What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

  Jesus Christ, did that just happen? Did I really kill someone? And not just someone, the lady warrior. The one who was smiling at me like a cat about to eat a mouse. She was dangerous as hell, and somehow I killed her with an insult. A sentence.

  I peered over the edge of the stone, staring down at her body. She had smashed against a couple of boulders and come to rest maybe fifty feet below. Honestly, I was surprised she did not fall further. Surprised and, in a twisted way, relieved. At least she was not still bouncing around like a rag doll.

  It was awful. I felt gross about it. But also, if I am being brutally honest, it was probably the best case situation. She had been a warrior. She had the level, the gear, the attitude. She had made out with Mr. Bald Axeman and then attacked him without blinking. If she had gotten her feet planted up here and gone full psycho on me, I doubt my dented water bottle and scuffed hiking boots would have done much. She probably would have shrugged it off, laughed, and snapped my neck like a breadstick. The only reason I was alive was because of the insult.

  And what an insult. What the heck. Where the hell had that come from? I mean, I have said dumb shit in my life, everyone has, but that was next level fucked up. That was not something clever I came up with in the heat of the moment. That was dark, personal, cutting in a way that felt way too real. Like something that had been tailor made to shatter her.

  Which, I guess, is what [Vicious Mockery] does.

  The description said it delivers the perfect insult to unnerve the target. But I had not really thought about what that meant. Perfect was not just “haha you smell like a wet dog.” Perfect meant personal. Perfect meant digging into the worst thing about a person, the deepest wound in their soul. That is some messed up shit.

  Was that what would happen every time? Every time I used this skill, was I going to spit out some nightmare sentence that cracked open a person’s ribs and went for the heart? And what happens when the skill levels up? Do the insults get worse? Longer? More precise?

  Still, I was alive. And when it came down to me or her, I was always going to pick me. No hesitation. That did not make me feel any cleaner about it, but survival does not care about clean.

  The problem now was what came next. The sun was going down, the shadows climbing up the stones, and I had a choice to make. As gross as it made me feel, I knew what survival demanded. I needed to search her body. If she had food, weapons, anything, I needed it. Looting a corpse was not something I ever thought I would do outside of a video game, but here I am.

  I stashed my bag at the back of the little stone cave I had claimed, crept back to the edge, and listened hard. No voices. No footsteps. No clattering armor. Just the steady wind and the faint gurgle of the stream far below. After a long minute, I decided I was alone.

  I started the climb down.

  Let me tell you, if you think climbing down is easier than climbing up, you have never done it. With every muscle in my body screaming, it felt worse. Climbing up had been awkward inch worming, but at least gravity had been on my side. Climbing down meant shifting my weight carefully, holding myself steady so I did not just tumble off. Every step took twice the effort. My arms shook, my calves burned, and I was waddling between the stones like an exhausted penguin trying not to break its neck.

  After a few miserable minutes, though, I made it. And there she was. The corpse.

  Her body was just lying there, eyes glassy and lifeless, neck twisted at an awkward angle like a doll dropped by a kid who didn’t care where it landed. The rest of her looked surprisingly intact except for one arm that was bent in a way that screamed wrong. I would have expected more bruises, more mangled flesh from a fall like that. She had tumbled hard, bouncing from stone to stone, and yet besides the busted neck and arm she looked almost untouched.

  That made me think. She must have had high body stats. Stronger frame, more durability than a normal person. Which meant if she hadn’t landed the way she did, if her neck hadn’t snapped just right, she might still be alive down here. Alive, pissed, and climbing back up to tear me apart. Luck had saved me more than anything else.

  It was the first time I’d been able to really study someone from this world up close. Her clothes looked like tight-fitting cotton in muted greens and tans, not the muddy brown I thought from a distance. Over that, she had leather armor strapped across her chest and shoulders, rough looking, like something you’d see at a renaissance fair, only more practical and worn. Her pants and boots looked sturdier, though. The stitching was clean, modern even, but the boots were all leather and almost looked custom made. No stamped treads, no machine-pressed seams. Every part of them screamed hand-crafted.

  Even though the system had given me a nice clear pop-up confirming she was dead, I still reached out and poked her once, then twice, half expecting her eyes to snap open.

  Nothing. Of course nothing. Still, it felt necessary. I don’t exactly have a long track record of poking corpses, and I wasn’t eager to start, but I needed to be sure.

  She had a leather pack strapped across her back, not far off from a small day-trip camping bag. It took some effort to work it loose. Rolling her to the side was unnerving—the broken arm snagged and twisted as I maneuvered the straps, and her head lolled limply, chin dragging across her collarbone in a way that made my stomach turn. Dead weight was more than just a phrase.

  The bag itself had no zipper, just a leather wrap and drawstring. For some reason I’d expected to hear the rip of Velcro or the click of plastic buckles, but no, this world didn’t seem to have those. I loosened the string and peered inside.

