A Dead Giveaway
Damn… morning already?
The sun barely scrapes the horizon—low? High? Hell if I know. It’s climbing, but it still looks like it’s hanging. Whatever.
Doesn’t matter. What does is the way it bleeds gold across the clearing, carving the world into sharp relief. No more shadows to hide in. Not that it helps much. There’s no warmth in it, just the cold bite of morning air. Dry. Suffocating. Thick with the scent of sunbaked earth and… something else. Something sharp. Metallic.
Blood.
My boots scuff against cracked dirt, grass patchy like an old man’s scruff. My fingers twitch at my sides—restless. Itching for something. A weapon? Action? Or just reassurance.
And then, there he is.
God. Damn.
That is one ugly son of a bitch.
A man—no. Not quite. Not anymore.
Man-thing.
He stands across from me, still as dusk before a storm, head cocked just enough to make my skin prickle. His clothes don’t fit. Not just in size, but in —a mess of roguish practicality and absurd luxury. Reinforced bindings stitched under silk finery. A noble’s decadence over a mercenary’s grit.
Like a monk who moonlights as an assassin.
An assassin with nails too long, eyes too red, and tattoos crawling up his skin like something alive.
Wait.
I roll up my sleeve.
His markings… they’re almost like mine. Almost. Mine twist and coil like fangs and claws, primal and wild. His? His
Not just ink. Not just scars. These things writhe. Burned into him, seething beneath his skin.
A slow exhale. Steady. Controlled.
Everything about him screams trouble. Not the ordinary kind. Not the kind that brawls in a tavern over a spilled drink. No, he’s the kind of trouble that slithers up your spine before you even realize your throat’s already cut.
Like a rattlesnake in a silk suit.
Supervillain.
Yeah. That’s the one. The full-on, isekai antagonist of every protagonist’s worst nightmare.
The air between us stretches thin, tension drawn like a tripwire. A classic western standoff. All we need now is—
Right on cue, something skids across the dirt between us. Not a tumbleweed, but close enough. One of his guys—what’s
of him—rolling like a discarded rag doll.
Now cue the music. Rattlesnakes, spurs, the whole—
"Oi... mate."
The Man-thing finally speaks, voice slick and lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world. "What’s this about, then? Thought you’d be dead by now."
I don’t move. Don’t answer.
A bead of sweat slides down his temple. He ignores it.
Let’s see what we’re dealing with.
With a silent command, I trigger Threat Assessment.
Feels good to manually activate my abilities again. I’ve gotten used to Shaq’Rai doing it for me. Speaking of—
—she’s still not talking to me. I’ll give her some time.
The world lurches—just for a heartbeat—before snapping back into razor-sharp focus. A second reality drapes itself over the first, cascading lines of glowing script pulsing like embers caught in a breeze.
[TARGET ANALYSIS:]
? Name: ???
? Level: ???
? Primary Affinities: ???, ???, ???
? Threat Level: High
? Abilities: [ERROR – Insufficient Authority]
I grit my teeth.
That’s new. And bad. Very bad. I can deal with question marks—I’ve run into plenty of things out of my weight class. But my system refusing to show his abilities? That’s worse. That’s like peeking through a keyhole and realizing the door was never built to open.
And he knows it.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
His smile spreads slow, deliberate—like he felt my assessment slithering over him and it. His red eyes gleam, shards of bloodied glass catching the glow of my interface.
Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he drags a hand down his face, fingers splaying like a lazy cat stretching its claws. “Ah… that explains it.”
His laughter spills out, low and rough, like boots grinding over gravel. There’s weight to it, like he’s savoring some cosmic joke at my expense.
His voice is smooth, polished—but there's an edge beneath it, a blade pressed just shy of breaking skin.
I exhale through my nose.
“Nah. Hey, did you hear…?”
He lifts a brow. “Hear what?”
“There’s a new mall opening up in Toronto.” A beat. Just long enough to watch his reaction. Then, just as easily, I add, “Apparently… London Bridge is falling.”
A flicker.
Subtle. The smallest hitch in his posture. A tell.
Then he snorts. “What… that rickety old trade town finally got it?”
My stomach drops.
Not because of he said—but
he said it.
