Erik trailed behind the others, every sound setting his nerves on edge. Though the goblin nest seemed cleared, he couldn't shake the tension coiled in his gut, as if danger hadn't gotten the message that the fight was over.
As they stepped into the fading daylight, Erik blinked, the sudden openness making him feel strangely exposed. He paused at the cave's mouth, breath catching as he took in the wild, sprawling landscape before them. Beautiful, he thought, and utterly alien. His mind, always seeking patterns, tried to make sense of the gnarled trees, the vast plains, the distant mountains under a sky he didn't recognize. Definitely not Earth. A part of him recoiled from the thought, as though acknowledging it too clearly might make it more real.
"Feels good to be in open air again, eh?" Finn said cheerfully. He inhaled deeply and coughed. "Ugh, well, relatively fresh air. I think I still smell like goblin." He rubbed at a greenish stain on his leather sleeve with a grimace.
Lyra stepped out beside them, using her staff to support a slight limp. Her healing spells had closed their worst wounds, but fatigue and bruises remained. She lifted her face to the fading sunlight. "The Light blesses us with a clear eve. We should make it back to Blackstone before midnight if we keep a good pace."
Darius was last out, taking a moment to survey the horizon. His face softened as he gazed westward, where, if Erik squinted, he could see a smattering of structures. Blackstone Outpost. Their home base. "We'll be home soon," Darius said quietly. "Come, before light fails."
They descended the hill. Erik's legs moved automatically, guided by a muscle memory that wasn't his own, while his mind churned. He was in another world, one governed by rules he was only beginning to perceive. Magic was real, he'd seen Lyra's hands glow. And something within him had answered the violence of the battle. He remembered the rune, the burning silver traced into his flesh, the name whispered into his soul without a voice.
He flexed his free hand, and the memory of that power hummed just beneath the skin. His arms felt like they belonged to someone else: heavier, coiled with a readiness that was both exhilarating and deeply unsettling. Whether that violent potential was something awakened in him or a ghost from whoever Erik Thorne used to be, he couldn't tell. But it was real.
"So…" Finn fell back to walk alongside Erik, twirling a dagger. "That was one hell of a brawl back there. I swear you've gotten stronger overnight or something." He eyed Erik up and down. "Been holding out on us, big guy?"
Erik tensed, scrambling for a plausible lie. "Maybe I just had a burst of adrenaline?" he offered. It was a simple explanation, something his old world would have understood.
Finn chuckled. "If that's all it was, we should get you angry more often." He lowered his voice. "Between you and me, I'm glad you're okay. You took a hard hit from that goblin ambush at the start. For a moment, we thought…" Finn trailed off, his usual joking demeanor faltering.
Erik realized the original owner of this body must have been struck down at that moment, the very instant he arrived. He swallowed. "I'm fine, really. Sorry I worried you."
Finn waved his hand. "Water under the bridge. Just don't scare us like that again. Darius nearly lost his head rushing to cover you." He glanced ahead at Darius's broad back. "He cares about you, you know. Even if he's as chatty as a rock about it."
Erik felt a twinge of guilt and gratitude. These people were risking their lives for a man they thought they knew. "I won't let him down," he said quietly, and meant it.
They walked in easy silence, but Erik's thoughts offered no peace. How had he arrived here? Was it blind chance, or was there a purpose to this violent rebirth? If this place operated on strange laws, with magic, runes, and transformations beyond reason, then what did that say about the world itself? The questions multiplied, threading deeper into mystery.
As night drew close, the torchlight of Blackstone Outpost appeared. The fortified village wasn't large, but to him, it was a welcome sight. Civilization, however rough, was preferable to monster-infested wilds. After a brief exchange with the guards, they passed through the gates. Inside, the smells of smoke, manure, and tavern stew were a harsh but comforting dose of normalcy.
Lyra suggested they report to the Adventurers' Guild before resting, and Darius agreed. The Guild Hall was a spacious, lively common room. In one corner, a trio of armored lizardmen sharpened their swords. A dour-looking mage argued with a dwarf over a pile of monster cores. It was a scene of weary, day-to-day survival.
The clerk at the counter took their report, clucking sympathetically about the recent uptick in monster activity. As they turned to leave, a boisterous voice called out. "Ho there, Sir Darius! Still slumming it with the goblin-slayers, are we?"
