John blinked, and the world slowly swam into focus around him.

  The ground pressed into his back, uneven and gritty, littered with pebbles and hay stalks. Blood tasted like iron on his tongue, sharp and metallic.

  He sat up with effort, muscles trembling from an exhaustion he couldn't explain. His hand clutched something heavy and impossibly real. The Moonfang Greatblade.

  It felt different than he remembered. Heavier, more substantial. The blade hummed faintly in his grip, and the runes along its length glowed with a pale inner light that definitely hadn't been there before.

  This shouldn't exist, his mind insisted. I should be in a hospital bed. Or a morgue. Not here, not holding this.

  But instincts honed over years of repeated failure told him to ignore the rising panic. Shove it down deep. Deal with it later when survival wasn't the immediate concern.

  He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly.

  Around him stretched a crooked alley between buildings that leaned together like old friends. Thatched roofs sagged under their own weight, smoke curling lazily from stone chimneys. Wagons creaked over mud-rutted streets, and barefoot children shrieked with laughter as they chased each other around a twisted apple tree.

  Beyond the chaos stood a two-story building with a freshly painted sign swinging gently in the breeze.

  The Twice Galloping Stag Inn.

  John froze, recognition hitting him like cold water. He knew that name. Knew it from a hundred different playthroughs, from lore he'd memorized out of pure obsession. This was the location of a small hidden ruin near the starter town. But it was supposed to be rubble by now, with broken corpses piled against crumbling walls. Not real. Not standing tall and clean and full of life.

  The tavern door banged open suddenly. A red-faced man lurched out clutching half a loaf of bread, clearly several drinks past sober. He froze when his eyes locked on John, then slowly took in the plaster-stained T-shirt and jeans that were so utterly out of place here.

  The bread slipped from his nerveless fingers and hit the dirt.

  "Oi," the man slurred, confusion and suspicion warring on his face. "Who're you then? Guards let you in dressed like that?" His gaze dropped lower to the blade in John's hand, and his eyes went impossibly wide. "By the gods... rune-forged steel. Forgive me, my lord. I meant no disrespect—only..."

  John raised both hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. "None taken. Just... where am I?"

  The drunk blinked several times, his chest swelling with sudden civic pride. "Greyford, m'lord. Finest town this side o' the River Venn. If it's lodging you're after—" He trailed off, frowning down at John's muddy sneakers with clear confusion.

  Greyford?

  John's pulse spiked hard. That name meant something specific.

  "What's the date?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  The drunk squinted at him as if trying to figure out if this was some kind of trick question. "Ashenfall the Third. Year of the Blooming Veil, sure as my name."

  John's throat went dry. Year of the Blooming Veil. The year the Ward Wall began to fail in Elder Veilfall. The year the game's story began, when everything started falling apart.

  A sound cut through his rising panic. A deep, resonant horn blast that echoed across the village. Villagers stopped mid-stride, heads turning toward the sound. Children were quickly grabbed by worried mothers and pulled inside.

  Then came the howling.

  Faint and far off at first, but growing steadily closer. John's skin prickled with recognition even as his mind tried to deny what he was hearing.

  Carrion Hounds.

  The same monsters that were infamous in the game for wiping out incautious players. Too strong for a starting village supposedly protected by the Ward Wall. In the game, they'd ended even veteran ironman runs if you weren't prepared.

  John looked down at the sword in his hand, feeling its weight, its reality. "How do I reach the gate?"

  The drunk pointed with a trembling hand toward the north end of town.

  John ran without another word. His sneakers splashed through puddles of mud, scattering birds into the sky with startled cries. The Moonfang blade swung light as air in his grip despite its weight, perfectly balanced.

  The howls multiplied behind him, growing steadily louder and more numerous.

  He sprinted past a smithy where a startled blacksmith looked up from his forge. Past market stalls that were rapidly being abandoned as people fled for their homes. Past two men with crossbows who were clearly panicking, and who flinched at the sight of his sword before hastily stepping aside to let him through.

  At the North Gate, he found complete chaos.

  Four men were wrestling desperately with the massive wooden crossbar, grunting and swearing as they tried to slot it into the iron brackets that would seal the gate. But the timber was warped badly, swollen from rain, and it simply wouldn't seat properly no matter how hard they pushed.

