The Carrion Mother's corpse sprawled across the cobblestones, still steaming in the cold air. Black blood pooled thick and viscous in the cracks between stones, the reek of rot so strong it made John's eyes water.

  He stood there with Moonfang in hand, trying to process what had just happened. His clothes were soaked through with blood, not his own, thankfully, but that didn't make it any less disgusting. The stuff was everywhere: in his hair, on his face, probably in his mouth though he tried hard not to think about that.

  Around them, villagers began emerging from homes and shops, drawn by the silence that had followed the roaring. They stared at the corpse, at the three survivors, at John. Some murmured prayers under their breath. Some just looked stunned, as if they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing.

  "By the Mother's grace," a woman whispered.

  "No one but a warrior of Fifth Rank could fell such a horror," another villager said, voice filled with awe.

  "At least Fifth Rank. Maybe higher."

  John almost laughed at that, but turned it into a cough instead. If only they knew the truth. "I'm nowhere near that."

  Uneasy stares answered him. Nobody seemed to believe him, their eyes taking in the massive corpse and the sword in his hand.

  Lia stepped forward then, pale but steady as she leaned on her bodyguard's arm. She looked at the bloodied square, at the gathered villagers and nervous guards, then finally at John.

  "Whatever his Rank may be..." Her voice carried across the crowd with surprising authority. "We're alive because of him."

  The crowd shifted at her words. John moved and his soaked clothes squelched audibly, making him wince. "Because of us," he corrected. "I wouldn't have won alone." He paused, very aware of how he must look. "And not to ruin the moment, but I really need a bath."

  Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd, breaking some of the tension.

  An older woman stepped forward, her face deeply lined with age. "I'll fetch something for you. The bath will be ready before you know it." She pressed a withered palm to his chest, and for a moment a pale shimmer flickered between them. Where she touched, some of the dried gore slid away as if brushed clean by unseen hands.

  John blinked in surprise. Skills for everything in this world, apparently.

  "My grandchildren live here," the old woman whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. She straightened quickly and hurried off before he could reply.

  The crowd's attention shifted as people began talking among themselves, trying to make sense of what had happened.

  "Where did they come from?" a farmer asked, looking nervously toward the forest. "Did they get through the Ward Wall?"

  "If the Wall were broken, we'd be overrun by thousands," someone else argued. "Not just one beast, no matter how large."

  "A dungeon must be spilling over," another voice suggested.

  "Here?" The farmer sounded skeptical. "How could a dungeon lie hidden long enough to overflow a beast like that?"

  "Ask the gods," another man muttered darkly. "Could be anywhere. Could be near. Could be right under our feet for all we know." He spat into the dirt for emphasis.

  The murmurs grew as the theory spread. The idea of an undiscovered dungeon was terrifying, John could see that in their faces, but it was also familiar. A threat that fit within their world's rules. A threat that could potentially be fought and contained.

  John stood apart from the discussion, silent as his guts twisted with knowledge he couldn't share. He knew the truth. These creatures heralded the failing of the wards, just as they had in the game world he'd left behind. But how could he convince them of that? There was no proof, not until it would be far too late to matter.

  So he kept quiet, even as the weight of knowing pressed down on him.

  "Will more come?" someone asked, voicing the fear they all felt.

  "If it happened once," John said, his voice rougher than he intended, "it can happen again. You can't count on being lucky forever."

  Lia's bodyguard frowned at that, his hand still resting on his sword hilt. "Luck, you call it? That you were here at all?"

  John met his eyes steadily. "Yes. Luck."

  The bodyguard's jaw worked as if he wanted to say more, but he held his tongue.

  Instead, he swept his gaze across the muddy street with obvious anger. "Where are your guards?" The question was directed at the lone guard still clutching his spear, and there was an edge to it that made the man flinch.

  But the guard raised his chin, meeting the accusation head-on. "There was a band of frost spiders spotted to the north. The captain sent everyone out to clear them before they could reach the sheepfolds."

  He glanced at John, then back at the massive corpse. "No one thought—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "The town should have been safe. The ward crystal's still functioning." He pointed to the top of the battered town gate where a blue-white crystal pulsed with steady light.

  Lia spoke up then, her voice cutting through the rising tension. "Then we must waste no time."

  She looked over the restless crowd, assessing. "Who among you rides best?"

  A stable boy near the back raised his arm hesitantly. Lia beckoned him forward with an imperious gesture. "Mount my mare."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The boy's eyes went wide as understanding dawned. "M-my lady?"

  She drew a small seal from her satchel and pressed it into his hand, closing his fingers around it. "Ride south to Brackenford. Give this to the mayor and tell him exactly what you have seen here. They'll send aid quickly when they see this."

  The boy nodded, too stunned to speak, and scrambled onto the horse with shaking hands.

  "Hold tight," Lia warned. She took a crystal from around her neck and cracked it sharply over the horse's head. The animal's form blurred at the edges, and then it bolted away at an impossible speed that made the stable boy scream in terror and excitement.

  Her bodyguard shifted uneasily beside her. "That crystal was meant for you, my lady. You should have used it to flee."

  Her eyes hardened at the implied criticism. "It is my duty to protect these people. If there truly is a dungeon overflowing nearby, we cannot hold it alone. Help will come more swiftly with proof of who calls for it."

