greg, don''t think like that, he chided himself, trying to muster up some of his usual optimism. You''re the hero here, remember? The Chosen One or whatever. There''s gotta be more to this than just freezing to death in the middle of nowhere.

    But it was getting harder and harder to stay positive as the minutes ticked by and the cold continued to seep into his bones. His teeth chattered so hard he was half-afraid they might shatter, and his fingers were starting to go numb even with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his windbreaker.

    Yeah, some hero I am, Greg thought bitterly. Bet Armsmaster never had to deal with frostbite on his epic quests. Or Dauntless, or any of the other Protectorate bigshots. They probably have, like, built-in heating in their suits or something. Tinker bullshit for the win.

    He shook his head, trying to dislodge the negative thoughts. No, no, gotta stay positive. Gotta be more to this than just wandering around until I turn into a Greg-sicle. Maybe there''s a village nearby, or a hidden temple or something. Some sort of tutorial zone with a wise old mentor who can explain what the heck is going on.

    As if on cue, a flicker of movement caught Greg''s eye through the swirling snow. He squinted, heart leaping in his chest as he made out the unmistakable silhouettes of people moving in the distance. Oh man, finally! NPCs! Or other players, maybe? Please let them be friendly, please let them be friendly...

    "Hey! Hey, over here!" Greg shouted, his voice cracking a bit as he tried to project over the wind. He waved his arms frantically, the Celestial Greg Blade glinting in the gray light as he did so. "Lost hero in need of assistance! Newbie in way over his head! Friendly neighborhood Greg, here!"

    He started trudging towards the figures, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the surge of hope and relief. Yes! Okay, play it cool, Greg. Introduce yourself, ask for directions, maybe see if they have any spare coats or healing potions to spare. Easy peasy, JRPG hero stuff.

    But as he drew closer, the details became clearer and Greg felt something twist in his gut. The figures were human, sure, but something about them set Greg''s nerves on edge. They were bulky, hunched over against the wind, and they moved with a sort of feral grace that reminded Greg more of predators than people.

    The Celestial Greg Blade thrummed in Greg''s grip, almost seeming to vibrate with a deep, resonant energy. It was a strange sensation, one that Greg felt more than heard, a low hum that seemed to settle in his bones and set his nerves alight.

    Whoa, okay, that''s new. Greg stared down at the blade, eyes wide. His mind raced, gamer logic kicking into overdrive. What''s that about? C''mon, sword, gimme a quest marker or something! I''m flying blind here!

    He glanced back up at the figures, now close enough for him to pick out more unsettling details. Ratty furs, patchwork armor, and weapons that looked more savage than civilized. Uh, I don''t think these guys are here to welcome me to the neighborhood...

    Greg''s grip tightened on the sword, a sudden urgency thrumming through him in time with the blade''s strange resonance. But beneath that urgency was a thread of caution, of wariness. Like the sword itself wasn''t sure what to make of these guys.

    Okay, Greggy boy, think! What would Al do in Rune-Saga Online? Or Kirito in SAO? His mind raced, trying to dredge up any relevant gamer knowledge. Negotiate? Bluff? Threaten?

    The figures were still far away but they were close enough for Greg to see eyes beneath shaggy hoods, tense readiness in their postures.

    "H-hey there, fellow travelers!" he called out, trying to keep his voice steady. "Nice, uh, nice weather we''re having, huh? Perfect for a little stroll through the murder woods!"

    The figures didn''t respond, continuing their silent, menacing approach. Shit, shit, shit, okay, diplomacy failed, time for plan B! Greg thought frantically. Only I don''t have a plan B, unless screaming and running counts as a plan!

    The sword pulsed again, almost chidingly, and Greg felt a sudden flash of... something. Not quite a thought, not quite an emotion, but a sense of needing to act, to take control of the situation.

    He pulled the weapon from behind his back and raised the blade, trying to project a confidence he definitely didn''t feel. "Okay, sword, whatever you''re doing, help me out here," he whispered desperately. "Let''s not start any fights. Not yet. Let''s just... try to get some answers first? Friendly answers, hopefully?"

    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    Greg''s heart hammered in his chest as the wild-looking men emerged from the trees, their faces weathered and hard, hair and beards matted with bits of bone and feather. They looked like something straight out of one of those gritty, realistic fantasy games he loved, the kind where every quest was a fight for survival and every NPC had a tragic backstory.

    Except this wasn''t a game.

    This was real, and these guys looked like they meant business.

    And by business, they probably meant his corpse roasting over an open fire.

    The older men carried weapons that looked like they''d been ripped straight from the concept art of a post-apocalyptic RPG - a jagged axe and a battered sword that had seen better days. Days that probably involved a lot of blood and screaming, if the dark stains on the blade were any indication.

    Shit shit shit, okay, don''t panic, Greg thought frantically, his mind racing as the men approached. Just stay calm, stay cool, maybe they''re friendly? Maybe they''re just really dedicated cosplayers or something?

    But as they drew closer, their conversation drifted over to Greg, and any hope of a friendly encounter shattered like a critical fail on a persuasion check.

    "Oi, look at ''im. dressed like some fool''s dream, he is. all bright an'' soft-like," the first man said, his voice rough and thick with an accent Greg couldn''t place.

    "Aye, never seen cloth like that before," the second man agreed, eyeing Greg''s hoodie with a predatory gleam. "Rich kneeler''s whelp, ''i reckon. Lost, stupid. Don''t know where ''e is."

    Kneeler? Greg''s brow furrowed. What the hell are they talking about? And why do they sound like they''re auditioning to be orc extras for Lord of The Rings?

    The first man grinned, a vicious, hungry thing that made Greg''s blood run cold. "I''d like that cloth on me, I would. Warm as a bloody bear''s arse."

    "Hah! first t'' put ''is guts out gets first pick, eh?" The second man chuckled, a dark, eager sound.

    Nope. Nope nope nope, I am NOT getting gutted today, no sir, Greg thought, panic rising in his throat. Time to make like Sonic and get the heck out of dodge!

    He spun on his heel, intent on booking it back the way he came, but the deep snow hindered his escape. Each step was a struggle, his feet sinking into the white powder as the men''s laughter rang out behind him.

    "Scrawny little shit, ain''t ''e? reckon ''e''ll try runnin''?" one of the younger men called out, his voice filled with cruel amusement.

    "Rrun? ha! Bastard don''t know ''ow. Legs look like twigs," the other replied, the sound of their pursuit growing closer with each labored step Greg took.

    Oh god oh god oh god, this is bad, this is so bad, Greg''s mind babbled as he struggled through the snow, his breath coming in panicked gasps. I''m gonna die out here, I''m gonna get stabbed by a bunch of LARPers on steroids, this is NOT how I wanted to go out!

    In desperation, he spun back around, nearly stumbling as he raised his hands in a pleading gesture. "W-wait! Hold up, time out, parley, whatever! I''m not- I''m just lost, okay?!" The words spilled out of him in a breathless rush, his voice high and tight with fear. "Like, super duper lost, don''t even know where I am, just woke up here, so if we could just talk this out...?"

    But the men didn''t slow, their grins only widening at Greg''s panicked babbling.

    "M''be he don''t ''ear so good," the second man said, hefting his sword. "Or just thick in the ''ead"

    "Don''t matter to me none," the younger one replied, a vicious eagerness in his voice. "Bet he''s got shiny bits under ''em rags. That coat''s ours, da?"

    "Enough yap, boy. Gut ''im!"

    They closed in, weapons raised, and Greg felt a surge of pure, animalistic terror. This was it. This was how he died, shanked by a bunch of fantasy hillbillies in the middle of nowhere.

    Mom, I''m sorry for all the times I forgot to take out the trash, Sparky, you can have my comic collection, tell Taylor from Word Issues class that I l...

    Suddenly, the sword in Greg''s hand seemed to thrum with energy, a tingle racing up his arm. It was the same odd feeling from before, that strange sense of connection, but stronger now. Insistent.

    Almost a command.

    Fight.

    Greg blinked, startled out of his mental goodbyes. What the...?

    But he had no time to question it. The first man was upon him, axe swinging in a vicious arc aimed right at Greg''s head.

    Reflex took over.

    Instinct.

    Greg''s arm moved almost of its own accord, the sword flashing up to meet the axe in a ringing clash of metal on metal. There was a moment of resistance, a shuddering jolt up Greg''s arm...

    And then the axe shattered, the blade snapping clean in two.

    The man had a split second to register shocked surprise before the sword continued its arc, biting deep into the meat of his shoulder and cleaving down through his chest in a spray of red.

    He crumpled, bisected, blood steaming as it hit the snow.

    Greg stared, uncomprehending, his brain struggling to process what had just happened. Did I just... Did he just...

    "Da!" The anguished cry snapped Greg back to reality as the younger man charged, stone dagger raised high. His face was twisted in grief and rage, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks.

    Again, Greg moved without thought, the sword leaping to meet the attack. It sliced through the boy''s wrist, sending the hand and dagger flying, then whipped back around in a backhanded slash that opened the boy''s throat in a crimson gush.

    He fell, choking, drowning in his own blood as it pooled around him, shockingly red against the white of the snow.

    The remaining wildlings, their faces pale with sudden fear, turned and fled, disappearing back into the trees as quickly as they had come.

    And then... silence.

    No sound but the wind in the branches and the pounding of Greg''s own heart in his ears. He felt the connection reach out again, sword humming in his grasp as his soul ballooned out twice just slightly in rapid succession.

    It settled and Greg stood there, shaking, sword hanging limp at his side. The surge of energy, of purpose, adrenaline, all three faded as quickly as they had come, leaving him hollow. Numb.

    I killed them. I killed them, oh god, I killed them, they''re dead, I killed them...

    His stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat.

    He dropped to his knees, barely registering the cold wetness seeping into his jeans, and retched into the snow. Vomit steamed as it splattered, pinkish and foul on top of red blood

    "...Fuck."

 III: Cant Bear It

    Greg knelt there in the snow, shaking, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that had nothing to do with the cold. The sword hung limp in his hand, the blade still stained with the blood of the men he had just¡­

    He knew he couldn''t stay there, on his knees, staring at the vomit.

    Staring at the blood.

    At the bodies.

    Killed. I killed them. I actually killed them.

    The thought repeated in his head, a skipping record that wouldn''t stop. He stared at the steaming puddle of vomit in the snow, bile and blood mingling in a pinkish slurry that made his stomach turn all over again. This isn''t happening. This can''t be happening. I''m not a killer, I''m just a kid, I''m just...

    But the bodies lying in the snow said otherwise. The blood on his sword said otherwise.

    Oh god, the blood.

    There''s so much blood.

    Greg shuddered, a full-body thing that made his teeth chatter. He couldn''t stay here. He couldn''t keep kneeling in the snow, staring at the evidence of what he''d done. His knees were going numb, his fingers aching with the cold even as they gripped the sword like a lifeline.

    He couldn''t stay on the forest floor.

    For one, his knees were getting really cold.

    For two, his everything else was getting just as cold.

    Hell, he wasn''t sure how long he spent on the ground.

    Move. You have to move. You can''t stay here.

    Slowly, painfully, Greg forced himself to his feet. His legs felt like jelly, barely able to support his weight, but he locked his knees and willed himself to stay upright. The sword hung at his side, heavy, the weight of it both comfortable and terrifying at the same time.

    I killed with this. I killed people. Real people, not just pixels on a screen.

    It had been so easy.

    Incredibly easy.

    He put the blade on his back again with a shaking hand, the feel of the metal making him flinch slightly. It felt wrong, putting away something that had just taken lives like it was nothing more than a toy, but what else could he do?

    Just leave it here, in the blood-stained snow?

    That would be suicide. No. No, I can''t. I need it. I need it to... to survive.

    The thought made Greg want to laugh.

    Surviving. That''s what this was, right?

    Kill or be killed, just like in the games. Except the games never showed this part, the aftermath, the sick, twisting feeling in your gut when the adrenaline faded and reality set in.

    Blood.

    It had gone everywhere, spraying on the ground and melting snow it landed on.

    So much blood.

    He had managed to push away all the fear of being lost and alone by focusing on his magic sword that might have been some sort of Tinkertech for all he knew ¡ª even though he knew in his soul it wasn''t. Dreaming about being a fantasy hero had been cool and all, but he had been focused more on the elf and magic and pretty girl side of the isekai bullshit thing, not so much the¡­

    Stop. Don''t think about it. Just... just walk.

    And so he did.

    Greg picked a direction, away from the blood and the bodies and the echoes of screams on the wind, and he walked. One foot in front of the other, a mechanical process that required no thought.

    One foot in front of the other. Just stop thinking.

    One foot in front of the other. Just stop thinking about the blood.

    "Shut up," Greg muttered, the words slurring together as he shook his head. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

    He walked faster, as if he could outpace his own thoughts. The forest blurred around him, an endless expanse of white and brown and gray, the skeletal branches of the trees reaching out like grasping fingers.

    This is insane. This whole thing is insane. I''m in a goddamn fantasy world, a real-life isekai, and instead of being the hero, I''m... I''m...

    A killer. The word hung in his mind, heavy and cold as the sword at his hip. He had killed those men, ended their lives like it was nothing.

    Just stop thinking about it.

    Half an hour of walking and it was easier said than done. They were going to kill me, right? He nodded to himself. Self-defense... that''s it.

    Yeah, the blond brightened a little, the rationalization easing his stress and pushing his darker thoughts to the back of his brain where they belonged. They were gonna kill me, and it was just self-defense.

    With jagged evil-looking weapons like that and looking like literal barbarians, they were probably cannibals even.

    And rapists, on top of it.

    Like the Nordrans in BattleAxe Fantasy, yeah. The super grimdark fantasy game were filled with crazy barbarians like the ones who attacked him. Nordra was the ice cold area up in the North ¡ª duh ¡ª where the Nordrans, a bunch of savage brawny berserkers and barbarians raided like the psychopathic fantasy Chaos-worshiping vikings they were. They probably kill anybody they see.

    Hell, killing them was probably the best outcome, even.

    He was only doing the heroic thing.

    I did the world a favor, really, Greg told himself, nodding along with his own thoughts. It was more than heroic, it was expected. Killing bandits and barbarians was like the basic thing any hero needed to do to be called a big damn hero in any video game.

    Hell, those guys had the same quotes as any bandit in Cloudbrim, the blond thought with a scoff, shaking his head again. ''"Hurry up and die already, so I can take your stuff!"'' Be more original, guys.

    It made perfect sense, honestly. By Sigmund, you''ve posted cringe! Prepare to die!

    He was the hero, they were exp points, and also bad guys, simple as. Wasting time being sad when he could focus on finding a town to lay his head and drink some mead sounded like a dumb idea, if he really thought about it. He let the rationalization wash over him, soothing the jagged edges of his conscience.

    Self-defense, heroism, all that jazz. Totally justified, no moral quandaries here, no sir.

    Speaking of experience points, Greg slowed his pace, completely halting his forward advance as the thought of that tickled his brain. Wait a second¡­

    A flicker of something popped into his thoughts, the same thing he had felt right before he fell to his knees. A tug on his soul just like that strange, instinctive bond he had with the sword. The same feeling he''d gotten right before¡­

    Right before I killed them.

    He frowned, the sword humming against his back, a subtle vibration he felt more than heard. Slowly and with only a bit of hesitancy, Greg wrapped his fingers around the hilt and pulled the blade from its sheath.

    It glinted in the gray light filtering through the trees, the metal bright and, without a doubt, beautiful as the blade seemed to hum with a life of its own. Greg stared at it, brow furrowed, trying to chase down that flicker of... something. He could feel it, that same resonance, that same sense of connection that had thrummed through him as he fought for his life.

    A memory, an instinct, a half-formed thought dancing just out of reach.

    Hi-yah!

    He blinked in confusion, the chill of the cold somehow ignored as he felt that warmth well up in the sword, deepening if not intensifying. Huh.

    It couldn''t be, could it?

    But then again, he was in a fantasy world, one with honest-to-god barbarians and swords that could cut through bone like melted butter, so who was he to...

    He shakes his head, frowning as he nearly shuddered again. Right after I killed those guys¡­ something popped into my head.

    "Wait¡­" He blinks.

    "I can..." The words came out in a whisper, barely audible over the wind whistling through the trees. Greg''s brow furrowed, his mind racing as he tried to chase down the elusive thought. It felt familiar, oddly enough.

    UWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

    He just wasn''t sure why.

    His grip tightened further, fingers curling around the wrapped hilt like they belonged there. The sword seemed to respond, a faint vibration running up his arm, a whisper of power waiting to be unleashed.

    Slowly, almost hesitantly, Greg raised the sword. He could feel it humming in his grip as he took a deep breath.

    Here goes nothing...

    With a single upwards slash, Greg swung the sword in a wild, reckless arc. And his jaw dropped open, eyes wide as a crescent of glowing blue energy burst from the blade, rocketing into the sky like a¡­ bolt from the blue.

    "Holy shit!" Greg yelped, nearly dropping the sword in his shock as he felt the sudden drain from his body, blinking as he felt like he just ran up a flight of stairs. He almost couldn''t care about that as he stared at the fading afterimage of the energy blade, his mouth hanging open and mind struggling to process what he had just done.

    I did that. I just... I just shot a fucking magic laser beam out of a sword!

    A laugh bubbled up in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated manic glee. It burst from him in great, heaving guffaws, the kind of laughter that shook your whole body and left you gasping for breath.

    "I''m magic!" He shouted to the sky, to the trees, to the whole goddamn universe.

    He swung the sword again, and another blade of energy shot out of it, tearing up into the gray sky like a fucking firework, Greg too manic to feel properly. "I''m fucking magic, baby!"

    And again, and again, each swing accompanied by a wild, ecstatic shout of joy that winded down into a bit of a groan as he felt his muscles ache with each blast.

    This is insane. This is impossible. This is¡ª

    GRRRRAAAAAAWWWWRRR!!!

    Greg Veder spun around, heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest as adrenaline flooded his system. A bear!

    A bear.

    A fucking bear.

    Because of course there was a bear, because apparently whatever sick cosmic joke of a universe he''d been dropped into wasn''t done screwing with him yet.

    Through a dense thicket of snow-dusted underbrush, two piercing eyes met his¡ªa massive grizzly, its gaze filled with a raw, primal ferocity that sent a chill down Greg''s spine. Okay, okay, don''t panic, it''s just a bear, just a giant, pissed-off, probably hungry bear...

    With a sharp intake of breath that was only slightly shaky, Greg stumbled backward, his feet sinking into the deep snow. Shit, shit, shit, what do you do with bears? Play dead? Make yourself look big? Sacrifice a virgin?

    His eyes went wider. Wait, that''s me!

    But before he could remember any of the probably useless bear safety tips he''d gleaned from movies and TV, the grizzly crashed through the underbrush with a roar that shook the trees. And suddenly, playing dead didn''t seem like such a hot option anymore.

    Fuck this noise, I''m out!

    Greg turned to flee, each step a sluggish, labored slog through the deep snow, regretting wasting the energy on that magic show just now. He could hear the bear behind him, the thunder of its paws against the ground, the snapping of branches and the huffing of its breath. It''s gonna catch me, it''s gonna catch me and eat me and I''m gonna die as a goddamn bear snack in fucking fantasy Siberia!

    Panic clawed at his throat, his lungs burning with each desperate gasp of frigid air. The snow was too deep, the bear too fast, and he was just a scrawny nerd with a magic sword he barely knew how to use. This was it. This was how he died, mauled to death by Smokey the Murder Bear in the middle of nowhere.

    No. His open mouth slammed shut, teeth gritted. No, fuck that. I am not dying like this. I am not ending up as frozen bear shit in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

    Desperation morphed into something else, something fierce and defiant and more than a little unhinged. Greg skidded to a stop, his back slamming against a tree as he spun to face the charging grizzly. His hands were shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but the sword in his grip felt like an extension of himself, like it was made to fit his hands and his hands alone.

    Alright, you overgrown teddy bear, you wanna dance? Let''s fucking dance.

    With a shout that was equal parts fear and manic bravado, Greg swung the sword in a wild, reckless arc. A beam of concentrated energy burst from the blade, a searing line of blue-white light that lit up the forest like a bolt of lightning.

    And missed the bear entirely, cleaving through the underbrush to leave a deep, smoldering gash in a nearby tree.

    Shit! Fuck! He felt his body complain again. Come on, Veder, get it together!

    The bear surged close and Greg''s eyes widened as a paw the size of his torso swiped down at him, the massive thing furry and tipped with claws that were each longer and thicker than every single one of his fingers.

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    Duck!

    He did, diving to the ground and away from the bear in a reckless move that had him hit the snow in a way he probably would have regretted if the snow wasn''t there to cushion his fall.

    Greg Veder tried to scramble to his feet as the bear whirled around, slamming into the ground in a painful unintended combat roll that only just saved his life from another swipe from a heavy bear claw.

    Move! Move! He jumped to his feet this time and grit his teeth, trying to steady his breathing, to focus past the heart-pounding terror and the adrenaline singing in his veins. All he had to do was ignore his monkey instincts screaming at him to run, with the bear so close he could see the steam of its breath, the glint of its teeth, the fire in its eyes.

    Focus. Breathe. He swung again, and this time the energy beam struck true, hitting the bear square in the chest. It stumbled, roaring in pain and confusion as blood matted its fur, but it didn''t stop. It reared up on its hind legs, towering over Greg like a mountain of fur and fangs and fury.

    In that moment, Greg realized he knew true fear.

    And it was this fucking beast.

    The fifteen-year old let out a wild, whooping yell, a sound that was more panicked scream than battle cry. He swung the sword again, and again, each beam of energy fueled by his own weakening body but propelled by adrenaline, a mix of terror, exhilaration and sheer, stubborn resolve. The bear roared, staggering under the onslaught, its fur smoking, its blood staining the snow crimson.

    Die, you fuzzy bastard! Die, die, die!

    And then, just like that, it was over. The bear lay motionless at Greg''s feet, steam rising from its massive bulk, the snow around it melted into a muddy slurry of blood and slush. Greg stood there, chest heaving, sword lowered, staring down at the fallen beast with wide, disbelieving eyes.

    "Holy shit," he breathed, his voice shaky and slightly manic. "Holy shit, I did it. I killed a bear. I fucking killed a bear with a magic sword."

    A laugh bubbled up in his throat, slightly hysterical, edged with a giddy sort of disbelief. He''d done it. He''d actually done it. Faced down a monster and lived to tell the tale. Just like a real hero. Just like--

    Suddenly, he felt it again. That strange, swelling sensation inside him, like his soul was ballooning outward, reaching for something just beyond his grasp. His breath caught, his heart pounding anew as he waited for... something. Some new power, some revelation, some--

    Pfftttt.

    But it sputtered out, fizzling like a wet fart, leaving him feeling strangely full but also empty, the metaphysical air deflating out of the whoopie cushion that was his soul as it returned to normal, yet feeling heavier somehow.

    Did I just... lose a gacha or something? What the hell?

    As if in response, the sword in his hand pulsed, the sapphire sphere on the pommel glowing faintly. And with the glow came a flicker of... something. A vision, a whisper, a half-formed thought dancing just out of reach.

    He saw the sword in his hand shifting, changing, growing into something massive and gleaming. A greatsword, a true hero''s blade, with a hilt a foot long and a blade four times that. He saw it cleaving through monsters and men alike, ignoring armor and scale and sinew like they were nothing more than paper. He saw himself wielding it, a warrior, a legend, a...

    The Vorpal Sword, a voice whispered in his mind, a voice that was his own and yet not. Its name and legend. Yours, if you prove worthy.

    Greg blinked, shaking his head as if to clear it. The vision faded, leaving him standing there in the blood-stained snow, staring down at the sword in his hand with a mixture of awe and confusion.

    "What are you trying to tell me?" he muttered, feeling a little foolish. It was a sword, for fuck''s sake, not a Magic Eight Ball It couldn''t talk, couldn''t think, couldn''t¡­

    Hell, he knew it couldn''t actually think, his fuckin'' soul was connected to it.

    If anything, if he had to describe it, it was more like he was talking to himself through the sword, kinda¡­

    Or the sword has a little bit of me inside it? Greg shook his head again, a hiccuping laugh escaping his lips. "Magic swords, huh? Isekai protagonist bullshit strikes again."

    He gave the sword a little shake, as if scolding it. "We already lost the thing, you greedy little weirdo. No use crying over spilled gacha or whatever."

    The sword pulsed again, almost petulantly, and Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You want to be a big bad greatsword. Well, tough titties. You''re stuck with me, and I''m stuck with you, so we''re just gonna have to make the best of it."

    He paused, a slow, slightly manic grin spreading across his face. "Besides, who needs a Vorpal Sword anyway? We''re gonna be legends either way. Greg Veder and his trusty magic blade, heroes for hir-"

    Whatever Greg was gonna say next went unspoken as his eyes went wide, the sound of rustling from behind him sending his heart racing and adrenaline surging.

    His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, the blade half-raised before he even realized he was moving. Shit, shit, shit, not another one...

    But instead of a rampaging grizzly, what emerged from the trees was...

    A cub?

    A tiny, shivering ball of brown fur, barely as big as a large housecat. It let out a sad, mewling sound as it scuttled over to the corpse of the bear Greg had just killed, nuzzling at its mother''s blood-matted fur.

    "Oh..." Greg breathed, his grip on the sword going slack. "Oh shit."

    Guilt hit him like a punch to the gut, a sickening, twisting feeling that made his stomach churn. The cub looked so small, so helpless, confused and alone as it pawed at its mother''s still form. I did that, Greg thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. I made it an orphan. Some hero I am.

    He stumbled forward, feet clumsy in the churned-up snow. The cub''s head snapped up at his approach, big brown eyes wide and wary. Greg froze, one hand held up in a placating gesture.

    "Hey, hey, it''s okay," he said softly, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. "I''m not gonna hurt you. I... I''m sorry about your mom, little guy. She was just trying to protect you from the crazy asshole with the sword, huh?"

    The cub just stared at him, uncomprehending, and Greg felt like the scum of the earth. Way to go, Veder. Traumatizing baby animals now.

    Slowly, carefully, he sheathed the sword at his back, the thing feeling a little heavier in his hands once again.

    Metaphorically, at least.

    Can''t just leave the lil guy here alone, he thought guiltily. Couldn''t abandon it to starve or freeze or get eaten by something worse. That... that would be even more messed up than what he''d already done.

    "I can take care of you," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could really think about them. "I mean, I''m supposed to be this big hero now, right? And what''s a hero without an animal companion?"

    He took a slow, careful step forward, then another, closing the distance between himself and the cub. It watched him warily, but didn''t bolt, didn''t growl or hiss or try to bite. Greg chose to take that as a good sign.

    "It''ll be just like Brother Bear," he said, a slightly manic grin tugging at his lips. "I mean, you''re gonna be the only bear, and I''m not an Indian who got turned into one by magic spirits, but hey, close enough, right?"

    The cub, unsurprisingly, did not respond.

    Greg shook his head, feeling a little dumb. Get it together, Veder. Trying to banter with a baby bear. All this murder''s making you lose it.

    Crouching down in the snow a few feet from the cub, Greg held out his hand, palm up. An offering, an invitation. "C''mon, little dude. I promise I''m not as much of a dick as I seem. At least, I''m trying not to be."

    For a long, tense moment, nothing happened. The cub just stared at him, eyes big and dark and unreadable. Greg held his breath, not daring to move, barely daring to hope...

    And then, slowly, hesitantly, the cub started to waddle towards him. One tiny paw in front of the other, cautious but curious, until it was close enough to sniff at Greg''s outstretched fingers. Its nose was cold and wet against his skin, ticklish in a way that made Greg want to laugh and cry at the same time.

    Holy shit. Holy shit, it''s actually working. I''m Disney Princessing this shit right now.

    Emboldened, Greg reached out with his other hand, slowly, carefully, ready to snatch it back at the first sign of teeth or claws. But the cub just let him scoop it up, lifting it into the air like something out of The Lion King.

    "Companion Get!" Greg crowed, a giddy laugh bubbling up in his chest. The cub squirmed in his grip, heavier than it looked, its fur soft and thick against his fingers. I can''t believe this is actually happening. I have a bear now. A baby bear.

    As if to punctuate that thought, Greg suddenly felt a now-familiar sensation pulse through him - that strange, swelling feeling of his soul ballooning outward, reaching for something just beyond his grasp. He tensed, bracing himself for... he didn''t even know what.

    Another near-miss?

    But no, this time, something actually happened. A glint of gold caught his eye, and Greg looked down to see a thick ring materializing on his finger, a band of rich yellow metal with a deep blue gem set into its center. The gem was carved in the shape of a V, the letter seeming to glow with an inner light.

    What the... Greg blinked, trying to make sense of this new development. Magic bling? The hell does that mean?

    As quickly as the confusion came, it was washed away by a sudden, startling realization. He felt... different. Stronger, tougher, more resilient. Like he could take on the world and win. Even the cold didn''t seem to bite quite as deep, the ache of exhaustion in his muscles fading to a dull, distant throb.

    Huh. Neat.

    Greg flexed his fingers, watching the play of light over the ring''s gleaming surface. He knew he should probably be more freaked out by this, by the sheer impossibility of it all.

    But honestly? After everything else that had happened, a little stat boost from a shiny trinket was pretty low on the ''wtf'' scale. Just roll with it, Veder, he told himself, a wry grin tugging at his lips. You''re the magic man now. Freak out later, when there''s a bed and maybe some mead and hot elf barmaids involved.

    Shaking his head, Greg turned his attention back to the cub still cradled in his arms. It was heavier than he''d expected, dense with baby fat and thickening fur, but the ring''s power boost seemed to make the weight easier to handle. Huh. He wasn''t stronger, he was sure of that, but the weight didn''t strain as much. Magic buff, +5 bear carrying capacity.

    "Alright, little dude. I rescued you, so that means I get to name you. Them''s the rules." The cub blinked up at him, black button eyes shining with what Greg chose to interpret as agreement.

    Let''s see... Smokey? Nah, too on the nose. Yogi? Paddington? Winnie? All the famous fictional bears flashed through Greg''s mind, each one discarded as quickly as it came. He wanted something unique, something with pizzazz, something...

    "Ash," he said decisively, nodding to himself. "Like Smokey the Bear, get it? Only cooler. More badass. ''Cause you''re gonna be a badass bear, aren''t you? Yes, you are, yes, you are!"

    He lifted the cub higher, nuzzling his face into its soft fur. It squirmed in his grip, letting out a squeaky little growl, and Greg laughed.

    And then yelped, as pain lanced through his hand, sudden and sharp.

    Greg held back the urge to flinch, simply to avoid dropping Ash in surprise as he shifted the bear to one hand to look at the other.

    Blood welled from a set of shallow puncture wounds, stark crimson against his pale skin.

    The little shit bit me!

    But even as the thought formed, Greg paused, frowning.

    It... didn''t actually hurt that much.

    Oh, it hurt, sure, he wasn''t completely numb. But compared to the other injuries he''d sustained today - the cuts, the bruises, the sheer exhausted ache of overtaxed muscles - a little nip from a baby bear was practically nothing.

    Speaking of¡­ all those other injuries¡­ they didn''t seem to be anywhere close to as noticeable as before. Hell, he felt like he could walk all day.

    Huh. He blinked. So, it''s a durability buff.

    Looking down at Ash, who was now gazing up at him with an expression of perfect innocence like he hadn''t just tried to munch on his wrist, Greg felt his frown melt into a sly grin. "Everyone''s a critic, huh?"

 IV: Im the Hero

    It had been hours.

    Hours.

    Greg Veder had been trudging through the snow-blanketed forest for what felt like an eternity, his shoes sinking into the powdery white bullshit. The boy''s legs burned, each step feeling like he was wearing concrete boots instead of his drenched wet sneakers.

    Hours.

    It had been hours of this shit, and the only thing keeping Greg from losing his mind completely was the steady stream of bear-themed tunes he belted out at the top of his lungs.

    Hours of belting out "Bare Necessities" and "The Bear Went Over The Mountain" on repeat. His playlist of bear-themed tunes was embarrassingly short, but hey, Ash seemed to dig it. The little bear cub trotted alongside him, looking way too chill for a wild animal.

    "...forget about your worries and your strife," Greg warbled, his voice cracking on the high notes.

    But whatever, no one was around to judge his vocal skills except Ash, and the bear couldn''t exactly post a review on UTube.

    Thank god for Disney, he thought, glancing down at his fuzzy companion. Ash, the bear cub he''d somehow acquired like a fucking animal companion in an RPG, trotted alongside him, seemingly unbothered by the cold and Greg''s atrocious singing.

    "I mean the bare necessities, that''s why a bear can rest at e-" Greg''s impromptu karaoke session screeched to a halt as he burst through the treeline, his jaw dropping so fast he nearly got whiplash. There, nestled in a small clearing like a goddamn winter wonderland postcard, was a village.

    "Holy shit on a shingle!" Greg whooped, his face splitting into a grin so wide it threatened to break his chapped lips. "Ash, buddy, we fucking did it! We found civilization! Or at least, like, the medieval fantasy version of it."

    Without wasting a moment, Greg hauled ass towards the village, the snow crunching under his feet. His mind raced with possibilities. Oooh, I''m gonna get one of those big ol fantasy turkey legs and some mead and a busty elf tavern wench to sit on my lap and a-

    But before he could get too lost in his Tolkien-esque fantasy, a strange feeling prickled at the back of Greg''s neck. It was like the vague unease of realizing you left the oven on mixed with the oh-shit sense of incoming danger usually reserved for horror movies.

    What the-

    Without really thinking about it, he stumbled slightly, his foot catching on a hidden root beneath the snow. As he pitched forward, an axe whistled through the air where his head had been a split second before, embedding itself in the snow with a meaty "thunk."

    "Jesus H. Christ on a cracker!" Greg yelped, scrambling back on his hands and feet like a demented crab. His eyes bulged as a wild-eyed man who looked like he''d stepped straight out of a How to Be a Fantasy Barbarian handbook burst out of the trees, another axe already in hand.

    And he wasn''t alone. Two more extras from the Barbarian Casting Agency followed close behind - a burly dude wielding a sword that looked like it had been used to butcher a few dozen hogs, and a woman with a spear who seemed like she''d never seen a shower.

    Granted, all three of them looked like that, but she had some especially grimy skin.

    "Hey, hey, hey, w-wait!" Greg''s voice cracked as he scrambled back, crab-walking away with wide eyes. His eyes darted to where Ash was already scampering away, the bear clearly having more survival instinct than him. "Ash, run! Use those fuzzy little legs!"

    Talking to a bear in English. Yeah, that''s totally normal, Greg. Good job. With a yelp that sounded more like a terrified Chihuahua than anything else, Greg leaped to his feet, yanking his sword from his back. The blade felt about as light as a railroad tie, and the cool energy that had been zipping through it earlier felt like more of a weak fizzle than the surge it was before.

    "Wait, wait, hold up!" he babbled, his voice pitching higher with each word as he held the sword up.

    But the barbarians didn''t seem interested in talking. The axe guy charged forward with a roar that sounded like a pissed-off grizzly bear with a megaphone, his weapon whooshing down in a deadly arc.

    "Fuck fuck fuck me!" Greg''s internal monologue went full R-rated as the barbarian swung at Greg''s midsection with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. ShitshitSHIT! Greg barely managed to get his sword up in time, the impact sending vibrations through his arms like he''d just used a baseball bat on a steel mailbox.

    "Shit!" Greg gasped, his muscles screaming in protest. Jesus, it''s like trying to block a fucking wrecking ball!

    He staggered back, arms feeling like overcooked ramen noodles from deflecting that blow. The sword, which had sliced through a weapon like it was made of marshmallow fluff just hours ago, now felt like a heavy dumbbell.

    Come on, magic sword! Greg pleaded silently, his heart doing a drum solo against his ribs. Don''t fail me now, you Excalibastard!

    But the sword didn''t seem to be in a cooperative mood. It flickered weakly in his hands, the cool energy that had zinged through it earlier now little more than a tired fizzle.

    "I''ll gut ye like a fish, boy!" Axe Guy snarled, his breath hitting Greg like a slap of rancid meat.

    "Wow, okay, first of all, invest in a fucking Tic-Tac, dude," Greg wheezed, ducking another wild swing that nearly took his head off. "And second, what is it with you guys and gutting? Is that, like, your go-to threat? Because it''s getting a little old, not gonna lie."

    The burly sword guy let out a bellow that sounded like an enraged walrus and charged, his blade glinting viciously in the weak winter sun. "Stand still, ye wee southern shite!"

    Greg yelped and pirouetted out of the way with all the grace of a drunk ballerina, catching himself from face-planting in the snow. "I''m from New England, that''s like super North!!"

    "Die!" Axe Guy shouted.

    Greg stumbled back, his feet tangling in the snow like an uncoordinated Bambi. "K-kill yourself!"

    The barbarian''s response was another wild swing. Greg ducked, feeling the whoosh of air as the axe passed inches from his bowl cut. Mom''s gonna be so mad if I come home with an undercut but also¡­ Stop taunting the scary murderous barbarians, you idiot! the sane part of his brain screamed. But the rest of Greg was running on pure adrenaline and pants-shitting terror, his mouth moving faster than his common sense.

    The spear woman took a jab at him, her aim scarily accurate for someone who looked like she skinned bears for fun. Greg barely managed to parry, the impact sending judders up his arm.