  "It's stuck!" someone shouted in frustration.

  "Try again, damn you all!"

  A single guard in battered mail armor stood just inside the gate with his sword already drawn, eyes fixed unblinking on the field beyond. His knuckles were white on the weapon's grip. "Faster! They're coming!"

  Beyond the heavy logs of the gate, John could see a trampled field stretching toward the dark mass of forest at its edge. The trees loomed there like a wall of shadow.

  The howls suddenly resolved into shapes. Mangy fur rippling over corded muscle. Eyes glowing an unnatural yellow. Carrion Hounds burst from the treeline in a pack, their claws gouging deep furrows in the dirt as they charged with terrible speed.

  The men at the gate faltered, their efforts forgotten. One dropped his spear entirely, the weapon clattering against stone. Another fumbled desperately with his crossbow, hands shaking so badly he could barely load it.

  "This can't be," one man shouted, his voice breaking with terror. "Not here! Not with the ward crystal still active!"

  "Close the damn gate!" the guard bellowed, abandoning his post to shove uselessly at the stuck crossbar.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  John pushed through the panicking villagers and stepped deliberately through the open gate.

  Out into the open field beyond.

  The guard's head snapped around, eyes wide with shock. "What are you—get back inside!"

  John didn't answer or even acknowledge the command. He simply planted his feet firmly in the churned mud, raised Moonfang into a ready stance, and watched the hounds come.

  Panic surged hot and sharp in his chest for a moment. Then something shifted in his perception, his mind falling into patterns worn deep by countless hours of practice.

  The way the alpha swerved from side to side as it ran. The loping gait of the pack. The exact speed of their approach. He didn't see monsters anymore, just patterns. Familiar ones he'd studied and died to and eventually mastered.

  "Use the damn crossbows!" the guard screamed from behind him.

  The pack closed the distance with terrifying speed. The first hound lunged at John's throat, jaws gaping wide. John rolled smoothly beneath it, bringing Moonfang up in a precise thrust that punched through ribs and into vital organs. Hot ichor poured across his hands, reeking and sticky. The beast shrieked once and collapsed in a heap.

  Crossbows snapped from the gate, bolts flying wild in every direction. One actually passed close enough to John's shoulder that he felt the wind of its passage.

  "Watch your aim!" someone cursed from the wall.

  The second beast barreled straight at him without any attempt at strategy. John pivoted on his heel, caught its raking claws on Moonfang's crossguard, and used its own momentum to ram the blade through its throat. It crumpled immediately in a spray of dark blood.

  The third hound circled him more cautiously, looking for an opening. Its rear paw cocked back, muscles coiling to spring.

  Now.

  John swung before it could complete the motion, steel skewering it mid-leap. The hound gave a single twitch and then lay still, dead before it hit the ground.

  "By the gods..." the guard whispered from somewhere behind John.

  Two more hounds closed in from different angles, snarling with barely contained fury.

  The one on the right committed first, its muscles bunching visibly as it prepared to spring at his exposed flank.

  John lunged forward before it could execute the attack. Moonfang drove straight through ribs and lung with surgical precision, and the hound's snarl turned into a wet, bubbling gurgle as it went down.

  The fourth and final beast bared its teeth in a threatening growl, circling warily.

  Then it seemed to make a decision and charged straight at him. No feint this time. No hesitation or tactics. Just raw, desperate aggression.

  John rolled left at the last possible moment.

  The hound's claws tore through the empty air where he'd been standing. Its momentum carried it several feet past him, and John came up from his roll already swinging. Moonfang caught it hard across the ribs, the enchanted blade carving impossibly deep. The hound yelped in pain and surprise as its legs buckled beneath it.

  John didn't give it any chance to recover or retreat. He closed the distance quickly and drove the blade down through its skull with both hands on the hilt.

  The creature gave one final twitch, then went completely still.

  John stood at the center of the carnage, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His blade dripped black ichor that steamed slightly in the cool air.

  The gate still stood open behind him. The villagers were alive and unharmed.

  And John hadn't been struck even once during the entire fight.

  He looked up as his breathing gradually calmed, becoming aware of his surroundings again. The men from the gate stood frozen in the gateway, staring at him with expressions that mixed awe and fear in equal measure.