  The villagers bowed their heads at her words, murmuring thanks while some cast worried glances toward the treeline, as though expecting another howl to echo out at any moment.

  John stood apart from it all, methodically wiping gore from his hands onto his already ruined pants. This was it, he realized with a sinking feeling. The beginning. The slow death of humanity that he'd watched play out on his computer screen was now happening around him, and he was living through it.

  He glanced once more at the steaming corpses littering the cobblestones, then began walking toward the inn. His sneakers squelched with each step, leaving dark footprints behind him.

  The villagers moved aside to let him pass, their whispered thanks trailing in his wake like ghosts.

  Now that the immediate panic had faded, the full weight of what clung to him truly hit. The overwhelming stink of rot, the sticky film of blood drying on his skin and pulling at his hair. In the game, gore had just been pixels, easily ignored. Here, it was visceral, crawling across every sense. Sickly sweet, coppery, and rancid all at once.

  He swallowed hard, fighting down the urge to vomit right there in the street.

  He reached the inn's back stables to find them empty except for the old woman. She clicked her tongue when she saw him approaching. "Strip, lad," she ordered without preamble, gesturing to a stone pump carved with intricate runes. "No sense dragging half the beast inside with you."

  John hesitated for only a moment, but the stench clinging to him was stronger than any embarrassment he might have felt. He peeled off his soaked clothing piece by piece and stepped beneath the pump's spout. The old woman twisted something at its base, and a jet of cold water blasted down over him with shocking force.

  He sucked in a sharp breath at the temperature, then gritted his teeth as the torrent washed black and red from his skin in greasy streams that pooled at his feet. She guided the water with practiced, efficient movements, making sure to wash the gore from his hair, his arms, his chest, every part of him that had been touched by the battle.

  When at last she judged him clean enough for indoor purposes, she pressed a rough-spun robe into his hands. "Here. Wrap up and follow me."

  She crouched to gather his ruined clothes, her weathered fingers pausing on the fabric as if considering something.

  Inside the inn's dim warmth, a steaming bath was already waiting for him. The old woman must have worked quickly while he was outside.

  "Get yourself in now," she said, thrusting a rough bar of soap into his hand. "I'll have your clothes good as new within the hour."

  John raised an eyebrow at that claim. "They're half-dissolved in monster blood."

  The woman sniffed dismissively. "I said what I said." She gathered up the sodden bundle of fabric, but her eyes lingered on his soaked sneakers with unexpected interest.

  "These..." She tapped one with a crooked finger, studying the strange construction. "Never seen footwear worked quite like this. Strange make, certainly. But they're works of art in their own way."

  John glanced down at his battered sneakers, caked in blood and mud until the logos were smeared to near-invisibility. The thought of a medieval grandmother revering factory-made trainers nearly made him laugh despite everything. Instead, he just muttered, "They're from far away."

  "Aye," she said softly, as if that explained everything. "Foreign, but fine work nonetheless." With that cryptic comment, she slipped from the room, carrying his ruined garments as though they were rare treasures to be carefully preserved.

  John lowered himself into the tub with a hiss as the hot water met his skin. The water immediately darkened as muck continued peeling off him in greasy clouds. The stench finally began to fade as he scrubbed hard with the rough soap, working at his skin until he could breathe without gagging. He watched with fascination as the dirty water gradually cleared itself, some enchantment in a nearby stone purifying it with a soft glow.

  Alone at last, he leaned back and let the water lap at his shoulders, feeling the tension slowly drain from his muscles.

  [Status]

  The translucent screen flickered into existence before him.

  John Hale

  Race: Human - Rank One

  Class: Empty [Options Unlocked]

  Level: 5 → 13

  Strength: 6

  Dexterity: 9 → 19

  Endurance: 7 → 17

  Vitality: 3

  Intelligence: 9

  Spirit: 3

  Unassigned Points: 40

  Titles:

  Obsessed:

  Spend over ten thousand hours fighting with a sword - boost to swordsmanship

  Rank Defier:

  Defeat a monster a full Rank above you - boost to combat intuition

  Class Skills: [Options Unlocked]

  General Skills:

  Combat Intuition

  Elegant Swordsman

  His mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. Neat.

  Not bad at all for one night's work. The Mother had been a proper boss encounter, after all, and the experience gains reflected that. Without the runeblade, he'd be dead several times over. He studied his hands in the bathwater, noting how steady they were now. Not shaking at all, despite everything. The movements during the fight had come to him as naturally as breathing, as if some deep muscle memory had awakened in his blood.

  John's eyes lingered on the empty Class field, and he felt a familiar temptation. In the game, he'd always skipped early classification, a strategy born from hundreds of playthroughs and hard-won knowledge. Why waste precious resources on beginner perks when patience would eventually unlock far superior options later on?

  He flexed his fingers, watching the water run off his still-pink skin. But this wasn't just another run on his computer, was it? This was real. The weight of his actual body, the lingering copper smell in his nose, the deep ache settling into his muscles. Everything here had real, permanent consequences.

  He closed the screen with a thought and sank deeper into the steaming water, letting his head rest against the tub's edge. Stats and monsters and cults and demons. The end of the world playing out in real time around him.

  It was too much to think about right now.

  For now, he simply let the warmth seep into his battered muscles, driving away the chill and the exhaustion. For the first time since the ceiling had fallen and changed everything, he didn't want to think at all.