Breathe.
It is a strange thing when you have not done it in a while. It suddenly feels very important.
His awakening came as a jolt. His eyes snapped open and his lungs filled all at once, dragging in air as if they had forgotten how. He pulled in too much, chest hitching as his body surged ahead of him. He was lying down, though that detail lagged behind. Breathing took precedence. Cool air flooded his lungs, sharp and clean, forcing itself in with mechanical insistence.
He slowed it deliberately. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again. And again. The reflex eased. The pull to gasp receded. Only then did the rest of the world begin to register.
He lay beside a road, his back pressed into cold earth. Trees rose overhead, their leaves breaking sunlight into scattered patches that drifted with the breeze. Birds called somewhere nearby. The sounds had position and distance. That narrowed the possibilities.
He blinked and raised one hand into view.
The skin looked wrong. Smoother. Taut. He turned it, flexed his fingers, and watched them move immediately, without resistance.
That was his hand.
He curled his fingers again. Same response. He rolled his shoulders and noted the range of motion. The joints tracked smoothly, without the small hesitations he expected.
Placing his hands beside his hips, he pushed himself upright, moving with care learned over years of managing pain. Nothing objected. No catches. No sharp reminders. As he settled into a seated position, something brushed against his eye.
He flinched and made a short, undignified sound. His fingers caught in it and stopped.
Hair.
Running his hand through it, he checked the length and thickness. It fell back into place without argument. He spoke without planning to. “Hair.”
The voice sounded wrong. Younger. Clearer.
He paused, listening to it, then began patting himself down. The next few minutes were enthusiastic poking of his own body, before he realised what he must look like to a stranger.
He finally concluded, this body had been used less.
His attention turned to his clothes as he tugged at his tunic. Cream-coloured, rough-spun, light despite the coarse weave. The trousers matched in construction, darker in colour, cut for movement rather than style. He turned the fabric in his hands, checking seams and wear as if they might explain the situation.
Boots drew his attention next. Serious things. Leather climbing partway up his calves, stiff beneath his fingers. He lifted one foot and examined the sole. Layers of compressed leather, studded with nail heads. Used, maintained, and entirely unconcerned with comfort.
He flexed his feet. The boots barely yielded. Whatever lined them existed to prevent injury, not to be enjoyed.
Pushing himself up to stand, the world immediately began to drift. He moved in small, uncertain circles, feet correcting a fraction too late. His hands lifted without thought, palms out, like a drunk insisting he was perfectly fine and did not need help. After a few heavy steps spent convincing the ground of this fact, he managed to stand still.
Resuming his inspection he lifted the hem of the tunic and looked down. Flat. He flared the fabric and shifted his stance, testing angles, then twisted, trying to see his back.
The oversight occurred to him mid-turn. His eyes widening.
He straightened and pulled his trousers forward, along with whatever passed for underwear here. He looked down.
All there. Not much of an upgrade.
He released the fabric and let it settle back into place.
Testing his legs next, lifting one foot, then the other, shifting his weight back and forth. He bounced slightly on his toes.
He bent, straightened, and twisted again.
“My back doesn’t hurt.”
He waited a moment, then repeated the motion. The familiar protest failed to arrive.
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He shifted again, rolling his shoulders, rocking on his feet like an athlete breaking in a new pair of shoes, as if the pain might suddenly remember it was supposed to be there.
It didn’t.
He exhaled once and looked around.
The trees stood close together, their trunks rough with bark, leaves stirring lazily overhead. Somewhere in the distance birds called to one another. The air moved through the branches without urgency, sunlight drifting with it.
He half-expected the path to flicker when he looked away. It didn’t.
His gaze wandered, not naming anything yet. Names came after patterns. He resisted the urge to start counting trees.
Eventually his attention dropped to the ground at his feet. The road ran alongside him, though calling it a road felt generous. It was more of a worn path, sand-packed and uneven, with just enough use to keep the plants from reclaiming it. In his old world it would barely have passed for a farm track.
A compulsion followed. Or maybe inspiration. He wasn’t sure which.
“Er… statistics? Stats? Self? Status?” he tried aloud.
At the word status, something answered.
A screen snapped into existence in front of him.
It hung in the air at arm’s length, flat and steady. No frame, no visible support. The design was simple to the point of stubbornness. Thick white border. Pale blue background with a faint gradient. Blocky white text arranged in rigid lines. A small hand-shaped cursor sat at the top, pointing, unmoving.