    "We''ll make ye squeal, kneeler!" she hissed, her eyes glinting with malice.

    "Kneeler?" Greg panted, his brow furrowing even as he backpedaled frantically.

    He was cut off by Axe Guy''s roar as the barbarian came at him again, swinging his weapon like he was trying to win a gold medal in the Fuck Greg''s Shit Up Olympics. Greg parried desperately, his arms screaming in protest, his sword growing heavier with each blow.

    Think, Veder, think! he ordered himself, his mind racing like a hamster on meth. You''ve seen every fantasy movie and played every RPG. What would the hero do in this situation?

    But his mind was blank, a buzzing white noise of panic and the singular thought of oh god I''m gonna die I''m gonna die I''m gonna die.

    And then, in a moment of crystalline clarity that felt like the universe''s sickest joke, Greg remembered a move from one of his favorite video games. Fuck it, he thought wildly. If I''m gonna die, I might as well die like a fucking weeb.

    With a scream that was equal parts battle cry and terrified shriek, Greg spun in place, channeling every ounce of his strength, every iota of his fear and adrenaline and sheer, pants-pissing desperation into the motion. The sword arced through the air, a blur of celestial white against the bleak gray sky.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    There was a moment of resistance, a sickening sensation of blade meeting flesh and bone. And then, with a wet, meaty thunk that would forever be seared into Greg''s nightmares, Axe Guy''s head separated from his shoulders and went tumbling through the snow like a gory soccer ball.

    Greg stared, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his brain struggled to process what he''d just done. He felt like he was going to puke, cry, and pass out all at once, his stomach doing a triple backflip as the reality of the situation hit him like a sledgehammer. Oh cool¡­ it doesn''t get easier.

    The spear woman screamed, a raw, primal sound of rage and grief that cut through Greg''s spiraling thoughts like a knife. She charged, her weapon aimed right at his heart, murder in her eyes.

    Greg reared back, bringing his sword up with shaking hands. The taste of bile rose in Greg''s throat, his face turning a shade of green that would make the Jolly Green Giant jealous. He reared up, pointing his sword at the other two barbarians with shaking hands. His voice came out as a strangled squeak, wavering and cracking like he was at the very start of puberty all over again.

    "F-fuck! God, why do you guys keep making me kill you?"

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    As Greg yanked his sword from the back of the spear-wielding woman, her body slumped to the ground with a dull thud. She joined her fallen comrades on the blood-stained snow, looking more like discarded ragdolls than the fierce warriors they''d been moments ago. The metallic stench of blood mixed with the crisp winter air, making Greg''s stomach churn.

    "FUCK!" he shouted, his voice cracking like he was going through puberty all over again. The silence that followed felt almost as oppressive as the fight itself. His hands dropped to his sides, suddenly feeling like they were made of lead.

    Greg''s arms trembled, not from the cold or fear, but from the adrenaline crash hitting him like a truck for the third fucking time that day.

    Greg Veder stood over the bodies of all three of the fallen berserkers, his chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly drained from his system. The sword in his hand felt heavy, the weight of the lives he''d taken pulling at his arm like an anchor. He''d never killed before, not for real, and the reality of it hit him like a suckerpunch to the gut.

    "Fuck!" The word burst from his lips, raw and ragged, his voice cracking under the strain. "Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!"

    He wanted to throw up. He wanted to curl into a ball and cry. He wanted his mom, and his bed, and his normal, boring life where the worst thing he had to worry about was getting beaten up for running his mouth.

    But this is my life now, he thought, a bitter laugh bubbling up in his throat.

    His hands shook as he lowered the sword, the blade caked with blood and gore. Five. He''d killed five people. Five living, breathing human beings, with families and dreams and...

    No. No, don''t think about that. Greg shook his head violently, as if he could physically dislodge the thoughts. They were trying to kill you. It was self-defense. You didn''t have a choice.

    But that didn''t make it any easier. That didn''t erase the sound of their screams, the sight of their blood staining the snow crimson.

    He''d been running on pure instinct, no skill or overwhelming power ¨C just dumb luck and a desperate will to live. Tripping around and scrambling all over while barely avoiding decapitation wasn''t exactly the heroic image he''d had in mind.

    I''m gonna scream my head off when I get a bed and a pillow, I swear. As he stood there, swaying slightly, something brushed against his leg. He glanced down, half-expecting to see another attacker coming for his ankles or something.

    Instead, he saw Ash, the bear cub, nudging him softly. The little guy looked up at him with those big, dark eyes, somehow managing to look both concerned and adorable at the same time.

    "Oh... Ash," Greg chuckled weakly, relief washing over him at the sight of the unharmed cub. "There you are, lil guy. Thought you might''ve bailed on me. Can''t blame you, though. This is some messed-up stuff."

    As he bent down to scoop Ash into his arms, a distant uproar caught his attention. It was like someone had cranked up the volume on a medieval warfare soundtrack ¨C shouts, the clashing of metal, and the unmistakable cries of people having a really, really bad day.

    Greg''s head snapped up, his eyes widening as he spotted the source.

    The village.

    The one he''d been so eager to reach, the promise of warmth and food and maybe even a bed driving him forward. It was under attack, at least two dozen figures climbing over the walls. Holy shit, he thought, his stomach twisting into knots. It''s a raid. An honest-to-god, Vikings-and-pillaging raid.

    Even from a distance, Greg could hear the terrified cries of the villagers, and see the small plumes of smoke already starting.

    Oh, come on! Greg felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach, like he''d swallowed an angry hedgehog. I can''t... This is like, way above my pay grade. He stumbled a few shaky steps backward, his mind racing as he eyed the overwhelming number of attackers. Five of these guys were already hard, but twenty... thirty?

    That was just straight-up unfair.

    Maybe I could just... not? The thought crept into his mind, tempting and terrible all at once. This isn''t my fight. I could grab Ash and just... leave.

    Before he could spiral further into his moral crisis, a profound surge of energy coursed through him. It was like that feeling when his soul had expanded those few times before, but cranked up a few more notches. This time it was different ¨C more potent, more demanding as it expanded outwards. And with that expansion came a choice, a fundamental decision that he felt in his bones, one presented to him not in words but in raw, overwhelming feelings.

    One path felt orderly, bright and shiny, like the good ending in a video game. It promised light, peace, and the kind of prosperity you''d see in a tourism ad for a fantasy kingdom. The other path... well, it was definitely more powerful. But it also reeked of darkness, corruption, and the kind of rage that''d make a Sith Lord look chill.

    Light Side... or Dark Side?

    The choice hung there, as real and heavy as the sword in his hand. For a split second, Greg wondered what it''d be like to choose the dark path. To have all that power, to make everyone who''d ever laughed at him pay...

    But nah.

    That was edgelord territory, and Greg Veder was no edgelord. He was a hero, damn it.

    Or at least, he was gonna try to be one.

    Without hesitation, Greg chose Light. The decision clicked into place within him, like slotting the final piece into a jigsaw puzzle. Something fundamental in his soul felt different ¨C firmer, unshaken. Even with the lingering nausea from the fight and the fear still gnawing at his guts, most of his panic dissolved. In its place was a newfound resolve, steely and sure.

    He tightened his grip around his sword, lifting it from the snow with a renewed sense of purpose. The blade felt lighter now, humming with an energy that matched the determination coursing through him.

    Okay, I''m guessing that''s the call to adventure? Greg squared his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the village. It was time to be the hero he''d always dreamed of being, even if the reality was a lot messier and scarier than he''d imagined.

    Rushing forward, he grumbled under his breath, "Let''s go do the hero thing."

 V: Gwenna of Frostfall

    <div>

    <div>

    Old Edda said this Winter would be a bad one, she thought, pulling her woolen cloak tighter around her shoulders. Old Gods be good, she''ll be wrong. The rough fabric scratched against her neck, the homespun cloth a far cry from the soft silks and velvets she''d heard the southron ladies wore. But it was warm and sturdy, and that was what mattered

    As she walked, Gwenna''s hand drifted to the small wooden charm that hung from a leather cord around her neck. It was a habit she''d developed whenever she was lost in thought, her fingers tracing the intricate carved lines of the weirwood face. Her father had given it to her on her last nameday, a fallen piece of weirwood.

    To keep the old gods close, he''d told her when she put it on.

    And we''ll be needin'' them close, if this Winter is half as bad as Edda says, Gwenna mused, a small frown tugging at her lips. Da had made clear that Winter was nothing she had ever seen before, as she had only been barely more than a babe when Summer started but the longer the Summer, the worse the Winter was something he repeated often. As this Summer had stretched for so long, they were due for a harsh one, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

    Shaking off the gloomy thoughts, Gwenna quickened her pace, her nose twitching as the scent of freshly baked bread wafted from Alin the baker''s shop. Her stomach growled in response, reminding her that she hadn''t eaten since breaking her fast that morning. She''d been too busy helping her father with village matters.

    Or at least trying to.

    Da says village work is for the chief, she thought with a huff, her arms crossing over her chest as she recalled the way he''d shooed her off, like she was still a babe clinging to her mother''s skirts. I''m four and ten, old enough to help. I''ll be runnin'' this village myself someday.

    "Gwenna!" A booming voice jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Alin himself standing in the doorway of his shop, his ruddy face split in a wide grin. "''Ad a taste of that fresh berry tart yet?"

    Gwenna shook her head, a small smile tugging at her own lips in response. "Not yet, Alin," she called back, "but I will be trying it soon!" If there''s time between all the chores, she added silently.

    "Aye, well, don''t ye be waitin'' too long," Alin chuckled, his accent thick with the Northern brogue. "Berries won''t last forever, what with th'' cold comin'' on so quick-like."

    "I''ll be sure to remember that," Gwenna promised, her smile widening a fraction.

    As she continued on her way, more villagers called out to her, their greetings and small talk as much a part of the daily rhythm of Frostfall as anything else.

    "Mornin'', Gwenna! Off to help yer da again?"

    "Aye, and he''ll be lucky to have her, with that head for figures she''s got!"

    "Gwenna, tell yer ma I''ll have that new batch o'' candles ready by week''s end, will ye?"

    She answered each in turn, the warmth of the exchanges chasing away the last of the chill from her bones. This was what she loved about Frostfall, this sense of community, of everyone looking out for everyone else. As much as she felt a bit of envy toward the stories of the wealthy South, the tales of their spite and malice also tempered her thoughts just as much.

    Lost in the comfort of the familiar, Gwenna almost didn''t notice when she reached the village gates. But the sight of Edric standing guard, his youthful face set in a serious expression that always made her want to laugh, quickly brought her back to the present.

    He''s comely enough, she supposed, eyeing the young man speculatively, but about as exciting as watching paint dry on a fence post. Still, a bit of harmless talk never hurt anyone, and it might just brighten up her day.

    "Afternoon, Edric," she called out as she approached, a coy smile playing about her lips. "Lovely day for some fresh air beyond the walls, don''t you think? I was hoping to pick some wildflowers. The meadow is just blooming."

    Edric''s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his spear as he held the thing as firmly and as straight as his own back stood. "I''d agree on the weather, Gwenna, but you know your father''s rules," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "He''s said it many a time, he has, there''ll be no letting you out alone."

    Gwenna felt a flicker of annoyance rise in her chest, her smile slipping a notch. I''m not some babe in swaddling clothes, she thought irritably, but kept her voice light as she responded. "Was back two moons ago he said that, I know it. Surely, the flowers can''t be as dangerous as all that?"

    "It''s not the flowers I''m worried about, and you know that well enough," Edric replied, shaking his head. "I can''t let you go, not without extra hands and eyes to keep you safe. There''s been talk of Wildlings movin'' south, and with winter comin'' on..."

    He trailed off, but Gwenna could fill in the rest. With winter coming, the Wildlings would be getting desperate, more likely to risk raids on northern villages like Frostfall in search of food and supplies. It was a tale as old as the North itself, and one that never ended well for anyone involved.

    Still, I can take care of myself, she thought stubbornly. I''ve been practicing with a bow, and I''m getting good. I could help defend the village, if it came to it.

    She opened her mouth to say as much, to argue her case, but the words died on her tongue as a sudden, sharp sound cut through the air. It was a noise she''d heard before, in the practice yard when the men were training, but never with such a sickening, meaty thunk at the end.

    Time seemed to slow as Gwenna''s eyes widened in horror, taking in the arrow that now protruded from Edric''s neck. The young guard''s hands flew up to clutch at the wound, but blood was already seeping through his fingers, bright red against his pale skin.

    "Edric?" Gwenna''s voice sounded small and far away to her own ears, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. This couldn''t be happening. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. Any moment now she would wake up, safe in her bed, with the sounds of the village coming to life outside her window.

    But she didn''t wake up. And as Edric collapsed to the ground in front of her, his legs giving out like a puppet with its strings cut, the horrible reality of the situation came crashing down on her like a ton of stone.

    The young guard tried to speak, but only a wet, gurgling noise escaped his lips.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    "No, no, no..." Gwenna whispered, stumbling backward. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest, drumming in her ears and drowning out the sudden screams and shouts erupting around her. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and a cold fear washed over her, as icy as the winds that howled down from beyond the Wall.

    "Edric!" The name tore from her throat, high and panicked.

    The Old Gods protect us, she prayed silently, fervently. This can''t be real, it can''t be happening, not here, not to us¡­

    But even as the desperate thoughts raced through her mind, the sounds of chaos erupted around her. Screams and shouts filled the air, mingling with the clash of metal on metal and the ominous crackle of flames. Smoke began to rise from the thatched roofs of the village buildings, carrying with it the acrid scent of destruction and death.

    But it was real. All too real. Above it all, rising like a clarion call of doom, came the cry that confirmed her worst fears:

    "Wildlings!" The voice rang out, sharp and terrified. "Wildlings at th'' gates!"

    Gwenna''s mind raced, her father''s lessons on what to do in case of an attack warring with her instinct to run and hide. She could smell smoke now, acrid and thick, as the first flames began to lick at the thatched roofs of the village buildings.

    I have ta find Da, she thought desperately, forcing her legs to move. I have ta-

    She ran.

    Gwenna''s heart hammered in her chest like a smithy''s anvil, the rhythm so fierce she feared it might burst forth from her ribs, and the taste of fear, bitter as winter berries, coated her tongue.

    Gwenna''s legs moved of their own accord, carrying her through the maelstrom of panicked villagers and marauding wildlings. The guards were trying their best but they were few and scattered and the wildlings were as savage in battle as they were in their looks. The rough cobblestones beneath her feet were slick with blood and melting snow, threatening to upend her with each hurried step. She ducked behind an overturned cart, the splintered wood digging into her palms as she steadied herself.

    From her hiding spot, Gwenna watched in horror as Betha Bones, the village midwife, was cut down by a wildling''s rusty blade. The old woman''s eyes, cloudy with cataracts, seemed to find the village girl in her final moments, silently pleading for help.

    Gwenna''s eyes stung, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks, but she couldn''t tell if they were from the billowing smoke or the sheer terror that gripped her soul. Around her, Frostfall crumbled, the village that had been her entire world reduced to blood and ash. The screams of the dying mingled with the cries of the living, a cacophony of suffering that made her heart ache.

    Old Gods, hear me, Gwenna prayed silently, her fingers clutching the wooden charm at her throat like a drowning man grasping for a raft. Spare us from this unholy nightmare.

    A thunderous crash drew her attention, and Gwenna''s head snapped towards the east gate, the door not too far from where she stood. The smaller wooden barrier, meant more for traders and fisherfolk than defense, burst open in a spray of splinters. Through the gap strode a figure out of nightmares - a wildling, massive and menacing, his crude axe already stained with old blood.

    Gods have mercy, Gwenna thought desperately, fear turning her limbs to lead as the raider started towards her. His strides were long and purposeful, a predator who had sighted his prey.

    His eyes, wild and hungry as a starving direwolf, scanned the fracas until they locked onto Gwenna. The grin that split his face was something out of the deepest of nightmares.Yellowed teeth, more absent than present, gleamed in the firelight as he started towards her. Gwenna''s breath caught in her throat, her limbs frozen in terror.

    "Oi, what''s this then?" the wildling called out, his voice rough as gravel and thick with a barbarous accent. "A pretty little kneeler, all alone?" He spat on the ground, the glob of phlegm landing inches from Edric''s still form. Gwenna''s stomach churned at the casual disrespect, bile rising in her throat. "Gonna have some fun with ye, I am."

    Move! a voice in her head screamed, cutting through the fog of terror. Move or die, you fool!

    Her body obeyed, but too late and too clumsy. As she scrambled backwards, her foot caught in the hem of her long skirts, sending her sprawling. The impact with the hard ground drove the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping like a landed trout.

    Tears blurred her vision as she clawed at the blood-soaked earth, fingers scrabbling for purchase, for anything to drag herself away from the approaching nightmare. The rough wool of her dress scraped against her skin, a sudden, sharp counterpoint to the numbness of her terror.

    "Ain''t ye a lively one?" The wildling''s voice was closer now, heavy with cruel amusement. His shadow fell over Gwenna, blocking out the sun. "Makes it more fun when they squirm."

    Gwenna squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow. Regrets flooded through her - things unsaid, deeds undone. I''m sorry, Da. I''m sorry, Ma. I wasn''t strong enough.

    She waited for the bite of the axe, for the blinding pain that would herald the end of all she knew. But it never came. Instead, there was a wet, choked off gurgle, the sound of a man trying to breathe through a throat full of blood.

    Gwenna''s eyes snapped open, just in time to see the wildling''s body, cleaved nearly in two, topple to the side in a fountain of scarlet. The spray of it was hot across her face, shockingly warm in the chill air. She gagged, the coppery taste overwhelming her senses.

    For a moment, all she could do was stare, her mind struggling to make sense of the sudden, violent turn. It was only when a figure stepped into her field of vision, blocking out the grisly sight, that she blinked, awareness seeping back in.

    It was a boy, she realized, not much older than herself. He was smiling down at her, but it was a shaky thing, more queasy than confident. In his hand, he held a strange sword, like none Gwenna had ever seen. It lacked a crossguard, seeming to be all one piece, and the metal gleamed with the pure, untouched white of fresh fallen snow.

    Who in the hells? The thought flashed through Gwenna''s mind, confusion momentarily overriding her fear. She''d thought she knew every face in Frostfall, but this boy was utterly foreign to her. His hair shone like burnished gold in the waning light, and his eyes, bluer than any sky Gwenna had ever seen, held a depth of concern she''d never found in the gaze of any of the village boys.

    Before Gwenna could find her voice, the strange boy spoke and she saw bright teeth, whiter and cleaner than she''d ever seen in her life. His words were gentle, but his accent was unlike anything she''d ever heard in the North.

    "Hey, girlie, you doing okay?"

    </article>

 VI: Tutorial over?

    "Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior''s heart," Greg sang, his voice carrying through the crisp northern air. He leaned back against the repaired gate as he sat on the ground, the rough wood digging into his spine through his thin clothes. The white sword at his side pulsed gently, almost in time with his song, as he continued, "...tell you, I tell you, the Wyvernkin comes."

    The familiar words from CloudBrim felt weird on his tongue, like a piece of home that didn''t quite fit in this medieval hellscape. Greg let out a sigh, his breath misting in the cold air. It had been three whole weeks, and some change, since he''d landed in this frozen knockoff of Lord of the Rings. The town was finally getting back on its feet after the Wildling attack, which was something, he guessed.

    Wildlings.

    That''s what they called those psycho barbarians who''d tried to turn him into a Greg-kebab. Not berserkers, or barbarians, or even Vikings. Just... Wildlings.

    Greg snorted, shaking his head. Kind of a lazy name, if you ask me. Wildling sounds like something you''d call a toddler on a sugar rush, not a bunch of murderous fantasy hobos.

    He shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable spot against the gate. The wood was rough and splintery, probably giving his back more acupuncture than he''d signed up for. But it was better than standing around like an idiot, he supposed. His gaze drifted over the landscape beyond the gate ¨C endless snow and trees, like someone had taken a Bob Ross painting and sucked all the joy out of it.

    Three weeks, Greg thought, chewing on his lower lip. Three weeks of being stuck in Ye Olde Shithole, and I''m starting to feel like someone dropped me off in the wrong fantasy world. He''d been hoping for elves, magic, maybe a cool guild hall where he could pick up quests.

    You know, standard isekai stuff.

    But nooooo.

    What he got instead was a whole lot of British people. Which was bad enough on its own, but British peasants? That made it so much worse.

    Like, so much.

    "Because nobody fucking showers," Greg muttered under his breath, wrinkling his nose at the memory of his first few days here. The smell alone had nearly sent him running back to the Wildlings. "Nobody seems to have fucking soap, either." He shuddered, remembering the weird looks he''d gotten when he''d asked about basic hygiene. "Hell, these people think I''m crazy for heading down to the river every other day to dunk myself."

    Greg''s stomach growled, reminding him of the sad excuse for lunch in his hand. He glanced down at the strip of dried meat, tough as leather and about as appetizing. "My Isekai Fantasy Adventure is Lamer Than Expected," he scoffed, shaking his head. "Or at least Darker. Way darker."

    He took another bite of the medieval jerky, his jaw working overtime to chew the leathery strip. How have they not invented sandwiches yet? he wondered, not for the first time. When did they even invent sandwiches, anyway? Note to self: look that up if I ever get back home. Could be my million-dollar idea here.

    The thought of home sent a pang through his chest, a mix of homesickness and guilt that he quickly shoved down. Can''t think about that now, he told himself firmly. Gotta stay focused. Gotta figure out how to get back. Or at least how to not die.

    Speaking of not dying, he hadn''t felt his soul grow anymore ever since he had shown up in the village. By the time all the chaos had ended and he''d cut down five more Wildlings, it had shot out three whole times.

    One of those had left him feeling way more¡­ intuitive.

    Like, not smarter, but more capable, almost. Like he could figure things out way easier, if he put some practice into it, he was sure of it.

    He wasn''t sure if it actually worked like that, but he had taken to sword training pretty well, fast enough that the head guard had asked him if he''d ever held one before.

    The second had gone¡­ nowhere.

    His soul had left him with another giant fart, even though he could tell that what he could have gotten would have been something really good. The Light in his soul could feel it too, it would have been incredible.

    Would have been, he frowned, taking another hard bite out of the jerky.

    The third was pretty good, though. Nothing to write home about, but solid.

    It let him enchant stuff.

    Granted, at first, he had been super excited about that, but it turns out it wasn''t all that impressive, not like it seemed. First of all, he couldn''t make anything all that powerful. He was pretty sure something like glasses that made you read faster would be out of his reach, let alone give you X-ray vision. On top of that, the time too.

    The fuckin'' time.

    It took a whole three days to enchant each item, which was all sorts of bullshit. The enchanting alone took like an hour of focusing his attention on something, and then it took literally seventy-two hours to set in and activate.

    Like, come the fuck on.

    Multiply three days each times his windbreaker, t-shirt, jeans, underwear, boxers, socks and shoes, and you can see why he wasn''t a happy camper.

    Granted, now he had a pair of pants and a shirt that wouldn''t get dirty, a jacket that kept him even more warm, underwear that wouldn''t tear, and shoes that were much tougher as well as socks that wouldn''t get his feet wet as easily. If it weren''t for that wait, he might have already set out on his own to explore with Ash and find one of those major cities with a castle, instead of sitting here in the middle of Fantasy Greenland.

    Greg sighed as movement caught his eye, and his gaze flicked to the right as a figure rounded the corner of the town wall. Another guard, sword at his hip, trudging through his rounds like he was programmed to.

    "Hey, Lorn," Greg called out, raising a hand in greeting. His voice came out a bit too loud, too eager, but hey, human interaction was human interaction, right?

    Lorn, the guard in question, simply looked at him and nodded. It was the same vague stare he always gave Greg, like he wasn''t quite sure what to make of the blond-haired stranger in their midst. At sixteen ¨C or ''six and ten'' as these weirdos said ¨C Lorn was barely older than Greg, but he might as well have been from another planet.

    Greg''s eyes skimmed over Lorn''s appearance for the hundredth time, taking in the bland brown hair, bland brown eyes, and the blandest outfit this side of a medieval Walmart. Thick brown wool cloak, gray tunic, gray breeches, brown leather boots. The guy was so generic he could''ve been an NPC in the world''s most boring RPG. The only thing that stood out was the tall spear he carried, like most of the guards. Actual swords seemed to be a rare commodity around here.

    Lorn turned away without a word, continuing his rounds as usual. Greg sighed, watching him go. Another stimulating conversation in the books, he thought wryly. Really nailing this whole ''make friends and influence people'' thing.

    The silence settled back in, broken only by the distant sounds of the village and the whisper of wind through the trees. Greg shifted again, trying to ignore the growing numbness in his butt from sitting on the cold ground. His mind wandered, as it often did these days, to the villagers and their reactions to him.

    They weren''t sure what to make of him, that much was clear. Showing up in the middle of a barbarian raid, even if he did kill a bunch of them and save a few people (including the village chief''s daughter, which he thought would''ve scored him more points), had left them feeling... well, conflicted.

    Greg could practically feel their eyes on him sometimes, could hear the whispers that stopped whenever he got too close. His ears burned at the memory of some of the things he''d overheard. "Strange lad," "Touched in the head maybe," "Some lost southron, I figure." It was like being back in high school, only instead of jocks and popular kids, it was a bunch of medieval peasants who thought bathing too much made you sick.

    Trying his best to understand the townspeople past their weird fantasy British, Irish, Scottish, whatever accents and Ye Olde English style of talking, he was pretty sure most of their gossipy whispers were about him.

    Which made sense.

    He was fresh and new, and before you had TV, you took all the chances you could get for something interesting.

    "At least they answer my questions," Greg muttered, taking another unenthusiastic bite of his jerky. "Kind of." He chewed thoughtfully, trying to piece together everything he''d learned over the past few weeks. It wasn''t much, and what he did know didn''t make a whole lot of sense. He''d be much more thankful if the answers he got did make more sense, but these people really didn''t know a lot about anything.

    He was in some country called Westeros, apparently. A place with seven kingdoms, all ruled by seven big Lords, who were in turn ruled by one king. Which doesn''t make any sense, Greg thought, furrowing his brow. Isn''t the whole point of being a king that you don''t answer to anybody? But whatever, not my circus, not my LARPing monkeys.

    Right now, he was stuck in a town called Frostfall, which was in one of those kingdoms called The North. Greg rolled his eyes at that. The North. Real creative, guys. I bet it took you all of five seconds to come up with that one.

    "Frostfall, The North, Wildlings," Greg sighed, shaking his head. "Come on."

    Something RPGs and Isekai animes didn''t prepare you for was how boring the past honestly was all the time. Without dragons to slay and Demon Kings to fight, it was just a lot of everyday repetitive blah.

    Like, right now, bored out of his mind.

    Like, mind-numbingly, brain-meltingly bored.

    At least Ash got to run around in the woods before coming back every few hours. To check on me, like I''m his responsibility. He shook his head at his bear cub''s antics.

    Till the bear made another round, it was just his job to stare out at the endless expanse of snow and trees and more fucking snow. How do people live like this? he wondered, shoving another piece of jerky into his mouth and chewing mechanically. It''s like being stuck in a never-ending loading screen.

    He sighed, his breath misting in the frigid air.

    He was just about to shove the rest of the jerky into his mouth when a familiar voice called out, slightly muffled by the thick wooden gate. "M''lord Greg!"

    Greg''s eyes widened, the jerky frozen halfway to his mouth. Shit, is that...? He quickly swallowed the tough meat, wincing as it scraped down his throat, and jumped to his feet, brushing the snow off his jeans.

    Act cool, Veder. You''ve got this.

    He''d barely managed to straighten up and clear his throat when a smiling face poked out from behind the gate, auburn braids swinging. Gwenna''s smile was as bright as ever as she fully stepped into view, her laugh like a bell cutting through the crisp air. "Ah, knew I''d find ye."

    Oh god, it is her. He felt his face heat up, a blush rising to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. Gwenna, the chief''s daughter, the girl he''d saved from a wildling attack nearly a month ago. She was pretty in a wild, girl-next door sort of way, with high cheekbones and dimples that showed when she smiled, and long lashes that framed her expressive eyes. Her auburn hair was braided intricately, the twin tails resting on the shoulders of her deep green wool dress and grey cloak, the braids bouncing as she skipped.

    Stop staring, you creep, Greg chided himself, forcing his gaze away from her face.

    "Lady Gwenna," he said, offering what he hoped was a cool, lopsided smile. "I thought you weren''t supposed to be outside the gate?"

    Gwenna giggled, the sound making Greg''s stomach do a weird swoopy thing he wasn''t entirely comfortable with. "I''m no Lady," she said, her accent thicker than the snow around them.

    "You''re the chief''s daughter, right?" His smile morphed into a grin, unable to help himself as he talked to her. Something about talking to Gwenna always made him feel a little bolder, a little more... himself. Or at least, the version of himself he wished he could be all the time.

    "That don''t make me a Lady," Gwenna shot back, crossing her arms over her chest. "It takes more to be a Lady, you know."

    "And what makes me a Lord?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in what he hoped was a suave, questioning look. Probably looks more like I''m having a stroke

    Gwenna mirrored his expression, her own brow arching even higher. Her gaze flicked between his face and his clothes, lingering for a moment on the sword at his waist before returning to meet his eyes. "Nothing ''t all, mi''lord."

    Ugh, this again. Greg barely fought the urge to groan and roll his eyes. Ever since he''d arrived in Frostfall, the villagers had been convinced that he was some sort of lost noble, a ''lordling'' from the South. No matter how many times he told them otherwise, they just wouldn''t believe him. It didn''t help that this whole "lord" thing had become a running joke of Gwenna''s that she seemed particularly fond of perpetuating. He could still remember the first time she''d called him that, right after he''d helped her to her feet during the Wildling attack.

    Back then, it hadn''t been a joke ¨C she''d genuinely thought he was some kind of nobility. The "m-milord" had spilled out along with a nervous curtsy that Greg had immediately tried to shut down.

    He wished it stopped there.

    Apparently, being as concerned with being clean as he was along with white teeth before people figured out fluoride and toothpaste meant you were some kind of noble.

    It really didn''t help that when people asked where he came from, he simply told them he didn''t remember, that he just hit his head and woke up in the forest.

    That just made them think he was a runaway "lordling". These people really like adding -ling to the end of words. Shouldn''t that make Wildlings young Wilds, if we''re going by that logic? His right eye twitched trying to understand how these people handled English¡­ or whatever their language was, cause there was no England here. Either way, makes no sense for them to think I''m a noble or whatever.

    Although, it could have been how bright and well-made his clothes were compared to everyone else''s. It didn''t help that he stood out like a sore thumb among the villagers, with their rough-spun wool and muddy colors. His bright blue windbreaker, jeans, and sneakers were like a neon sign screaming ''I''m not from here!'' Hell, the most colorful clothes he saw in town was Jenna''s dress.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    Or maybeeee it was the weird-shaped white sword.

    Yeah, Greg tilted his head to the side. That might do it.

    Slicing a few wildling''s arms off and the one he''d cut in half had been really impressive, because swords weren''t supposed to be that sharp.

    Well, most swords.

    This low-fantasy world apparently had some sort of magic enchanted swords called Valerie swords that only a few special rich nobles could afford. Weird name, but he wasn''t gonna judge.

    This place had all sorts of weird names for things.

    Like again, the North.

    Which, to be fair, was more lazy than weird.

    "How''s the guard''n going, m''lord?" Gwenna asked, her head tilting quizzically.

    Oh, yeah, he''d been a guard for a while now. Greg shook his head at the question, giving Gwenna a shrug and a slight smile to go along with it, trying to pull of nonchalant. "Same as usual."

    Gwenna''s dad had given him the temporary job for as long as he stayed in the village, which was appreciated, because he had no money. Her dad, the headman, or chief had even been nice enough to let him sleep in what they called the hall, a big old building with beds that travelers could sleep in.

    Food was free, too.

    Even if it wasn''t all that good.

    Gwenna nodded, her braids bobbing. "Aye, ''tis rather dull work, starin'' at the snow all day," she said. Then, her eyes brightened, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Though I suppose ''tis better than muckin'' out the pigs, aye?"

    Greg blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. "Uh, yeah, definitely," he said, hoping his confusion wasn''t too obvious. "I mean, pigs are cool and all, but I''d rather not get up close and personal with their... y''know."

    Gwenna laughed, the sound bright and clear in the crisp air. "Aye, ''tis a stinky business, that," she agreed.

    Greg felt his cheeks redden further. "So, what brings you out here, not-a-Lady Gwenna?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation away from pig shit. "Besides gracing this humble guard with your presence, of course."

    Gwenna''s eyes sparkled with amusement. "Ah, ye''ve caught me, m''lord. I''ve come to rescue ye from the perils of guard duty." She gestured dramatically at the snowy landscape beyond the gate.

    The blond blinked again. "You did?"

    "Aye, me da''s wantin'' to have a word with ye," she said, her tone slightly more serious now. "Sent me runnin'' to fetch ye, he did."

    The chief? Greg felt a flicker of unease.

    While Gwenna''s father had been nothing but kind to him, the headman offering him food, shelter, and even a temporary job for as long as he was in town¡ª with what he assumed was good pay, Greg always got the sense that the man didn''t entirely trust him. Especially when Gwenna was around. Oh god, he doesn''t think... I mean, we''re not... Gaaaah, get it together, Veder!

    "Huh..." Greg said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Any idea what he wants to talk about?"

    Gwenna shrugged, the motion causing her braids to bounce again. "Didn''t say. But he seemed right serious about it."

    Great. Just great. Greg''s mind raced, trying to think of anything he might have done to piss off the chief. Maybe he''s seen the way you look at his daughter, idiot, that annoying voice in his head chimed in again. Greg felt his face grow even hotter.

    "Well," he said slowly and carefully, "guess I shouldn''t keep him waiting, huh?"

    Gwenna nodded, her own expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "Aye, best not to. Shall we go together, then?"

    He kept his expression neutral, hoping his inner panic wasn''t showing on his face. "Sure, why not?" he said with a casualness he definitely didn''t feel. "Lead the way, m''lady."

    Gwenna rolled her eyes at the title but smiled nonetheless, turning back towards the gate. Greg followed, his mind racing. What could the chief want? Am I in trouble? Did I do something wrong?

    As they walked through the village, Greg couldn''t help but marvel at how different everything was from his own time. The houses were simple, made of rough-hewn timber and thatch, with smoke curling from the chimneys. People went about their daily tasks ¡ªtending to animals, chopping wood, mending clothes ¡ªwith a diligence and purpose that was so unlike the leisurely pace of modern life.

    No smartphones, no internet, no video games, Greg mused, dodging a pair of scruffy chickens that clucked indignantly at his passing. Just good old-fashioned hard work and the constant threat of death by starvation or wildling attack. Ah, the simple life.

    He glanced at Gwenna, noting the confident way she navigated the muddy paths, the easy greetings she exchanged with the other villagers. She''s so at home here, he thought, a pang of something like envy or longing twisting in his chest. She knows exactly who she is and where she belongs. Must be nice.

    Greg had never really felt like he belonged anywhere, not at school, not online... He was always the odd one out. Granted, he was still the odd one out here, but at least now¡­

    I''m a hero, he thought to himself. I saved Gwenna, I protected the village. I matter.

    It was a heady thought, one that made him stand a little taller, his steps a little more confident.

    He was so busy trying to get his blushing under control that he almost ran smack into Gwenna when she stopped in front of a large, log building. The mead hall, Greg recognized, where the chief conducted village business and hosted feasts and gatherings.

    "Well, ''ere we are," Gwenna said, turning to face him. She was standing very close, close enough that Greg could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the flecks of blue in her grey eyes.

    "Uh-huh," Greg said eloquently, his brain short-circuiting at the proximity. Words, Veder, use your words! "I mean, yeah, great, let''s do this."

    Gwenna gave him an odd look but didn''t comment, instead pushing open the heavy wooden door and gesturing for him to enter. Greg took a deep breath, steeling himself. Alright, Veder, game face on. Time to talk to the chief. You got this.

    Greg Veder walked into the dimly lit mead hall, his eyes adjusting to the change from the bright, snow-reflected sunlight outside. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke and roasting meat, and despite his nerves, Greg''s stomach grumbled in appreciation.

    He stepped further into the hall, Gwenna following close behind. The large room was dominated by a central hearth, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls. At the far end, seated on a sturdy wooden chair that might generously be called a throne, was Chief Harl himself.

    Chief Harl was a solid, stocky man, Greg knew that. At 5''9", he wasn''t exactly towering, but he was built like a stone wall¡ªbroad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that looked like he''d been cutting wood for years, which probably wasn''t inaccurate. The man had a thick black head of long hair tied back, and his beard was just as full, and only a little unkempt.

    Dude looks like he could bench press a bear, Greg thought, suddenly feeling very scrawny in comparison. Note to self: start working out. Or at least figure out the medieval equivalent of protein shakes.

    The chief''s sharp grey eyes turned onto Greg as the blond approached, always watching him whenever he was around. Greg swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden dryness in his throat.

    "...uh, Chief Harl," Greg greeted, bowing his head to the seated man and hoping it came off as respectful rather than awkward. He winced internally at the crack in his voice. "You wanted to see me?"