  Then the sound of pounding hooves cut sharply through the stunned silence.

  A rider burst into the square at full gallop. A young girl with golden blonde hair and fine blue robes, a leather satchel bouncing at her hip. She pulled her horse to a skidding halt, the animal's hooves throwing up clods of dirt. Her eyes went impossibly wide as she took in the scene of carnage spread before her.

  "Lady Lia!" one of the men shouted in recognition and clear relief.

  Behind her came another rider, moving fast. A broad-shouldered man in battered mail armor with a sword already drawn and ready. He yanked his horse roughly alongside hers and snapped in a voice tight with barely controlled fear, "I told you to stay back!"

  "They need help!" She was already slipping down from the saddle before he could stop her. Her hands began to glow with soft golden light as she rushed forward toward the bodies.

  The bodyguard snarled in frustration. "The howls—"

  His words cut off abruptly as his gaze swept across the field. Dead hounds scattered everywhere. Corpses littering the churned ground. And one man standing alone in the middle of it all, covered in blood but clearly uninjured.

  The warrior's weathered face went very still as understanding slowly dawned.

  Lia faltered mid-stride, finally taking in what actually lay before her instead of what she'd expected to find.

  Her glowing hands hovered uncertainly near John's chest. "Sit down quickly, you're covered in—" She stopped abruptly. Her brow furrowed in confusion as she reached out to brush his sleeve, checking for injuries. No cuts. No wounds. Not even scratches.

  She looked up at him with growing bewilderment. At the corpses scattered around them. Then back at him again.

  "You weren't struck," she said slowly, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Not even once."

  The bodyguard dismounted with careful, deliberate movements, his eyes never leaving the scene. "Those things have killed entire trained patrols," he said quietly, almost to himself. His gaze flicked to John with new assessment. "Veteran soldiers. Men who'd been fighting for years."

  The area around them had gone completely quiet. Men shifted uneasily in the gateway, uncertain what to make of what they'd witnessed. Lia's hands fell slowly to her sides as the golden light faded away, no longer needed.

  John barely noticed any of it. His vision was blurring at the edges, though not from blood loss or injury. Sudden flashes of light were pulsing insistently at the corner of his vision, demanding attention.

  [Level Up!]

  [Level Up!]

  [Level Up!]

  [Level Up!]

  [Level Up!]

  The notifications pulsed in steady rhythm, crisp and unmistakable. Exactly like they had appeared countless times in the game.

  Except he wasn't sitting safely in his basement with a controller in his hands. He was standing by a village gate in another world entirely, reeking of blood and gore and death. His pulse hammered hard in his ears.

  Not now. Focus. Deal with this later.

  He shoved the glowing notifications aside with an effort of will, trying to breathe steadily past the rising nausea and disorientation.

  The girl was still staring at him with that mixture of awe and confusion. The guards were muttering among themselves, their voices sharp with fear and speculation.

  John's head suddenly snapped toward the forest as a new sound cut through the nervous chatter. Low and heavy, resonating in a way that made his chest vibrate. The earth itself trembled slightly beneath his feet.

  The villagers froze, conversations dying mid-word.

  John's stomach dropped as memory and recognition hit him. He knew what was coming. The Hounds didn't roam alone in the game. They were always accompanied by something much worse.

  The underbrush at the treeline began thrashing violently, branches snapping like bones breaking. A roar split the air, deeper and far more bestial than the hounds' baying had been. The sound was so loud that windows rattled in their frames. Livestock in nearby pens went into a complete frenzy, trying desperately to escape.

  The Carrion Mother.

  She stepped slowly from between the trees, taking her time. An abomination of overdeveloped muscle and matted, filthy fur. She was easily as tall as the village gate itself. Two separate slavering jaws split her face, one set of yellowed teeth gnashing mechanically over the other in a grotesque parody of eating. Thick ropes of drool and black ichor dripped continuously from both mouths. Her eyes glowed with the same sickly yellow as her smaller brood's had, but magnified tenfold in intensity.

  Burning with pure, mindless rage.

  Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd like a wave. One man dropped his crossbow with a clatter and simply fell to his knees, unable to process what he was seeing.

  John felt his knuckles go white as he tightened his grip on Moonfang's hilt and turned to face the approaching beast.