  The first thing I noticed was how much of it I didn’t recognize. Bundles of herbs tied with twine, leaves with scents both sharp and earthy. A rolled bit of leather, soft and oddly oily to the touch, maybe something to use in crafting. Then there was a small wooden tin, smooth and round, almost like it had been machine-made. The lid twisted off easily, and inside was a glossy gel, pale green, smelling faintly of mint and resin. Healing ointment, maybe? Burn cream? Hard to say, but it looked valuable and that there was purpose for it.

  At the bottom was a small pouch. Inside were six copper coins and two silvers, cushioned with cotton to keep them from clinking. The coins were rough, stamped with crude faces, uneven edges, almost like old Roman currency. Definitely handmade. No precision minting here.

  I pulled out a leather canteen, heavier than I expected. The top was twisted and tied off with a loop of cord, knotted to keep it from leaking. Practical, simple, but clever. And then—food. Five bars, each wrapped tight in waxed paper. They looked like some cursed cross between granola bars and bricks of hardtack. Dense, tough, and probably miserable to chew. But right then? They looked like a feast.

  I sat back on my heels, pack open in front of me, and realized just how valuable this haul was. Food. Coins. Water. Even the herbs and gel might mean something if I figured out what to do with them. For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, I had supplies.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I unwrapped one of the travel rations and tried to take a bite. Tried being the keyword here. The thing was basically a brick disguised as food. I sank my teeth in and instantly regretted it. It was like gnawing on the hardest jerky you’ve ever had, and then realizing it expired two years ago and got left in the sun.

  Still, I kept working at it, grinding down stubbornly. After a minute or two my saliva finally softened the edge enough for me to gnaw off a small piece. I chewed, forced it down, and blinked in surprise. It actually wasn’t bad. The taste was kind of like chickpeas mashed into leather. Bland, but not offensive. No sweetness, no spice, nothing fancy, just… edible.

  And as plain as it was, the moment it hit my stomach I felt it. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until that instant. My gut practically jumped for joy, screaming at me to eat the whole thing. I wanted to, but I forced myself to stop. Rations meant pacing myself, and I still had light left to work with. I shoved everything back into her bag, shifted her body to the side so it wasn’t staring at me, and braced for the next part.

  Search the corpse. Yay.

  I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and started patting her down. Hands along her sides, under her arms, down her legs. Nothing. No hidden pouches, no straps, no surprise trinkets. Honestly, it made sense. Food, water, and money had all been in her bag. That was the survival kit.

  What surprised me was the lack of weapons. She hadn’t been carrying a knife, no dagger, not even a shard of metal tucked into her boot. Nothing. When I’d seen her fighting before, she’d had a spear. I remembered her jabbing it into Bald Raider like she’d done it a hundred times. But now? Gone. She definitely hadn’t climbed with it. My best guess was she abandoned it at the base of the cliff. Or maybe she lost it earlier in the chaos. Either way, nothing on her now.

  That was strange there was no small knife. Out here, in a world like this, a knife should be as essential as water. You use it for eating, carving wood, even basic first aid. Nobody heads into the wilderness without one. Which left me wondering: had she planned on just climbing up barehanded and punching me to death if she caught me? The scary thing was, I believed it. She had the kind of presence that screamed badass.

  And that wasn’t even counting skills. She had to have some. Maybe base abilities from her class, maybe something extra like what I had with Vicious Mockery. She wasn’t at level 10 like me but even if she wasn’t, maybe skills didn’t follow the same rules for everyone. For all I knew, you could drink a potion, eat a weird mushroom, and chant “Bloody Mary” into a mirror and bam, new skill. Nothing about this place followed a clear set of rules. Every time I thought I had it pinned down, it wriggled out of my grasp.

  After finishing my search of her body and coming up empty, I looked her over again, weighing if there was anything else worth taking. The thought crossed my mind to strip the leather armor, but it was obvious it wouldn’t fit. She had a smaller frame than me, narrower shoulders, lighter build. Trying to jam myself into her gear would be like squeezing into a kid’s Halloween costume. Everything else was the same story—too small, too tight, not worth it.

  It felt like a waste. I even caught myself thinking about that old line you hear in school, how Native Americans used every part of the buffalo. And then immediately recoiled. God, I can’t believe I just thought that. But really, what was I supposed to do? Sit here in the fading daylight, ripping her clothes apart for twine or patch material? I didn’t know if I had the stomach for that. And even if I did, it would eat up what little daylight I had left.

  So I left her.

  On my climb down I had already been debating what to do with the body. Push it further down, hide it, leave it? My gut told me it was smarter to leave it where it was. From ground level, tucked between the stones, she was invisible. If her crazy accomplices circled back, they’d probably assume she climbed up the wall and vanished, not that she fell and died halfway up. A visible corpse would tell them too much, and maybe had them lead a chase.