    The chief''s eyes narrowed for a moment, and Greg fought the urge to squirm under that piercing gaze. But then Harl shook his head and looked over Greg''s shoulder, his expression softening slightly.

    "Gwenna, leave us. Your mother has need of ye."

    "Yes, Da." Gwenna''s voice was soft, almost hesitant. Greg glanced back at her, catching her eye for a brief moment before she turned and left, her footsteps fading into the background noise of the hall.

    With his daughter gone, the chief regarded Greg with inscrutable eyes, his bearded face unreadable. "Aye, that I did," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, like stones grinding together. "Ye stumble to Frostfall with no knowledge of yer past. That change yet?"

    Greg blinked, thrown by the question. "Uh, no, Chief." Unless you count the fact that I''m from a whole different world and time, but somehow I don''t think that would go over well.

    The chief leaned forward, the firelight glinting in his eyes. "Then we talk about th'' future."

    "The future?" Greg repeated, his head tilting to the side in confusion. Was this good? Bad? He tilted his head to the side, confusion evident on his face. Please don''t let this be some weird medieval marriage proposal thing. I''m way too young for that.

    "Aye, yer future." Chief Harl gestured to his right. "This ''ere''s me younger brother, Merek."

    Greg''s head swiveled to the right, finally noticing the man who''d been standing there, leaning against the wall, the whole time. Huh, brothers.

    Where Chief Harl was solid and well-built, his younger brother was lean, almost wiry, standing a few inches shorter¡ªbarely an inch taller than Greg¡ªand lacking the bulk of a man used to a weapon in his hand. His face was clean-shaven too, the lack of beard making him look a good deal less rugged. But it was his clothes that really set him apart. They weren''t fancy, per se, but they were different from Harl''s rough practicality¡ªless thick fur and rough tunics, more tailored lines and finer materials. All in all, they were clearly made with more expensive stuff and trimmed with something better than simple wool. Even his belt had a few more pouches than necessary.

    Huh. Guess the medieval equivalent of a businessman is a... tradesman? Is that a word?

    "Merek''s a trader, sharp as they come," Harl continued, the gruff man nodding as he spoke. "''is lot rolled in yestermorn, and ''e''s off again tomorra."

    The younger brother stepped forward, his movements smooth and graceful compared to Harl''s solid presence. He looked Greg up and down, assessing him with a smile that didn''t quite reach his eyes.

    "Hi," Greg said, raising a hand in an awkward wave.

    Merek closed the distance between them, extending his hand for a firm handshake. His grip was strong, his smile genuine but with a calculating edge that made Greg''s skin prickle.

    "Aye, pleasure t'' meet ye, Greg," Merek said, his voice lighter than his brother''s but still rough around the edges. "Heard a fair bit ''bout yer... exploits ''round ''ere."

    Exploits? Is that what we''re calling nearly getting killed by Wildlings and bears these days?

    Greg returned the handshake, trying not to wince at the man''s grip. "Thanks, I guess. Mostly just been trying to keep my head down." And attached to my shoulders, but who''s counting?

    Merek''s eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile didn''t waver. "Heh, keepin'' yer head down, aye? I''ve heard ye''ve done a fair bit more than that. Sounds like ye''re just th'' kind o'' man I''d need on th'' road."

    "What road?" Greg asked, raising an eyebrow.

    "Oh, ye know, this ''n that," Merek replied with a vague wave of his hand. "Mostly makin'' sure me goods get near th'' Dreadfort in one piece. Not a short trek, an'' them roads... well, they''ve a mind t'' be tricky."

    The Dreadfort? Why does that sound like a place where they sell spooky Halloween decorations year-round?

    Merek stepped back to stand next to his brother, and Chief Harl took over, his voice firm. The time for pleasantries was clearly over.

    "Aye, Greg, ye know this village ain''t much, an'' we don''t need no trouble, right? Now, me brother, he''s headin'' to th'' Dreadfort come mornin''. Needs a strong lad at his back, like ye. Figured ye might be up fer it, eh?"

    Greg blinked, taken aback by the sudden proposition. "Huh, I mean, I wasn''t planning on leaving Frostfall just yet¡ª"

    "Thing is, see," Chief Harl interrupted, barreling forward like a conversational juggernaut, "Reckon if ye end up near th'' lords, ye might, see, start rememberin'' yer folk, might jog somethin'' loose."

    Oh. Oh, I get it. Greg stared silently at the man, wheels turning in his head. This is just to get rid of me because of Gwenna, isn''t it? He couldn''t help but feel like it was. He wasn''t sure why though. It wasn''t like he''d done anything inappropriate¡ªhell, he hadn''t even held her hand! And he wasn''t going to do anything like... well, like that, in the first place. He wasn''t some creep.

    Not that I''d mind if she wanted to... No, focus, Greg!

    "What d''ye make o'' that, then?" Chief Harl asked, his gaze unwavering.

    Screw it, let''s just ask. "Why do you want to send me off so bad?" Greg blurted out, his tone a little more accusatory than he''d intended.

    The chief''s expression hardened, a hint of regret flickering in his eyes. "Ain''t ''bout sendin'' ye off, lad. It''s ''bout puttin'' yer... skills where they''re needed. We''re simple folk ''ere; don''t have much call fer a fighter, or some runaway lordling, whatever ye are, not like th'' Dreadfort does."

    Ouch. Way to make a guy feel wanted. Greg swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "What if I want to stay?"

    Harl sighed, looking Greg dead in the eye. "If ye stay, ye''re welcome, long as ye keep th'' peace. But think on this¡ªthere''s more t'' th'' world than Frostfall. Ye''re meant fer more than ''ere."

    The words hit Greg like a punch to the gut, a mix of resentment and reluctant understanding warring in his chest. As much as he''d grown to like Frostfall, with its simple routines and kind (if a bit rough around the edges) people, he knew Harl was right. He wasn''t meant to stay here forever. He needed to figure out how he''d ended up in this world, and how (if possible) he could get back to his own.

    Might as well, he mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. I guess I haven''t gotten any more experience since I''ve been here. Maybe this is the universe telling me I''m spending too much time in the tutorial area.

    After a moment of hesitation, Greg nodded, deciding that the open road would probably let him grow. "Sounds like a plan. I don''t have much holding me here... No offense, Chief."

    Harl nodded, looking almost relieved. "Nay offense taken, lad. Better ye be where ye can do some good. That''s all any man can ask, eh? A chance t'' see where his path takes ''im. Merek''ll set ye right on what''s needed."

 VII: Hitting the Road

    Greg stood at the treeline, arm cocked back, ready to launch the stick for what felt like the millionth time. The forest loomed behind him, a wall of dark pines dusted with fresh snow, their branches creaking softly in the cold breeze. He glanced down at Ash, the bear cub sitting a few feet away, staring at him with those big, dumb eyes.

    "Okay, buddy, this time for sure," Greg muttered, more to himself than the bear. He let the stick fly, watching it arc through the crisp air before landing with a soft thump in the snow about twenty feet away.

    He looked eagerly at the bear, pointing with his other hand. "Go on, buddy. Get it!"

    Ash didn''t move a muscle.

    Fetch, Ash. It''s not that hard, Greg sighed, trudging through the ankle-deep snow to retrieve the stick. You run, you grab, you bring it back. Easy peasy.

    But the bear cub just sat there, staring at him with those big, dark eyes, head tilted slightly to the side as if to say, "What do you expect me to do with that, you weirdo?"

    Greg sighed, picking up the stick and tossing it again. And again. And again. Each time, Ash remained rooted to the spot, watching the impromptu game of fetch with a decidedly unimpressed air.

    "I''m just teaching myself how to play fetch," he realized, muttering under his breath. He narrowed his eyes at Ash. "I am, aren''t I?"

    The bear blinked back at him, utterly unimpressed.

    Great. Outsmarted by a baby bear.

    "Gregory!"

    The shout startled him out of his one-sided staring contest with Ash. Greg glanced up, grimacing as he spotted Gwenna marching purposefully toward him from the direction of the village gates. Her auburn hair was a vibrant splash of color against the stark white landscape, her green cloak billowing behind her like a banner.

    "Heyyyyy, Gwenna," he called out, trying for casual and missing by a mile. He glanced down at Ash, hoping for some moral support, only to see the little traitor hightailing it back into the trees, watching from a safe distance.

    Coward, Greg thought, narrowing his eyes at the cub. Leaving me to face the music alone.

    Gwenna stomped over to him, her boots crunching against the fresh snowfall with each step. As she drew closer, Greg could see the anger etched on her face, her brows furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line.

    Uh oh. That''s not a happy face. That''s a ''you''re in deep shit'' face.

    "Is it true?" Gwenna demanded, coming to a stop right in front of him, close enough that Greg could feel the heat of her breath on his face.

    Greg stared back at her blankly, already aware of what this was about but desperately hoping he was wrong. "Is... what true?"

    She got right up in his face, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her gray eyes. "Is it true?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

    Greg remained silent, his tongue suddenly feeling too big for his mouth. What could he say? That he was ditching her and the entire village to go on some wild adventure with a guy he''d just met? That her dad was all but kicking him out because he didn''t want his daughter getting too close to the weird outsider?

    His mind raced, trying to come up with some excuse, some explanation that wouldn''t hurt her. But he came up empty. Yeah, that''ll go over well. ''Sorry, Gwenna, but your dad thinks I''m a bad influence. Gotta go, bye!''

    Gwenna''s eyes were slightly wet but blazing with anger. "You''re leaving!"

    It wasn''t a question, but Greg nodded anyway, slowly, like he was confessing to a crime.

    "You''re leaving!" Gwenna shouted again, a balled fist landing on Greg''s chest. The blow wasn''t hard, but it might as well have been a sledgehammer for how much it hurt.

    He grimaced slightly at the hit. "...I take it your dad told you," he said, rubbing the spot where her fist had landed. The words left his mouth lamely, Greg immediately wanting to kick himself for stating the obvious.

    Now, it was Gwenna''s turn to nod silently, her jaw clenched tight. For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, she just stared at him, her eyes searching his face for... something. Greg wasn''t sure what. Finally, she spoke again, her voice small and hurt. "Why?"

    Greg swallowed, suddenly finding it very hard to meet her eyes. "I need to seek adventure," he mumbled as he stared at the ground, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears as he watched the flakes of snow land on his sneakers. "I don''t belong in Frostfall."

    "But you said you loved it here," Gwenna countered, a note of betrayal in her voice.

    Greg''s heart clenched. I do love it here, he wanted to say. *I love... * But he couldn''t finish that thought. Couldn''t say it out loud.

    "...I-it''s nice," Greg stammered, still avoiding her gaze. "It''s just not for me."

    Not for me, or not for her dad? the voice in his head asked snidely. Let''s be real, Veder. You''re running away. Just like you always do.

    Gwenna stared at him as he avoided her gaze, her narrowed eyes searching his face like she was trying to read his mind. "Me da wants you gone, doesn''t he?"

    Greg''s head snapped up, his eyes going wide. How did she... "I..."

    "Doesn''t he?" Gwenna pressed, her voice rising and her tone hard.

    Greg frowned, then nodded slowly, reluctantly. "I think he doesn''t want you to get yourself tied up with me... or whatever."

    "And what is that supposed to mean?" Gwenna demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

    Greg ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, before throwing up his hands. How could he explain this without sounding like a total loser?

    "I don''t know, Gwenna," he said with a groan. "I''m just some stranger who showed up out of nowhere with a weird sword and a bear cub," he glanced at the treeline, seeing Ash rolling around in the snow, "that''s also a coward," he added, glaring at his so-called animal companion.

    He turned back to Gwenna, shoulders slumping. "If I was him, I probably wouldn''t want my daughter getting involved with some strange guy who doesn''t have any..." he racked his brain for what medieval people cared about, "land or servants or something."

    Gwenna stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, out of nowhere, she asked, "Are you stupid?", her voice flat.

    Greg blinked, caught off guard. "I mean, sometimes, I th¡ª"

    He never got to finish that sentence. Because suddenly, impossibly, Gwenna was kissing him. Her lips were soft and warm against his, tasting faintly of honey and berries. Greg''s brain short-circuited, unable to process what was happening.

    Almost on instinct, his arms came up to wrap around her, pulling her closer. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his chest, the heat of her body seeping into his own. For a moment, everything else faded away¡ªthe cold, the uncertainty, the looming specter of his departure. There was only Gwenna, and the feel of her in his arms, and the sweet pressure of her lips on his.

    As they kissed, Greg felt his soul expand again, ballooning out only to reach nothing. But for once, he didn''t care about gaining experience or leveling up or whatever the hell his weird powers were supposed to do.

    All he cared about was this moment, this girl, this kiss.

    And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss was over. Gwenna pulled back, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with a mix of emotions Greg couldn''t quite decipher.

    "Wow," he breathed, blinking dazedly. He felt like he''d just been hit by a truck.

    A really nice truck. "That was... wow."

    Gwenna laughed, the sound soft and sad as she wiped the tears in her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yes, wow." She laughed again. "Ye''ve got a funny way o'' talkin'', don''t ye?"

    "I guess¡­ I guess I do," Greg replied, trying to smile even as his heart clenched painfully in his chest.

    He watched as Gwenna turned and walked back towards the village, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed, feeling like his chest was being squeezed in a vise. Part of him wanted to run after her, to tell her that he''d changed his mind, that he''d stay in Frostfall forever if it meant being with her.

    But he didn''t. He couldn''t.

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    "...can''t stay where I''m not wanted, though," he muttered to himself, trying to ignore the voice in his head screaming that he was, in fact, very much wanted.

    With a sigh, Greg turned back to the treeline, where Ash was watching him with a curious tilt of his furry head.

    "Come on, buddy," he said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "Let''s go pack. We''ve got a long road ahead of us."

    A long, lonely road, his mind whispered. But hey, that''s the hero''s journey, right? Leave behind everything you know and love, set off into the great unknown, become the chosen one or whatever?

    Greg snorted, shaking his head as he trudged back through the snow, Ash trotting at his heels. Some fucking Chosen One.

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C

    ?

    His canvas bag felt heavier than it should have.

    Greg adjusted the strap on his shoulder, wincing as it dug into his skin through his thin shirt. The bag was filled with dried food, water skins, and a few personal items he''d scrounged from around the village during his month-long stay. Somehow, it felt like it weighed ten times more than it actually did.

    Maybe it''s all the emotional baggage, he thought with a smirk, then immediately cringed at his own lame joke.

    But whatever...

    He stood outside the South gate of Frostfall, eyes fixed on the caravan. Two canvas-covered wagons loomed before him, giving off a lot of "Home, Home on the Range" sort of vibe.. These would be all he''d be seeing for the next month and a half on the road, this and the snowy forests.

    Month and a half, he held back a groan. God, I miss cars. Cars, phones, computers, television - he was missing a lot of things, honestly. Fantasy worlds sucked all kinds of balls, if he was being real, and boredom was the greatest enemy.

    He could honestly feel his ADHD starving to death with nothing to distract him but snow, guard work, snow, and combat training.

    Did he mention snow?

    The blond boy fought the urge to frown, keeping his face blank as he stared at the two horses a few feet ahead of him, one hitched to each wagon. Ash, at his feet, stared at them curiously, the bear cub clearly new to the sight of an odd-looking animal that large.

    At least I don''t have to learn to ride a horse on short notice, Greg thought, feeling a small wave of relief. That had been a worry, at least, something he''d been confused over. He hadn''t even seen a horse since he was single digits before he ended up in this hellish snowscape, so the slight anxiety was real. He quickly learned that the horses were being used to pull the cargo wagons with only Merek, his trader friend, and their two assistants actually getting to sit down.

    The five guards for the caravan ¡ª him included ¡ª were walking.

    Which is probably going to be another problem, but I''ll stress over that later, Greg mused, already imagining the blisters he''d be nursing by nightfall.

    He glanced up as he heard the crunching of snow approaching him, eyebrows rising slightly as he spotted Merek walk up to him. The tradesman wore a smile on his clean-shaven face, looking like the neatest person Greg had seen since he landed in Westeros. His clothes were well-made and practical, a far cry from the rough spun wool most of the villagers wore.

    "Gregor, aye? How''s th'' day find ye?" Merek asked, his voice carrying a strong hint of polish that his brother Harl''s lacked.

    Greg winced internally at the name. "It... it''s just Greg," he corrected, lips pursed as he nodded slowly. "Y-you can just call me Greg."

    "Ah, me mistake," the caravan owner responded, his expression not shifting one bit. That fixed smile was starting to creep Greg out a little. "Got yerself ready t'' be off, then?"

    Greg glanced down at himself, then at Ash, who was now pawing at his legs. "Yeah, we''re..." He looked back at the village, at the small crowd that had gathered to see off the caravan and Merek. Apparently, his rare trips back to his home village were always something of note. "...we''re ready."

    Merek''s gaze followed Greg''s, lingering on the crowd for a moment before dropping to Ash, just now seeming to notice the bear cub. His eyebrows rose slightly, but he quickly schooled his features back into that unnervingly steady smile. "Ye know," Merek began, his voice taking on a more earnest tone, "when I left Frostfall, I weren''t much older than ye. I saw me future clear as day¡ªout there, not here. There''s a world full o'' wonder in the kingdoms, lad. Ye don''t want Frostfall t'' be the whole o'' what ye know."

    We''ve been over this yesterday, Greg thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Whatever. Out loud, he just nodded, keeping his expression tight. "Yeah... I get that."

    After a few moments of quiet staring, during which Greg tried not to squirm under Merek''s calculating gaze, the tradesman simply nodded at him. Greg couldn''t help but notice the man''s face didn''t even shift in the slightest bit, his smile and expression almost perfectly still which was... off. Like talking to an NPC in a game with limited facial animations.

    "Right, all''s sorted. Let''s get movin''," Merek said, turning away.

    The man walked off and hopped onto the front of the wagon in the lead. Greg turned to follow, his mind already racing with thoughts of the journey ahead. Will we run into bandits? Monsters? Please, God, let there be something more interesting than snow...

    His musings were cut short as he felt a hand on his back. Greg turned around, blinking in surprise as he came face to face with-

    "Gwenna?"

    The girl nodded silently, looking Greg in the eye. There was a softness in her gaze that made his heart do a little flip. Before he could say anything, she lifted something over his head and let it fall around his neck. Greg glanced down at what she had just given him, recognizing the bone-white wood pendant on the piece of string. It was something he had grown familiar with seeing around her own neck over the last month.

    "Your necklace...?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

    "Aye," she smiled, the expression way more sad than he liked. "Old Gods brought you to Frostfall. Only right that they see you off."

    "Gwenna, I..." Greg started, a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to tell her how much this meant to him, how much she meant to him. But the words wouldn''t come.

    She shook her head, silencing him without a word. "...I''ll miss you, m''lord."

    Greg swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to just say ''screw it'' and stay. But he knew he couldn''t. This wasn''t his world, no matter how much a part of him wished it could be. "And I you, my lady," he managed, forcing a smile.

    Gwenna ran back to stand with her family. Her father''s face was stormy, his eyes fixed on Greg with a mixture of suspicion and resignation. Her mother, a kind-faced plump woman, offered Greg a small, sympathetic smile. They stood at the forefront of the small crowd, the village chief and his family a picture of both authority and normalcy.

    Greg glanced back and waved as he walked away with the caravan, doing his best to convince himself he didn''t see the tears on Gwenna''s face. It''s for the best, he thought, the words ringing hollow even in his own mind.

    As the gates of Frostfall receded behind him against the open tundra, Greg felt a strange mix of excitement and dread settling in his stomach. He was leaving the only bit of stability he''d found in this world, heading out into the unknown. Part of him thrilled at the idea - wasn''t this what he''d always dreamed of, being the hero in his own fantasy adventure?

    But another part, a part that sounded suspiciously like his mom, whispered warnings about stranger danger and the perils of the wilderness. Mom would freak if she knew I was going on a road trip with a bunch of medieval strangers, he thought, a pang of homesickness hitting him hard.

    He looked down at Ash, padding along faithfully beside him. At least he wasn''t completely alone. "Just you and me, buddy," he muttered. "Ready for an adventure?"

    The bear cub just blinked up at him, utterly unimpressed.

    Yeah, Greg thought, turning his eyes to the snowy road ahead. Me neither.

 VIII: New Friends

    The afternoon sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows over the snow-covered path. Greg squinted against the glare, his eyes watering slightly from the combined assault of light and cold. The wind nipped at his face, not quite as brutal as it had been before Frostfall, thanks to the enchantment he''d put on his windbreaker and the combined effect of his ring but still noticeable, even with both of them working together. At least it''s not snowing, he thought, trying to find a silver lining.

    The caravan moved steadily southward, the rhythmic sound of hooves and the creak of wagons creating a rhythmic backdrop to their journey. It reminded Greg of the old Western movies his dad used to watch, only instead of tumbleweeds and desert, they had endless snow and pine trees. Yee-haw, I guess, he thought dryly.

    Greg walked alongside the wagons, his sword bouncing lightly against his side. He kept adjusting the canvas pack slung over his shoulder, the unfamiliar weight throwing off his balance. Man, I miss backpacks with actual padding, he grumbled internally.

    What was more annoying is he had felt his soul attempt to level up again, reaching out for another power only to get nothing. Need more excitement.

    Ash trotted by his feet, the little bear cub keeping close. Greg couldn''t help but smile at the sight of the furball nearly disappearing in patches of snow. At least one of us is enjoying this winter wonderland.

    Ahead, Merek sat atop the lead wagon, his eyes constantly scanning the landscape. Greg had been trying to figure the guy out since they left Frostfall. He seemed friendly enough, but there was something... calculated about him. Like every smile was hiding about ten different thoughts about something else. Or maybe I''m just overthinking it.

    As the path widened slightly and the initial tension of departure began to ease, Merek turned toward Greg with a nod as if on cue. "Best get t'' know th'' men," he said, his voice carrying that weird mix of rough Northern accent and trader''s polish. "You''ll be walkin'' with ''em for the next few days, after all."

    Greg blinked, pulled from his thoughts of how much his feet already hurt. "Uh, sure," he stammered, mentally kicking himself for sounding so lame. "Yeah, good idea." Smooth, Veder.

    He glanced around slowly at the ragtag group of men who made up the traveling party, some sitting atop the wagons, others walking alongside.

    "Right. Let''s get you acquainted with everyone," Merek said, motioning to the first wagon. "That''s Arton there."

    Greg followed Merek''s gesture to a man perched on the second wagon. Arton sat ramrod straight, his hands gripping the reins like they were the last controller in a multiplayer game. He didn''t even bother looking Greg''s way as Merek said his name. Geez, who peed in his cornflakes?

    "Arton''s my trading partner," Merek explained. "Bit of a quiet type."

    No kidding, Greg thought, giving a short nod. He wasn''t expecting much else from Arton. The guy seemed about as talkative as a brick wall, and twice as welcoming.

    Merek then pointed to the two young men driving each wagon. "Brunn and Carn, those two are my assistants. Good lads, even if they''re still a bit wet behind the ears."

    Greg glanced at the pair, his eyebrows rising slightly. Brunn and Carn looked like they were barely out of their teens, but their weathered faces and scraggly beards threw him off. These guys looked more like they''d been through years of rough living than the fresh-faced boys he was used to seeing back home. Man, everyone here looks older than they should, Greg mused. Is it just the North, or is this whole place stuck in some medieval time warp?

    Brunn offered Greg a short nod, while Carn barely acknowledged him, too focused on keeping the horses in line. Greg figured he''d have plenty of time to get to know them later. If by "get to know" I mean "awkwardly avoid eye contact for the next month and a half."

    As Merek gestured toward the guards walking beside the wagons, Greg took in each one, feeling like he was selecting characters for some weird RPG party.

    "Now, these here are the men you''ll be walking with," Merek said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Good lads too, most of the time."

    First was Brynn ''Ironfoot''¡ªthe human mountain, as Greg had started to think of him. Brynn never said much, his face set in stone, his warhammer always gripped tightly in one hand as though it weighed nothing. Greg had the sneaking suspicion the guy could clear a path through anything without breaking a sweat. The man''s silence was... intimidating, to say the least. Note to self: Do not piss off the guy who can probably bench press a horse.

    "Brynn''s about as solid as they come," Merek said, his tone respectful. "Ain''t much for talk, but you''ll know he''s there when trouble shows up."

    Greg nodded, though Brynn didn''t even glance his way. The man just kept staring ahead, as if mentally smashing everything that might come their way. Great. My new bodyguard is the strong, silent type. And probably deaf.

    Next, Dael Stone moved alongside them, a light bounce in his step, his light brown hair well-kept and his face wearing a perpetual goofy grin. He reminded Greg of the class clown back in middle school, only with more beard and probably more knife-fighting skills.

    "Dael there''s the one you''ll hear before you see," Merek explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Man''s got a joke for everything, though I''d wager half of it goes over most folk''s heads."

    Dael winked at Greg, sidling up to him as they walked. "Oi, Greg, heard this one yet?" he asked, his accent lighter and more playful than the others. "What''s the difference between a woman from Dorne an'' a stallion?"

    Greg blinked, trying to figure out where this was going. His mind raced through all the inappropriate punchlines he could think of, each one worse than the last. Oh god, please don''t be what I think it is. "Uh, no, I haven''t¡ª" he started, his voice cracking slightly.

    Dael laughed, slapping Greg on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Ha! I''ll save the answer for later, mate. Wouldn''t want t'' scare ye off before ye''ve had a proper taste o'' the road."

    Great, Greg thought, forcing a smile. Medieval dick jokes. Just what I needed to make this trip complete.

    He chuckled awkwardly, still trying to wrap his head around Dael''s endless stream of Westerosi jokes. The other men seemed to find them funny, judging by the laughs and smirks, but half the time Greg wasn''t even sure what they were talking about

    As they continued their trudge through the snow, Merek nodded toward the back of the caravan, where a man with a bow kept pace. "That there''s Jory Longbow," Merek said. "Quieter than most, but if there''s trouble comin'' from behind, he''ll see it afore anyone else does."

    Jory nodded but didn''t say anything. His bow was slung across his back, but Greg could tell it was well-used, the wood polished from constant care. Dude looks like he walked straight out of Lord of the Rings, Greg mused.

    Jory struck him as one of those guys who didn''t say much because he didn''t need to¡ªhis actions probably spoke for him when the time came. Greg couldn''t help but wonder if the guy ever smiled. Bet he''s a blast at parties.

    Merek then pointed ahead to a smaller figure moving like a shadow ahead of the group. "And that there''s Threnn," he said with a hint of amusement. "We call him ''The Rat''¡ªwell, ye see why.."

    Greg glanced at Threnn, who barely looked like he was taller than a twelve year old. He was thin, almost unnervingly so, and seemed to move through the snow without making a sound. The man''s eyes darted around constantly, his hands never leaving the twin daggers at his sides.

    He definitely looks like a rat. Threnn noticed Greg''s gaze and gave him a nod, his lips curling into a smirk. It wasn''t threatening, but something about the man felt... slippery.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    "Don''t mind ''im," Dael added, noticing Greg''s wary glance. "Threnn''s just a bit twitchy, is all. Ain''t nothin'' to worry ''bout, long as he''s on yer side."

    Greg smiled weakly, still taking in all the men he was traveling with. Each one had their quirks, but they seemed capable enough. As Dael kept up his string of jokes¡ªhalf of which Greg still didn''t understand¡ªhe fell into the rhythm of the group, his unease about the journey fading slightly as the hours passed.

    But as the sun began to dip lower and the temperature started to drop, Greg couldn''t help but notice Merek glancing back at him every now and then, his eyes lingering just a bit longer on the sword at Greg''s side.

    "A good group we''ve got here, eh, lad?" Merek said, breaking into Greg''s thoughts. His tone held something Greg couldn''t quite place¡ªlike he was fishin'' for somethin''. "Ye stick close, we''ll get ye where ye need t'' be."

    Greg nodded, smiling back at Merek. "Yeah, seems like a good crew."

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    The next evening, the caravan moved steadily through the forest path, with the horses pulling the wagons and the men walking alongside. Greg found himself walking with Ash in his arms, the bear fast asleep after scrambling off into the woods to eat berries or whatnot.

    Lucky little guy, Greg thought, looking down at the cub with only a little jealousy. Wish I could just conk out whenever I wanted. No worries, no responsibilities, just... naps and berries. He glanced up, noticing Dael weaving between the wagons, the man''s curious gaze flickering to Greg''s sword every so often. Here we go, Greg thought, bracing himself for another round of questions.

    Sure enough, Dael spoke up, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. "That''s a fine blade ye''ve got there, Greg. Not like anythin'' I''ve seen ''round these parts. How''d ye come by somethin'' like that?"

    Greg glanced down at the sword, its pristine white blade a stark contrast to the dull grays and browns of the forest around them. The entire thing was a single piece, the metal of the blade fusing seamlessly into a hilt that felt... different, somehow. Wrapped around a bright blue gem where the crossguard should have been, it was unlike any sword Greg had ever seen, in video games or otherwise.

    Play it cool, Veder, he told himself, offering Dael a friendly but simple response. "Found it on me when I woke up. Lost my memory, remember? Last month. Just a day''s walk outside Frostfall."

    Dael nodded, but his curiosity didn''t seem entirely sated. "Ah, right. Can''t imagine wakin'' up like that, with no memory. But that sword... that''s somethin'' else. Ye''re sure ye don''t recall anythin'' at all about it? No markin''s, no inscriptions?"

    Greg shook his head, a little more firmly this time. Dude, I already told you, I don''t know. What, you think I''m hiding some secret sword lore from you? "Nope. Like I said, just woke up with it. Lucky find, I guess."

    The gregarious man nodded thoughtfully, but before he could press further, Merek''s voice chimed in from the lead wagon, the man not even bothering to look back. "That the blade ye used to save me niece?"

    Greg blinked, surprised. Okay, wasn''t expecting that. He shifted slightly, feeling the weight of the sword at his side. "Uh, yeah. Same one."

    Brynn, the massive man with the warhammer, turned his head at the mention of Greg''s rescue, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Saved yer niece, did ''e?"

    Merek gave a small chuckle and nodded. "Aye, that he did. Wildlin'' had her cornered, about t'' do gods know what. Greg here came in an'' cut ''im clean at the waist. Turned a whole Wildlin'' to half a man."

    Greg felt his cheeks heat up slightly, and it had nothing to do with the cold. Okay, wow, way to make it sound like I''m some kind of badass. I mean, I am, but still. "Just did what I had to," he said, trying to sound humble. "She needed help."

    Dael''s eyebrows shot up, his interest clearly piqued. "To cut a man in twain? That''s no small feat."

    You''re telling me, Greg thought, suppressing a shudder at the memory of blood on snow, the sickening give of flesh beneath his blade. I''m just glad I didn''t puke again.

    "It was more instinct than anythin''," he said aloud, shrugging. "Lucky, really."

    Merek''s voice took on a slightly different tone, though he still didn''t bother to turn around. "Lucky, eh? That sword''s a bit more than lucky, I''d say. Ye''ve got a good hand with it, an'' ye''d need a fine blade t'' make a cut like that."

    Greg gave a noncommittal nod, not really sure how to respond. Is he complimenting me or the sword? Both? Neither? Why is everyone so obsessed with this thing?

    Dael squinted slightly, his eyes still glued to the sword as they walked. "Aye, I''ll bet. Doesn''t look like anythin'' I''ve seen before. Ye sure ye don''t remember where ye got it?"

    Oh my god, this again? Greg shook his head, trying not to let his annoyance show. "Nope. Like I said, woke up with it."

    A brief silence fell over the group, but Greg could still feel Dael''s eyes on him, the man''s mind clearly turning over something. Probably trying to figure out how much he could pawn it for, Greg thought uncharitably. Good luck with that, buddy. This sword and I? We''re kind of a package deal.

    The silence was broken by a low chuckle from Brynn at the front. "Sharp enough t'' split a man, but doesn''t make ye a killer, eh?"

    Greg let out a light laugh, feeling the tension ease slightly. Finally, someone gets it. "Hope not. I''d rather avoid more Wildlings if I can."

    Merek glanced over his shoulder, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Can''t always avoid trouble, lad. ''Specially not with a sword like that strapped t'' yer side."

    What''s that supposed to mean? Greg raised an eyebrow, but didn''t push it. He knew this sort of ribbing was just how Northerners talked¡ªalways ready for a fight, always expecting trouble. But the way Merek said it didn''t feel like much of a joke.

    More like a warning.

    "You know, lad," Merek continued, his voice dropping slightly, "a sword like that? People pay fortunes for less."

    Okay, that''s... concerning. Greg furrowed his brow, suddenly very aware of the weight at his hip. Is he... is he trying to buy it? "I''m not looking to sell it, if that''s what you mean."

    Merek waved the thought away with a short laugh. "No, no, nothin'' like that. Just... be careful. Folk might see it an'' wonder how ye came by it. Folk might ask questions. Might do terrible things for it."

    Terrible things, huh? There it was again, that tone. No threat, but enough of a warning to make Greg''s skin crawl.

    "I''ll keep that in mind," he said aloud, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Make sure to keep it sharp just in case."

    "Good idea," Threnn chimed in from the back, his voice casual but with an edge that made Greg''s hair stand on end. "Always best to be prepared in these parts."

    Greg gave him a nod, appreciating the advice even as it set his nerves on edge. Prepared for what, exactly?

    He glanced around at the group, taking in their varied expressions. Dael, still eyeing the sword with undisguised curiosity. Brynn, stoic and unreadable as ever. Threnn, his sharp eyes always seeming to catch everything. And Merek, that hint of calculation never quite leaving his face.

    They don''t seem to want anything from me, Greg mused, absently petting Ash''s fur as the cub slumbered in his arms. But they definitely have questions.

    Questions that Greg wasn''t sure he had the answers to.

    He shook his head, pushing the thought away. No, come on, positive thinking. These guys seem alright. A little nosy, maybe, but they''ve got my back. Probably. Hopefully.

    Yeah, Greg thought, looking around again. These guys are alright.

 IX: New Friends II

    Seven days.

    It only took seven goddamn days on the road for the forest to explode with the sound of steel clashing and grunts of men locked in battle. And here Greg was, whining about being bored just hours ago. Careful what you wish for, idiot, he thought bitterly as he dodged another wild swing.

    Greg''s shining white sword cut through the air, gleaming like freshly fallen snow in the faint light that broke through the thick canopy of trees. The teenage boy spun to the side, his messy blonde hair whipping across his face as he narrowly dodged a bandit''s thrown axe. It whistled past his head, embedding itself in a nearby tree with a dull thunk.

    Holy crap, that was close, Greg''s mind raced, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. His movements were instinctive, precise¡ªfar beyond what someone with only a month of practice should be able to do. But that didn''t mean he felt ready for this.

    Not by a long shot.

    He barely had time to get his bearings before another bandit rushed him from the side, swinging wildly with a crude iron blade. Greg''s eyes widened, body moving almost on its own. Move, idiot! He barely parried the attack, sword scraping against the bandit''s with a ear-splitting screech, sending a jolt of pain through his arm. The force of it nearly knocked him off balance, his feet sliding in the snow.

    "Shit!" he hissed, stumbling back, desperately trying to keep his footing on the treacherous ground. This isn''t like training at all. Everything''s trying to kill me!

    The bandit grinned, yellowed teeth bared in a feral smile as he sensed weakness. He swung again, aiming for Greg''s midsection. A flash of intuition hit the boy¡ªmove!¡ªand Greg ducked just in time, the blade slicing through the air where his torso had been moments before. The whistle of steel cutting air sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

    Without thinking, Greg lashed out with his own sword, tip grazing the bandit''s arm

    It wasn''t a deep cut, but it was enough to make the man recoil, giving Greg the briefest moment to breathe.

    He was out of breath, his chest heaving. His body was still adjusting to this new level of skill, far more advanced than someone with just a month of training should have. But it wasn''t perfect¡ªit was raw, unrefined. He''d learned fast, but there were gaps in his form, weaknesses in his stance that a more experienced fighter would exploit in a heartbeat.

    Come on, Greg, remember what the guards taught you, he coached himself, trying to recall the endless drills and sparring sessions. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, grip firm but not too tight...

    Another bandit charged at him, this one smaller but quicker, with two daggers flashing in the dim light. Greg raised his sword to block the first swipe, the clash of metal on metal ringing in his ears. But the second dagger came in low, grazing his thigh. The pain was sharp and sudden, like being stabbed with an icicle.

    "Frick!" Greg hissed, biting down the urge to yell something much worse. Mom would be so proud, he thought sarcastically, even as he stumbled back.

    The bandit pressed the attack, slashing again with frightening speed. Greg barely managed to step back, his foot catching on a rock hidden beneath the snow. He stumbled, arms windmilling as he fought for balance. No no no no¡ª His efforts were in vain as he fell to one knee, the impact sending a jolt through his entire body.

    The bandit grinned, a predatory look in his eyes that made Greg''s blood run cold.

    But just as the bandit lunged forward, aiming to finish him off, Greg''s intuition flared again. It was weak, like a whisper in a crowded room, but clear: Roll!

    Greg''s body moved almost on its own, clumsily but just fast enough to avoid the strike. He rolled to the side, snow and leaves clinging to his clothes, his world a dizzying blur of white and green. As he rose, he swung his sword wildly, more out of desperation than skill.

