Three Till…
Well now, ain't this just a fine mess.
I wake up—again—rattling like a tin roof
in a twister, gasping like a catfish yanked straight outta the Mississippi. My
skin’s slick, but not with any honest sweat—no, this is something else.
Like I’ve been wrung out, twisted dry, left with nothing but a clammy, feverish
wrongness sinking into my bones.
And my chest? Heavy. Hollow. Like my
soul’s been left out in the sun too long—dried up, cracked, barely holding
together. I press my fingers into the dirt, trying to ground myself, but even
that feels off.
This ain’t just exhaustion. This is worse.
Something’s crawled inside me, curled up, and made itself at home.
I just hold on, breathing slow, waiting for the
world to feel real
Soul Sickness. Still here. Still awful.
But this time? It’s worse.
A dull chime echoes in my skull. Shaq’Rai.
Her voice crackles, glitchy, like a damaged recording.
“Grant… your condition has worsened.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
My gaze flicks to the corner of my vision. The
debuff icon sits there, smug as hell. A tiny square, a diamond shape in the
center, with a neat little ‘x5’
I reach for it.
Oh, fantastic.
“What the hell does ‘x5’ mean?” My voice scrapes
out hoarse, like I haven’t spoken in hours.
Shaq’Rai hesitates. Never a good sign.
“Each untimely death results in the loss of a
soul shard—a fragment of your essence. The number reflects total losses.
Unfortunately, every time you die, the previous soul shard enters a timed
event. If they are not reclaimed before the timer expires…”
I do not like where this is going.
A small rectangle pops up at the bottom right of
my vision, an hourglass flickering in its center. I reach for it.
A timer appears.
Oh, that ain't good.
“How long was I out?” My throat is dry. My limbs
feel like they’re made of concrete.
Shaq’Rai’s voice is crisp, detached—like she’s
reading me my last rites.
“Standard respawn procedures dictate a one-day
delay before reanimation.”
Lord have mercy.
A whole day?gone? Like sweet
tea at a Texas church picnic? I blow out a breath, shaky as a newborn foal, and
drag a hand down my face, feeling the grit of... well, everything and
nothing at once.
“So,” I mutter, quiet-like, “I been playin’
possum for a whole damn day?”
The meadow sways, all green and peaceful. Like
nothing’s wrong. Like my insides ain’t currently twisted up like a kudzu
vine. The wind hums a tune, some old hymn probably, and the whole world
just keeps on turning.
But that little tick-tockThat
ain’t stopping. Nope. Keeps right on counting, like a hound dog tracking a
scent.
And I just stand here, feeling like a bug under a
glass, watching it all go by.
“Grant…?”“Are…
you alright?”
I throw my arms up, laughing—a dry, humorless
sound.
“OH! Just peachy, darlin’. Truly.”
Panic sets in faster than a June bug to a porch
light. Three minutes.Three measly minutes before my
soul—my actual, honest-to-God, irreplaceable soul—up and skedaddles for
good.
Stolen story; please report.
Fuck me.
I try to breathe slow, like my grandmother used
to tell me when I got spooked by thunder. But my heart? Banging like a drum
solo at the county fair.Got to think.
Got to think.
Teleport.
That’s my only play.
Get back to the ruins. Back to where
I—where I’m supposed
…Right?
I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrate, try
to pull at the magic, like calling a stray dog home.
No sweat. Just focus—
I feel it flicker. A tiny spark, like a firefly
in a jar. Sputtering. Dying. And then—
Nothing.
Cold. Dead. Nothing.
My gut twists. Soul Sickness. It’s fucking
with my abilities.
I grind my teeth, fists clenching.
This can’t be happening.
Desperation morphs into rage. A real, proper
fit of rage.
I drop, hard, knees slamming into the dirt
like a sack of potatoes. And then I start pounding. Just pounding. Fists
hitting the ground—once, twice, over and over—till my knuckles burn like
hellfire.
“DAMMIT!”“DAMMIT!”
My vision blurs, and I’m cussing a blue streak,
spitting, clawing at the dirt like a wild critter. Like I can dig my way
back.
Like I can bully reality into playing
fair.
Just this once.
Just one damn time.
But it ain’t working. Ain’t nothing working.
Just dirt, and hurt, and a whole lot of cussing.
The timer ticks down.
I stop. Chest heaving. Fingers trembling.
A cold shiver snakes up my spine. Something
inside me pulls.
It’s slipping.
A part of me—something important.
I gasp.
“Jenni—”
The name spills out before I even know I’m saying
it.
But—who?
Babe…?
A wave of disorientation crashes over me. My mind
reels. A weight I didn’t even know was there—gone.
Like a door slamming shut.
On something I’ll never get back.
I clutch my head, breath coming in ragged gulps.
Who was I just thinking about?
And… why does it hurt so much?
I push myself up too fast.
Bad idea.
The world lurches. My stomach twists, and
suddenly, I’m weightlessGod
Himself.
And then—bam.
The ground slams into me, hard. Pain
sparks up my spine, but it barely registers over the gut-wrenching nausea. My
limbs don’t just feel stiff—they lock up. A violent shudder rolls
through me, muscles spasming like a fish flopping on dry land.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t—
Black.
When I come to, everything is wrong.
I know my name. Grant Calloway. I know I’m
a Soul-Binder.a piece of myself.
But what piece?
I sift through my memories like running fingers
through sand—the shape is there, but the details slip right through.
I had a sister. I know that much. She has
kids—a boy and a girl.
But their names? Gone.
I had a farm. I remember the feel of dirt under
my nails, the weight of a shovel in my hands.
But where was it?
I… had someone.
A wife? No.
A friend? Maybe.
Someone important.should
remember.
But I don’t.
A chill creeps down my spine.
This isn’t just a game penalty. This isn’t
some slap on the wrist for dying too much.
Every respawn is taking something from me.
Not just stats. Me.
I stare into the distance, heart pounding.
How many deaths before there’s nothing left?
Maybe… I swallow hard.
Maybe this is what happened to Arthur
Pendragon.
He wasn’t evil.
He just lost himself.