He didn’t flinch at “Toronto.” Didn’t even acknowledge it. But —he . And his response wasn’t confused, wasn’t questioning. It was contextual. Like he understood exactly what I meant.
I thought he meant soul-bound. Some kind of magical connection.
No.
He’s from Earth. Like me.
“Son of a bitch—”
His grin sharpens. “A what? You takin’ a jab at me mother now? That’s low, mate.”
“No…” I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. “It’s a figure of speech.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I’d figure I’d gut you right about now, talkin’ about me mum like that.” His voice is light, playful—casual violence wrapped in banter. Like he hasn’t quite decided if he’s joking or not.
I sigh. “Alright, humor me. Did you know London is now the capital of England? And the Queen is about… a hundred years old?”
That gets him.
For the first time, his mask cracks. Brows knit together, lips part slightly before curling into disbelief.
“What… Oh, you got to be shitting me, mate. A woman… leading Britannia? What happened to Athels—”
I freeze.
Holy. Hell.
“You’re from the Dark Ages.”
“The dark now?”
This just got a whole lot more interesting. I have many questions.
No—wait. If he’s from the Dark Ages… that means he’s been here longer than me. And if he’s been here longer, that means he’s had time to grow, to adapt—to get stronger. And if he’s stronger…
Shit.
A cold knot tightens in my gut. My pulse hammers in my ears. How does he still remember that detail? Memory loss is a given in this world—death doesn’t just take your life; it erases pieces of you. Like ink bleeding from old parchment. Like sand slipping through fingers. And yet… he remembers.
Centuries here. Dying. Again and again.
How the hell does he still know who he is?
“—Well… it’s been fun, mate. Truly.”
His voice is easy, like we’re just two drinking buddies wrapping up a night at the tavern instead of standing on the knife’s edge of violence. He stretches, slow and fluid, rolling his shoulders. A predator’s grace. The kind of movement that says,
“But you know how it is,” he continues, flashing a wolfish grin. “Got demon girls to kill, an island nation to conquer. Business, right?”
“Wait.”
He pauses mid-step, head tilting just enough to glance at me over his shoulder. The dim light catches his eyes—red, sharp, watching. Calculating.
“What now…” he drawls, irritation threading through his tone.
I keep my voice even. “Before we do this, allow me three more questions.”
A sharp exhale. Then, a shrug. “Fine…”
I steady my breathing, feeling the weight of his gaze pressing against me. Choose my words carefully.
“Number one: Were you originally human?”
“Aye.” No hesitation.
“Number two: Have you died more than once?”
That smirk sharpens, glinting like a blade. “If I had a copper for every time I croaked, well… let’s just say I wouldn’t be standing here chatting with you, now would I?”
I don’t let the unease settle. I push forward.
“Final question: How did you retain your memories?”
Something flickers across his face. Not hesitation. Not fear. Something The smirk wavers, twisting into something wider. His eyes gleam with that unsettling, manic joy—the kind that sends ice crawling down your spine.
And then—
He vanishes.
The air folds inward, a ripple in reality itself. A breath ghosts past my ear.
I don’t think. My body reacts. I twist—
Too slow.
Pain detonates in my ribs. White-hot agony blooms in my chest as something cold and sharp My vision lurches. A sickening crunch shatters the air.
His hand—his —is buried deep, spearing through my heart.
A low chuckle rumbles against my ear. Amused. Almost affectionate.
“Dead giveaway, mate,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “You’ve lost a few memories, haven’t you?”
The pressure in my chest shifts. My body spasms. I choke on the pain, the edges of my vision already fraying.
“Well, here’s a hint,” he continues, his tone light. Casual. Like he’s explaining a card trick. “See, when you start losing pieces of yourself, you start longing for all the bullshit you left behind. So I wrote mine down—every little thing I could remember. Scrawled onto parchment.”
The world tilts. My knees buckle.
He sighs, exaggerated. Bored, almost. “Didn’t matter in the end. Losing memories? Small price to pay. Once you ascend… once you become a Scion, all of it is meaningless. The system starts rewarding you with ”
Holy shit.
He leans in, grinning. “Shame, innit? Now you’ve got to die and respawn somewhere far, far away from here.”
No.
I fucked up.