    To his surprise, the blade caught the bandit in the side. It wasn''t deep¡ªGreg doubted he could manage a truly devastating blow in his current state¡ªbut it was enough to slow the man down.

    Greg scrambled to his feet, his legs unsteady, his grip on the sword so tight his knuckles were white. His breath came in ragged gasps, visible in the cold air. His arms ached, muscles burning from the effort of swinging the sword. Man, they make this look so easy in the movies, he thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat.

    The bandit, though wounded, snarled and came at him again. The man''s eyes were wild, filled with a mix of pain and rage that sent a shiver down Greg''s spine. Oh crap oh crap oh crap¡ª

    Greg raised his sword, more out of desperation than skill, and blocked another swipe of the daggers. The impact sent shockwaves up his arms, nearly making him drop his weapon. But somehow, whether through dumb luck or that strange intuition, he managed to get in close.

    Before he could think, before he could hesitate, his sword drove into the bandit''s chest. The man''s eyes widened in shock, a look of disbelief that Greg was sure mirrored his own. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, the bandit crumpled to the ground.

    Greg staggered back, panting heavily. These guys were more skilled than the rabid Wildlings he''d faced a month ago and he didn''t like that for his odds. Too big for the tutorial, you said.

    His movements were sloppy, his strikes unrefined, but he was surviving. Somehow. Is this what being a hero feels like? he wondered, the thought tasting bitter in his mind. Because it sucks.

    He turned quickly, scanning the battlefield. The forest around him was chaos, a blur of motion and violence that made his head spin. Eight bandits had ambushed them, coming out of the woods like wolves smelling blood. One already down by Greg''s hand, but that left seven more, each of them as vicious and desperate as the last.

    Yet another bandit was coming toward him now, this one with a long spear. Greg''s grip tightened on his sword, but his hands were trembling. He wasn''t sure how much longer he could keep this up.

    The bandit jabbed with the spear, the weapon''s reach giving him a clear advantage. Greg moved just a second too late, his reactions dulled by exhaustion. The spearhead nicked his arm, a sharp pain that made him yelp. He clutched the wound with one hand, warm blood seeping between his fingers.

    Focus, Greg! he berated himself, swinging his sword clumsily with his other hand. The strike missed completely, cutting through empty air. "Dang it!" he cursed under his breath, frustration mounting.

    The bandit laughed, a harsh sound that grated on Greg''s nerves. The man twirled his spear with practiced ease, clearly toying with his younger opponent. Greg''s mind raced, trying to figure out a way to close the distance. He couldn''t fight at range¡ªnot without getting more questions on him. He needed to get in close, where he could do some damage.

    But every time he tried to approach, the spear kept him at bay. "Fuck me running," he muttered, readying himself for another attempt.

    His intuition buzzed again¡ªdodge left. Greg jerked to the side, his feet slipping slightly on the blood-slicked snow. The spear''s tip whistled past, so close he felt the rush of air on his cheek. Too close, he thought, his heart hammering in his chest. Way too freaking close.

    He gritted his teeth, frustration and fear warring inside him. He wasn''t good enough for this, wasn''t trained enough. A month of practice, no matter how intense, couldn''t prepare him for a real fight to the death. But he couldn''t stop.

    He had to keep going.

    If I die here, Mom will kill me, he thought hysterically, a bubble of laughter threatening to escape his throat.

    "Take that! And that!" Greg yelled, his voice cracking.

    The bandit tried to block with the spear, the wooden shaft splintering under Greg''s wild blows. Eventually, one strike broke through, his sword driving into the bandit''s side with a sickening thunk.

    The man gasped, stumbling back, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Greg took his chance, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to stop, to run away. He stepped forward and, with a grunt that was half effort and half terror, drove his sword through the bandit''s chest.

    For a moment, time seemed to slow. Greg stared into the man''s eyes, watching as the light faded from them. Then, abruptly, it was over and the bandit slumped to the ground

    Greg pulled his sword free with a wet sound that made him wince. He was breathing hard, his lungs burning with each intake of frigid air. He knew he could go for much longer¡ªsome strange quirk of his new abilities¡ªbut the blood from his wounds was starting to freeze in the cold air, and he was already feeling winded. I really need to work on my cardio, he thought absurdly. If I survive this, I''m gonna start jogging or something.

    He looked around, scanning the chaos of the battlefield. The forest, which had seemed so peaceful just minutes ago, was now a hellscape of violence and blood. Snow flew up in great plumes as men fought and fell, the white quickly stained red.

    Dael was a few paces away, locked in combat with one of the bandits. His sword moved defensively as he tried to hold his ground, his usual joking manner replaced by grim determination. Brynn, with his massive warhammer, had already taken down one attacker. The man''s body lay crumpled in the snow, skull crushed like an overripe melon. The sight made Greg''s stomach lurch.

    Greg''s breath came out in quick bursts, visible in the cold air. His muscles burned with effort, a deep ache settling into his bones. It didn''t make sense¡ªhow his body moved, how easily the sword seemed to obey him. He felt like he''d been training for at least a year, not just a month, every strike more controlled, every movement sharper than the last.

    But there was no time to question it now.

    All that mattered was survival.

    He glanced over at the wagons, worry clenching his gut. Merek was holding his own, fending off an attacker with a short sword. His usual smooth demeanor was gone, replaced by a fierce intensity that Greg had never seen before. One of the younger assistants, Brunn, had taken a nasty hit and was on his knees, trying to push a bandit away with shaking hands.

    Greg didn''t think¡ªhe just acted. He sprinted toward Brunn, lifting his sword high. The bandit didn''t see him coming until it was too late. Greg''s blade came down with a sickening thud, slicing into the back of the man''s neck. The bandit crumpled to the ground, motionless.

    "Brunn, get back!" Greg barked, jerking his head toward the wagons. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, too high and tight. Brunn nodded, eyes wide with fear, and scrambled back, leaving the fighting to the others.

    Four down, Greg thought, trying to calm his racing heart. Four left. We can do this. We have to do this.

    His eyes flicked toward the rest of the group, assessing the situation like he was analyzing a raid boss in World of Warcraft. Merek had disarmed his opponent, driving a knee into the man''s gut and throwing him to the ground with a practiced move that spoke of experience Greg hadn''t suspected. Brynn swung his warhammer like a battering ram, keeping two more bandits at bay. His grunts of exertion echoed through the forest, primal and terrifying.

    A flash of steel caught Greg''s attention. He turned just in time to see Threnn ducking low to avoid a blow, his twin daggers flashing in the dim light as he slashed upward, catching a bandit in the thigh. The bandit screamed, staggering back, and Threnn followed up with a quick, precise stab to the throat. It was brutal, efficient, and utterly terrifying.

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    It''s almost over, Greg told himself, trying to summon up the last dregs of his courage. Just one more. You can do this.

    He squared off against the last bandit, a grizzled man with a thick beard and a scar running down the side of his face. The man grinned, showing broken teeth, and raised his axe. With a roar that seemed to shake the very trees, he charged at Greg.

    Oh crap oh crap oh crap¡ª Greg''s mind raced, his body tensing. He planted his feet, gripping his sword with both hands. The bandit swung his axe down with all his strength, aiming to cleave Greg in two. But Greg was faster, his body moving almost on its own. He sidestepped the blow, the axe burying itself in the snow where he had stood moments before.

    Without hesitation, Greg brought his sword down in a clean arc, slicing through the bandit''s back. The man collapsed face-first into the snow, his blood pooling around him, staining the white a deep crimson.

    The forest fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of the caravan men and the occasional groan of the dying bandits. Greg stood there for a moment, his sword dripping with blood, heart still racing.

    He''d just taken down four men.

    Dael limped over, wiping blood off his blade with the edge of his cloak. He gave Greg a half-smile, but there was a hint of something else behind his eyes.

    Respect, maybe. Or caution.

    "Ye fight like a bloody whirlwind, Greg," Dael said, his usual jovial tone subdued.

    Greg shrugged, trying to play it off even as his body hummed with the residual energy from the fight. "Just lucky, I guess," he mumbled, not meeting Dael''s eyes.

    Dael let out a low laugh, slowly shaking his head as he wiped dirty sweat from his brow. "Aye, luck."

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    The cold Northern night wrapped itself around the camp, the fire crackling low in the center of the small circle of men, casting long shadows across the snow-covered ground. Greg shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The caravan had stopped for the night, the horses huddled together near the wagons, their warm breath visible in the frigid air. The smell of burning wood mixed with sweat and the lingering metallic scent of blood, a grim reminder of the day''s battle.

    Greg sat with his back to a tree, Ash curled up at his feet, snoring softly. The bear cub''s warmth was a small comfort in the biting cold, something he''d been used to over the nightly camps of the last week. The rest of the men¡ªDael, Brynn, Threnn, and Jory¡ªsat around the fire, each at varying distances, some closer than others. The orange glow flickered across their tired faces, shadows dancing across the snow and their bloodstained clothes.

    It had been a long day, the memory of the bandit attack still fresh in their minds. They had buried the bodies¡ªor what was left of them¡ªnot far from the campsite earlier. Greg''s hands still felt grimy, like no amount of snow could wash away the blood and dirt.

    Dael leaned back against a log, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicked to Greg, who was sitting quietly, staring into the fire. Ash let out a soft grunt in his sleep, drawing a small smile from Greg despite the tension in the air.

    "That was some fine work ye did today, Greg," Dael said, breaking the silence. He poked at the embers with a stick, his voice carrying that sing-song Vale accent that still caught Greg off guard sometimes. "Quick, too. Cut a man''s arm clean off, ye did."

    Greg didn''t look up, just shrugged lightly, though his mind raced. He knew this was coming. The men had been eyeing him all day since the fight, their gazes a mix of curiosity and wariness. Here we go, he thought. Time for Twenty Questions: Medieval Edition.

    "Thanks," he mumbled, holding back a grimace. "Guess I got lucky again."

    Dael let out a small chuckle, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "Lucky?" He shook his head, clearly not buying it. "Luck don''t swing a sword like that, lad. You must be some noble''s get. Learned at a keep, you did."

    Greg glanced up at Dael, the flicker of suspicion in the man''s words catching his attention. Noble''s get? What am I, a stray dog? Before he could respond, Brynn grunted from across the fire, his warhammer resting against the log beside him.

    "Aye, lad," Brynn rumbled, his deep voice matching his imposing size. "Yer not half bad with that sword. Still rough ''round the edges, but I''ve seen the castleborn." He shifted on the ground, his massive frame dwarfing the log he sat on. "You must''ve trained with some master-at-arms, eh?"

    Greg blinked, unsure how to answer. What''s that even mean? "Master-at-arms?" he echoed, confusion evident in his voice.

    Before he could ask for clarification, Jory spoke up for the first time all evening, his voice low but clear, each word measured as if it cost him something to speak. "Aye. A knight. A noble''s swordmaster."

    Oh great, more fantasy terms I don''t understand, Greg thought, frustration bubbling up. "No... I don''t remember any knights," he said slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. Unless you count the chess piece, I guess.

    The silence stretched a little longer this time, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them. Threnn, sitting furthest from the fire, tossed a small rock into the flames, watching as the embers flared up. When he spoke, his voice was quick and low, almost conspiratorial.

    "Come now. No one gets handed swords for nothin''," Threnn said, his eyes darting between Greg and the others.

    "Aye," Brynn agreed, his gaze fixed on Greg''s sword. "And that sword of yours¡ªit''s no common blade."

    Greg shrugged, forcing a small laugh as he ran his fingers through his messy blonde hair. "Nothing to tell, really," he said, trying to sound casual but knowing he was failing miserably.

    There was a beat of silence, the crackle of the fire filling the air between them. Then Brynn''s eyes flicked down to Greg''s hand, his brow furrowing slightly. "That ring on yer finger..." he said slowly, each word deliberate. "A piece like that, and ye say ye''re smallfolk?"

    Greg tensed, instinctively glancing at the golden ring on his right hand. The V carved from sapphire on top of it caught the firelight, glinting with a faint blue shimmer. It was a strange thing, not just in appearance but in the way it felt¡ªlike it was more than just jewelry. It made him hardier, more resilient, maybe outright slightly more durable than he''d been before. It had already saved his life many times, keeping him on his feet during the worst of the fight earlier that day.

    Crap, I forgot about the ring, Greg thought, his mind racing. How do I explain this without sounding like I stole it or something?

    "It''s just a ring," he said quickly, trying to downplay it. Even to his own ears, the lie sounded weak.

    Dael leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly, but his tone remained light, almost teasing. "Just a ring, eh? Looks more like a nobleman''s crest to me."

    Greg shrugged, trying to seem casual but feeling like he was failing miserably. "I don''t know where it came from," he said, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. "It was on me when I woke up, same as the sword."

    "Veder, ye say yer name was?" Brynn leaned forward slightly, his massive frame casting a longer shadow over the fire. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Greg with an intensity that made the boy want to squirm. "I never heard of no Veders in the Kingdoms."

    That''s because I''m not from your stupid kingdoms, Greg wanted to shout.

    Instead, he took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. "Probably because there aren''t any," he said, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone. "I told you, I don''t remember much."

    The silence held for a while, heavy and uncomfortable. Greg could feel their eyes on him, sizing him up. He knew they were curious, and he couldn''t blame them. A strange sword, a noble''s ring, and a boy with no past? It sounded suspicious even to him. If this was an RPG, I''d definitely think I was the secret prince or something, he thought wryly.

    Finally, Dael broke the tension with a smile, though there was something sharper behind it. "Ah, no need to hide yer noble roots out here in the cold North," he said, his tone light but his eyes keen. "Ain''t no shame in it. We''re all friends here."

    Yeah, right, Greg thought, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. Friends. Because friends totally interrogate each other around campfires.

    Greg felt the weight of their eyes on him, the intensity of their gazes almost palpable in the flickering firelight. He shifted uncomfortably, leaning forward to pick at a loose thread on his jacket, unsure how much to say. The truth was, he didn''t know how to explain any of it, least of all his fighting skills. How do I tell them I''m basically living in a real-life RPG without sounding totally insane?

    "Honestly," Greg started, his voice wavering slightly, "I don''t know where any of it comes from. I woke up... and it just kinda..." He paused, searching for the right words, his mind racing. "It feels natural, I guess." As natural as swinging a magic sword can be, anyway.

    Dael raised an eyebrow, his interest visibly piqued. His Vale accent lilted through the crisp night air as he spoke. "Natural? Now that''s somethin''. Most lads I know struggle with a sword for years ''fore they get as good as you." His eyes drifted to the blade again, a mix of curiosity and suspicion in his gaze.

    Brynn grunted, his gravelly voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Aye, trainin'' like that don''t just come to a man overnight." He leaned forward, his massive frame casting long shadows in the firelight.

    Greg shrugged again, feeling increasingly cornered. "Maybe I trained before, I dunno," he mumbled, trying to sound casual. "Like I said, I don''t remember much of anything from before I woke up near Frostfall. Bits and pieces, nothing useful."

    Dael exchanged a glance with Brynn, his expression softening slightly. "Bits an'' pieces, eh?" The jokester''s voice was casual, but his eyes told a different story. He leaned forward slightly, poking the fire with a stick again, sending sparks swirling into the night air. "Funny how things come back to ye, though. Don''t forget a good swing like that. A blade always remembers."

    Greg didn''t know what to say. Part of him wanted to explain that his sword seemed to have a life of its own, that it wasn''t just his skill but something deeper, something tied to the weapon itself. But another part of him felt like that would only make things worse. He already avoided shooting energy beams from the thing since he showed up in Frostfall, to avoid suspicion after the way the townspeople already looked at him crazy.

    There was a pause, the fire crackling between them, filling the silence. Dael looked like he wanted to press further, but Brynn let out a loud grunt, breaking the tension.

    "Well, whoever ye are," Brynn rumbled, his words clipped and blunt, "ye swing a damn fine sword. That''s enough for me."

    Threnn, who had been quiet until now, chimed in with his quick, sharp tone. "Aye, that''s enough. No use pokin'' at what''s past."

    The others murmured their agreement, though Greg could still feel Dael''s eyes on him, lingering a bit too long. Okay, that''s over with, Greg thought, relief washing over him. For now, anyway.

    Dael broke into a grin as he laid back against the log. "Like, I said... we''re all friends here."

 X: New Fiends

    In the still, deep darkness of the night, Greg''s body snapped to life before his mind caught up, an odd, wrenching sensation tearing him out of sleep like a physical jolt. His eyes blinked open, the first blurry vision in his line of sight not quite adding up. A silhouette, hunched, almost spider-like, hovered above him, the firelight flickering just enough to reveal the face.

    It was Threnn, the wiry scout of the caravan, his face contorted with strain, his hands gripping Greg''s sword. It barely budged in his hands, the weight of it obviously dragging his scrawny frame down. The guy was struggling to lift it just a foot off the ground.

    What the hell...?

    Greg''s reaction was immediate and instinctive. Lurching upwards, his body acting faster than his still-groggy mind, his hand shot out toward Threnn. The sudden movement caught Threnn off guard, causing him to stumble back awkwardly, almost tripping over himself in his scramble to escape Greg''s reach. The clatter of his belongings scattered on the ground¡ªhis pack, the half-empty water skin, the small hunting knife¡ªrattled loudly in the night air, reverberating through the silence like a gong.

    Ash, who had been curled up at Greg''s side, perked up, little snout twitching as if sensing the tension in the air. But it wasn''t just them who''d heard the commotion.

    "What''s goin'' on ''ere?" Merek''s groggy voice sliced through the darkness as the rest of the caravan began to stir. Greg whipped his head toward the sound, seeing Merek rubbing sleep from his eyes, half-stumbling out from his tent, his breath visible in the cold night air.

    Greg, still panting from the adrenaline spike, grabbed his sword from the ground, clutching it like a lifeline as he shot a glare toward Threnn, who now looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The heat in Greg''s voice came from somewhere deep, that place where fear, anger, and confusion all mixed.

    "He tried to steal my sword!" Greg gasped, his words still a little breathless. "Caught him red-handed."

    Eyes snapped to Threnn, who stood there looking like a cornered rat¡ªnervous, twitchy, but not exactly apologetic. His gaze darted between Greg and Merek, as if calculating his next move.

    "Is that true, Threnn?" Merek asked, his voice more annoyed than surprised, which struck Greg as¡­ off. The older man was usually sharp, but he was rolling with this a little too easily. Too practiced.

    Threnn''s head bobbed in a quick, jerky nod. "Aye," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like a sheepish kid. "It''s true."

    The betrayal hit Greg like a punch to the gut, but what hit harder was Merek''s next words, spoken so casually that it made Greg''s skin crawl.

    "Threnn, ye dumb cunt, I told ye to wait."

    The world seemed to freeze. Wait? Wait for what?

    Before Greg could piece it together, an explosion of pain tore through his side. A ragged gasp ripped from his throat, and when he glanced down, his mind struggled to make sense of the sight. One of Threnn''s daggers was buried deep in his flesh, glinting faintly in the firelight, blood already seeping through his shirt.

    Oh shit, Greg''s mind raced, the pain suddenly very real and very present.

    For a moment, the pain was distant, almost unreal. But when he looked back up at Merek, the shock bled into a cold, crawling horror.

    Merek hadn''t even flinched. The bastard looked calm, his expression as indifferent as if Greg had simply dropped a coin, not taken a dagger to the gut. His words, when he spoke, carried an eerie logic, like this was all part of a plan.

    "T''aint personal, lad," Merek said, almost conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. "Ye understand? With a sword like that, and the thing''s I''ve seen, tales I''ve ''eard¡ªmen sliced clean at the waist by such sharp, white metal¡ªa find like that could make us rich as any lord. T''aint Valyrian steel, not quite the look I''ve heard in tales, but a prize, still."

    Greg''s breath came in ragged bursts, pain surging through his side as he stared down at the dagger lodged in his flesh. The cold night air seemed to freeze around him, the weight of Threnn''s betrayal heavier than the weapon in his gut. I... I can''t believe I trusted these guys. They... They''re Evil.

    His eyes flicked up, locking with Threnn''s. The wiry man still stood there, his face twisted in a mix of fear and desperation. Threnn took a shaky step forward, blood on his hands¡ªliterally¡ªand Greg knew in that moment that there''d be no talking his way out of this.

    "Should''ve just stayed asleep, ye daft cunt," Threnn hissed, his words sharp and quick.

    "Damn it," Greg muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth as he yanked the dagger out with a sickening squelch. Blood flowed freely from the wound, but he didn''t have time to care. His sword was still on the ground, heavy and unyielding, but now it was his lifeline.

    Threnn lunged at him again, wild and frantic, but Greg''s body moved on its own, instinct kicking in. He dodged, the bandit''s dagger barely missing his ribs. His soul pulsed, expanded¡ªreaching out, straining for something¡ªbut it was weak. Unfocused.

    With a grunt, Greg grabbed Threnn by the wrist, twisting until he felt the bones shift under his grip. Threnn yelped, jumping back, his hand hanging limp and useless at his side.

    Greg lunged forward, his sword catching the weak light of the fire as the blade angled toward Threnn''s exposed throat. But Threnn was quick, scrambling away, avoiding the death blow by mere inches. His foot caught on a rock, sending him crashing to the ground, scrambling backward in a pathetic display of desperation.

    "Wait! Wait!" Threnn gasped, his eyes darting wildly between Greg and the rest of the camp, his voice high and panicked. "I wasn''t gonna do nothin'', I swear it!"

    But Greg didn''t wait. He couldn''t. Not after what Threnn had tried to do. In one swift motion, he slammed his knee into the man''s gut, knocking the wind from him and sending him sprawling back into the dirt.

    This is for trying to kill me in my sleep, you backstabbing prick, Greg thought savagely, bringing his sword down in a vicious slash across Threnn''s neck.

    The blade found its mark, the sharp white metal darting across Threnn''s throat, cutting off whatever pleas or excuses he had left. Blood sprayed from the wound in a crimson arc, splattering hot and sticky against Greg''s torso.

    "You daft cunt," Greg spat, his voice shaking with a mixture of rage and adrenaline. I trusted you. I trusted all of you.

    Threnn collapsed, choking on his own blood, his body twitching and jerking in its death throes. And as he lay there, Greg felt his soul lunge again, that strange, desperate sensation of something within him grasping, reaching, yearning...

    And this time, it succeeded.

    Greg''s breath hitched, the world spinning slightly around him as a surge of something flooded through his veins. It was like a rush of pure energy, raw and untamed, setting every nerve ending alight.

    What the fuck was that? he thought wildly, staggering back a step.

    But there was no time to process. Because just as he was trying to catch his breath, staring at the slightly shocked Merek, a voice cut through the night.

    "What in the hells¡ª"

    It was Dael, his voice groggy and confused, coming from somewhere behind Greg. Relief surged through the blonde''s chest at the sound. Dael. Dael would help. Dael had to help, right?

    "Dael!" Greg gasped out, spinning around to face the man. "They¡ª they''re trying to¡ª"

    But the rest of his sentence was cut off by a sharp, blinding pain as the tip of a sword pierced his gut, the cold steel sliding through his stomach like a hot knife through butter.

    Greg''s hands shot to the blade on instinct, gripping it tight. This¡­ can''t be happening.

    But it was.

    Dael stood there, and Greg met his eyes. The man looked almost... sheepish, as he twisted the sword just enough to send a fresh wave of agony rippling through Greg''s body.

    "Apologies, lad," Dael said, his voice heavy with something that might have possibly been regret if not for the smile on his face. "But coin is coin."

    With a sickening, wet sound, he yanked the sword free, leaving Greg to stumble back, his hands pressed tight against the gushing wound in his stomach. Hot blood spilled between his fingers, soaking into his shirt, his pants, the ground beneath his feet.

    This is it, Greg thought dimly, his vision swimming with black spots. This is how I die. Stabbed in the back by lovable rogues. Fuck Han Solo.

    But even as the thought crossed his mind, as the manic laughter spilled from his lips, even as he felt his legs start to give out beneath him, something... changed.

    That same energy from before, that rush of power he''d felt after killing Threnn, it surged through him again. Stronger this time, more intense. He could feel it spreading through his body like wildfire, could feel it knitting together torn skin and shredded muscle, could feel the wound in his gut stitching itself closed bit by bit.

    It wasn''t a complete healing, not by a long shot. But it was enough. Enough to keep him standing. Enough to keep him fighting.

    "Fuck," Merek muttered from somewhere off to the side, his usually calm demeanor cracking at the edges. "What in the hells is this?"

    Dael, too, looked stunned, his eyes wide as he watched the impossible happen right before him. "He''s... he''s healing..."

    But Greg barely heard them.

    His mind was too full of the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears, the searing pain of his wounds. His body moved on pure instinct, ducking and rolling out of the way as Brynn, the massive mountain of a man, barreled towards him with a roar, his warhammer raised high.

    Shit shit shit, Greg''s mind chanted as he scrambled to his feet, his sword coming up just in time to catch a glancing blow from Brynn''s hammer. The impact sent shockwaves up his arm, nearly knocking the blade from his grip, but he held on tight.

    Greg could feel the sting of sweat in his eyes, could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. His leg burned where Dael had slashed him, his gut throbbed where the sword had pierced him through.

    And yet, despite it all, despite the pain and the panic and the overwhelming odds, Greg kept fighting. He slashed and parried, ducked and rolled, his movements clumsy and raw but fueled by the sheer, primal need to survive.

    But it wasn''t enough.

    A hard elbow from Brynn caught him across the jaw and sent him down to the floor like a ragdoll, sword only still in his hand thanks to a tight grip. Stars exploded across his vision, bright and blinding, as he gasped for air that wouldn''t come.

    "Should''ve run, lad," Brynn growled, looming over Greg''s prone form like a mountain over a molehill. He raised his hammer high, ready to bring it crashing down in a final, crushing blow.

    Move! Greg''s mind screamed. Move, you idiot, or you''re dead!

    Somehow, miraculously, his body obeyed. He rolled to the side, the heavy hammer slamming into the ground where his head had been just a heartbeat before. Dirt and snow exploded upwards in a choking cloud, momentarily obscuring Brynn from view.

    Greg staggered to his feet, his sword held out in front of him in shaking hands. His heart raced, his breath came in ragged gasps, his whole body thrummed with pain and fear and the desperate, all-consuming need to live.

    He tightened his grip on his sword, the strange white blade almost seeming to hum in his hand. The energy within him pulsed, surged, like it was responding to his determination, his will to survive.

    Alright then, Greg thought, setting his jaw as Brynn charged forward again, murder in his eyes. Let''s fucking do this.

    The big man swung, a brutal overhead blow that would have split Greg in two if it connected. But Greg was ready this time. He ducked to the side, letting the hammer whistle past his head, close enough to ruffle his hair.

    Then, in a move born more of desperation than skill, he lashed out with his sword, aiming for Brynn''s exposed side. The blade bit into flesh, drawing a pained grunt from the big man, but it was barely more than a scratch. Brynn was too tough, too strong, his skin like leather and his muscles like iron.

    Shit, Greg thought, jumping back as Brynn rounded on him, fury etched into every line of his face. Shit shit shit.

    He dodged another swing, then another, his body moving on pure instinct and adrenaline. But he was tiring, his wounds taking their toll, his strength fading with every desperate maneuver.

    And Brynn just kept coming.

    As if on cue, his foot caught on a rock, sending him stumbling. It was a tiny mistake, a fraction of a second of lost balance, but it was enough.

    Brynn''s hammer slammed into Greg''s side with all the force of a freight train, sending him flying back. He hit the ground hard, pain exploding through every inch of his body. Something cracked, snapped, a sickening sound that Greg felt more than heard. Fuck.

    Brynn loomed over him, the giant of a man with a face twisted in fury. "Ye seemed a good lad. Would''ve rather not done this," the man growled, bringing the warhammer down again.

    Greg rolled, barely avoiding the crushing blow that would''ve ended him right then and there. The hammer slammed into the ground where his head had been just moments before, sending up a cloud of dirt and snow. "Fuck."

    Greg stumbled to his feet, his vision blurry and his head pounding. But even through the haze of pain and shock, his instincts kicked in. He swung his sword clumsily, the blade connecting with Brynn''s side in a glancing blow. It wasn''t a deep cut, just enough to make the man grunt in pain, but not nearly enough to stop him.

    "Gonna need more than that, boy!" Brynn snarled, his face contorting with rage as he yanked his warhammer back, preparing for another devastating swing. The man''s size made him slow, but powerful¡ªone wrong move, and Greg knew he''d be nothing more than a smear on the ground.

    Shit shit shit, Greg''s mind chanted, his heart racing as he scrambled for a plan, any plan. A weak pulse of intuition flickered through him¡ªmove right¡ªand he barely managed to sidestep the next crushing blow, his legs shaky beneath him.

    Seizing the opening, Greg swung again, this time managing to land a solid hit on Brynn''s thigh, the blade biting deep into the muscle, forcing the big man to stagger.

    Fuck yes! Greg thought, a surge of hope rising in his chest.

    As Greg pulled back, panting, his hands shaking from both fear and exhaustion, he realized with a sinking feeling that Brynn wasn''t going down. Not from one hit, not from two. The pain in Greg''s side screamed louder with each movement, each desperate dodge and clumsy swing.

    Brynn came at him again, this time swinging the warhammer with both hands, aiming to crush Greg''s skull like an overripe melon. Greg had no choice¡ªhe raised his sword in a desperate attempt to block, but the impact was like a lightning strike, sending him stumbling back, his arms numb from the shock.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Fuck, he''s strong, Greg thought, his vision swimming. Fucking OP, nerf plz.

    Brynn was coming at him again, the man''s warhammer raised high, murder in his eyes. Greg ducked, his movements a little more fluid now, a little more sure. He lashed out with Threnn''s dagger, catching Brynn in the side, the blade sinking into flesh with a sickening thunk.

    The big man let out a roar of pain, but he wasn''t down yet. "T''aint gonna be enough, lad," Brynn growled, his breath coming in heavy puffs. "Yer tough, I''ll give ye that. But I''ll break ye all the same."

    Greg''s eyes flicked towards Merek, who was hanging back, watching the fight with calculating eyes. This was a game to him, Greg realized with a surge of white-hot rage burning up his spine, raw and unfiltered.

    With a surge of strength he hadn''t known he possessed, Greg lunged forward, swinging his sword with all the strength he had left. The blade cut through Brynn''s defenses, biting deep into the man''s chest, parting flesh and muscle and bone.

    Brynn''s eyes widened in shock, his warhammer slipping from his grasp as he staggered back, clutching at the gushing wound. But Greg didn''t hesitate. He followed up with another strike, this time driving his sword through Brynn''s throat, the blade punching through the back of the man''s neck in a spray of blood.

    The big man collapsed with a loud thud, the life draining from his eyes as he dropped to the floor, his blood staining the snow crimson.

    It was over.

    Or so he thought.

    A movement caught his eye and Greg turned, his sword raised, just in time to see Dael, the man''s hands raised in surrender even as he held his sword at the ready.

    "No need for this, lad," Dael said, his voice shaky, his face pale. "Was just a job, is all. We didn''t mean nothin'' by it."

    Didn''t mean anything by it? Greg thought, a laugh bubbling up in his throat, high and hysterical. Oh, sure, you just tried to fucking murder me in my sleep, but hey, no hard feelings, right? Fuck you.

    He took a step forward, his sword raised, ready to end this, to make them all pay. But then Merek''s voice cut through the haze of rage and pain, only a little shaky and almost impressed.

    "Ye might''ve just cost me a fortune, lad," Merek said, shaking his head. "But ye''ve got some fight in ye, I''ll give ye that."

    Greg stood there, panting, his body trembling, blood dripping from his own wounds. He could barely see straight, his vision blurring in and out of focus.

    But Brynn was down.

    Threnn was dead.

    And he was still bleeding out.

    He turned, eyes locking onto Dael, who was frozen in place, his sword still in hand, his face pale.

    "You¡­ you should be dead," Dael muttered, backing away unsteadily.

    Greg turned, his eyes locking onto Merek''s, blue meeting blue in a clash of wills. He wanted to scream, to shout, to demand answers.

    Then an arrow whizzed through the air and Greg flinched as it shot just past his head. His eyes widened as he spotted Jory, the bowman a good distance away and hidden behind a tree, nocking another arrow.

    He wanted to kill all of them.

    But he didn''t have the strength. His body was failing him, the adrenaline fading, the pain rushing back in like a tidal wave.

    So instead, he ran.

    He turned and he ran, his legs barely carrying him as he stumbled into the forest, Ash at his side, the little bear whining softly as he tried to keep pace.

    "Greg!" Merek''s voice called out, but Greg didn''t stop. He couldn''t stop.

    He ran, crashing through the underbrush, branches whipping at his face, roots trying to trip him up. But he kept going, kept pushing, the trees swallowing him up, the darkness closing in around him.

    Fuck.

    Fuck fuck fuck.

    It was the only thought in his head, the only word that seemed to make sense anymore. Fuck Merek, fuck Dael, fuck Jory, this whole fucking world that seemed determined to kill him at every turn.

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs gave out beneath him, until he collapsed in a heap on the forest floor, Ash curling up beside him, the little bear''s warmth the only comfort in this cold, cruel world.

    I''m going to die out here, Greg thought, staring up at the canopy of trees above him, the branches seeming to twist and writhe like grasping fingers. I''m going to die, and no one will even know. No one will care.

    Greg collapsed against a thick, rough-barked tree, the cold from the night air biting at his skin, though he could barely register it. The adrenaline still pumped through his veins, mixing with the steady thrum of pain radiating from his side and chest. He gasped for breath, his lungs burning, and he pressed a shaky hand to his side, where the wound from dael''s sword should have been gaping and raw.

    His side still throbbed, the deep stab wound from dael''s betrayal pulsing with pain. his chest ached where Brynn''s warhammer had slammed into him, leaving a bruise the size of a dinner plate. The cut Threnn had left along his ribs stung with every breath he took. He could feel each wound, could still feel the ache, the damage, but... it was healing.

    Too fast.

    Way too fast.

    The torn muscle and skin stitched itself like invisible threads were pulling it all back into place. His side, the deep gash where Dael had run him through, was closing before his eyes, pink and raw, but whole.

    He didn''t understand it¡ªhe couldn''t¡ªbut the feeling inside him, the strange pulsing of his soul, the way it seemed to swell and expand, made him dizzy. He could feel it reaching out, grasping, searching for something again. and this time... it found it.

    Once.

    Twice.

    Thrice.

    Greg gasped, clutching at his chest as the surge hit him all at once. It wasn''t like before, when his soul had reached out and come back empty.

    No, this time it brought something with it. something... tangible.

    He glanced down at his hands, his vision swimming as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. his clothes¡ªhis t-shirt, windbreaker, jeans, canvas bag¡ªthey were different now.

    Replaced. He blinked, trying to process the change, but it was like his brain couldn''t keep up.

    His hands were wrapped in fingerless leather gloves, the material tough but flexible, reaching all the way to his forearms. A ring¡ªnew and unfamiliar¡ªglinted on his finger, the polished green band etched with intricate symbols that looked older than anything he''d ever seen. the ring felt... heavy, not in weight, but in significance. like it meant something.

    Thick golden bands wrapped themselves around his gloves, powerful things that were inscribed with the symbol of three different triangles stacked in the shape of a single larger one.

    And then the memories hit.

    They weren''t his¡ªat least, not memories he''d made himself¡ªbut they were there, lodged in his brain like they had always belonged. His body, his senses, everything had shifted, refined. more controlled. more experienced.

    Greg blinked, shaking his head as if he could dislodge the flood of information trying to settle in his brain. Skills he didn''t know he had, movements he''d never practiced but somehow knew¡ªit was all there.

    All in him.

    He pressed his back harder against the tree, gasping, trying to steady himself. "I..."

    He blinked again, his breath shaky, the world spinning around him. "I hate this place."

    Ash, who had been hovering nervously nearby, scampered closer, nuzzling at greg''s side. the little bear cub seemed confused too, like it could sense something had changed but didn''t know what to do about it.

    Greg let out a bitter, half-hearted laugh, running a gloved hand through his hair. "This isekai sucks."

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    Thorrick wiped his hands on the stained cloth tucked into his belt, the rag doing little more than moving the grime around his knuckles. He''d been behind this bar for the better part of twenty years, long enough to know that the mess didn''t end, not in a place like this.

    The familiar stench of sweat, stale ale, and the faint bite of vomit lingering in the air like a well-worn cloak. The dim glow of the hearth cast long shadows across the rough-hewn walls of his tavern, the wood darkened from years of smoke and spillage. The floor was uneven beneath his boots, worn down by countless feet trudging in from the cold with mud and snow clinging to their heels. but it was home, and Thorrick wouldn''t trade it for any lord''s fancy hall.

    Tonight wasn''t much different, just the usual lot.

    Old Tarrin sat at the far end of the bar, cradling his mug like it was a lover. Thorrick filled it up without so much as a word, sliding the half-full pitcher across the counter.

    "Cheers, Tarrin. Keep ye warm, eh?"

    The old man gave a grunt of acknowledgment, his weathered face hidden behind a tangled mess of grey. Thorrick wasn''t much for conversation, but the old men who came by had a way of making a man feel like they''d talked for hours, even if not a word had passed between them.

    "Ye hear about ol'' tom''s sheep?" Jonn grumbled, wrapping his hands around the mug Thorrick set before him. His knuckles were as gnarled as the branches of the trees outside, fingers trembling slightly as he brought the drink to his lips.