At a large table near the hearth sat a group of adventurers in gleaming, filigreed plate armor. Their leader, a man named Edward with a self-satisfied smirk, raised a silver goblet in a mocking salute. Erik recognized the type instantly. It was a familiar brand of arrogance, the kind worn by middle managers and petty executives everywhere. The language was different, but the smug dismissal of those doing the actual work was universal.
Darius's expression cooled. "Edward. I see your company is back in town. I trust you left some monsters for the rest of us?"
Edward chuckled. "We just returned from the Blackwood Marshes. A wight-lord. Taxing work." He cast a disdainful glance at their mismatched, travel-worn gear. "Your party looks positively haggard. Goblins did that? How... quaint."
Finn opened his mouth to retort, but Darius stopped him. "We completed the mission," the knight said, his voice a flat stone against which Edward's arrogance splashed. "That's all that matters."
"Of course," Edward said, leaning forward. "If you find yourselves in need of a real challenge, something a bit more taxing than vermin control, you know where to find us. But do try to clean up first. We have standards."
The insult bristled, a sharp barb against their hard-won victory. Darius simply grunted. "I'm sure the realm sleeps safer knowing you're on guard." With that, he turned and ushered his team away.
As they walked out into the cool night air, Finn muttered under his breath, "Bloody peacock. I'd love to plant a knife in his arse." Lyra shot him a disapproving look but couldn't suppress a small, weary smile. Erik said nothing. He just walked, quietly trying to smother the anxious buzz that came with standing in someone else's life, a life that had a history, relationships, and enemies.
After a brief stop at The Gilded Tankard, where Finn stayed for a drink, Erik trudged upstairs to the small chamber he apparently shared with the rogue. He closed the door and leaned against it, finally exhaling a long breath. In the quiet dimness, his facade of composure slipped. He sat on the edge of his cot, his hands trembling slightly. He looked at his calloused palms, then at the rugged face staring back at him from the polished steel mirror on the wall. Erik Thorne. This was him now.
"How is this possible?" he whispered to the empty room. His old life, with its predictable routines and soul-crushing boredom, felt like a story read long ago. He remembered he had no close family, few friends. In truth, that world hadn't held much for him. Maybe that's why he didn't feel an overwhelming urge to return. The thought was a strange, hollow comfort.
With a heavy sigh, he sat back down. If this second chance was to mean anything, he had to survive. And not just survive, thrive. This world was brutal, yes, but it bristled with potential. In those frantic moments of combat, he'd felt more alive than in years spent behind a desk.
He pulled off his breastplate and undershirt, wincing as he traced the deepening bruise along his ribs. As he focused on his own condition, he felt it again, a faint internal hum, a response to his intent.
Light flickered before his eyes. Faint, silver-threaded sigils coalesced into a floating lattice. The meanings weren't read; they were felt, an intuitive understanding that bypassed language.
Power Strike: A focused channel of raw force.
Battle Sense: Heightens perception during hostile motion.
Berserker's Rage: Enter a state of blood-burning might.
The glyphs glowed briefly, then dissipated like smoke.
He closed his Runic Sight with a thought. A knock at the door jolted him. He quickly threw on a tunic. "Yes?"
It was Lyra, holding a small clay jar. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I wanted to give you this salve for your bruises before turning in." She stepped into the room, the scent of herbs and lavender drifting from the jar.
He took it gratefully. "Thank you, Lyra. You should be resting."
"It's no trouble," she said, her eyes searching his face with genuine care. "You seemed shaken earlier. More than just from the battle. If there's anything…"
He was tempted, for a moment, to unload his bewilderment. But how? He managed a reassuring smile. "I appreciate it. I think the fight just… brought back some memories. I'll be alright."
She studied him, her expression understanding. "I won't pry. We've all seen terrible things. Just know that you're not alone, Erik. We're your friends." She reached out and gently squeezed his hand.
The warmth of her touch nearly undid him. He squeezed back. "That means a lot, Lyra. Truly."
She nodded, a faint blush on her cheeks, and withdrew her hand. "Well then, I'll let you rest. May the Light grant you peaceful sleep."
She left, closing the door quietly. Erik sat for a long moment, the jar of salve in his hands. He felt an unexpected sting of tears in his eyes, not of sadness, but of gratitude. In this unforgiving world, he had found comrades who cared.
He took a deep breath, regaining control. He lay down on the cot, the mattress thin and lumpy, but he hardly noticed. His body needed rest, and his mind, for the first time, was not just contemplating spreadsheets, but a future. It was a terrifying, unknown future, but it was his.