  I squared myself up, grabbed the rock face, and started climbing back toward my little cave. My muscles screamed in protest, every pull sending hot fire through my arms and calves. I kept grinding anyway, teeth clenched, trying not to think about how I’d have to do all this again tomorrow. By the time I hauled myself back into the cave, the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, leaving only streaks of fading light across the sky.

  I staggered over to my bag, pulled out the metal water bottle, and fished one of the travel rations out oh my stollen bag. I tried nibbling on it first, then thought better and dribbled some water onto it, softening the edges just enough to chew without breaking a tooth. For the first time since I’d landed in this nightmare world, I had something that felt close to a meal. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even decent. But it filled my stomach, and that was all that mattered.

  At that time it was almost fully dark that I remembered I had a phone. I fished it out of my bag and turned it on, happy to see there where no issues after running through the pond and climbing up the a rock wall. I turned the flash light on and used the light to sort everything back into the bags.

  I took one last swig of water, screwed the cap back on, and set the bottle aside. Then I propped the dead woman’s leather bag against the rock wall and used it as a makeshift pillow. It was lumpy, stiff, and uncomfortable, but I didn’t care. I turned off my phone again and placed it back into my bag.

  The second I stretched out, exhaustion swallowed me whole. My body ached, my head spun, and even though I promised myself I’d stay alert, stay cautious, my eyelids dragged shut.

  And just like that, I was out again.

  So I don’t want to drag this part out too much, because honestly not a lot happened. Basically, I somehow slept through the night like a baby, which still blows my mind. I mean, my bed was literally a slab of rock with a leather bag jammed under my head for a pillow. There’s no reason I should have slept well, but apparently exhaustion trumps comfort. My body just shut down and said, “Yeah, we’re done here.”

  When I woke up, I was sore, but not crippled sore. My calves and shoulders screamed when I tried to stretch, but given how much abuse I’d put myself through yesterday, it should have been way worse. Chalk it up to the magic system. Maybe my stats were patching me up while I slept, smoothing out the edges so I could keep going. Yay for invisible healing math.

  Breakfast was another ration. And by “breakfast,” I mean chewing on a piece of edible concrete. I used the same trick as before, dribbling water onto it and waiting for it to soak in so I didn’t shatter my molars. It worked, but barely. I ended up with a soggy, flavorless lump that reminded me of eating packing peanuts dipped in mushy humus. Still, it shut my stomach up, and that was all I needed.

  I sat there for a while after that, just listening. An hour maybe. The wind through the rocks, the distant burble of the stream, an occasional bird call. No shouts, no footsteps, no sound of raiders climbing after me. No chittering squirrels sharpening their tiny demon claws. Silence.

  Eventually, I had to move. The sun was climbing, and I didn’t want to burn daylight. So I strapped the bag over my shoulder, winced at the weight, and started climbing again. Same awkward shuffle as before, wedging myself between boulders, inching upward one miserable stretch at a time. It was like being trapped in a bad gym routine, except the gym was trying to kill me. Hours crawled by. My arms trembled, my knees banged against the stones, and every inch felt like a mile.

  By the time I pulled myself over the top, the sun was leaning toward afternoon. I collapsed onto the ground, sprawled in the grass, too tired to even celebrate. Relief came in waves. Not joy exactly, but the kind of relief you get when something finally stops hurting.

  I had expected another wall of rocks waiting for me. That would’ve been my luck—climb one cliff, find another. But instead, the world opened up.

  The surface was flat, covered in rolling grasses and gentle hills that sloped away from the cliff’s edge. Bright green, almost too bright, like the saturation was turned up. For a second I just stood there, stunned. The whole thing looked like that old Windows desktop background, the one with the endless field and perfect blue sky. It didn’t even look real.

  Butterflies darted between wildflowers. A couple of birds coasted through the tall grass, wings catching the light. It was peaceful. Too peaceful. No deer bounding away, no rabbits bolting, no rustling of critters in the brush. Just grass and air and sky.

  I scanned the horizon, squinting with what I assumed was my upgraded vision. Way out in the distance, maybe four or five miles, I could just make out the shadow of a forest starting up again. Darker greens, thicker lines, trees rising above the plain. That was the only landmark in sight.

  I stood there for a while, weighing my options. It wasn’t like I had a map. No road signs saying “civilization this way.” Just grass behind me, rocks below me, and trees ahead. Shrugging, I adjusted the straps of the bag and started walking toward the forest.

  I tried to keep quiet as I moved, feet brushing through the grass instead of stomping. No reason to announce myself. If I’d learned anything here, it was that silence was safety. Silence meant no glowing eyes in the bushes, no swarms of squirrels ready to gnaw my ankles off.

  Every step carried me farther from the cliff and closer to the unknown.