    "Aye," Thorrick replied, his voice rough from years of shouting over rowdy crowds. "Eaten to the bone like a fish, they say. Wildlings, most like."

    "Bastards," Jonn muttered, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "They''re comin'' closer every year. Soon enough they''ll be at our doors."

    "Aye," Thorrick agreed, though he didn''t give it much thought. Wildlings had been creeping down from beyond the wall for as long as he could remember, but they rarely made it this far. Stonegate was a sturdy place, tucked between the Lonely Hills with the natural pass serving as both a gateway and a shield. Most trouble passed them by, along with traders and travelers alike, headed for Last Hearth or the Dreadfort.

    He turned his back on Jonn, his hands automatically reaching for another mug to wipe down, when the door to the tavern creaked open, a gust of icy wind sweeping in along with the figure that stood in the doorway. He grunted, already annoyed at the thought of the draft creeping through his bar. He was about to bark at whoever was daft enough to leave the door open when his gaze caught on the boots stepping inside.

    They were too clean.

    Too fine.

    He frowned, his hands pausing mid-wipe on the counter. The boots were tall, made of soft brown leather, and rolled at the top like a lord might wear on a hunt. His gaze followed the boots upward, curiosity piqued in spite of himself. Fine leather, brown and new, not a scuff or mud-streak to be seen.

    Thorrick''s frown deepened. not the sort he was used to seeing, that much was certain.

    He was a lad, Thorrick realized.

    No older than ten and five, if that. His face was... odd. not in a way that set him apart like some disfigured beggar or a man who''d seen too many winters.

    No, this lad was clean.

    Too clean.

    His skin smooth and unmarred by the harshness of Northern life, his hair the color of wheat, untouched by snow or dirt, and his eyes... The barman almost blinked. They were blue, bluer than the lake on a summer''s day, clear and deep

    And his clothes. Gods, the clothes.

    He wore a green tunic, finely stitched with embroidery so subtle Thorrick wouldn''t have noticed if not for the firelight catching the thread. An off-white undershirt peeked from beneath the short sleeves, a long cap flopped backwards atop his head of blond hair, and there was a belt¡ªleather, but fine¡ªholding it all together. A strap crossed the lad''s chest, brown leather as neat as the rest of him. even the gloves¡ªfingerless and extending to his forearms¡ªlooked new.

    Like he''d just stepped out of a lord''s hall and not the muddy road leading from Last Hearth.

    But it wasn''t just the boy''s appearance that made the barman pause. Perched on his shoulder, as calm as a pet dog, was a bear cub. A brown one, small now, but Thorrick had seen enough in his forty years to know what that cub would grow into.

    "What in th'' name o'' the gods..." Thorrick muttered under his breath. He straightened, his hands coming to rest on the bar in front of him, fingers splayed against the rough wood.

    The lad stepped inside fully now, pushing the door shut behind him. The air in the room shifted, conversations dipped and died, all eyes turning toward the boy. It wasn''t his youth that stood out, nor his clothes, but the face. Thorrick had seen a highborn lad or two in his time, and his fair share of noble bastards, but this one... he looked almost pretty, like a woman. but that wasn''t it, not really.

    No, it was the fact that his skin was untouched by weather or dirt. No scars, no rough patches.

    Just smooth, clean, unweathered.

    The room stayed quiet, save for the crackling of the fire. Thorrick cleared his throat and leaned against the bar, his voice rough but not unkind.

    "What''ll ye have, then?" Thorrick asked, his voice gruff, masking his unease.

    The boy smiled, and Thorrick noticed his teeth¡ªwhite, straight, like they''d never known the rot that plagued smallfolk.

    The boy''s head turned, those blue eyes locking on him. Thorrick didn''t flinch, though the lad''s stare was piercing, like he was sizing up everything in the room in one sweep.

    "Ale," the boy said, his voice soft but clear. "And some food."

    Soft, but firm, too.

    "We''ve got food," Thorrick replied, nodding toward the small hearth where a pot of stew simmered. "t''ain''t much, but it''s hot."

    The boy nodded, not saying much.

    "Ain''t from ''round here, are ye?" Thorrick said, not really asking, more observing.

    The boy shook his head, still smiling. "No."

    Thorrick grunted, turning to fill a mug from the barrel behind him. The tavern had gone back to its usual hum, but he could feel the curiosity hanging in the air, thick and heavy. Everyone was wondering the same thing: noble get drinking with us common folk?

    He set the mug down on the bar, watching as the lad reached into his belt and pulled out a few coins, Thorrick spotting more silver than Thorrick''d seen in weeks, before settling on five coppers and laying them on the table.

    Thorrick raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he scooped up the coin.

    The boy took a sip, barely reacting to the taste of the strong northern ale. Thorrick gave him credit for that.

    "What brings ye t''Stonegate, then?" Thorrick pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly. It wasn''t every day a lad dressed in clothes fitting a lord came through here, especially not with a bear cub on his shoulder. "Passin'' through, are ye?"

    The boy''s smile faltered for a moment, just a flicker, but it was enough.

    "Aye," he said at last, his voice low. "Passin'' through."

 II-0: Berrin of Wintermoss

    <div>

    <div>

    Sixth Month of 298 AC

    The night wind howled through the Lonely Hills, cold as a witch''s teat and just as merciless. Berrin shivered, his thin arms wrapped tight ''round his knees as he huddled close to the pitiful fire. The flames danced weakly, castin'' more shadows than light, and Berrin fancied he could see monsters lurkin'' in the darkness.

    Mam always said there was no such fing as monsters, hethought, but that was before. Before the rough men with their cruel laughs and crueler hands had snatched him from the woods.

    Before he''d learned what real monsters looked like.

    The camp was nestled in a hollow between two great slabs of stone, hidden from prying eyes by scraggly bushes and stunted trees. Not that anyone was lookin'' for hem, Berrin reckoned. Not out here in the middle of bloody nowhere.

    He glanced at the other prisoners, six of hem all told, both grown and young. They was all huddled together like a litter of pups, shakin'' and whimperin'' soft-like. Berrin wanted to cry too, but he''d run out of tears days ago. Now his cheeks just felt stiff and sore, like he''d been slapped.

    Shouldn''t ''ave run off, he thought again and again. Should''ve stayed in the village like Da always said. But he''d never been one for listenin'', always runnin'' off to explore the woods and pretend he was a knight or a wildlin'' or summat.

    And now look where it''d got ''im.

    The bandits was gathered ''round the fire, grumblin'' and laughin'' amongst themselves. Their words drifted over to Berrin, sendin'' shivers down his spine that ''ad nuffin'' to do with the cold.

    "Tyroshi''ll pay ''andsomely for this lot," one of hem was sayin'', a big brute with a scar across his nose. "Specially the young''uns."

    Another man, thin as a rake with yellowed teeth, cackled. "Aye, and we damn near robbed that village blind ''fore we took the brats, too. Good ''aul all ''round, I''d say."

    Berrin''s stomach twisted. Slavers, they''d called themselves. He didn''t rightly know what that meant, but he knew it was bad. Worse than bad. The kind of bad that Nan used to whisper about to scare the little''uns.

    They''re gonna sell us, he thought, the idea makin'' ''im feel sick and scared all at once. Like we was sheep or summat. Da''ll never find me now.

    The thought of his Da made Berrin''s chest ache somethin'' fierce. He could almost hear his voice, gruff but kind, tellin'' ''im to be brave. But Berrin didn''t feel brave. He felt small and scared and more alone than he''d ever been in his life.

    One of the bandits, a great big fella with arms like tree trunks, was sharpening his sword. The sound of stone on steel made Berrin flinch, rememberin'' how they threatened to use those sorts on anyone who tried to run.

    "We''ll head south come dawn," the scarred man was sayin''. "Toward the Weepin'' Water. Ship''ll be waitin'' for us there by time we hit the shore."

    Berrin''s heart sank. He''d heard tell of the Weepin'' Water, but it was far away. Farther than he''d ever been from home. If they get us on a ship, that''s it, he thought. We''ll be gone for good.

    He looked ''round desperate-like, his hands tremblin''. But the bandits wasn''t even looking at him. To them, he was just another bit of cargo, no different from the sacks of grain they''d stolen.

    Suddenly, there was a sound.

    Soft-like, barely there over the cracklin'' of the fire. A sort of swish, like when Mam used to sweep the floor. Berrin blinked, wonderin'' if he''d imagined it.

    The big man with the sword went all stiff-like. His eyes got real wide for a moment, then he just... fell forward. There was blood, so much blood, pourin'' from his throat and soaking'' into the dirt.

    Berrin''s breath caught in his chest. What''s ''appenin''? hethought, his heart beating faster than a rabbit''s. But none of the other bandits seemed to notice. They just kept on talking and laughing like nuffin'' had happened.

    Then another one, the skinny fella with the yellow teeth, jerked backward real sudden-like. There was a knife sticking out of his chest, right where his heart should be. His mouth opened like he was gonna scream, but no sound came out.

    He just... fell over, scattering coins everywhere.

    Berrin couldn''t move.

    He couldn''t even blink. His eyes darted ''round, tryin'' to make sense of what was happenin''. But the other prisoners wasn''t payin'' no mind, just starin'' at the fire or off into space.

    There was another one, up on a big rock keepin'' watch. Berrin saw ''im go all stiff, then topple right over the edge. There was another knife in his throat, and he made this awful sound as he fell.

    "Urk-!"

    Berrin couldn''t breathe. His heart was beatin'' so fast he thought it might burst right out of his chest.

    All ''round ''im, the world had gone mad.

    One moment, the camp had been quiet-like, just the usual grumblin'' of the bandits and the soft whimperin'' of the other prisoners. Then, faster than Berrin could blink, everything changed.

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    It started with them knives, flyin'' out of nowhere and findin'' their mark every time. Berrin watched, his eyes wide as saucers, as five of the bandits fell. They didn''t even make a sound, just toppled over like puppets with their strings cut.

    The rest of the camp started to wake up then. Berrin could see the fear spreadin'' through the bandits like a sickness. They was supposed to be the scary ones, but now they looked as frightened as he felt.

    Garen the Gaoler, the meanest of the lot, jumped to his feet. Berrin flinched, rememberin'' how the man had shoved his ugly face right up close, breath stinkin'' worse than the village midden as he threatened to cut out Berrin''s tongue if he didn''t stop cryin''.

    But now Garen looked scared too. He drew his sword, his head whippin'' back and forth as he tried to spot the danger. "Oi, keep yer eyes open," he hissed. "Someone''s here."

    Another bandit, a skinny fella with a nervous twitch, muttered, "This ain''t right..." His words was barely out of his mouth when another knife came flyin'' out of the dark.

    It hit the twitchy man right in the neck, and Berrin watched in horror as he fell into the fire. The flames leapt up, sendin'' sparks flyin'' into the air like angry fireflies as the man burned in silence.

    That did it.

    The rest of the bandits finally sprung into action, drawin'' their weapons and lookin'' ''round wild-like. One of them shouted into the darkness, "Show yerself, ye coward!"

    Berrin huddled closer to the ground, tryin'' to make himself as small as possible. He''d never seen the bandits scared before, and that frightened him more than anythin''. If these big, mean men was afraid, what chance did a little boy like him have?

    One of the bandits, a big fella with arms like tree trunks, suddenly turned tail and ran. Berrin watched ''im sprint towards the woods, his breath comin'' out in big white puffs in the cold air. "I''m gettin'' outta here!" he yelled.

    But he didn''t get far. Somethin'' came flyin'' through the air, too fast for Berrin to see proper. It smacked into the back of the running man''s head with a sound like a melon splittin'' open and thudded to the ground, the thing a rock the size of his the bandit''s head at least.

    The man fell face-first into the dirt, his body twitchin'' somethin'' awful. Berrin felt his stomach turn as he saw the blood pourin'' from the man''s smashed head.

    Everything went quiet then, so quiet Berrin could hear his own heart poundin'' in his ears. The air felt thick, like it did just before a big storm.

    Then, like magic, someone stepped out of the shadows. Berrin couldn''t help but let out a little gasp when he saw ''im.

    It was a young man, not much more than a boy really, but he looked like somethin'' straight out of his nan''s stories. His hair was a bright yellow, shinin'' in the firelight like it was made of real gold. His eyes was as blue as the summer sky, the kind Berrin hadn''t seen since before the bandits took ''im.

    The stranger was dressed all fancy-like, in a green shirt with a shiny silver buckle at his waist. He had yellow bands ''round his wrists that gleamed in the firelight that Berrin realized had to be real gold. But what really caught Berrin''s eye was the sword on his back.

    It was white as new-fallen snow, and it seemed to glow with a light of its own. Berrin had never seen anythin'' so beautiful in all his life.

    The stranger moved like he was dancin'', all smooth and quiet-like. His eyes swept over the camp, lookin'' at the shakin'' prisoners and the few bandits left standin''. Then he smiled, just a little bit, and said, "I''m looking for a Berrin."

    Berrin felt like his heart had stopped. Me? he thought. he''s lookin'' for me? his legs felt wobbly as he stood up, comin'' out from behind the other prisoners. he tried to speak, but his voice came out all shaky and quiet. "M-M-Me?"

    The stranger looked right at him then, and his smile got bigger and warmer. It made Berrin think of ''ome, of sittin'' by the fire with his mam and da. "Your dad sent me, he wants you home," the stranger said.

    Berrin felt a rush of hope so strong it made ''im dizzy. Da''s lookin'' for me? he ain''t forgotten me?

    But before he could say anythin'', Garen stepped forward. The big man was shakin'' like a leaf, but he had his big sword out and pointed at the stranger with two hands. "''Oi, the ''ell you fink you are?" he growled.

    The stranger didn''t look scared at all. He just kept smilin'' that warm, unbothered smile. "I''m a hero," he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

    Berrin gasped.

    A hero? A real one, like in the stories? He couldn''t believe it.

    But as he watched, the stranger pulled out that pretty white sword and pointed it right at Garen.

    "And as a hero," he said, "I gotta do my job."

    </article>

 II-1: The Beginnings End I

    Greg''s boots crunched in the snow-covered underbrush of the Lonely Hills as he rushed forward to meet the bandits, the cool night air filling his lungs. He could''ve enhanced his sword''s sharpness, made it slice through their weapons like a lightsaber ¡ª weapons, bone, flesh, all at once really ¡ª but that trick was a drain he couldn''t afford with multiple people on his head.

    Plus, he mused, a little swordplay made for good practice.

    The bandits, clearly not used to their prey fighting back, circled him with a mix of shock and anger on their rough, dirty faces. The huge guy with the greatsword looked super pissed, like he obviously wanted to split Greg in half. On either side were two of his bandit buddies¡ªone with a bastard sword and the other with a quick little smallsword, both ready to get a piece of him ¡ª while two others hung back by the treeline.

    Greg braced himself, feeling the barely noticeable weight of his own sword in hand, ready to meet their advance head-on. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. Let''s get some practice in, he thought, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

    "Look ''ere, boys!" the big guy with the greatsword bellowed, his voice rough as gravel, a mouth full of black, rotting teeth. "This wee lad finks ''e can take us all on!"

    Greg''s eyes narrowed. Wee lad? Seriously? "Hey," he shot back, "your penis is small."

    The brute roared and swung downward in a move that could have cleaved Greg in half¡­ had it landed. Hit a nerve! Greg''s response was immediate, stepping back with a swift pivot that turned a lethal strike into a harmless miss. His boots skidded slightly on the snow-covered rocky ground.

    As the greatsword gouged the dirt, the bandit with the bastard sword jabbed at Greg''s open side. Simultaneously, the smallsword wielder lunged from the right, blades hissing through the air.

    Greg twisted away, feeling the wind of both blades missing him by inches. He stabbed back with his own sword, forcing the two bandits to jump away.

    "I''ll gut ye like a fish, boy!" the bastard sword guy yelped, barely avoiding the counterstrike.

    "Ye can''t dodge forever!" the smallsword wielder hissed.

    The blond in green parried a thrust from the smallsword, his blade clashing against the metal and sending sparks flying. He used the momentum to block a swing from the bastard sword, the impact juddering up his arm.

    "You know I killed all your guys, right?" Greg taunted, his blood pumping. "Like I''ve only ever done the knife thing on trees. It works on people, too!"

    The three bandits circled him, their movements growing more coordinated. As the bastard sword swung toward his midsection, the smallsword darted in from the side

    Greg twisted out of the path with a practiced backstep he couldn''t have pulled off a few months ago, smirking as the bastard sword stumbled. The third bandit, nimble with his smallsword, shot in like a striking snake again, attempting to exploit Greg''s momentary distraction. He shoved the smallsword wielder back with a hard elbow, only to have to immediately duck a whistling slash from the greatsword.

    "Not so cocky now, are ye?" the big man growled.

    Greg parried the slash with the flat of his blade, metal ringing sharply. He ducked under, the greatsword slash going wild. "Actually," Greg grunted, "I''m not cocky at all. I just hate you." He wasn''t even joking, he really did hate people like this.

    Something in him just couldn''t see them as human and he didn''t really care much about pushing that down as he slashed forward, a slight smile on his face.

    Each move was a calculated risk, a test of the skills he''d picked up recently. Every breath was measured against the tornado of blades around him. His heart raced, adrenaline surging, but his head was clear.

    Sharper than ever.

    This was the training he couldn''t get from simple drills in the woods.

    The rocky outcroppings of the Lonely Hills loomed around them, casting long shadows in the moonlight. Snow crunched underfoot, and the clash of steel echoed off the stone faces.

    The bandits pressed their attack, blades flashing from all angles. Greg parried and dodged, his sword a blur of motion. He caught the smallsword with the flat of his blade and redirected it into the path of the bastard sword, the two bandits nearly striking each other.

    "Watch it, ye idiot!" the bastard sword wielder snapped.

    "T''ain''t me fault, Dom!"

    The bandits, however, didn''t seem appreciative of being used as practice dummies. The smallsword wielder, frustrated, tried to sneak in a low strike, but Greg caught the movement from the corner of his eye and blocked it with an ease that he doubted any one with his level of practice should have.

    "Stand still, ye little shit!" the man spat, his face contorted with rage.

    Greg couldn''t help but smirk, despite it all. "Yeah, no. I think I''ll pass."

    Feeling a familiar prickle of intuition, Greg ducked under another heavy swing from the greatsword, feeling its wind rip through his hair. He rolled to the side, his hands gripping the damp earth as he narrowly avoided a stabbing motion from the bastard sword. Snow crunched beneath him, the cold barely seeping through his enchanted green clothes.

    Greg bounded to his feet and lunged, abandoning defense for a brutal offense. Less about strength, more about precision.

    The other man, overconfident and slower, didn''t anticipate the change in target. His sword sank into the bandit''s forearm with a sickening, meaty crunch before he yanked it free, trailing ribbons of blood.

    The bandit howled in pain, dropping his weapon and clutching the stump of his arm as blood spurted wildly, staining the white snow crimson. The scream that filled the Lonely Hills was bloodcurdling, and Greg winced at the sound, irritated. Geez, drama queen much? he thought, before immediately feeling guilty for the callous thought.

    "Sorry about that," he muttered with only a hint of sarcasm. If it were anyone else, he would have meant it. Even here, he almost did, even if he only felt bad for how he didn''t feel bad.

    He just couldn''t find it in him to care about guys like this. "Really."

    The remaining two bandits hesitated, shock evident on their faces as their comrade writhed on the ground.

    Greg lazily kicked the writhing man away, his boot squelching in the blood-soaked snow. He turned to face the remaining two as the fallen bandit''s screams echoed off the trees, bouncing between the rocky outcroppings. The sound sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

    Three left.

    Now it was just him against the greatsword and the smallsword. The latter''s wielder looked hesitant now, his eyes darting to his disabled companion. The man''s face was pale, a sheen of sweat visible even in the dim light.

    "Ye''ve gone and done it now, boy," the smallsword wielder growled, his voice shaky. "We was just gonna rob ye, but now... now we''s gonna make ye suffer."

    Greg wrinkled his nose, unable to keep a straight face with that blatant lie. "...what?" He snorted at that. "This is not the first of your guys I killed."

    The greatsword snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "I''ll cleave ye in two, I will!"

    "Ye''ll try," Greg retorted with a cocky grin. God, I love this accent. I sound like Braveheart.

    Before he could make another move, Greg''s intuition whispered again. He ducked, feeling the whoosh of air as a blade grazed where his head had been seconds before. The smallsword wielder slid past, his blade scraping against a nearby tree and showering Greg with bark and splinters.

    "Stay still, ye little rat!" the big man roared, slashing his own sword down and embedding his own blade in that same tree with an even angrier yell.

    Greg''s senses heightened, the metallic scent of adrenaline and fear mingling in the air with the coppery smell of spilled blood. He launched a rapid series of attacks, his blade flashing in the dimming light. The smallsword bandit parried frantically, the sound of clashing steel a constant echo in the cool evening air.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "What in th'' seven hells are ye?" the smallsword wielder gasped between parries.

    Greg grinned, a manic edge to his voice as he replied, "Just your friendly neighborhood Witcher! Wait, is that this universe? Let''s go with... hero?" His grin widened. "Yeah, I fight evil. That works."

    He was learning the rhythm of real combat, a far cry from the neat forms and drills he''d practiced. This was raw, chaotic, primal. But there was a strange exhilaration to it, a fierce joy in the strain of his muscles and the hammering of his heart, as he danced between both men, snow crunching under his feet, his breath coming out in sharp, visible puffs.

    The greatsword arced down and Greg barely twisted aside in time, feeling the heavy blade score a line of icy pain across his bicep. He hissed through clenched teeth, but the wound was already knitting itself closed, flesh and skin sealing as if by magic. Gotta love that healing factor.

    Granted, it only seemed to work faster after he killed some bad guy, but Greg figured that was just his HP recovery mechanic or something. He didn''t really wanna think about it too much.

    Greg spun away, putting some distance between himself and the greatsword, and nearly impaled himself on the smallsword as the bandit lunged, lips peeled back in a feral grin.

    "Thought ye could forget about me, eh?" the man sneered. "I''ll be takin'' yer guts for garters, boy!"

    "Dude, gross," Greg grimaced, batting the sword away. "Seriously, what''s with you guys and guts? Is it a fetish or some--oh shit!"

    The smallsword managed a quick stab that sliced at Greg''s arm, nicking just above his wrist. The sharp pain was immediate, but so was the healing¡ªGreg felt the wound stitch itself closed almost as quickly as it had opened, a warm rush flooding through him as his adrenaline spiked with frustration. Okay¡­ stop fucking around.

    Greg spun, his sword flashing out in a wide arc, aiming to keep both the smaller sword and the greatsword at bay. His blade connected with the smallsword again, forcing the wielder back a few paces. The clash of steel rang out, echoing off the rocky hills around them.

    "Ye can''t keep this up, boy," the big man taunted, his greatsword whistling through the air.

    He dropped into a roll as the greatsword whistled over his head, coming up in a crouch. The big man roared in frustration, spittle flying from his mouth as he charged again blindly like an enraged bull. Ole!

    Greg waited until the last second, then pivoted sharply, letting the brute''s momentum carry him past. He hammered the pommel of his sword into the bandit''s kidney as he went by, eliciting a bellow of agony.

    "Oh I''m sorry, did that hurt?" Greg mocked. Shit, I sound like a villain. Quick, say something heroic! "Uh... crime doesn''t pay!"

    Nailed it.

    Greg parried another thrust from the greatsword then slid past a stab from the smallsword wielder, only to spin around to deliver a hard kick to the second man''s knee. As the bandit stumbled, Greg swept his blade in a wide arc, aiming to incapacitate rather than kill. His sword slashed across the back of the bandit''s legs, hamstringing him with a spray of blood. The man screamed and crumpled, his blade tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers.

    "Me leg! Ye bloody bastard, ye''ve taken me leg!" the man howled, his face contorted in agony.

    "Technically, I just sliced it. It''s still attached. Mostly," Greg quipped. Man, when did I get so... cold?

    "Yield, ye bastard!" the bandit sobbed, clutching at his ruined legs. "I yield!"

    Greg ignored him, whirling to search for the big man-- just in time to catch a greatsword to the chest. His own blade flickered up, catching the heavy steel in a shower of sparks, but the force still slammed him back a step, driving the air from his lungs. Shit, that''s gonna bruise!

    "I''ll ''ave yer ''ead on a spike," the brute growled, baring his teeth. "An'' fuck yer corpse for the crows!"

    "Okay wow, you have some serious issues," Greg panted, an eyebrow raised. I swear, one more threat involving my entrails and I''m going full Vlad the Impaler on these assholes.

    Steel clashed against steel, breaths mingling in the frigid air as they strained against each other. Greg''s arms trembled as he tried to hold the guy off, slowly giving ground before the bandit''s brute strength. Crapcrapcrapc--

    With a burst of desperate strength, Greg shoved the sword away and darted back, barely avoiding another swing.

    With a roar, the bandit rushed after him.

    That''s it, fuck you! Greg met the charge head-on, twisting to let the greatsword pass harmlessly while delivering a punishing elbow to the man''s jaw. The impact sent the bandit staggering, his grip loosening on his weapon. In pain and clearly more a berserker than anything, greatsword made one last desperate swing.

    Greg ducked under the swing, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his hair. With a quick, clean flick of the wrist, his blade caught the moonlight as it opened the belly of the man, who fell to his knees with a wet thud on the snow. The man''s eyes widened in shock, his hands frantically trying to hold in what should have stayed inside.

    With a grunt, the teenager flicked his wrist out in the other direction, his own blade slicing viciously at the brute''s neck-- a clean, perfect decapitation. The bandit''s head flew free, a fountain of arterial spray painting the snow crimson as his body slumped into a twitching heap.

    Greg straightened up, breathing hard, his sword dripping with a cocktail of regret and necessity. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, making him want to gag as it always did after a fight like this.

    Then, that familiar whisper of intuition told him to move¡ªhe stepped aside on instinct just as an arrow whizzed past his face, embedding itself in a tree with a solid thunk. The sound made his heart leap into his throat.

    Turning, he saw the archer, the last of the bandits, nocking another arrow, face pale with fear but determined. The man''s hands shook as he drew back the bowstring.

    "Don''tcha come any closer now," the bowman warned, his voice trembling. "I swear on the old gods an'' the new, I''ll put the next''un through yer eye!"

    Greg frowned, fatigue nipping at his edges. I need this to be over. With a reluctant sigh, he swung his sword from a distance, channeling his power into the blade. A crescent of blinding blue-white energy sizzled from the metal, streaking across the snowy clearing like a comet. The air crackled with power, the hair on Greg''s arms standing on end.

    A half second later, another head fell to the floor in one clean cut, a body following it a moment later. The bow clattered to the ground, unused.

    "I really hate doing that," Greg muttered as he watched the headless body collapse. The energy moves were flashy but draining, leaving him feeling like he''d sprinted a whole city block. He glanced around at the carnage, the reek of blood and raw meat thick in the icy air, doing some quick mental math.

    Shit, one got away¡­ After a moment, he shrugged and then looked up at the faces of the hostages, their eyes wide with a mix of awe, nausea and tearful relief.

    "So... job said rescue a kid," Greg said out loud, biting his lip. "Guess I got a¡­ nine-for-one deal, huh?" He turned, his gaze finding the rocky outcrop nearby. "Ash! You good, buddy?"

    A loud grunt came back in answer as a small brown fuzzy figure poked its muzzle over the rocks. He blinked and a half-second later, made an odd noise that he was barely able to keep from turning into a groan as memories flooded his mind. What the¡­

    Pulling himself together, Greg quickly nodded, turning back to the kids with a smile that he hoped was reassuring and not terrifying. "Okay, we''re good. Let''s go."

 II-2: The Beginnings End II

    The morning sun shone down brightly on the town of Wintermoss, a low buzzing in the background as the people went about their daily routine. The air hummed with the sounds of daily life - the clang of a blacksmith''s hammer, the lowing of cattle, the chatter of smallfolk going about their business. It was a decently sized settlement, home to over three thousand souls eking out a living in the harsh landscape of the North. The air was crisp and cold, biting at Greg''s nose and cheeks as he trudged through the muddy streets. His muscles ached from the long night''s trek and a lack of sleep, but he pushed the fatigue aside, focusing on the task at hand.

    Greg had only just walked into town after a long night''s trek with all the captured near-slaves, his return to Wintermoss after leaving it several hours before oddly quick. The town looked different in the daylight, less creepy and more... well, medieval. Thatched roofs, timber frames, and the occasional stone building dotted the landscape. The smell of woodsmoke and something less pleasant - probably sewage, Greg thought with a grimace - hung in the air.

    He found himself leaning against a wooden post not too far from the father who had hired him, an owner of a small brewery, one hand idly rubbing the smooth white piece of wood that hung from his twine necklace. The man had just finished embracing his son and was now yelling at the eight-year-old who had gotten himself captured by bandits. Berrin, the kid, was staring at the ground as his father admonished him, looking like he wanted to sink into the mud beneath his feet.

    Ye addlepated fool of a boy!" the father bellowed, his face red with a mix of relief and anger. "What was ye thinkin'', wanderin'' off like that? Ye coulda been killed! Or worse!"

    Greg winced at the volume. Geez, give the kid a break. He''s been through enough.

    The man continued his tirade, his Northern accent thick with emotion. "We was worried sick, ye ''ear? Yer mum''s been cryin'' ''er eyes out, thinkin'' ye was dead!"

    Berrin mumbled something, his eyes still fixed on the ground.

    "Speak up, boy! I can''t ''ear ye when ye''s mumblin'' like a simpleton!"

    "I''m sorry, Da," Berrin said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn''t mean to worry ye. I just... I just wanted to see th'' ''ills."

    The father''s face softened slightly, but his voice remained stern. "Aye, well, ye''ve seen ''em now, ''aven''t ye? And nearly got yerself killed in th'' process. Ye''ll not be leavin'' th'' ''ouse for a month, ye ''ear me?"

    First things first, Greg had delivered the other rescued smallfolk to the town headman. Said headman, a grizzled old man with a limp and a missing eye, had readily agreed to house them in the town hall until runners could be sent to their home villages.

    Huh. Wonder why he was so quick to do what I asked? Greg pondered, scratching his chin. Maybe because everyone keeps thinking I''m some kind of lordling or something?

    He shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I''m just doing my part," he spoke under his breath. "No big deal."

    Honest.

    Greg rolled his eyes, and nodded to himself, "I''m just doing my part."

    He glanced down at his hand, thinking back to what happened on the trek out of the outpost in the Lonely Hills with the people the bandits captured. He had felt that weird level-up thing again, finally.

    That strange feeling of his soul...expanding, for lack of a better word. It had happened three times during the fight with the bandits.

    Last time something like that happened was a month ago, he recalled, brow furrowing. Right after I first got to the Lonely Hills. Right after...

    His eyes narrowed slightly. Merek.

    The memory of that encounter sent a shiver down his spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold. Greg shook his head, trying to focus on the present.

    Forcibly pushing the thought aside, Greg focused on the new...what, powers? Abilities? Whatever they were. That last skill he''d picked up had been some kind of people-finding radar. Like he could sense missing persons somehow. Weird, but hey, weirder things have happened. Like randomly getting a magic sword with a bit of my soul in it. Or conjuring gold strength-boosting armbands out of thin air. Or having an entire new outfit just poof into existence...

    But last night...

    Last night had been a whole ''nother level of bizarre. He''d gotten a whole slew of new memories. Flashes of a life growing up in some strange elven ninja village, learning the ways of the shadow warrior.

    Not a great one, but still... "What the fuck?" he scoffed, earning a strange look from a passing villager. I mean, I wasn''t a great ninja wizard or anything, but still! Since when is that a thing?

    In comparison, the other two abilities seemed almost mundane. His sword had gotten some kind of upgrade, which he still wasn''t sure how to use. Apparently, his sword was kind of a magic wand?

    "Gonna need to test that one out," he mused, mind already racing with possibilities. Maybe I can shoot fireballs or something. That''d be sweet.

    The other one was what felt like something tiny settling in his soul.

    And by tiny, he meant TINY.

    But he felt it, still.

    It popped up when I was thinking about the hurt and thirsty kids on the way back here, Greg recalled. Something to do with water and healing? I felt...attuned to it, somehow.

    "Whatever that means."

    Greg rolled his eyes, a heavy bag over his shoulders as he walked away from the yelling father, Ash trotting by his side. The bear cub let out a small grunt, as if sensing Greg''s frustration.

    "I know, buddy," Greg said, reaching down to scratch behind Ash''s ears. "This place is weird as hell."

    Good thing I got my pay before Dad of the Year started chewing out his kid, he thought wryly. The five gleaming silver stags clinked dully in his pouch, nestled amongst dozens of other silver coins and a few coppers. Spoils from the now very deceased bandits - weapons, valuables, and cold hard cash.

    The bag on his back was full of all the other stuff he had raided from the place. It weighed heavily on his shoulders, a constant reminder of the night''s events. Maybe I should feel bad about looting the place, but... eh.

    And now...

    Waste not, want not, Greg figured, hefting the sack of ill-gotten loot. His eyes focused on a sturdy stone and timber building, incongruously solid amidst the more ramshackle structures of the town. Even the rooves in this town looked thicker, better made. Way better than Stonegate. And Frostfall, for sure.

    The sign above the door creaked slightly in the morning breeze.

    "Wintermoss Post... hm, to the point."

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    The door protested with a loud creak as Greg pushed it open, the heavy wood scraping against the packed earth floor. A gust of frigid morning air rushed in alongside him, the chill wind biting at his exposed skin. But the cold was quickly overwhelmed by the warmth radiating from the trading post''s hearth, the crackling fire a welcome respite from the harsh elements outside.

    As Greg stepped fully inside, his senses were assaulted by the building''s unique aroma¡ªa blend of leather, fur, and something metallic that hung heavy in the air. It was the scent of iron and sweat, as if the very walls had absorbed the essence of countless transactions over the years.

    Man, this place smells like my gym locker and a Renaissance fair had a baby, Greg thought, wrinkling his nose slightly.

    His eyes were immediately drawn to the clutter that seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the space. To his left, rough-hewn shelves groaned under the weight of small barrels filled with dried fish, their briny scent adding to the overall miasma. Beside them, sacks of grain were piled haphazardly, tied loosely at the top with fraying twine.

    To the right, an assortment of tools hung from wooden pegs set into the wall¡ªaxes, sickles, hammers¡ªtheir edges dulled by age and heavy use, but still appearing sturdy enough to last a few more seasons, at least. Above them, well out of casual reach, were the real valuables: swords and blades of various shapes and sizes, carefully wrapped in cloth to protect them from prying eyes and sticky fingers.

    Tetanus City, population: all this shit, Greg mused, eyeing a particularly precarious stack.

    Every inch of the wall space seemed to be claimed by something¡ªbundles of dried herbs, coils of rope, even odd trinkets from far-off places: a carved bone whistle, a bit of southern silk, tarnished but real. The place was completely empty of any customers, unsurprising given that the morning was just starting.

    A large counter dominated the center of the room, its surface scratched and worn from decades of transactions. Behind it stood the post''s owner, a grizzled man with a graying beard as thick as the rest of him, and eyes as sharp as a whetstone. He glanced up briefly from his ledger, sizing up Greg as he entered without much interest at first, only for the man''s eyes to widen as he properly took him in.

    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Great, another ''holy crap, it''s a kid'' look. Just what I needed this morning.

    To his side, an iron scale, blackened with use, sat near a few scattered coins¡ªmostly copper pennies, but the glint of a silver stag caught the light from the fire. Greg found his eyes drawn to it, remembering the weight of his own coin purse. It felt good to have money, even if it was in a currency he still didn''t fully understand.

    Greg strode forward and walked over to the counter, slinging the bag off his shoulder. He let it thud on the counter with a muffled jangle of mixed treasures and trinkets. The sound caught the tradesman''s attention fully now, his eyes sharpening not out of curiosity, but clear greed.

    The blond found himself recognizing it, the same look on Merek''s face familiar now. It sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the morning cold.

    "Well, now," the tradesman rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. "What''s this, then? Traveler brings gifts, or trouble?"

    Greg quirked a half-smile, quickly untying the bag''s top to reveal the jumbled contents within: three bows, two greatswords, a longsword, two bastard swords, three thinner-than-a-bastard swords, six daggers, two padded jerkins, and three sets of worn leather armor. The scent of blood, faint but unmistakable, wafted up from the pile.

    "Neither," Greg replied easily, watching as the tradesman''s eyes darted over the goods. "Just looking to sell. Lighten the load a bit, you know?"

    The man reached out almost reverently, calloused fingers brushing against the hilt of a particularly ornate dagger, the leather wrappings faded but still intricately detailed. "An'' where''d a young lad like yerself come by such fine goods, if I may ask?" His tone was light, but the underlying question rang clear.

    "Found ''em," Greg said instead, keeping his own tone casual even as he watched the tradesman''s face carefully. "Bandits'' stash, out in the hills. Took out the camp, so they won''t be needing this stuff anymore. Figured it was better off here than rusting away out there."

    The tradesman let out a dry, rasping chuckle, both appraisal and disbelief fighting for a place in his eyes. "Bandits, eh? Ye look a mite¡­untouched fer a lordling what''s been fightin'' bandits in th'' Hills."