Name: _____
He squinted at it.
“Arika,” he said.
The text flickered and replaced itself.
Alric
He watched it for a moment. The correction was immediate, confident. He tried the name once under his breath, testing the shape of it.
“Alric.”
Close enough. The screen seemed satisfied.
His eyes moved down.
STR. DEX. CON. INT. HP. Mana.
He blinked. The abbreviations were familiar enough to be irritating.
“This is combat nonsense,” he said.
Alric lifted a hand and waved it sideways. The screen shifted with the motion, sliding smoothly as if the gesture had been part of its design.
That was useful to know.
“Abilities,” he said, then added, “Modifiers.”
A list replaced the numbers.
Basic:
Hero starter package
Basic spell casting
Item Box
He frowned and kept reading.
Divinity:
Creation magic: Divine yeast creation
Blessing: Goddess of creation
He paused. Read it again. Slower.
Yeast.
He made a short, dismissive motion at the air. The screen responded immediately and changed again.
INVENTORY
No icons. No illustrations. Just text.
Rough Tunic x3
Rough Pants x3
Linen Smallclothes x3
Travel Boots (Equipped)
Wool Cloak
Travel Rations x7
Waterskin
Flint and Steel
Basic Bandages x2
Hero’s Armor Set
Holy Sword Dremerdal
He stopped.
Read the list again, this time starting at the bottom.
Then he looked only at the last two lines.
Hero’s Armor Set
Holy Sword Dremerdal
He didn’t touch anything. He just stood there, eyes fixed on the words, recalculating what kind of situation included both of those by default.
He hesitated, then focused on the armor first. If it was there, he might as well look.
“Armor,” he said, uncertainly.
For a moment nothing happened. Then the space in front of him shimmered and the armor appeared all at once, collapsing into existence with a heavy metallic clatter that made him flinch back a step. The helmet landed last, settling on top and staring at him.
It was… a lot.
Plates. Straps. Buckles. Articulated joints that looked like they required either training or a personal assistant. It gleamed faintly in the sunlight, polished and ceremonial, clearly expensive and clearly designed by someone who had never had to put it on in a hurry.
There were straps everywhere. Inside straps. Outside straps. Straps that seemed to exist purely to attach other straps. He lifted one section experimentally and immediately imagined it rubbing, pinching, catching hair, digging into skin.
He straightened, already done with the idea.
“Nope.”
He stepped back, glanced at the screen, then at the armor, then back at the screen again. He waved his hand at it. Nothing happened.
He tried pushing a piece of the armor against the screen, immediately misjudged the lack of resistance, and went forward with it. The pile of metal caught his feet and dragged him into the dirt.
That settled his opinion of the armor.
“Item box,” he said.
A black cube snapped into existence in his hand. It rotated slowly, edges impossibly sharp, drinking in the light around it. Shadows bent toward it. The thing felt wrong in a way that had nothing to do with danger.
He held it out toward the armor.
There was a sensation, deep and strange, like pulling a stubborn lump through a straw at last. Satisfying in a way he didn’t quite trust.
The armor vanished instantly, the space it had occupied snapping back to empty air.
He blinked.
“Okay,” he said. “That is useful, I’ll admit.”
Encouraged, he glanced at the remaining entry.
Holy Sword Dremerdal
He sighed, then nodded once.
The sword appeared with less noise but far more presence. It dropped point-first into the dirt with a dull thud, embedding itself just enough to be inconvenient. He wrapped both hands around the grip and hauled.
It barely moved.
He adjusted his stance, grunted, and pulled again. This time it came free, the weight nearly pitching him forward. He staggered, caught himself, and stared down at the blade.
It was enormous.
Not just long, but thick. Broad. Overdesigned. The kind of sword that looked impressive from a distance and exhausting up close. He tested the balance cautiously, lifting it a little, then a little more.
His arms complained immediately.
“Who is this for?” he asked the empty road.
He brought the cube back without thinking this time. It appeared as soon as the thought formed. He held it near the blade and felt the same pull, the same lightless tug.
The sword vanished.
He exhaled, shoulders relaxing.
With a small effort of will, the cube disappeared as well, dismissed as easily as it had come.
He glanced back at the inventory list. The armor and sword still sat there, neatly named, patiently waiting.
“Stay there,” he told them.
He realized he had absolutely no plan. Should he follow the road? Which way?
A noise answered the question.
Hooves and wheels, unmistakable, coming around the bend.