    Greg''s chuckle was dry, his hand absentmindedly touching the pommel of his sword. "...yeah, sure."

    The man harrumphed, but the lure of profit drew his attention back to the bag like a lodestone. He began to sift through the contents with the speed and surety of long practice, setting aside the choicest items and pushing the less desirable ones off to the side.

    "Fine goods indeed," he spoke aloud, more to himself than to Greg. "I''ll give ye a fair price for th'' lot, minus a finder''s fee, of course."

    Greg watched him work, noting the quick, greedy movements. "Long as it''s fair," he said, his tone carrying a slight edge. "Fought last night. Took a long walk into town this morning. Not in the mood for cheats."

    The tradesman paused his next words, his eyes meeting Greg''s, spotting the sword on his back. Something in Greg''s expression must have given him pause, because the greed in his eyes was quickly replaced by a hint of... was that fear?

    "Fair, aye. Always fair ''ere," the man said, his voice a touch softer than before.

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    Greg stepped out of the trading post, his mind swirling with thoughts of a well-deserved rest. Ash, comfortably nestled on his shoulder, let out a soft grunt as the cold morning air hit them. Greg''s pouch felt heavier, now one hundred and fifty something stags richer. The weight of the coins was a constant reminder of his successful, if bloody, night.

    He nodded to himself slowly, a frown creasing his brow. "...that guy definitely cheated me."

    Whatever, he shrugged, scratching Ash behind the ears. Not like he really cared all that much, considering he had left the rest of the shit in the bag with the trading guy. Being real, there was no way he was seriously gonna carry all that to another town. I mean, come on. Do I look like a pack mule? Back''s already killing me.

    Greg''s eyes scanned the surroundings, looking for a sign, any indication of a decent inn where he could rest. Sure, he had more stamina and he was a good bit tougher¡­ but there were fuckin'' limits, goddamnit. Even isekai heroes needed their beauty sleep. Granted, the last few weeks of roaming around towns in the Lonely Hills had let him get plenty of sleep in villages, despite their shitty medieval beds, but still.

    As he navigated through the mostly empty morning streets of Wintermoss, the sound of his boots crunching on the frost-covered ground echoed off the timber and stone buildings. The town was just starting to wake up, a few early risers shuffling about their business with bleary eyes and hunched shoulders.

    A sudden collision made him pause in his tracks, the teenager glancing down in confusion. An old woman, frail and pale, stood before him, dressed in what he could only describe as rags. Her eyes were wide with a desperate urgency, her gray hair as thin and wispy as her bony frame. Trembling hands clutched a small doll, the fabric stained a dark, ominous red that could only be blood.

    "Find ''im, please, m''lord," the old woman pleaded, her voice cracking with raw desperation. "Ye must."

    Greg blinked, taken aback by both the sudden address and the unexpected title. M''lord? He still wasn''t used to villagers just assuming shit like people couldn''t wear nice clothes or be clean for no reason. "What? I can''t...who?"

    Without hesitation, the old woman thrust the doll into his hands, her voice breaking with each word. "Find th'' man who killed ''er. My Sera...please, m''lord. Find th'' bastard an'' gut ''im like th'' pig ''e is. I beg ye."

    Greg held the doll awkwardly, his face a mask of shock as he tried to process her words. The weight of it felt unnatural in his hands, heavy with a raw, sinister aura he couldn''t quite understand. What the hell? This thing feels...wrong. Like it''s pulsing with some kind of dark juju. The fabric seemed to throb against his skin, thick and cloying with something he couldn''t exactly see.

    "I...I''m not sure I¡ª" he began, but the woman cut him off, her voice rising in pitch.

    "Ye must, m''lord! Ye must! Th'' gods, they whisper o'' ye, a man who finds th'' lost, who sees beyond th'' veils. I know it, I do!"

    The gods? Okay, this is getting way too weird, even for me. "Look, lady, I think there''s been some kind of misunderstanding. I''m not¡ª"

    Suddenly, a man rushed over, grabbing the old woman gently but firmly by the arm. "M''lord, forgive us. Old Mara...she used to be our woods witch, not right in th'' head, ye see. Lost ''er daughter an'' goodson, an'' then ''er granddaughter four moons past ...it broke ''er, it did. Forgive ''er, if ye would"

    The old woman, Mara, looked up at Greg with pleading eyes, her gnarled hands still extended towards him as if the doll held the key to her salvation. Fuck. I can''t just ignore this, can I? She looks so...broken.

    "It''s alright," Greg said softly, meeting Mara''s desperate gaze. "I understand. But this¡ªthis isn''t something I usually¡ª"

    "Please, m''lord," Mara interrupted, his voice dropping to a shaking whisper as she stared deep into his eyes. "Ye can find ''im, can''t ye? Th'' one what spilled blood on th'' snow? Pour ''is blood back to th'' earth, spill ''is guts and make ''im beg for mercy, return ''im to th'' Old Gods..."

    "Mara!" the man hissed, his grip tightening on the old woman''s arm. "Mind yer tongue!"

    Greg looked down at the doll in his hand, feeling the magic that clung to it like a miasma¡ªan echo of pain and a clear, dark path to follow. This is insane. I''m not some kind of magic detective. I can''t just...

    But even as the thought formed, he could feel the trail unspooling before him, not just a physical path, but a magical one, a link to the perpetrator still fresh with malice and sorrow. Son of a bitch. I can, can''t I?

    "Please, m''lord," the man pleaded, his face lined with worry. "I beg of ye. Forgive ''er. She don''t know what she''s sayin''..."

    Greg sighed heavily, the weight of the doll seeming to grow heavier by the second. "I said it''s fine, okay? I''ll...shit." He ran a hand through his hair, the blonde strands sticking up wildly. "I''ll handle it."

    The man sagged with relief, his weathered face creasing into a grateful smile. "Thank ye, m''lord. Thank ye. May th'' Old Gods bless ye."

    With that, he quickly led Mara away, the old woman''s sobs fading into the bustle of the waking town. Greg stood there, alone, the doll pulsing in his hand like a thing alive. What the hell did I just agree to?

    He could feel it, a trail of breadcrumbs leading to a gingerbread house of horrors. This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea.

    But he knew, deep down, that he couldn''t just walk away. Not now. Not with the echoes of Mara''s anguish still ringing in his ears. Goddamnit.

    Greg looked down at Ash, the bear cub peering up at him with curious eyes. "Well, fuck."

 II-3: How to Save a Knight

    Greg had been walking for what felt like an eternity, though in reality, it had only been about five days. Five long, grueling days of trekking through the wilderness with only Ash for company. All this walking always feels like forever.

    That was something that hadn''t changed no matter how many weeks he had been walking around the North.

    He''d left the Lonely Hills behind a while back, his green tunic standing out against the muted colors of the forest as he followed the trail of evil energy he could feel deep in his bones.

    My own little spidey sense but for bad vibes instead of danger, he mused, although I think I do kinda have one for danger. Shaking his head, Greg frowned at the winding forest path ahead of him. If you could even call this a path. Sure, people had definitely walked here before, but the melted snow and stubborn underbrush seemed determined to obscure any semblance of a clear trail.

    Snow is only pretty until it starts melting, Greg thought with a sigh, his boots squelching in the muddy ground. Then it''s just a pain in the ass. He''d learned that lesson the hard way back home in Maine, but apparently, Westeros hadn''t gotten the memo.

    Ash, at least, seemed to be enjoying himself, happily munching on the few blueberries and blackberries they''d managed to find along the way. Lucky bear, Greg thought, his own stomach gurgling after a meal of salted pork, dry biscuits, and really hard cheese. What I wouldn''t give for a cheeseburger right about now. Or even just a pizza. Hell, I''d settle for some chicken nuggets at this point.

    But the forest was sadly lacking in fast food options.

    And the less said about the bathroom situation, the better.

    Instead, Greg had to navigate a treacherous landscape of damp, rocky ground and patches of soft moss covering stones and roots. In some areas, the soil was so thin that rocky outcrops broke through the forest floor like jagged teeth, while tree roots wound their way through the ground like gnarled fingers.

    It''s a good thing I''ve got these new ninja instincts, Greg mused as he nimbly flipped over a particularly large root. Otherwise, I''d probably have face-planted a dozen times by now. He could just imagine the headline: "Westeros News Weekly: Local Teen Dies in Tragic Tripping Accident; Bearly Missed by Companion." The thought brought a wry smile to his face, even as he rolled his eyes at his own terrible pun.

    Granted, it wasn''t like the forest wasn''t pretty occasionally. Even with the overcast drab gray skies that seemed determined to make everything look like a depressing black-and-white movie, small streams cut through the forest, clear and cold with little bits of sunlight cutting through the dense trees that made it almost look storybook-like. It was like the forest couldn''t decide if it wanted to be ominous or enchanting, so it settled for a weird mix of both. Greg half-expected a singing woodland creature to pop out, only for it to start crooning death metal instead of a cheery Disney tune.

    But as pretty as the forest could be, with its clear, cold streams and the occasional ray of sunlight cutting through the dense canopy, Greg couldn''t shake the feeling of unease that had been growing steadily over the past few days. It was like an itch between his shoulder blades, a constant prickling sensation that set his teeth on edge.

    I need to make sure I''m still going the right way, he thought, his frown deepening as he reached into the pouch at his back. His fingers closed around something at the very top, and he pulled it out with a grimace.

    The little straw and cloth doll was stained and dirty, caked with mud and dried blood. Even though the blood was old, it somehow felt fresh and cloying every time he held it, the wrongness of it seeping into his skin like poison.

    It''s not the doll''s fault, Greg reminded himself, scowling at the innocent toy. It''s the sick bastard who killed its owner. The thought sent a surge of anger through him, hot and bitter. And I''m gonna fucking gut him for it.

    He really didn''t feel bad about that.

    Which should be worrying.

    Nope.

    He knew he should feel bad about that thought, knew that the old Greg would have been horrified by the casual violence of it. But the new Greg, the one who''d seen and done things he''d never imagined, the one who''d watched people die and had blood on his own hands...that Greg just felt a grim sense of determination and he felt Good about that.

    The first time you disembowel someone, you vomit. The second time, you just gag a little. By the tenth time, you''re wondering how long it''s gonna take for this guy at your feet to stop fucking screaming. Greg figured by the fiftieth he would know how long down to the second. Welcome to the desensitization program, Westeros edition, he thought as he felt his eye twitch.

    I''m going to find this guy, and I''m going to make him pay for what he did, he thought, his grip tightening on the doll. Because somebody has to do it. Somebody has to make things right.

    He took a deep breath, letting the anger settle into a cold, hard knot in his gut. Focus, Veder, he told himself, shaking his head. You''ve got a job to do. He held up the doll, letting the malevolent energy emanating from it wash over him like a foul breeze.

    This way, it seemed to whisper, tugging at his mind like an insistent child. Follow me.

    A strained smile on his face, Greg put the doll back in the pack, shaking his head again. This is...justice.

    The word felt strange in his mind, too big and too heavy for a fifteen-year-old to be throwing around. But then again, he wasn''t really a normal fifteen-year-old anymore, was he?

    Nope.

    Accepting this quest to hunt down some sick serial killer was something Greg didn''t regret, per se, but he certainly wished that tracking the bastard down didn''t feel so... gross. Every time he held the doll and focused, he could feel the trail of the guy strongly, like a slimy, invisible rope leading him onwards. It was a sensation he very much did not enjoy, but one he forced himself to endure for the sake of justice.

    Or vengeance.

    Or whatever you wanted to call it.

    He preferred justice, though.

    It''s like I''m a human dowsing rod, but instead of water, I''m detecting pure evil, he thought, shuddering as the now-familiar miasma crawled over his skin. Definitely not the superpower I would have picked out of the catalog.

    He did his best to ignore the feeling, pushing the ants-on-arms sensation to the back of his mind until he barely noticed it anymore, only calling on it when he needed to reorient himself. Which, given his less-than-stellar sense of direction, was more often than he cared to admit.

    I swear, these trees all look the same, he grumbled internally, glaring at the seemingly endless expanse of forest around him. It''s like being stuck in a Bob Ross painting, but without the happy little clouds.

    The long, irritating walk out of the Lonely Hills had served as a distraction from the feeling, at least. Hate these fucking Hills, hate the fucking snow, hate the fucking forests, he mentally chanted, a litany of frustration. Where are my elf babes? Isn''t that supposed to be a thing in fantasy worlds?

    To further take his mind off the serial killer he was tracking (and the distinct lack of attractive elven companionship), Greg had been practicing with the weird little things he''d felt inside his soul, the two motes of light he''d gained after rescuing the women and kids from the bandits.

    If there was anything that could certainly distract him, real magic was definitely at the top of the list.

    On the first day, he''d managed to bring out the feeling of both of them, watching with wide eyes as the energy coated his hands. The first was a bright aqua blue that felt distinctively... wet.

    Wispy tendrils of moisture had appeared around his fingertips, forming a delicate mist that shimmered in the overcast sunlight. The droplets were fine, almost microscopic, creating a thin veil of dampness that clung briefly to his skin before dissipating into the air. The more he focused, the more droplets condensed, beading together like morning dew on grass, evaporating or dripping to the ground in isolated, silent splashes.

    He would have to be a literal fucking idiot not to know what this was. "Water," he''d said aloud, his voice tinged with equal parts wonder and amusement.

    Greg had laughed his head off the first day, playing with his new ability until he felt drained and needed a quick nap to ease off the tiredness. When he woke up again, he kept laughing, the sheer absurdity of the situation hitting him all over again.

    He had water magic. Actual, honest-to-god (or gods, he supposed) water magic.

    Well... the beginnings of water magic, at least. Water droplets had dripped from his hands the longer he held it, a small pool of perfectly clear and clean liquid forming between his cupped palms, fresher and purer than any he''d encountered since showing up in this weird, dark, low-fantasy world.

    He wasn''t able to do much with it that first day, but it was enough for Ash to get a drink from his hands, at the very least. Greg still didn''t speak bear, but the approving grunt was pretty much unmistakable. Great, now I''m a walking, talking water fountain.

    The second power was... well, he wasn''t entirely sure what it was, to be honest.

    He thought it might be healing, but he really, really wasn''t certain.

    All he knew was that his hands had glowed.

    Not strongly or all that brightly, mind you. It was a faint, weak glow, like a low-watt bulb struggling valiantly to put out light¡ªsoft gold or pale white, but not exactly eye-searing. Shimmering motes danced around his fingers, and while it wasn''t hot or anything, he did feel a gentle warmth, like standing near a candle. But not too near.

    "Huh..." He''d stared at his hands, turning them over and examining them from every angle, as if the secrets of the universe might be written on his palms. Nope, just the usual lines. No hidden cheat codes here.

    There was a sense of slight purification in the air around his hands, a vague feeling of cleanliness or freshness, but overall, it was pretty... underwhelming.

    "Healing magic, huh?" He couldn''t help the note of disappointment in his voice. It wasn''t that he wasn''t grateful for any new ability, because he totally was. It was just...

    Well, it was just...

    "I thought it''d be cooler, you know?" He said to Ash, who cocked his furry head and blinked at him, uncomprehending. "Like, I dunno, glowing runes or sparkly energy beams or something. Not just a nightlight in the palm of my hand."

    Honestly, it''s like the universe heard me wishing for superpowers and went, "Okay, but make it budget."

    Still, he had to admit, even if it wasn''t the flashiest thing in the world, the idea of being able to heal people (or himself without relying on his weird healing factor) was sounding pretty damn appealing. Especially considering the kind of trouble he seemed to keep finding himself in these days.

    With my luck, I''ll probably need it sooner rather than later, he thought wryly, images of sword fights and angry bandits flashing through his mind. Better start practicing now, before I end up as shish kebab.

    Progress was slow, and more than a little frustrating at times.

    Where water magic had come pretty easy, with each day showing distinct improvements and actually managing to figure out several spells, spells he could actually use without half-passing out ¡ª Looking at you, ninja shadow magic ¡ª his healing magic hadn''t done much in the way of growing.

    But he still kept trying.

    And trying.

    Gotta keep trying. And so he did, spending hours each day trying to coax out more of that faint, golden light, to will it into doing... something. Anything, really, beyond just making his hands look like he''d dipped them in radioactive fairy dust.

    Four days later, something seemed to just click.

    Like a key turning in a rusty lock, or a lightbulb flickering to life in a dark room. Magic, well... magicked, and Greg finally figured out his first healing spell.

    By the end of the day, high on his newfound success, he''d managed to conjure up another spell. And today? "Numero three, baby!" He crowed, fist-pumping the air in triumph as the golden light danced around his fingers. "I''m on a roll!"

    Sure, they might have been simple little cantrips in the grand scheme of things, but they worked. And that was enough to put a little extra pep in his step as he navigated the dense forest, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves.

    Look at me, Greg Veder, magical prodigy, he thought, his chest puffing up with pride. Maggie fucking Holt, eat your heart out. I''m the new kid on the block.

    That is... until now.

    Greg''s footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves as he navigated the dense forest, his newfound good mood slowly evaporating as he trudged onward. These trees all look the same, he grumbled internally, scowling at the endless expanse of trunks and branches. It''s like being stuck in a screensaver. A really boring, repetitive screensaver.

    He was just about to voice his complaints aloud to Ash (who, being a bear, was probably not going to be very sympathetic), when he came to another clearing. Something in the back of his mind made him pause, a niggling sense of unease that had him slowing his pace as he approached yet another nondescript clearing.

    Spidey-sense tingling, he thought, frowning slightly. Or is it Jedi intuition now?

    Suddenly, the eerie quiet was punctured by a soft groan of pain, the sound sending a jolt of alarm through Greg''s system. His eyes widened as he caught sight of something he definitely hadn''t been expecting, his feet grinding to a halt a split second later.

    Is that...?

    Peering through the dense foliage, he spotted a figure slumped against a tree trunk, the weak glint of metal barely visible under the cloak of shadows cast by the leaves overhead. It had to be a knight, Greg realized, his heart rate picking up.

    It had to be a knight. The rugged gear the man had on wasn''t exactly the polished, fancy stuff Greg had seen on the knights in movies or at Renaissance Fairs. But it looked more... realistic, somehow. Like something out of a gritty medieval war movie, all dark steel and battle-scarred mail.

    A mix of dark steel and mail, the metal was scuffed and dented from what must have been a brutal fight. A heavy wool cloak, matted with mud and grime and darker stains that could only be blood, draped over the knight''s shoulders, offering little warmth now. A steel helm covered most of his face, leaving only his eyes exposed - eyes that were currently closed, the knight''s head lolling to one side.

    Even the knight''s shield had that rough, utilitarian feel to it¡ªheavy wood, rimmed with iron, and emblazoned with a sigil that looked like a silver hammer on a gray field. House IKEA? Greg thought wildly, before mentally slapping himself. Focus, Veder. Not the time for jokes.

    "Hey, hey, uh... you okay?" he called out softly as he approached, his voice surprisingly steady despite the churn of concern in his gut. What do you think, dumbass? his mind supplied sarcastically. He''s just taking a little power nap, that''s all. Probably tuckered out from all that knightly stuff, like jousting and rescuing damsels.

    His eyes flicked over to the sound of a whinny, widening slightly at the sight of the knight''s horse not too far away. It was a sturdy brown steed, standing there unscathed, its saddlebags and reins still intact. Lucky horse, Greg thought, even as a pang of sympathy went through him. The animal flicked its ears towards him but remained still, its loyalty to its fallen master clear.

    The knight stirred at the sound of Greg''s voice, his helm askew and revealing a face pale with pain and streaked with sweat. His eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, flickered open as the teen drew closer.

    "Who... g-goes there?" The knight''s voice was a ragged gasp, each word sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass. "F-friend... or foe?"

    Greg stepped closer, hands held up in a universal gesture of peace. "Friend, I guess." I hope, he added silently, eyeing the knight''s blood-streaked armor warily.

    As he neared the wounded man, Greg could see the knight''s gauntleted hand clamped around the shaft of an arrow buried deep in his ribs, the projectile sticking out at an awkward angle. The dark stain of blood was spreading across his chainmail, each labored breath seeming to make it grow.

    Okay, that''s... that''s a lot of blood. Like, a lot a lot. Holy shit.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    "Help... me," the knight gasped out, the words barely a whisper as he struggled for air. Each inhale was sharp and wet-sounding, a horrible sucking noise that made Greg''s stomach turn. Punctured lung, he thought, his limited medical knowledge from health class and a lifetime of watching ER suddenly rushing back. That''s bad. Like, really bad.

    He knelt down at the knight''s side, Ash hovering nearby and making distressed little bear noises. You and me both, buddy, Greg thought, his own heart hammering against his ribs. What are the fucking odds of stumbling across a dying knight in the middle of nowhere?

    "Who did this to you?" He asked, even as his gaze flicked down to the arrow again. It was a bad wound, the kind that could kill a man if left untreated. Greg wasn''t sure how long the knight had been lying here, or how much time he had left.

    "Bandits," the knight managed to rasp out, his voice gaining a bit of strength even as his face twisted in pain. "Ambushed us... north of here. T''was..." He broke off, coughing wetly, fresh blood staining his lips. "''T''was seeking glory, foolishly. I''m a second son of House Stonehall. Not much glory in that, usually."

    Greg nodded slowly, only half-listening to the man''s words as he focused on assessing the wound. "Stonehall, huh? Never heard of it."

    "Aye," the knight confirmed, his accent thickening as pain and emotion color his words. "We serve... serve Lord Bolton.

    Bolton. Why does that name ring a bell? Greg shook his head, pushing the thought aside. Doesn''t matter right now. Focus on the task at hand, Veder. "I''m Greg¡­ Veder. Greg Veder."

    The knight''s breathing was growing more labored by the second, his face ashen beneath the sheen of sweat. "M''name is... Arryk. Ser Arryk Stonehall."

    Greg nodded slowly, barely paying attention to the man''s words as he stared hard at the wound, his mind racing. Okay, think. What do I do? I can''t just leave him here. But I''m not exactly a doctor. I''m barely a fuckin'' wizard.

    ¡­ He blinked. Holy shit, you idiot. You''re a wizard.

    He had the power to help and he couldn''t just walk away. That''s not what heroes did. And I''m trying to be a hero, aren''t I? Even if I don''t really feel like one most of the time.

    "Let''s get this arrow out of you first, then we can worry about the rest later," Greg said, trying to inject some confidence into his voice. Fake it ''til you make it, right? "I''m not gonna lie, this is gonna hurt like a bitch. I need you to stay as still as you can, alright?"

    The knight, Arryk, gritted his teeth, a low groan escaping him as he shifted slightly, jaw clenching tight under his beard. "Do... what you must," he managed, his voice strained. "I''ve faced... worse¡­"

    I seriously doubt that, but okay. Greg took a deep breath, steeling himself. He''d seen worse than this, he reminded himself. Blood didn''t faze him, not anymore. He''d seen too much of it lately, spilled just as much.

    The arrow jutted obscenely from the knight''s side, the shaft dark with drying blood, the head tangled in torn chainmail. Greg grabbed it firmly, feeling Ser Arryk''s body tense beneath his hands as he braced himself.

    "Hold still," Greg muttered, his voice low but steady. Please don''t let me fuck this up.

    With careful movements, trying not to jostle the wound more than necessary, Greg steadied the arrow, preparing to pull it free. "I''m going to pull it out on three, okay? One, two¡ª"

    Three. With a quick, sharp yank, the arrow came free with a sickening squelch, slick with fresh blood. A thin spray of it hit Greg''s fingers, warm and sticky, but he barely noticed. His attention was on Ser Arryk, who let out a low, guttural groan, slumping harder against the tree. The knight''s hand immediately pressed against the wound, trying instinctively to stem the new flood of blood.

    Greg tossed the arrow aside, not caring where it landed. Hard part''s over. Now for the harder part. "I''m not done, okay? I''m going to try something. Just... just hold on."

    He held up his hands, letting the faint golden glow of his newly discovered magic coalesce between his palms, a small sphere of light that pulsed gently. Please work. Please please please work.

    As Greg''s hands hovered over the wound, the soft golden illumination intensified, chasing away the shadows and throwing Ser Arryk''s grimace of pain into sharp relief. "This might feel weird," Greg warned, his brow furrowing in concentration as he focused intently on channeling the magic into the knight''s battered body. Weird and hopefully not painful. But I can''t make any promises.

    As he held his hands over the wound, the soft golden glow intensified, casting warm light over Arryk''s pain-lined face. The knight''s eyes were wide, disbelief warring with desperate hope as he watched the magic gather.

    The golden light seeped into the wound like honey, slow and thick. Greg could feel it flowing through his hands, a warm tingle that raced up his arms and down his spine. This is so fucking crazy. I''m actually doing magic. Real magic.

    Under the gentle invasion of the spell, Ser Arryk''s body tensed, a low, strangled moan escaping through his clenched teeth as the magic began its work. Slowly, bit by bit, the blood ceased its relentless flow, the ragged edges of the wound knitting together beneath the steady glow of Greg''s power.

    It''s working, Greg thought, a surge of relief and elation rushing through him. Holy shit, it''s actually working! Greg watched, amazed and relieved, as color began to return to the knight''s face. Arryk''s breathing evened out, the raw agony in his eyes dulling to a more manageable pain as the magic soothed his hurts.

    Gradually, as Greg poured his stamina into the knight''s wound, Ser Arryk''s labored breathing began to even out, the raw, agonized edge of pain dulling as Greg''s magic suffused his body, seeking out and soothing the damage. The knight''s hand, still pressed to his side, relaxed fractionally, no longer clenched in a desperate, white-knuckled grip.

    "Thank... you," Ser Arryk managed, his voice hoarse and thready but infused with a bone-deep gratitude. "Thank you."

    Tired, sweating and drained, Greg opened his mouth to say something in return to Arryk, only to blink as he felt that same feeling bubble up inside him ¡ª the familiar, powerful sensation of his soul expanding. It was like a balloon being inflated inside his chest, pushing against his ribs and making it hard to breathe for a second.

    Pop.

    And just like that, it was over.

    As quickly as it happened, it was done, and Greg found himself blinking rapidly, trying to process the sudden change. Something had settled deep in his gut, like he''d swallowed a lead weight. But it wasn''t heavy, not exactly. More like... dense.

    Is this what it feels like to be pregnant? he wondered wildly, then immediately wanted to smack himself. Don''t be an idiot, Veder. You''re a dude. Dudes don''t get pregnant.

    ...Right?

    Shaking off that disturbing thought, Greg focused on the new sensation. It was like a well of energy had opened up inside him, pulsing and surging with every breath he took. He couldn''t quite put a name to it, couldn''t understand exactly what it was, but he felt its presence all the same. It was there, undeniable and unavoidable.

    With each inhale, each exhale, the energy seemed to grow stronger, thrumming through his veins like liquid lightning. Is this my magic powe¡ª

    Before he could even finish that thought, another change ripped through him, more intense than the first. It was like someone had lit a match inside his soul, the sudden flare of heat and light almost blinding in its intensity.

    Fuck fuck fuck, what the hell?! Greg gasped, tensing up as the sensation intensified, dots of sharp pain popping into existence throughout his body. Each new point was like a tiny cigarette being pressed against his skin, only from the inside. He gritted his teeth against the pain, eyes watering as he struggled to breathe through it.

    Greg could feel the dots inside him multiplying, spreading, linking together in a complex web that seemed to encompass his entire being. They pulsed in time with his heartbeat, each throb sending a new wave of sensation washing through him. Hot and cold, pleasure and pain, all tangled together until he couldn''t tell them apart anymore.

    Gradually, the intensity leveled off, the searing heat fading to a more manageable warmth. The dots settled, and Greg could almost visualize them - a glowing, intricate network of fifty points, each of them half as dense as the one in his stomach, all connected by gleaming threads of power and linking to the small pool. It was like a small solar system had been born inside him, fifty planets swirling around a larger star in his stomach-soul.

    It''s not literally glowing, he reminded himself, even as he glanced down at his arm, half-expecting to see the luminous web pulsing there. All he saw was sweat, beading on his skin and soaking into his shirt. Well, that and the dirt. And the blood. I''m a mess.

    "Are... are ye alright, lad?" Arryk''s voice cut through Greg''s dazed contemplation, the knight''s brow furrowed with concern. "Ye look a bit peaky."

    Peaky. That''s a word Northerners use, isn''t it? Greg blinked his tired eyes, then shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Focus, dumbass. He''s asking if you''re okay.

    "I think I should be asking you that, man," Greg replied, forcing a grin that he hoped didn''t look as manic or as exhausted as he felt. "You''re the one who took an arrow to the gut."

    Deciding to shove his existential magical crisis aside for the moment, Greg dug into his pouch, rummaging around for the food he''d picked up in Wintermoss. "Hungry?"

    Arryk eyed him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye," he said, the word little more than a sigh. "Aye, I could eat."

    As Greg pulled the provisions out - some hard jerky, a hunk of cheese, a few pieces of stale hardtack - Arryk watched him with a mix of curiosity and awe. "Yer no ordinary lad, are ye?" he commented, his voice still weak but tinged with wonder. "That healin'' touch o'' yours... ''tis not natural, that."

    Greg shrugged, tearing off a piece of jerky with his teeth and chewing methodically. Tastes like old shoe leather. Awesome. "''s nat''ral t'' me, I guess," he mumbled around the mouthful, the words slightly garbled. He swallowed, then tried again. "I mean, it''s just something I can do. Like whistling, or wiggling my ears." Or making an idiot of myself in front of pretty girls. I''m great at that.

    "Blessed by th'' Gods, ye must be?" the man muttered, seemingly more to himself than Greg.

    Greg didn''t even bother to say anything. Instead, he passed the food over to a distracted Arryk, who accepted it with a nod of thanks. The knight bit into the hardtack, grimacing as he chewed. Yeah, that stuff''s not winning any culinary awards, Greg thought, watching him. But beggars can''t be choosers, right?

    "So..." Greg cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation away from his magical healing hands. "You said bandits got you?" He pulled out his own waterskin, taking a long pull to wash down the taste of the jerky. Ah, lukewarm water. The champagne of the Middle Ages.

    Arryk shifted against the tree, wincing as the movement pulled at his freshly-healed wound. "Aye," he said, his voice growing firmer as he chewed and swallowed. "My men an'' I were ambushed by what I thought were mere bandits. But th'' tactics, th'' equipment... ''tweren''t typical o'' mere brigands. Too prepared, too skilled... an'' too well-armed, at that."

    That caught Greg''s attention. He leaned forward, listening intently as he took another bite of cheese. This part of the world''s not big on convenience, he thought sourly. What I wouldn''t give for a nice pepperoni pizza right about now...

    "Whod''ya think they were, then?" he asked, forcing his mind back on track. "If they weren''t just regular old bandits, I mean."

    Arryk frowned, his gaze going distant as he considered the question. "I suspect they were men o'' House Darkvein, mayhaps Coldmyre," he said at last, his tone grim. "Both rivals o'' Stonehall, ye see, an'' closer vassals o'' Bolton than we."

    Boltons... The name rang a vague bell in Greg''s mind, but he couldn''t quite place it. Still don''t know any of these Houses...

    "Who''re the Boltons again?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

    Arryk blinked at him, confusion and disbelief warring on his face. "How... how are ye not knowing o'' House Bolton, lad?" he asked slowly, as if talking to a particularly dim child. "They''re one o'' th'' most powerful Houses in th'' North, second only t'' th'' Manderlys, and th'' Manderlys only behind th'' Starks."

    Shit. Okay, think fast. Greg plastered on his best innocent look, all wide eyes and guileless smile. "I, uh... I lost my memory," he said, the lie tripping off his tongue with unsurprising ease, considering how often he used it. Well, it''s not a total lie. I''ve definitely lost a lot of things since coming here. My way, my dignity, my sanity...

    "Been roamin'' around the North for a couple months now," he continued, trying to sound convincing. "Ever since I woke up in the middle of nowhere with no idea who I was or how I got there." Nailed it.

    "Truly?" Arryk looked skeptical, but also faintly sympathetic. "Tis a hard fate, lad. Th'' North''s not a forgivin'' place for those without kin or keep."

    You''re telling me, dude. Greg shrugged, trying to play it off. "I get by," he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Fake it ''til you make it, right?

    Arryk shook his head, still looking a bit dubious as he cast a glance at Greg''s sword and the ring on his finger, but apparently willing to roll with it for now. "Well, th'' Boltons are th'' lords o'' th'' Dreadfort," he explained, slipping into what Greg privately thought of as a ''teacher voice.'' "One o'' th'' most feared Houses in th'' North, known for th''... unsavory acts of their ancestors, th'' Red Kings."

    Unsavory? Greg''s mind immediately went to cannibalism, human sacrifice, really kinky evil sex stuff. Oh god, I''m in a world of murderous BDSM cannibals. He swallowed hard. "Unsavory like... what? They don''t use napkins when they eat?"

    Arryk shot him a look that said ''are you serious right now?'' "Nay, lad. Unsavory like flayin'' their enemies alive. ''Tis said they wear man skin as cloaks."

    Oh. Oh, that''s so much worse. Greg felt his gorge rise, bile burning the back of his throat. Yep, definitely cannibals. Cannibals with a leather fetish. I''m so fucked.

    Before he could say anything else, Greg''s breath hitched, the familiar sensation of his soul expanding sweeping through him like a sudden gust of wind through an open window. He forgot what he was about to say, his focus snatched away by the growing potential within him. It wasn''t the first time he had felt this¡ªby now, the process was beginning to feel almost expected, if erratic.

    Each time it happened, he sensed his capabilities stretching, latching onto something profound and ineffable. This time, he didn''t fully understand what it was¡ªno memories, no powers, no objects¡ªbut he knew it was significant. Shaking his head, he tried to continue the last thought on his mind.

    "S-so you''re saying those delightful folks are the'' ones your House serves?" he managed, trying to keep the horror out of his voice. Just when I thought this place couldn''t get any worse...

    "Aye," Arryk sighed, looking pained. "Stonehall''s sworn t'' th'' Dreadfort, same as most th'' Houses o'' th'' Dread Lands. We''re their vassals, bound by oath an'' honor t'' serve."

    Serve the skin-wearing cannibal lords. We''re in the Dread Lands. Got it. Greg nodded slowly, trying to look like this all made perfect sense to him. "Right. And these... these Boltons, they''re vassals too? To someone else?"

    "Aye, t'' House Stark o'' Winterfell," Arryk confirmed, looking at Greg like he''d grown a second head. "Th'' Starks''ve ruled th'' North since th'' Age o'' Heroes, nigh on eight thousand years ago."

    Eight thousand years? Jesus Christ, how do they keep track? Do they have a really big calendar or something? Greg shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around the sheer scope of it. Eight thousand years ago back home, we were still figuring out how to make fire and shit in holes.

    "Okay, okay," he said, holding up a hand to forestall any more history lessons. "Comin'' back t'' that later. What''s a Great House? Is that like, a really big castle or somethin''?"

    Arryk stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he blinked.

    Once.

    Twice.

    "...How little do ye know, lad?"

    Buddy, you have no idea. Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Assume I know nothin''."

 II-4: A Nightéˆ¥æªš Sleep I

    The knight did.

    Assume he knew nothing, that is. And Ser Arryk told him everything he thought he would need to know.

    As Greg trudged through the thick, sucking mud of the woods, his boots making wet, squelching sounds with every step, he couldn''t help but turn over the flood of information he''d gotten from Arryk. It was like trying to drink from a fire hose, except instead of water, it was a torrent of medieval politics and power struggles. Westeros 101, taught by Professor Stonehall.

    He shook his head as he walked. I shoulda taken notes.

    Westeros, from what the knight told him, was less a singular empire and more a huge, entangled feudal web, wrapped up in layers like one of those Russian nesting dolls his mom liked to buy. Except instead of cute little wooden figures, it''s a bunch of backstabbing assholes all trying to one-up each other.

    At the top of the asshole pyramid, the Great Houses like the Starks lorded over everyone, with big names like the Lannisters¡ªapparently a bunch of rich pricks¡ªand the Baratheons¡ªa bunch of strong pricks?¡ªright up there with them when it came to power.

    That part made sense, at least. It''s just like high school. The popular kids rule the school, and everyone else just tries to stay out of their way. But then Arryk got to explaining about what he actually knew about the North, and things got... complicated.

    "Fuck meeee," Greg muttered under his breath, dodging a low-hanging branch that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. This place is like the fucking Amazon rainforest. Except with more snow. And no pandas.

    The North, as it turned out, was massive. Like, mind-bogglingly huge. Fucking Narnia without the wardrobe. According to Arryk, it was as large as the other six kingdoms combined, which sounded like the kind of bullshit you''d hear from a used car salesman.

    But who was Greg to argue with a knight that actually fucking lived here? For all he knew, maybe everything really was bigger in the North. Everything except the average lifespan, probably.

    The whole place was carved up like a giant pie at a particularly aggressive family gathering, with everyone from the Great House Stark to the somewhat less mighty but still pretty important Major Houses like the Boltons and Manderlys grabbing a big, meaty slice. Probably with some fingers getting chopped off in the process. These people seem to really like their swords.

    Then there were the minor houses, which Greg figured were like the kids at the table getting the thin, runty slices that were mostly crust. The hand-me-down houses. The Goodwill of Westeros nobility.

    Below them were the petty houses, like Arryk''s own House Stonehall, which sounded like they got the leftover crusts¡ªstill part of the pie, technically, but not exactly fighting over the juiciest pieces. More like scraping the burnt bits off the bottom of the pan and hoping no one notices. A lot of the smaller towns in the North were apparently part of those sad little crusts of land, with their keep or whatever usually smack dab in the middle like a cherry on top of a shit sundae.

    And then, at the very bottom of the barrel, were the Masterly and knightly houses. The poor fuckers like Arryk who got tossed whatever scraps were left after the bigger kids had their fill. Probably just enough land for a village. A really shitty village. With a lot of inbreeding. Arryk had just shrugged when he talked about them, saying most of them weren''t even worth thinking about. Ouch. Even among the bottom-feeders, there''s a pecking order.

    The whole thing was a tangled mess of loyalty and duty, with everyone owing something to someone else, sort of like a medieval pyramid scheme but with more armor and fewer opportunities for upward mobility. It made Greg''s head hurt just trying to keep it all straight. No wonder these people are always stabbing each other in the back. It''s like a fucking soap opera, but with swords instead of sex.

    It had all been confusing, sure, especially when Arryk had started going on about religions and stuff. Apparently the North are a bunch of tree-huggers¡­ which is weird with how violent these guys are.

    But it was the knight''s description of the whole fucking House system that had really made Greg''s brain feel like it was leaking out of his ears.

    Major Houses swaggering around with their armies and massive fuck-off castles, Minor Houses nipping at their heels like angry chihuahuas, Petty Houses scrapping for whatever glory they could get... and all of them apparently going to war at the drop of a fucking hat over gods-knew-what. Probably who has the prettiest sister or the biggest dick. Knowing these people, those two things might be the same.

    Hell, there''d been two major wars in like the last fifteen years.

    It was all just... a lot.

    Too much, if Greg was being honest with himself. Which he tried not to do too often, because fuck that noise. Introspection was for people who didn''t have to worry about getting eaten by bears or stabbed by random assholes in the woods.

    Speaking of random assholes... After Arryk had given Greg that whole rundown on the North and its endless tangle of politics and dick-measuring, the knight had hefted himself back up on his horse, his wound healed up good as new thanks to Greg''s magic fingers. Phrasing!

    "I''m in yer debt, young Veder," he''d said, all solemn-like, as if that meant fuck-all to Greg. What am I gonna do, call 1-800-MEDIEVAL and cash in my Knight Points? But he''d just nodded, watching as Arryk galloped off into the woods like he was fucking Lancelot or some shit.

    Sure, I''ll just swing by the Stonehall or whatever the fuck and pick up my reward. He thought with an eye twitch as he stopped for another snack break, scratching a happy bear cub behind the ears. Maybe they''ll give me a shiny new sword, or a carrying pack for Ash. Or maybe they''ll just stab me in the face for shits and giggles. Fifty-fifty chance, really, considering what a lot of these North guys are like.

    Greg snorted as he thought of the knight''s words from yesterday, shaking his head as he slogged onward through the mud and the muck. Like I''m gonna be able to collect on that.

    The sun was setting, the sky darkening to a deep, dusky blue as Greg continued his trek through the forest. Gettin'' late, he thought, eyeing the lengthening shadows with a touch of unease. Better set up camp soon, ''fore it gets too dark to see my own nose.

    He came to a small clearing, the trees opening up just enough to let a sliver of fading light through. Perfect. With a grunt, Greg shrugged off his canvas pack, setting it up against a tree with a dull thud. Home sweet home, or whatever.

    Glancing down at Ash, who was snuffling around the base of a nearby oak, Greg smirked and clapped his hands once, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet of the woods. "Ash, fetch!"

    The bear cub''s head popped up, ears twitching. For a second, Greg thought he might actually have to repeat himself - c''mon, buddy, we''ve been over this - but then Ash was off like a shot, darting back into the underbrush with an excited little growl.

    Atta boy. Greg snorted, shaking his head. It had taken weeks of patient (and not-so-patient) training, but he''d finally gotten the little guy to understand at least one command.

    Kinda.

    While Ash was off doing his thing, Greg set about the task of making their temporary home a bit more livable. He circled the clearing, picking up stones and bringing them back to his pack, laying them out on the ground in a small, neat circle.

    Windbreak, check, he thought, sitting back on his heels to survey his work. Gotta keep that fire goin'' somehow.

    Windbreaks, as it turned out, were pretty damn important when it came to camping in the North. Something Greg had learned the hard way, thanks to those traitorous assholes who''d tried to gut him for his sword.

    Fuckin'' Merek, he thought, his hand twitching towards his side, fingers brushing the hilt of the blade. Fuckin'' Dael. Fuckin'' Jory. Fuck ''em all.

    He pushed the anger down, forcing it back into the dark little corner of his mind where it belonged. Not now, Veder. Focus on the task at hand, yeah? Worry ''bout revenge later.

    The North, as Greg had quickly discovered, was a cold, windy bitch of a place. Keeping a fire going in these conditions was like trying to keep a candle lit in a hurricane - damn near impossible without some kind of shelter.

    Heh. ''Break the wind,'' Greg snorted to himself, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a wry grin. Guess fart jokes are still funny, even in Westeros.

    Some things, it seemed, were universal.

    A rustling in the bushes announced Ash''s return, the bear cub trotting into the clearing with a mouthful of sticks clenched between his little teeth. He dropped them at Greg''s feet with a proud huff, as if to say "look what I did, Dad!"

    "Good boy, Ash!" Greg praised, reaching out to ruffle the soft fur between the cub''s ears. "Go fetch!"

    And off he went again, fluffy butt waggling as he disappeared back into the forest. Greg shook his head, still grinning, and gathered up the sticks, tossing them into the center of his improvised fire pit.

    It had taken some trial and error (and more than a few singed fingers) but Greg had finally gotten the hang of using the flint and steel he''d picked up back in Wintermoss. It still took a few minutes of striking and cursing - c''mon, c''mon, friggin'' thing - before the sparks caught, the dry tinder smoking and then flaring to life.

    And Prometheus said, ''let there be light,'' Greg thought, sitting back on his haunches to watch the flames lick at the bigger sticks, the fire slowly growing. Or heat, anyway. Same diff.

    Ash came trotting back a few more times, each trip yielding another mouthful of sticks and twigs and even a few larger branches. "Good haul, buddy," Greg complimented, rewarding the bear with a head scratch as he added the new fuel to the steadily growing blaze. We''ll be toasty warm in no time.

    With the fire crackling away merrily, Greg turned his attention to the next order of business: bedding down for the night. He rummaged through his pack, pulling out his bedroll and laying it out at the base of a tree, close enough to the fire to feel its heat but not so close that stray embers might catch.

    Gettin'' to be a real pro at this whole ''roughin'' it'' thing, he thought, a touch of self-deprecating humor in the words. Bear Grylls ain''t got nothin'' on me.

    He imagined the survival expert''s reaction to seeing him now - a scrawny teenager cuddling up with a bear cub in the middle of a fantasy forest. He''d probably have some choice words about proper wilderness protocol, Greg thought, smirking. And then I''d sic Ash on ''im. See how he likes a faceful of bear breath.

    With that amusing image playing behind his eyes, Greg climbed into his bedroll, the thick wool and fur lining immediately enveloping him in blessed warmth. He glanced back at the flames and nodded, the small, low fire burning slowly and unlikely to cause any sort of fire if he let it burn while he slept. Ash, as if on cue, padded over and nestled down at Greg''s feet, the heat of his furry little body seeping through the fabric.

    "G''night, bud," Greg murmured, his words already starting to slur with encroaching sleep. The cub huffed softly in response, a gentle growling sound that Greg had come to recognize as Ash''s version of "love you too."

    D''aww. Greg smiled, his eyes drifting shut as the exhaustion of the day''s trek finally caught up with him. Love you too, ya fuzzball.

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C

    ?

    Greg''s breath froze in his chest as his eyes snapped open, the sudden howl of wolves piercing the night like a sharp icicle through his skull. He jerked upright, his heart pounding against his ribs like a frantic drumbeat, pulling Ash from sleep with his sudden movement. What the fuck?

    The bear cub blinked sleepily, his fuzzy little face scrunched up in confusion, still unaware of the impending danger. But Greg knew, with a bone-deep certainty that sent icy tendrils of fear curling through his gut, that something was very, very wrong.

    As soon as Ash sat up, Greg''s eyes widened even further as a dark shape bounded out of the forest, rushing towards them with terrifying speed. Ohshitohshitohshit¡ª

    His hand lunged to his right, fingers scrabbling against the ground in a desperate search for his sword. The cool metal of the hilt met his palm and he gripped it tight, the smooth white material reassuring against his skin.

    He swung the blade instantly, his muscles moving on pure instinct, faster than his sleep-addled brain could even process. He felt the sword connect with something solid, the impact juddering up his arm, and he felt the now-familiar drain on his stamina as the blade''s supernatural sharpness activated.

    Blood splattered over him and Ash in a warm, sticky spray, the coppery scent of it overwhelming in the chill night air. The bear cub let out a confused, startled growl, his fur bristling as he pressed closer to Greg''s side.

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    Greg''s breath came in harsh, ragged pants as something heavy thudded to the ground beside him, followed by an even heavier weight landing right in front of his feet. His eyes flicked left first, instinctively drawn to the object closest to him, and he scrambled backwards with a strangled yelp, his back slamming into the rough bark of the tree behind him.

    A wolf''s head lay on the ground, its eyes glassy and lifeless, dark blood pooling beneath it and soaking into the earth. "What the f¡ª"

    Because the woods around him were coming alive with the rustling of leaves and the low, menacing growls of predators on the hunt.

    More shapes emerged from the darkness, eyes reflecting the moonlight like eerie, glowing orbs. Twelve wolves, maybe more, their bodies low to the ground and tense, ready to strike at any moment.

    Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck¡ª

    Greg leapt to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins like liquid lightning. He could feel Ash pressed against the back of his legs, the cub''s small body trembling but holding his ground. It was a hell of a difference from when Ash used to run anytime somebody would approach unexpectedly, either that or the bear cub was just too terrified to move.

    He preferred the optimistic version.

    Brave little guy, Greg thought distractedly, even as his grip tightened on his sword, bringing it up into a ready stance. Braver than me, that''s for damn sure.

    The first wolf lunged from the shadows, little more than a blur of motion in the darkness, but built like a horse anyway. The dying firelight glinted off its bared fangs, its eyes burning with a feral intensity that sent a chill down Greg''s spine.

    Fuck me sideways, that thing is HUGE.

    Greg''s body moved on instinct, muscle memory taking over as he swung his blade to meet the wolf''s charge. The sword cleaved into the beast''s shoulder with a sickening crunch, slicing through thick fur and flesh like they were made of butter.

    Blood sprayed in a fine mist, warm droplets splattering across Greg''s face and chest as the wolf yelped in pain, staggering back from the force of the blow. Gotcha, you furry fuck!

    But even as the thought crossed his mind, Greg frowned, a niggling sense of wrongness tugging at the back of his consciousness. Wait. Something''s not right here.

    The wolf, though clearly injured, wasn''t retreating.

    It wasn''t running away to lick its wounds like any sane animal would do. Instead, it was circling, its eyes fixed on Greg with an almost unnatural focus.

    What the hell? Greg blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. This isn''t... this isn''t normal. Animals don''t¡­ they never act like thi-

    His train of thought was derailed as two more wolves surged forward, their movements eerily coordinated, almost like they were working together. Oh fuck. Oh fuck me.

    Greg backpedaled, his boots slipping a little on the blood-slick ground. He brought his sword up just in time to parry a snap from the second wolf, the impact ringing through the blade and up his arm as teeth clanged against steel.

    Pivoting, he used the momentum to swing the sword in a wide, sweeping arc towards the third wolf''s exposed neck. The preternaturally sharp edge sliced through flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter, and the wolf crumpled to the ground in a twitching heap.

    As it fell, Greg felt a familiar sudden rush of warmth flood through him, the aching wound on his arm tingling as the skin knitted itself back together, slower this time and noticeably weaker but still helpful. Without giving him even a moment to breathe, the next wolf was already launching itself at him, its powerful jaws aiming straight for his thigh.

    Greg twisted aside, but not fast enough to avoid the glancing blow that tore through his jeans and into the meat of his leg. White-hot pain lanced through him, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to scream.

    Fuck you, Cujo! With a snarl of his own, Greg brought his sword down in a vicious two-handed strike, driving the point deep into the wolf''s back, right between its shoulder blades.

    The beast collapsed with a whimper, and once again, Greg felt that strange surge of invigorating energy, the wound on his thigh sealing itself shut as if it had never been.

    Okay. Okay. I can do this. I can totally do this, he thought, even as his heart raced and his breath came in harsh, ragged gasps.

    The thing they didn''t tell you about swordplay was that it was fucking tiring, especially in a real fight when hits jarred your entire body and you were constantly on the move. Just gotta¡­ just gotta fight them off.

    He tightened his grip on the sword, the blood-slicked hilt slippery against his palm. His eyes darted from one snarling face to the next, trying to anticipate where the next attack would come from.

    The wolves seemed to sense his determination, his refusal to go down easy. They paced around him, their eyes glowing in the darkness, their fangs bared in anticipation.

    Okay, Greg thought, taking a deep, steadying breath. Yeah, just gotta fight them off.

    With nearly a third of the pack dealt with, Greg''s breath came in heavy, visible puffs in the frigid night air. The remaining wolves circled him, their movements more cautious now, but still driven by a desperate hunger or perhaps a burning rage at the loss of their packmates. They should be running, Greg thought wildly, his heart pounding against his ribs. Why aren''t they running?

    They lunged, eyes gleaming with an almost unnatural focus.

    One of them managed to slip past Greg''s guard, its powerful jaws clamping down on his upper arm like a vice. Jagged teeth sank through the fabric of his green tunic, the enchanted cloth more akin to leather or mail than simple fabric. The teeth dug into the flesh beneath, and Greg cried out in pain, the sound torn from his throat.

    With a desperate swing of his sword, he caught the wolf across the face, the blade slicing deep into its muzzle. The creature fell away with a yelp, its grip loosening as it staggered back, blood streaming from the wound. "Goddamn-ngggh!" He gritted his teeth against the sensation, half-pain and half-relief, as the rest of the arm wound sealed itself shut.

    But even as one wound closed, another opened. The onslaught was relentless, the wolves attacking with a coordination that seemed almost military in its precision. It''s like they''ve done this before, Greg thought, suddenly a bit more worried.

    He spun to block a lunge from another wolf, the impact jolting up his arm and into his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he pushed back against the beast''s weight, using the momentum to his advantage as he sent it tumbling back. With a grunt of effort, he thrust his sword forward, a blue thin beam of light shooting out and the point driving deep into the wolf''s chest with a spurt of blood.

    The animal let out a high, keening yelp, staggering away as its lifeblood poured out onto the carpet of leaves underfoot. Another one down, Greg thought grimly, his breath coming in sharp, painful gasps.

    He could feel his stamina waning with every swing of his blade, the magical sharpness and sword beams that made it so deadly also sapping his strength like a leech. Fuckin'' double-edged sword, he thought, a slightly manic giggle bubbling up in his throat. Literally.

    But even as his energy flagged, something else surged within him. His soul expanded, that strange feeling of potential from earlier in the day growing, swelling, until the darkness of the night seemed to recede, everything thrown into stark relief as if illuminated by the midday sun.

    What the fuck? Greg blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden shift in his perception. And in that split second of distraction, a searing pain lanced through his thigh, forcing a scream from his throat.

    "FUCK!" He swiped blindly with his sword, feeling the blade connect with yielding flesh, hearing the splash of blood and the pained yelp as a wolf scrambled back to join the others circling him once more.

    Greg glanced down, his stomach turning at the sight of his own blood seeping through a jagged tear in his jeans, staining the denim a dark, glistening red. Fuckin'' hell, that hurts!

    But there was no time to dwell on the pain, no time to worry about the steady drip-drip-drip of his life essence pattering onto the forest floor. Because the wolves were attacking again, their eyes glinting with a feral, desperate light.

    Two of them came at him simultaneously, one from the front and one trying to flank him, their movements synchronized like a pair of dancers in a deadly ballet. Greg reacted on instinct, his body moving almost before his mind could catch up.

    He spun, the motion fluid and deadly as faded blue light formed around him drawn from the pool in his stomach and his flagging stamina both, his sword whistling through the air in a gleaming arc as a blue crescent of light built up around shot from it. The beam caught the first wolf across the chest, parting fur and flesh like paper, opening up a deep, lethal gash that poured blood onto the ground in a steaming crimson flood.

    His injured leg screaming in protest even as he felt the wound begin to seal itself back up, Greg extended his arm, the point of his sword catching the flanking wolf in the shoulder at the end of his spin, sending it hurtling back.

    It was a far less fatal blow than the one he''d dealt to its packmate, but still enough to send the beast yelping back into the underbrush, tail tucked between its legs as it fled.

    Two more down, Greg thought, his chest heaving with exertion. But fuck, I''m getting tired.

    And he was.

    Each movement, each parry and thrust and desperate dodge, seemed to drain a little more of his flagging reserves, not as much as the sword beams had¡­ but still. His arms felt like lead, his legs quivering with the effort of keeping him upright. Yet, as another wolf fell to his relentless defense, he felt his body knit together, the physical recovery slower and less potent than when he faced bandits.

    And more than that, it didn''t do a damn thing for his fuckin'' stamina, meaning he was still tired.

    Another pair of wolves darted in, their coordination speaking to a keen intelligence that went beyond mere animal cunning. It''s like they''re fucking soldiers or something, Greg thought, a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. Wolves with military training. Sure, why the fuck not?

    He parried the first one''s lunge, the impact shuddering up his arm and into his shoulder, making his teeth rattle in his skull. Sidestepping the second wolf''s snapping jaws, he brought his blade down in a sweeping diagonal slash, the razor-sharp edge slicing through both animals like a knife through butter.

    One of the wolves fell immediately, its body toppling to the ground in a boneless heap. The other limped away, whining piteously, a trail of blood marking its passage as it vanished into the shadows.

    And then there were... Greg blinked, vision swimming slightly as he tried to count the remaining wolves. Fuck, I don''t know.

    But even as the thought crossed his mind, the last of the beasts fell to his relentless defense, their bodies littering the ground like macabre confetti. Suddenly, the night was quiet again, the silence broken only by Greg''s labored breathing and the soft, worried whimpers of Ash at his side.

    The bear cub nudged at him anxiously, its small snout smeared with the blood of their attackers, its eyes wide and searching as it checked Greg for injuries.

    "''S okay, buddy," Greg mumbled, his words slurring slightly as he leaned heavily against the rough bark of the tree behind him. "''M okay. We''re okay."

    But even as he said it, he could feel the adrenaline beginning to drain away, the last dregs of his stamina evaporating like mist under the sun. His sword slipped from his fingers, the blood-slick blade thudding to the ground, forgotten. He knew it would clean itself in minutes, the magic sword being especially handy that way, meaning less work for him.

    Fuck me sideways, he thought, his knees starting to buckle. I could sleep for a week. A month. A fucking year. Even as his vision swam, though, his mind was awhirl. It doesn''t make sense, he thought, confused. I get why wolves would attack, but they have instincts, right? They shouldn''t be crazy for no reason¡­.

    He blinked. Or can wolves get rabies?

    Wait, no, anything can get rabies, right? Blue eyes blinked again, even more confused. But they didn''t look rabid?

    No, if anything, they looked oddly focused on him. He knew he wasn''t exactly an expert on animal behavior, his knowledge mostly limited to what he''d gleaned from the occasional nature documentary or Disney movie. But even he knew that predators, even fierce ones like wolves, tended to avoid fights they couldn''t win.

    They should''ve run, he thought, shaking his head slowly. Should''ve fucked off back into the woods the second they realized I could fight back. But they didn''t. They just kept coming, like they didn''t care how many of them I killed.

    Which was weirdddddd.

    With a groan, Greg sank to the ground, his back still against the tree. Ash cuddled closer, seeking comfort and offering it in his simple, animal way.

    Greg whispered into the dark, "God, at least that''s over."

 II-5: A Nights Sleep II

    It was far from over.

    An hour later, even more wolves came for him, baying for his blood like some kind of demented canine choir. Guess they didn''t get the memo that I''m not on the menu tonight, Greg thought, his heart pounding as he heard their howls getting closer.

    He wasn''t sure how wolves could suddenly communicate long-distance like they had fucking cellphones or something, but apparently, they didn''t give a shit about his ignorance on the matter.

    He didn''t have it in him to fight anymore, his body aching and his stamina running on fumes. So he did the only thing he could think of: he ran.

    And ran.

    And ran, with Ash clutched tight to his chest and his canvas bag thumping against his back, his sword safely stowed inside.

    This is fucking ridiculous, he thought as he pelted through the underbrush, branches whipping at his face and roots trying to trip him up. I''m being chased by a pack of goddamn super-wolves. What even is my life right now?

    After what felt like hours of playing the world''s worst game of tag, with the wolves always just a hairsbreadth behind, Greg decided it was time for a change in tactics. Can''t outrun ''em, so I''ll have to out-climb ''em.

    His newly granted pool of magic came in handy, finally letting him tap into some of those rudimentary ninja skills he still had distant, fragmented memories of. Guess all those hours playing Menma games are finally paying off.

    Before, even attempting the rudimentary ninja skills would''ve had him passing out faster than a narcoleptic at a lullaby concert, the ninja magic draining his stamina like a leech on a hemophiliac.

    But now?

    Now he actually had a chance.

    Greg scrambled up the rough bark of the nearest tree, his gut warm and one of those little points inside his soul even warmer as he channeled chakra (or whatever the fuck it was called) into his feet, allowing him to stick to the trunk.

    Fuck yeah, ninja powers! He couldn''t help the slightly manic grin that spread across his face as he leaped from branch to branch, barely avoiding another snapping set of jaws as a particularly ambitious wolf tried to jump after him.

    Not today, Balto, Greg thought, his lungs burning and his legs trembling as he hauled himself higher and higher. Below him, the wolves'' howls faded into frustrated whimpers, their paws scrabbling uselessly against the base of the tree. Ha! Suck it, bitches.

    Up in his leafy hideout, Greg finally let himself breathe, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from his system and leaving him shaky and spent. "Great, just fuckin'' great," he muttered, shifting Ash into a more comfortable position in his lap. "Wolves can''t climb trees, right?"

    He glanced down at the bear cub, who seemed equally perturbed by their situation, his small brown eyes wide and possibly a little judgmental. Don''t look at me like that, Greg thought, poking Ash gently on his fuzzy little nose. I didn''t exactly put out a welcome mat for the local wildlife.

    Hours passed, the moon sinking lower and the sky lightening by degrees as Greg waited for the wolves to lose interest, to wander off in search of easier prey. Maybe a nice rabbit or something. Do wolves eat rabbits? They do in cartoons, but fuck if I know what''s real anymore.

    By the time the sun was peeking over the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the treetops that felt completely at odds with Greg''s chilly, sleep-deprived state, he thought he might finally be safe. Maybe I can catch a few Z''s up here, he mused, his eyelids growing heavy as he nestled into a slightly less uncomfortable crook between branch and trunk. Embrace my inner koala or some shit.

    But of course, the universe (or at least the local wildlife) had other plans.

    No sooner had Greg let his eyes drift shut, his breath evening out into the first hints of a light doze, than a raucous cawing filled the air, jolting him back to wakefulness like a bucket of icy water to the face.

    "What the fuck?!" He yelped, nearly losing his balance as he flailed in surprise. A conspiracy of ravens (and yeah, he knew the proper term, thank you very much Animal Planet) had descended on his impromptu treehouse, their beady black eyes glinting with what Greg could only describe as malicious glee.

    "Oh, you have got to be shitting me," he groaned as one particularly bold bird swooped in close, its claws glinting like little obsidian knives in the early morning light.

    He swatted at the raven, trying to shoo it away, but it was like playing whack-a-mole with a swarm of angry, flying rats. For every bird he managed to deter, two more seemed to take its place, diving at his head and cawing loudly enough to wake the dead.

    This is karma, Greg thought miserably, ducking as a raven took a particularly close pass at his eyes. Karma for every time I laughed at those videos of people getting chased by geese. The universe is serving me a big ol'' slice of humble pie, with a side of ''fuck you''.

    Defeated, harassed, and more than a little terrified of losing an eye to a kamikaze corvid, Greg finally admitted defeat. "Alright, alright, I''m going!" He yelled, fumbling his way down the tree trunk with Ash clinging to his chest like a fuzzy little barnacle. "You win, you glorified fucking pigeons. I hope you choke on a worm."

    His feet hit the ground with a jarring thud, the impact sending shockwaves of pain up his already aching legs. Well, at least the wolves are gone, he thought, looking around the eerily quiet forest with a mixture of relief and nerves.

    But Greg''s relief was short-lived. He''d barely taken a moment to catch his breath, to let his sleep-deprived brain attempt to process the absurdity of the past few hours, when the next assault hit.

    This time, it wasn''t wolves or ravens or bears.

    No, this time it was squirrels.

    Fucking squirrels.

    Greg couldn''t believe it.

    He didn''t want to believe it.

    But there they were, dozens of them, perched on the branches above his head like a bunch of furry little gargoyles. They were all standing up on their hind legs, their front paws crossed over their chests like they were about to start lecturing him on the importance of gathering acorns for the winter.

    This can''t be happening, Greg thought, blinking rapidly as if he could clear the scene before him like a particularly stubborn hallucination. I''ve finally cracked. Snapped like a fucking Kit-Kat bar. They''re gonna find me out here, gibbering about ninja squirrels and wolf conspiracies, and lock me away in a padded cell for the rest of my natural life.

    But no, the squirrels remained, chittering angrily at him.

    Alright, fine, he thought, too exhausted to even be properly terrified anymore. I can ignore them. I can be the bigger person. The bigger...primate. Whatever.

    He slumped against the trunk of the nearest tree, Ash still cradled protectively in his arms, and let his eyes slip shut. Just a quick nap, he told himself, feeling the sweet siren call of unconsciousness tugging at the edges of his mind. Just a few minutes of sweet, blissful...

    THUNK.

    Greg''s eyes snapped open as something small and hard bounced off his forehead. What the...

    THUNK. THUNK. THUNKTHUNKTHUNK.

    A veritable hail of projectiles rained down on him, each impact a tiny, stinging burst of pain. It took Greg''s sleep-addled brain a moment to process what he was seeing, to make sense of the small, brown objects pinging off his head and shoulders.

    They were nuts.

    Literal, actual, goddamn nuts, being hurled at him with alarming force and accuracy by the battalion of squirrels above.

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    I''m being assaulted by squirrels, Greg thought, the realization hitting him like a freight train of absurdity. I''m in a magic forest in medieval fantasy land, being pelted with acorns by a bunch of furry little assholes with anger management issues.

    "Oh, come on!" He yelled, raising his arms to shield his face as he glared up at his arboreal assailants. "What the fuck did I ever do to you?"

    The squirrels, unsurprisingly, did not offer an answer. They just kept up their nutty barrage, their tiny faces screwed up in expressions of rodential rage.

    "This is nuts," Greg muttered, then let out a slightly hysterical giggle at his own unintentional pun and the lack of sleep both. "Fuckin'' nuts. I''m being attacked by squirrels and I''m making puns. This is my life now."

    He ducked another volley of acorns, feeling them bounce off his shoulders and back as he tried to shield Ash from the worst of it. The bear cub, for his part, seemed more confused than anything, his little head swiveling back and forth as he tried to make sense of the chaos.

    "Wish I could explain it to you, buddy," Greg said, wincing as a particularly large nut glanced off his ear. "But I''m just as lost as you are. Maybe more."

    Another wave of projectiles rained down, this time accompanied by a hail of twigs and bits of bark. Oh, so we''re escalating now? Greg thought indignantly, spitting out a leaf that had somehow found its way into his mouth. I''m sorry, I didn''t realize I''d stumbled into the fucking Squirrel-Viet Cong.

    "Seriously," he yelled, glaring up at the furry little warriors with a mixture of anger, confusion, and sleep-deprived hysteria, "what the actual fuck?"

    Dodging acorns and grumbling under his breath, Greg trudged through the underbrush, hoping to put some distance between him and the small but fierce artillery. The squirrels'' aim was unnervingly good, though, and he felt a few thuds against his backpack. "Future reference: pissed-off squirrels have amazing aim."

    As he moved deeper into the woods, Greg''s misadventures continued. A rather insistent badger took up the mantle of his harassment next, its teeth bared as it seemed to take personal offense at his passing through its territory. Greg had to jog to avoid its snapping jaws, his legs protesting every step. "Okay, maybe I''m in some twisted version of Snow White where all the animals hate me."

    Night brought no respite.

    Tired, Greg tried to hunker down in a new tree, a hopefully squirrel-free tree. Just as he was drifting off, a chilling noise shattered the silence of the forest. Not wolves this time, but owls, who apparently thought it was hilarious to dive-bomb the strange human in their woods.

    Their talons snagged at his clothes, tugging with an annoying persistence.

    Exhausted and on edge, Greg clung to his makeshift branch bed, pondering the absurdity of his situation. "What''s next? Bunnies with bad attitudes?" he muttered to the night, half-expecting a rabbit to hop up with a mean right hook.

    Two days of this nonsense left Greg more exhausted than he''d ever been. Every attempt at rest was interrupted by some creature with a vendetta. He found himself desperate for just half an hour of uninterrupted peace, his body aching for sleep, eyes gritty and mind foggy. "All I want is a nap. Just a nap. That''s not too much to ask, right?"

    The constant running and lack of sleep was taking its toll, not just physically but mentally. "At this rate, I''m gonna start throwing acorns back," he muttered as he ducked under a low-hanging branch, narrowly avoiding another squirrel attack. The insanity of his situation wasn''t lost on him; if he wasn''t so tired, he might have laughed.

    Might have.

    Finally, as the sun began to set on the second day, Greg stumbled upon a small, secluded outcropping. It was barely more than two narrow-ish boulders leaning against each other, but it was sheltered from the wind and, hopefully, hidden from the wildlife. He crawled under it, dragging Ash with him, and collapsed on the cool stone floor.

    "Okay, new plan," he whispered to Ash, who seemed just as relieved to be out of the animal war zone. "We stay here tonight. No trees, no nuts, no birds. Just us and the rocks. Rocks don''t attack people."

    He paused, considering. "Right?"

    The question acted like a cue, Greg''s eyes going dull as his soul ballooned out again, searching, searching and searching for something, until it latched on tight and pulled him back to awareness. Greg gasped as memories filled his mind, fragmented and distant as they always were, of another life, another him.

    Or in this case, another her?

    He tried to hold onto it, tried to see¡ª

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    ¡ªthe only sounds were whispered prayers and the soft rustle of robes against marble floors.

    Greta Veder had been so young, kneeling in the chapel, her small hands clasped in prayer. Her knuckles were always white, her lips moving in silent recitation of words she barely understood. But obedience was everything, and she was taught to obey, to submit to the will of something greater. Discipline, she had been told, was the foundation of faith.

    The training came later. Harder.

    The weight of the mace in her hands had been foreign at first, her arms trembling as she swung, again and again, until her muscles burned. Her instructor was relentless, a figure draped in steel and shadow, barking orders with a cold detachment.

    "Only through pain shall we know forgiveness!"

    Failure wasn''t an option.

    Pain wasn''t a deterrent.

    Each bruise and blister was a lesson, each drop of sweat an offering.

    "I relish my trials, I relish my wounds!"

    It wasn''t just about strength; it was about resilience, about pushing past her limits until they no longer existed, about showing her devotion to the Lord.

    Nights were always the worst.

    When the others slept, she prayed.

    When they rested, she trained.

    It wasn''t enough to be good. She had to be more¡ªmore disciplined, more faithful, more righteous. The weight of expectation pressed down on her, just as heavy as the armor she would one day don.

    Salvation wasn''t given freely, it had to be earned.

    And if she wasn''t enough, then no one could be saved.

    He saw the moments of doubt, too, the way her hands trembled in the quiet moments.The way she looked at the moon from her small, stone window, wondering if there was more beyond the walls of her duty. wondering if the Lord above even heard her prayers, or if they were just echoes, lost in the void.

    But she pushed those thoughts down, buried them under layers of discipline and duty.

    She had to.

    There was no room for doubt in her heart.

    Not if she wanted to survive against the dark.

    "Through suffering, I will know my faith!"

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    Yet, as fragmented and as distant as they were, the important parts always shone through.

    And shine it did.

    Greg sat up under the outcropping as the sun finally vanished and the sky went dark in the only way a Northern night really could. Eyes closed, he felt the Light in his soul and the confusing mote of light he received alongside his water affinity as they almost sang out. He clasped his palms together in front of his face as golden light began to shine around his body, filling the entire space.

    The deep clangorous sound of a church bell rang out from nowhere as he spoke out loud one word and one word only. "Sanctuary."

 II-6: Shifts In the North

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C

    The heavy oak door of his father''s solar¡ªhis solar now¡ªgroaned shut behind Robb as he entered, the sound echoing through the chamber like the closing of a tomb. A shiver ran down his spine, settling in the pit of his stomach like a stone dropped in a still pond. Was it the chill that always clung to Winterfell''s ancient stone walls, or the weight of responsibility that now rested upon his young shoulders? Robb couldn''t say, but the feeling gnawed at him all the same.

    He paused just inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The room, bathed in the amber glow of the hearth, was as familiar to him as his own chambers. He''d spent countless hours here as a boy, watching his lord father dispense justice and wisdom in equal measure. Yet now it felt alien, as if the very furniture had rearranged itself in Lord Eddard''s absence. Father''s only been gone a few moon''s turn, Robb thought, but it might as well be a lifetime.

    His gaze swept across the solar, lingering on the worn tapestries that adorned the walls. They depicted direwolves in mid-hunt, their fabric dulled by age but no less fierce for it. Robb''s hand unconsciously moved to the pommel of his sword, drawing strength from the cold metal. A lord must be as steady as the walls of Winterfell, and as sharp as a direwolf''s teeth, he reminded himself, echoing words his father had oft repeated.

    Narrow windows allowed thin shafts of pale northern sunlight to pierce the gloom, casting long fingers of gold across the stone floor. Motes of dust danced in the air, swirling like snowflakes in a gust of wind. The scent of smoke and ancient wood permeated the room, a smell that spoke of countless generations of Starks who had sat where he now sat, ruling the North with iron wills and wolf''s blood in their veins.

    Robb''s boots scuffed against the worn flagstones as he crossed to the massive desk that dominated the center of the solar. He lowered himself into the high-backed chair behind it, wincing at the loud creak of wood. The seat felt too large, as if it might swallow him whole. For a moment, Robb felt like nothing more than a child playing at lordship, borrowing his father''s clothes that were still too large for his frame.

    Is this how Father felt when he first took up the mantle of Lord Stark? The thought came unbidden, and he pushed it aside with a grimace. His fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on the arm of the chair. There was no time for such musings; the North needed a lord, not a boy lost in daydreams.

    "Seven hells," Robb muttered, running a hand through his auburn hair. It was getting long; he''d need to have it trimmed soon. A lord should look the part, even if he doesn''t feel it. He reached for the first of many scrolls that littered the desk''s surface, their wax seals a rainbow of colors representing houses both great and small.

    At his feet, Grey Wind stirred, the direwolf''s massive form unfurling as he raised his head to regard his master. Those golden eyes seemed to hold all the wisdom of the old gods, patient and inscrutable. Robb allowed himself a small smile, reaching down to scratch behind the wolf''s ears.

    "At least I have you to keep me honest, eh?" he murmured. Grey Wind chuffed softly in response, a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh. The young lord drew comfort from the great beast''s presence, solid and unwavering as it often was.

    With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his very being, Robb straightened in his chair and turned his attention to the mountain of parchment before him. Each scroll unfurled was another weight added to his shoulders, another test of the mettle of the Young Wolf. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the neat script, brow furrowing in concentration.

    Harvest reports from the Barrowlands spoke of a bountiful yield, yet warned of early and oddly intense frosts for the summer that threatened to cut the season short.

    A missive from Lord Manderly caught Robb''s eye, the wax seal bearing the merman of White Harbor. He broke it open, fingers still clumsy with the weight of his new responsibility. The parchment crackled as he unrolled it, eyes scanning the neat script. Increased shipping levies at White Harbor, it seemed. Robb''s brow furrowed as he considered the implications.

    A necessary evil, he mused, lips pressed into a thin line. The North''s coffers needed bolstering if they were to weather the long winter to come. Yet he could almost hear the grumbling of merchants and smallfolk alike, their voices a distant echo in his mind. His hand unconsciously moved to Grey Wind''s fur, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth.

    The next scroll brought news of border skirmishes with wildling raiders along the New Gift. Robb''s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. The Wall stands tall, but what good are stones against desperation? He''d need to send more men north, perhaps speak with Uncle Benjen about the state of the Night''s Watch. The thought of his uncle brought a pang of longing for simpler times, when he was just a boy playing at swords in Winterfell''s yard.

    Petty lords squabbled over grazing rights and ancient, half-forgotten slights, their grievances laid out in flowery script that did little to mask the venom beneath. Robb resisted the urge to crumple the parchments in his fist. Seven hells, do they not see the real threats we face? He took a deep breath, forcing his fingers to relax their grip on the quill.

    Each unfurled scroll presented a new challenge, another test of his mettle as the fledgling Lord of Winterfell. Robb''s quill scratched across parchment as he penned responses, the sound harsh in the quiet of the solar. He glanced at his handwriting, a pale imitation of his father''s strong, sure script. Doubt gnawed at him like a persistent wolf. What would Father do? The question haunted his every decision, a constant reminder of the impossibly large shadow he stood in.

    As the afternoon waned, the solar grew darker, shadows creeping across the worn stone floor. Robb''s eyes began to strain in the fading light, the words blurring before him. He rubbed at them, fighting back a yawn. A lord cannot show weakness, even alone, he chided himself. He was about to call for more candles when a soft knock at the door broke his concentration.

    "My lord," came Maester Luwin''s steady voice from the other side, "may I enter? There is news."

    Robb straightened, his spine cracking in protest. How long had he been hunched over the desk? Hours, it felt like, though the sun had barely moved in the sky. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the stiffness. "Aye, come in," he called, striving to keep his voice strong and even, despite the weariness that tugged at him like a physical weight.

    The door opened with a familiar creak, and Maester Luwin shuffled in. His grey robes seemed to blend with the silver of his hair in the dim light, giving him an almost ghostly appearance. In his arms, he carried a fresh bundle of scrolls. Robb felt his heart sink at the sight, a leaden feeling settling in his stomach. More problems to solve, more decisions to make. He wondered, not for the first time, how his father had borne this burden for so long.

    The maester laid the scrolls before him with a deferential nod, his chain clinking softly with the movement. The sound was oddly comforting, a reminder of lessons past and the steady presence of knowledge in a world that seemed increasingly chaotic.

    "News from the Wall, my lord," Luwin began, his tone carefully neutral, though Robb caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "And others from across the North." He tapped one scroll sealed with the direwolf of House Stark, the wax a deep grey that seemed to absorb what little light remained in the room. "This one is from the Lady Stark. She writes from the eastern road, on her way south."

    Robb''s fingers twitched toward the letter, his heart quickening at the mention of his mother. He broke the seal with trembling hands, cursing inwardly at the show of weakness. The parchment unrolled with a soft whisper, revealing his mother''s familiar script. Her words conveyed warmth and love, but beneath them, Robb could sense the strain of her journey and the weight of her own burdens.

    She wrote of treacherous roads and suspicious innkeepers, of the strain of travel on her body. Robb''s throat tightened as he read, imagining his mother ¨C always so strong, so steadfast ¨C struggling against the hardships of the road. Yet, she assured him of her safety and her determination to reach King''s Landing, to stand by his father''s side and uncover the truth behind Bran''s fall.

    As Robb set his mother''s letter aside, a lump formed in his throat, thick as the Wall itself. He swallowed hard, willing the emotion away. A lord must be stone, he reminded himself, though the words rang hollow in the quiet of the solar. Grey Wind stirred at his feet, the direwolf''s golden eyes fixed on his face, as if sensing his disquiet.

    Maester Luwin continued his report, his voice a steady anchor in the sea of Robb''s churning thoughts. "Lord Commander Mormont reports increased wildling activity beyond the Wall. Nothing dire, but vigilance is advised."

    The mention of the Wall brought thoughts of Jon unbidden to Robb''s mind. He could almost see his brother, dark curls dusted with snow, standing atop that vast, icy expanse. The image was so vivid it made his chest ache. Jon, bound by an oath as old and unyielding as the North itself, while Robb sat here in their father''s solar, playing at lordship.

    To take the Black is an honor, Robb thought bitterly, his fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on the arm of his chair. And yet it feels a punishment to us both. He found himself longing for Jon''s quiet strength, his steady presence that had always been a balm to Robb''s more impetuous nature. How often had Jon''s measured words stayed Robb''s hand when anger threatened to overcome reason?

    Robb forced his attention back to Luwin, whose lined face betrayed nothing of the gravity of his words. The maester''s report shifted to more local concerns, each one another weight added to Robb''s already burdened shoulders. The young lord straightened, unconsciously mimicking his father''s lordly bearing.

    "There are reports of bandits on the Kingsroad, my lord," the maester said, his voice grave as a silent sept. "And Lord Waynwood requests additional men to fend off raiders in his lands."

    Robb''s jaw clenched at the news, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. He could almost hear his father''s voice: The North is vast, but our people are few. We must protect our own. Bandits and raiders were a constant threat, like wolves circling a wounded deer, always probing for weakness. The irony of the comparison was not lost on him.

    And now they think the North weak, with Father gone and a green boy holding Winterfell, Robb thought, his blood beginning to boil. He had to force himself to unclench his fists, aware of Grey Wind''s ears pricking up at his rising anger. The direwolf''s hackles rose slightly, a mirror to Robb''s own tension.

    "Send word to Lord Waynwood," Robb said, his voice low and tight with barely contained anger. He barely restrained the urge to grit his teeth, tasting the metallic tang of fury on his tongue. "Tell him he shall have his men. And double the patrols along the Kingsroad. I''ll not have it said that the King''s peace cannot be kept in the North."

    The words came out harsher than he''d intended, and Robb saw a flicker of something¡ªconcern? approval?¡ªin Luwin''s eyes. The maester nodded, making a note on a scrap of parchment. The scratch of quill on paper seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet solar.

    "There is more, my lord," Luwin said after a moment, hesitation coloring his voice. Robb''s eyes narrowed at the maester''s tone. Luwin was not a man given to uncertainty, and the break in his usual composure sent a chill down Robb''s spine.

    "What is it?" Robb asked, leaning forward in his chair. Grey Wind mirrored the movement, rising to pad closer to the desk, his presence a comforting warmth against Robb''s leg.

    "A letter from Lord Greymont in the Lonely Hills," Luwin replied, his fingers worrying at the edge of a scroll. "He speaks of... unsettling rumors."

    Robb''s eyebrows rose, a queasy feeling settling in his stomach. The Lonely Hills were aptly named, a desolate stretch of the North where even the hardiest of his father''s bannermen struggled to thrive. What could unsettle men who faced the harshest of winters without flinching?

    "What manner of rumors?" he asked, proud that his voice remained steady despite the growing knot of dread in his gut.

    Luwin''s face tightened, disgust etching deep lines around his mouth. "Slavers, my lord," he said, the word falling between them like a curse. "Prowling the shores, looking to snatch the unwary."

    A cold fury settled in Robb''s gut at the word, spreading through his veins like the chill of a northern winter. Slavery was anathema in the North, a vile practice that no true son of Winterfell could tolerate. His father''s voice echoed in his memory, clear as the day his father had taken Robb to his first execution: "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

    Robb''s hand unconsciously moved to the pommel of his own blade, fingers tightening around the cool metal as he felt like swinging it through as many of those men he could get his hands on.

    "Dispatch scouts," Robb growled, his voice harder than he intended. The words scraped in his throat, rough as the granite walls of Winterfell. "I want eyes on every league of our coastline, from the Stony Shore to Widow''s Watch."

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    He leaned forward, the carved direwolves on the arms of his chair digging into his palms. "And send word to White Harbor. Lord Manderly is to increase patrols along the shipping lanes. Any vessel suspected of carrying slaves is to be boarded and searched." Robb''s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. "If slaves are found..."

    He trailed off, the unspoken sentence hanging in the air between them like the blade of an executioner''s sword. Grey Wind''s ears pricked at his master''s tone, the direwolf rising to pad closer to the desk.

    Luwin bowed his head, the links of his maester''s chain clinking softly. "It shall be done, my lord." The old man''s voice was steady, but Robb caught the flicker of concern in his eyes. He still sees the boy I was, not the lord I am, Robb thought, fighting the urge to fidget under that knowing gaze.

    There was one last scroll in Luwin''s gnarled hands, and the maester seemed to hesitate before mentioning it. Robb''s eyes narrowed at the uncharacteristic pause. "What is it, Maester? Speak plainly."

    "A curious report from House Steelmarch, my lord," Luwin said, his tone carefully neutral. "A masterly house under Karhold. They speak of... sightings."

    Robb frowned, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked beneath him, a sound as familiar as his own heartbeat. "Sightings of what?" he asked, though a knot of dread was already forming in his gut. The North was vast and wild, its secrets as deep as the wolfswood. What manner of trouble now? he wondered.

    "A great black dog, my lord," Luwin replied, his tone suggesting he found the matter somewhat beneath their notice. "With eyes like spilt blood, they say." The maester paused, weathered fingers worrying at the edge of the parchment. "Among other things. Creeping figures in the night, too big or too wrongly shaped to be man, woman, or child, and certainly no simple beast."

    Robb''s hand unconsciously sought Grey Wind''s fur, fingers burying themselves in the direwolf''s thick ruff. The beast''s presence was a comfort, solid and real amidst talk of shadowy horrors. "Superstition, likely," Robb said, echoing Luwin''s unspoken sentiment. "But...?" He let the question hang, sensing there was more.

    Luwin sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of countless winters. "Lord Steelmarch has spoken with other houses in the Karhold and along the Last River. There are whispers of men gone missing, my lord. And... darker things."

    A chill ran down Robb''s spine that had nothing to do with the perpetual cold of Winterfell. He thought of Old Nan''s tales, of the monsters that lurked in the dark of winter. The crackle of the hearth seemed to fade, leaving only the whisper of ancient fears. The summer has lasted too long, he thought, remembering his father''s oft-repeated words. Winter is coming.

    With a long, heavy sigh, Robb leaned back in his chair. The letters spread before him like a map of mounting troubles, each scroll a new shadow cast over his land, his people. Monsters, slavers, bandits¡ªthe weight of it all pressed down upon him, threatening to crush him beneath its immensity.

    What would Father do? The question hung in the air, unanswerable but constant, a specter that haunted his every decision. Robb could almost see Eddard Stark standing before him, grey eyes stern yet kind, offering the wisdom of countless Starks who had ruled Winterfell before.

    But Father wasn''t here. He was leagues away in King''s Landing, leaving Robb to face these troubles alone. The realization sat heavy in his chest, a cold weight that threatened to steal his breath.

    Robb''s gaze fell upon Grey Wind, seeking comfort in the direwolf''s presence. The beast''s golden eyes met his own, ancient and knowing. In that moment, he felt something shift within him, a resolve hardening like steel fresh from the forge.

    He turned back to Luwin, his expression set in lines of grim determination. The solar seemed to grow smaller around him, the weight of Winterfell pressing down upon his shoulders. Yet as he straightened in his chair, Robb felt a strange calm settle over him.

    Yet... The thought formed slowly, a realization that had been building since the moment his father rode south. I am Lord Stark. Not Eddard Stark.

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C

    The next Lord of House Bolton stood in the clearing, pale eyes flicking over the bustling camp with a predator''s gaze. The forest near Karhold loomed around them, dark and deep, its secrets hidden beneath a canopy of ancient trees. He adjusted his sable cloak, the fabric whispering against his velvet doublet. His boots, crafted from the finest calfskin, seemed out of place amidst the wild tangle of roots and fallen leaves.

    Another day, another hunt, he mused, his lips curling into a wet, wormy smile that never quite reached his eyes. The past fortnight had been... interesting.

    Yes, that was the word for it.

    Interesting and amusing, in ways he hadn''t expected when they''d set out from the Dreadfort.

    His gaze settled on Luton, and Ramsay''s smile widened. The fool was still shaking like a leaf in a storm, his eyes darting about as if expecting some river monster to leap from the undergrowth and drag him off. Ramsay chuckled, a low, mirthless sound that set his men on edge.

    Ye''d think he''d never seen a corpse before, Ramsay thought, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he recalled the creature they''d encountered at The Last River. It had been a sight to behold, all slimy green skin and rotting flesh. The stench of it... now that had been something special.

    Like death and shit and something else, something unnatural.

    He remembered how Luton had screamed when the thing grabbed him, its fingers ¨C if ye could call ''em that ¨C digging into his leg as it tried to pull him under. For a moment, Ramsay had been content to watch, enjoying the spectacle of his man fighting for his life.

    But then the screaming had grown tiresome, and well... a dead Luton was no use to him.

    So he''d put an end to it, swift and clean. The creature''s head had come off easy enough, though the sound it made... like no living thing Ramsay had ever heard. It had sent a shiver down his spine, a feeling he wasn''t accustomed to and didn''t much care for.

    Maybe I should''ve kept it, he thought, regret tingeing his musings. Might''ve made a fine plaything.

    But that hadn''t been the end of it.

    Oh no, Karhold¡¯s forests seemed determined to show them all manner of queer beasts. That little demon-thing that had sprung up in front of Blood...

    Now that had been something to see. Barely came up to his knee, but with claws that could''ve gutted a man easy as breathing.

    Ramsay''s hand went to his boot, where he''d stowed one of the creature''s finger-long nails as a trophy. He could still feel the satisfying crunch as he''d stomped the life out of the little beast, punishment for daring to spook his horse. Looking at what remained of the little creature after, Ramsay had to admit it was more queer than he expected. Dark gray skin, covered with mud, it smelled of deep earth and had a face like a dead man, wide jaws with open lips full of sharp teeth, and a skull that held sick-looking green eyes that looked like they belonged to a creature from one of the Hells the Southerners talked about.

    He had found that funny as well.

    Ramsay Bolton, Slayer of Demons, he thought with a sneer. Blessed by the Seven and all that horse shit.

    Apart from that, and the odd rats the size of a cat with long noses and long ears, the nights had been as quiet as usual.

    Still, Ramsay thought to himself, these creatures may have been interesting but he only had mind for one of them, his new favorite beast.

    His eyes narrowed as he surveyed his men, each absorbed in their own tasks. Yellow Dick was cackling as he drank, the sound grating against Ramsay''s ears.

    Skinner sat apart, his fingers moving nimbly as he played some game with a set of dice, his eyes darting up now and then to watch the others. Always watching, that one.

    Sour Alyn sat with a stone in one hand and sword in the other, his rotten teeth bared in a permanent grimace as he glared at the surrounding trees.

    And Grunt...

    Well, Grunt just stood there, silent as always. Sometimes Ramsay wondered what thoughts rattled around in that empty head of his with no tongue to voice them.

    But it was Ben Bones who truly caught Ramsay''s attention.

    The old kennelmaster was tending to the hounds, his weathered hands gentle as he checked each dog for burrs or cuts. He spoke to them in low, soothing tones, showing more care and affection than Ramsay had ever seen him direct at a human being.

    "Ain''t that sweet," Ramsay muttered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Treating those dogs better than his own kin, I''d wager."

    He watched as Ben Bones knelt beside one of the bitches, carefully examining a paw she''d been favoring. The gentleness in the old man''s eyes was almost... tender. It was enough to turn Ramsay''s stomach.

    Pathetic, he thought, his lips curling in disgust. Wasting all that care on dumb beasts.

    And yet... there was something amusing about it all. The way Ben Bones could be so gentle with the hounds, yet stand by without a word as Ramsay flayed a man alive. The contrast was almost... delicious.

    A grin spread across Ramsay''s face, his pale eyes glittering with cruel mirth. In fact, it was.

    His pale gaze swept across the clearing again, taking in the sorry lot he called his men. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and fear, a scent that made his nostrils flare with pleasure. He could taste it on his tongue, metallic and sweet, like blood fresh from a wound.

    Yellow Dick was off to one side, his high-pitched cackle cutting through the air like a rusted blade. The man was telling some crude jest about a whore and a mule, his face flushed with ale and idiocy. Ramsay watched as the others shifted away, trying to escape the cloud of stink that seemed to follow Yellow Dick wherever he went.

    Bloody fool, Ramsay thought, his lips curling in disgust. Might be worth skinning him just to shut him up.

    But no, Yellow Dick had his uses. The man was cruel in a way that even Ramsay could appreciate, though he lacked the finesse to make it truly artful. Still, there was something to be said for brute force now and again.

    His attention was drawn by the sharp crack of a whip. Damon Dance-for-Me was at it again, practicing his craft on some poor sod who''d caught his eye. The boyish-faced man was all smiles as he flicked the whip, each strike coming closer and closer to the young town guards face. Ramsay could see the fear in the boy''s eyes, the way he flinched with each snap of leather.

    Now that''s more like it, Ramsay mused, wetting his lips. There was an art to Damon''s cruelty, a grace that Ramsay could appreciate. He watched as a bead of sweat rolled down the boy''s temple, imagining the salty taste of terror on his tongue. The fair-haired man caught Ramsay''s eye and grinned, a smile that failed to match the harshness of his actions.

    Nearby, Sour Alyn was tending to his blade, the scrape of stone on steel a steady rhythm in the chaos of the camp. His face was twisted in concentration, or maybe it was just his usual scowl. It was hard to tell with Alyn; the man''s temper was as foul as his breath, but his loyalty was unquestionable. Ramsay valued that, even if he found the man''s lack of imagination... disappointing.

    Loyal as a dog, that one, Ramsay thought. And about as clever.

    His eyes drifted to the edge of the clearing, where Skinner lurked in the shadows. Now there was a man who knew his craft. Ramsay had seen him work, had watched as he peeled the skin from a man''s body with the care of a lover. It was almost beautiful, in its way. Their eyes met for a moment, and Ramsay felt his narrow. Skinner was useful, aye, but dangerous too.

    Too clever by half, that one.

    Need to watch him, Ramsay reminded himself. Might be he knows too much.

    But all thoughts of his men faded as his gaze settled on the true prize of the day. Tied to a tree at the edge of the clearing, bound with heavy iron chains, was Runt. The massive black dog was anything but small, standing at the height of a small man at the shoulder, its muscles rippling beneath its midnight coat. But it was the eyes that caught Ramsay''s attention, blood-red and burning with an intelligence that no beast should possess.

    Ramsay felt a thrill run through him as he approached Ben Bones, the old kennelmaster. He could see the fear in the man''s eyes, the way his hands shook as he tended to the other hounds. It was... delicious.

    "How are the hounds?" Ramsay asked, his voice smooth as silk. A smile crossed his face at the way Ben flinched at the sound, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

    "Aye, m''lord, they''re well," Ben replied, his voice quavering. "Never seen ''em so calm."

    Ramsay''s eyes narrowed. The old man''s gaze kept flickering towards Runt, fear written plain across his weathered face. Interesting, Ramsay thought. Very interesting indeed.

    "And the new one?" Ramsay pressed, letting a hint of steel creep into his voice. "How does he fare?"

    Ben swallowed hard, the little thing in his wrinkly neck bouncing like a cork in choppy waters. "That one..." he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "He''s no ordinary hound, m''lord. Not wild, he is. But ''e knows too much." The last words were spoken so softly that Ramsay had to lean in to hear them. "Listens only to you, m''lord."

    A smirk played across Ramsay''s lips as he turned away from the trembling kennelmaster. He could feel the old man''s eyes on him as he strode towards Runt, could practically taste the fear rolling off him in waves. It was exquisite.

    As he neared the chained beast, Ramsay felt a thrill of excitement course through him. He remembered the chase, the wild hunt through the forest that had led to Runt''s capture. It had been pure chance, really. He''d seen the great black shape racing through the trees and had given chase on a whim, his blood singing with the thrill of the hunt.

    It had been no easy task to bring Runt down. The beast was faster than any hound Ramsay had ever seen, its powerful legs eating up the ground with each stride. But Ramsay was nothing if not determined. He''d pushed his mount to the limit, urging Blood on with whip and spur until they''d finally caught up.

    Even then, it had been a near thing. Ramsay had barely managed to throw the iron chain around Runt''s neck, the metal links biting into the beast''s flesh. For a moment, he''d thought the dog would break free, its strength seeming to surpass anything natural. But then, something strange had happened.

    Runt had... yielded.

    Almost like he wanted to be caught, Ramsay mused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the great black dog. There was something unnatural about the beast, something that set Ramsay''s teeth on edge even as it fascinated him.

    As he approached, Runt''s blood-red eyes locked onto him with an intensity that was almost human. Ramsay felt a shiver run down his spine, a mix of fear and excitement that he rarely experienced. He reached out, placing a hand on the beast''s muzzle, feeling the warmth of its breath against his skin.

    There was a moment of tension, a silent battle of wills between man and beast. And then, slowly, Runt lowered its massive head in submission. Ramsay felt a rush of triumph, of power, that was almost intoxicating. His smirk shifted into a dark, expectant grin as he leaned in close, his lips almost brushing the dog''s ear.

    "Who''s a good boy?"

 II-7: Monsters of the North I

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    Not too far from the Karhold, where ironwoods stood silent watch, a small clearing opened up to the banks of a slow-moving river. The midday sun, filtered through a canopy of green, dappled the forest clearing and the edge of the riverbank with mottled light. A gentle breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the earthy musk of decaying leaves that carpeted the ground.

    At the edge of this tranquil scene, a bear cub a good bit larger than a hound pup cowered, its small form dwarfed by the vastness of its surroundings. The cub''s dark eyes, wide with instinctive caution, darted between the treeline and the water''s edge. Its tiny nose twitched, sampling the air thick with the promise of both life and decay.

    The river gurgled softly, its surface a mirror to the drifting clouds above. Along its banks, smooth river stones glistened with moisture, their surfaces worn by countless years of the water''s patient caress. A few feet from the water''s edge lay a scene of peaceful abandonment: a bag of thick, coarse canvas sprawled open against a bed of pebbles, its contents carelessly strewn about.

    A fine green tunic, the color of summer leaves and thicker and more ornate than it appeared at first glance, lay crumpled atop the bag. Beside it, a pair of brown trousers were tangled with a tall green cap, its tip bent backwards, flopping over. Two leather gauntlets, their surfaces etched with intricate designs, rested nearby. A pair of fine brown boots, their soles caked with mud, stood sentinel over the scattered garments.

    But it was the sword that drew the eye above all. It lay apart from the other items, its blade gleaming with an unnatural brilliance that seemed to challenge the very sun above. At its crossguard, a gem sparkled like the surface of the Last River under a summer sun, casting tiny rainbows across the pebbled shore. The sword''s edge looked sharp enough to slice the very air, its white surface a perfect mirror to the clouds in the sky.

    The bear cub, driven by a curiosity that warred with its instinctive caution, crept ever closer to the water''s edge. Each careful step was a gentle rustle against the underbrush, barely audible above the soft lapping of the river against its banks. Its tiny paws sank slightly into the damp earth, leaving a trail of delicate prints in its wake.

    As it neared the water, the cub''s ears twitched at every subtle sound. The gentle gurgle of the river, the whisper of wind through leaves, the distant call of a bird - all of these registered in its heightened senses. It''s dark eyes, liquid pools of wariness, never left the water''s surface.

    The river, for its part, seemed a picture of tranquility. Gentle bubbles rose to its surface, popping quietly one by one. The soft ''plop'' of each bursting bubble sent tiny ripples dancing across the water, distorting the reflection of the sky above.

    Suddenly, the cub froze, still a good distance from the edge. The bubbles began to rise with increasing urgency, each a soft explosion of air that sent larger ripples across the once-calm surface. The cub''s muscles tensed, ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

    Without warning, the river''s surface broke with a violent eruption. Water thrashed into the air as a grotesque, insect-like creature burst forth from the depths. The bear cub bolted, its tiny form disappearing into the underbrush with a speed born of terror.

    The creature that emerged was a nightmarish blend of crustacean and man, an abomination that seemed an affront to both nature and the gods. Its face was a horror of layered features, with multiple close-set eyes that glowed an eerie milky-white. A wide maw filled with needle-like teeth gaped open, rivulets of river water cascading from its depths.

    The monster''s body mimicked the appearance of wet, rotting driftwood, a twisted parody of human form supporting six long, jointed legs. Each limb reached the height of a grown man''s shoulder, ending in sharp, hook-like claws that slammed onto the riverbank. Mud and water splattered in all directions as the beast hauled itself from the river, a wet, gurgling roar tearing from its throat.

    Clutched in its monstrous jaws was a screaming, bloodied form - a boy, no more than five-and-ten. His blond hair, once likely the color of summer wheat, was now matted with fresh blood, mud, and river debris. All of it clung to his pained, pale face, which was contorted in a rictus of agony and terror.

    The boy''s body, clad only in simple white smallclothes now stained red and brown, bore deep, gruesome wounds. The flesh around one side of his midsection was torn and ragged where the beast''s teeth had sunk in, blood flowing freely from the gaping injury. His face and limbs were a canvas of gashes and wounds, likely inflicted by the monster''s rough, spiked limbs as it had dragged him from the depths.

    Despite his grievous injuries, the boy thrashed wildly in the creature''s grip. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath between screams of pain and fury. With every movement, the monster''s pincers tightened, causing fresh spurts of blood to erupt from the wounds. The boy''s hands, slick with his own blood, pounded viciously against the carapace that was the creature''s face.

    His desperate, mangled shouts filled the air, echoing off the trees and across the water.The boy''s situation was as dire as it was horrifying, his strength clearly fading even as he fought with the fury of one who knows death is near.

    "Fu-FU-gETOFFME!"

    ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C o ¨C?

    All I wanted was to take a little dip, Greg thought, his mind racing even as pain threatened to overwhelm him. A little dip. Was that too much to ask?

    It had been almost a full week since his last wash, and he honestly didn''t like going that long without at least rinsing off, even without soap. When he made his way to the river and stripped down to his underwear, he had no clue that a freaking monster was hiding along the riverbank. Hell, he didn''t even know Westeros had monsters.

    Nobody told me that, he thought bitterly. He would have assumed Arryk would have said a little something about the weird insect looking monster in the water or anything like that, or maybe it was so normal the Westeros people didn''t even think about it. They didn''t seem to have adventurers or a demon lord or anything like that and all the dragons had been dead for like two centuries or whatever but why did nobody think to mention the fucking monsters that just swam at the bottom of the water. What kind of crappy fantasy world doesn''t warn you about the river monsters?

    But when it had latched onto his leg and slammed his body down before dragging him under the water, he found out real quick that monsters were very much a thing here.

    His heart slammed against his chest like it was trying to break free as he finally managed to suck in a breath, water pouring from his mouth. That gasp for air quickly turned into a scream that tore through his throat, a sound of pure agony that echoed across the river. The numbing feel of blood leaving his body mixed with a sharp, all-consuming pain as the creature''s pincers dug deeper into his flesh. It felt like being stabbed by a hundred knives at once, each one twisting and tearing.

    The world spun around him, a blur of motion and chaos. His own ragged breaths and the splashing of river water filled his ears as he thrashed in the beast''s iron grip. Each gasp was a battle, the air barely reaching his lungs as murky river water clung to his nose and lips. The metallic taste of blood mixed with the dirty water, making him want to puke.

    The creature''s head loomed over him, a grotesque mix of human and crustacean features that looked like something straight out of a nightmare. Its milky, glowing eyes stared at him, soulless and hungry. There was no understanding in those eyes, no remorse¡ªjust an endless, primal hunger that made Greg''s skin crawl.

    Multiple rows of needle-like teeth, each dripping with slimy river gunk, snapped close to his face. The stench coming from the creature''s mouth was overwhelming, a mix of rotting fish and something even worse. Greg could feel the jagged edges of its mouth scraping against his skin, each movement promising a painful end.

    "AAAARRGGGH!" Greg screamed as the beast''s jaws clamped down harder. He hung in the air above the riverbank, the monster''s monstrous teeth straining his ribs and forcing more blood out of his body as it shook him like a dog with a chew toy.

    Practically naked, with only his soaked white briefs keeping him decent, as a monster used him like a teething ring, Greg figured he should have been feeling more scared. And yeah, the fear was still there, a cold pit in his stomach that threatened to paralyze him. But it was being pushed aside by something else, something hot and fierce that burned through his veins.

    Pure, unadulterated rage.

    The thought that some random shitty beast was going to make him it''s lunch was enough to act as a weird kind of anger-fueled painkiller. He wasn''t going to question it, though. Not when it was the only thing keeping him fighting.

    As he''d been doing underwater before the monster had decided to break the surface again, Greg threw a vicious blow into the creature''s face, his other hand gripping tight into one of the monster''s many eyes, fingers piercing the gooey surface for leverage as he held tight to the things skull. His fist, clenched so tight they hurt, felt like it was hitting solid rock. The thing''s shell was cold and slick, like wet driftwood, and just as hard. But Greg didn''t stop; each punch came with a guttural scream, his voice rough and strained from both effort and fear.

    "Stop!" Punch. The beast''s head jerked back slightly, the impact sending a jolt up Greg''s arm that made his teeth rattle.

    "Fucking!" Punch. The beast roared, the sound vibrating through Greg''s whole body.

    "Trying!" Punch. Another hit, this time Greg felt something give beneath his fist, a small victory that sent a surge of hope through him.

    "To!" Punch. The creature reeled, its grip loosening just a bit, enough for Greg to suck in a deeper breath.

    "Eat!" Punch. Greg''s arms felt like lead, every muscle screaming in protest, but he kept going.

    "ME!" Greg drew his arm back further, some instinct guiding him as his stomach churned with energy. A warmth traveled up from his gut, spreading through his arm and into his raised fist, which started to glow with a faint light.

    With all the force he could muster, Greg''s fist connected with the monster''s battered ugly face. There was a sickening crunch, like stepping on a giant beetle, as his raw and bleeding knuckles burst through the woodlike texture of its skin and into its buglike skull.

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    The creature''s head cracked open with a wet snap, and bits of its shell went flying like shards of broken glass. Underneath the driftwood-like armor, the inside was slick and goopy, a mix of thick blood and jelly-like gunk that oozed out of the jagged wound. The creature''s broken head showed a twisted mix of human-like bones and bug-like bits, with thick, ropey stuff holding together a gross mass of grayish brain gunk that was spilling out in clumps.

    The beast started thrashing around like crazy, its claws flailing wildly as it tried to keep hold of Greg. With a sound like a dying frog, its jaw hung open, and Greg fell onto the edge of the riverbank hard. The impact knocked the wind out of him, sending a fresh wave of pain through his battered body.

    Blood, his blood, warm and sticky, streamed down his sides. It soaked into his wet underwear before getting washed away by the river. The coppery smell of it filled his nose, making him gag and bringing him back to his senses.

    Gritting his teeth against the pain, the blond teen started to drag himself forward. His elbows and forearms dug into the muddy ground, leaving tracks in the soft earth as he inched his way onto solid land. Every movement was agony, his muscles screaming in protest, but he kept going. He had to get away from the water, away from that thing.

    Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only a minute, his entire body was on the grass. The cold, wet blades tickled his skin, a weirdly normal sensation after the nightmare he''d just been through.

    Exhausted and in more pain than he''d ever felt in his life, Greg turned his head and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground beside him. It left a red stain on the green grass, a stark reminder of how close he''d come to dying.

    "...fuck this shitty isekai," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

    The monster behind Greg finally stilled, its body sinking back into the river with a slow, almost mournful gurgle. The sound of its massive form displacing water echoed in Greg''s ears almost like a massive toilet flush, if toilets were filled with river water and monster guts.

    Greg''s pained scowl shifted to a tired grin, the kind you''d see on someone who just finished a marathon made of pain. "...fu-fucking... finally," he rasped out, his voice sounding like he''d gargled with gravel.

    As he lay there on the riverbank, feeling like a human-shaped punching bag, Greg felt an energy filling him. It was familiar by now, like an old friend that only showed up when he was half-dead. The warm energy rushed to his most grievous wound, the gaping hole at his side that looked like someone had tried to turn him into a donut. Greg could feel it working now, the usual weird itchy-burny sensation that made him want to scratch like crazy, but he knew better. Slowly but steadily, it started stitching itself back together, flesh knitting like some kind of gross, bloody sweater.

    In no time, it''ll be like I never got nommed on by the Creature from the Black Lagoon''s uglier cousin, Greg thought, watching with a mix of fascination and nausea as his skin closed up. At least for that one big wound.

    The many other bruises and cuts all over the rest of his body? Not so lucky. They throbbed and stung, a symphony of "ow" playing across his skin.

    "Stup..." He took in a deep breath as he sat up, finally able to do so without feeling like his insides were trying to become his outsides. The air tasted like river muck and blood, but it was better than choking on water. "Stupid healing power."

    He didn''t mean that.

    Not really.

    He knew it was useful, like having a paramedic on speed dial inside his own body. The thing was though, useful as it was, the power weirdly only seemed to act on his most life-threatening wounds. It was like having the world''s pickiest doctor, one that only cared about the "you might die in the next five minutes" stuff and ignored everything else.

    It healed a small piece with every serious wound he landed in a fight, or the whole thing if he managed to kill whoever - or whatever - was trying to turn him into a Greg-kebab. If he wanted to come out of a fight without bleeding from a dozen different places, he''d have to take down or kill a few more people faster than they could kill him.

    And considering I''m only slightly better with a sword than a bunch of bandits and barbarians, that''s easier said than done, Greg thought with a grimace. It''s like being the best player on a Little League team made up of blind kids. Sure, you''re better, but you''re still gonna suck compared to the pros.

    He took in another deep breath, the air still smelling¡ªand his tongue still tasting¡ªof river water, blood, and something that might have been monster guts. Greg held up a hand, focusing as he barely acknowledged the scurrying of feet behind him. Ash, his furry sidekick, came running up to nuzzle into his side like an overgrown, bear-shaped cat.

    Giving the little guy a head scratch - because even in a world of magic and monsters, you don''t ignore your animal companion - Greg triggered the magic in him. Something about the mental image of gripping his sword managed to work really well for that, like his brain had decided "sword = magic go now".

    "Heal," he muttered, the word feeling warm on his tongue.

    A ball of ethereal golden light formed in his raised palm, bright and strong. It looked way more impressive than it had a week ago when he''d first used it on that knight. Back then, it had looked more like a bunch of fireflies trying to imitate a baseball.

    Now, though?

    It was more like a small, translucent pale sun in his hand, minus the whole "burns your eyeballs if you look directly at it" thing.

    Ever since he had gotten those flashes of memories of another life as some kind of battle nun in some other world¡ªGreta Veder? That''s still weird to think about¡ªGreg had noticed that all his healing magic seemed to have gotten a lot stronger. Two, maybe¡­

    No, three times as strong as when he first started using it.

    He wasn''t sure why that was.

    Maybe magic was like a muscle, and he''d been unknowingly hitting the mystical gym? One second, you go from struggling to light a candle and next you''re starting forest fires. Or maybe Greta''s memories were like some kind of magical steroid, beefing up his healing mojo.

    But then again, he also wasn''t sure this was just healing magic either.

    If he had to be honest, his second element felt almost exactly like the spells Greta had been using when she was training to be a battle nun. He''d used a bunch of the spells Greta''s memories had dropped in his lap, like some kind of mystical care package.

    There was that first night when he created a "Sanctuary" to keep those animals from finding or getting close to the hiding spot he''d found for him and Ash. It was like an invisible "No Monsters Allowed" sign, and he''d been doing the same thing every night since to keep away bandits and again, those same fucking animals.

    Thankfully, no more animals had showed up during the day either. Because nothing says "great day" like running into Westeros'' version of Cujo every time you try to take a leak.

    Which had let him experiment with the other spell he had remembered from Greta.

    For the first time in almost three months, Greg Veder had been able to drink pure, clean fresh water and not the weird tasting stuff he refilled from rivers and springs in the North.

    Those spells were a lifesaver.

    Literally, he thought with a dry smile, looking at the healing ball of magic in his hand. It pulsed gently, like a heartbeat made of light.

    Which... raised a question, actually.

    He wasn''t sure nuns were allowed to use spells... or magic, at all really, but then that wasn''t his world, in the first place. Maybe in Greta''s world, nuns were less "Sound of Music" and more "Dungeons and Dragons". Honestly, nuns being badass spell-slingers who kicked ass and took names in the name of the Lord would definitely make going to church worth it.

    He''d have to think more on that honestly. Add it to the ever-growing list of "Weird Shit to Figure Out When I''m Not About to Die."

    Right now, though, he was just grateful for the magical first-aid kit in his head. So, thanks, Greta, he thought as he kept the spell going. Wherever she was, whatever version of him she might have been, he owed her one.

    Or several.

    In barely half a minute, all his remaining scrapes, cuts and bruises sealed up completely and the completely damp and waterlogged Greg Veder found himself taking in another deep breath of air, this one entirely pain free. It felt like coming up for air after being underwater for way too long¡ªwhich was exactly what happened, funny enough¡ªhis lungs expanding fully for the first time since the fight began.

    Before he could let it out, his eyes widened as his soul expanded at that same moment, ballooning out in search of something. As often as it happened, it was always at least a little bit of a shock to feel like his entire being was suddenly made of stretchy taffy, reaching out for... something. In no time at all, it snapped back into shape, only to balloon out immediately as Greg''s eyes widened a second time in quick succession.

    The feeling of his soul stretching out even wider and the feel of his body changing as he sat on the ground was enough to draw a sharp gasp from his lips. The first one may have been noticeable, but this was¡­ undeniable. His entire body felt like it was being put through a taffy puller, if the taffy puller was messing with his insides instead of candy.

    It was so stunning that when his soul stretched out a third time to a much smaller degree, he almost didn''t even notice it. He likely wouldn''t have even paid it any attention if it wasn''t for the large brown backpack popping into existence right in front of his lap, like the world''s weirdest magic trick.

    Great, now I''m accidentally summoning luggage. What''s next, magic socks?

    The teenager cast a confused blue-eyed glance down at his furry traveling companion, receiving one back in return.

    "My powers are weird, dude."

    ?

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