The forest was a warzone. Explosions ripped through the air, one after another, sending plumes of smoke spiraling into the sky. The high-pitched screeches of goblins echoed through the trees, mingling with the clash of steel and the crackle of magic. The air smelled of burnt wood and blood, a grim reminder of the battle raging on.
"Kal, buff me now!" a woman barked, her voice strained as she swung her sword in a wide arc, cleaving through a goblin's chest. She barely had time to catch her breath before more of the creatures emerged from the underbrush, their beady eyes gleaming with malice. Her armor was dented, her face smeared with dirt and sweat, but her determination didn't waver.
"Give me a second! I'm chanting!" Kal shouted back, his white robes fluttering as he raised his staff. His voice was calm but urgent, his focus unshakable. He stood slightly behind her, his eyes closed as he muttered the incantation under his breath. "Luke, cover me!"
Luke, perched in a nearby tree, nocked an arrow and let it fly. The projectile struck a goblin mid-leap, its body crumpling to the ground. Without hesitation, Luke fired again, this time unleashing a barrage of glowing arrows that rained down on the advancing horde. His movements were fluid, almost mechanical, as if he'd done this a thousand times before.
Kal's staff glowed as he finished his incantation, and a surge of energy enveloped the woman. She grinned, her movements becoming a blur as she tore through the goblins with precision and ferocity. Her sword gleamed in the dim light, each strike calculated and deadly. Luke continued to pick off stragglers, his arrows finding their marks with deadly accuracy.
When the last goblin fell, the trio wasted no time. They moved quickly, harvesting gemstones from the corpses before retreating. The woman wiped her blade on a goblin's tattered clothing, her breathing heavy but steady.
"We're not ready for the camp," Luke said, his voice low as he slung his bow over his shoulder. He glanced at the others, his expression serious. "Let's head back to the gate."
The others nodded, and they made their way to a clearing where a shimmering portal awaited. Stepping through, they were greeted by the bustling sounds of the city. Skyscrapers loomed overhead, their glass facades reflecting the sunlight. People in various gear—armor, robes, and weapons—milled about, some shouting for party members, others haggling over loot.
A group of injured hunters was being escorted by a medical team, their faces grim but determined. The city was alive, a stark contrast to the chaos they'd just left behind.
---
Malcolm sat in the middle of his cluttered apartment, surrounded by crumpled papers, half-finished sketches, and scattered art supplies. The room was a mess, but he barely noticed. His focus was entirely on the drawing in front of him—a fantasy warrior, meticulously detailed but still not *right*.
"Ah, shit," he muttered, crumpling the paper and tossing it onto the growing pile. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if it held the answers he was looking for.
For Malcolm, drawing wasn't just about putting pencil to paper. It was about immersion. Every character he created lived in his mindscape, their personalities, backstories, and motivations playing out like scenes from a movie. If he couldn't feel them, if they didn't feel *real*, the drawing was worthless.
He leaned forward again, picking up his pencil and tapping it against the desk. The warrior he'd been working on was supposed to be valiant and humble, inspired by the heroes of Warhammer 40k. But no matter how many times he tweaked the design, the character always came off as arrogant.
"Not today, I guess," he sighed, standing up and kicking a pile of crumpled papers out of his way. He made a mental note to clean up later, though he knew it was a lie.
His eyes fell on a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner of the room. Dust had settled on his computer, untouched for months. Malcolm preferred traditional methods—pencil and paper. It felt more intimate, more real.
He rummaged through the boxes, pulling out a pack of bond paper. Beneath it, he found an old notebook, its cover designed to look like a demonic tome. He blew off the dust and stared at it, a flood of memories rushing back.
This was his first notebook, the one he'd filled with drawings as a kid. Female warriors, elves, orcs, and fantastical weapons—each page was a window into his younger self's imagination. It was also where he'd poured out his grief after his parents died, when the portals first appeared and monsters began roaming the earth.
For five years, he'd lived alone in this apartment, shutting out the world and losing himself in his art. The news, the chaos outside—none of it mattered. All he wanted was to draw.
He flipped open the notebook, cringing at the dramatic warning scrawled on the first page: "Prepare yourself before exploring the depths of this mystical world."
"God, I was such a dork," he muttered, shaking his head.
The next page was filled with stick figures—his "Stickman Legion," inspired by 300. He laughed despite himself, nostalgia washing over him.
"The Stickman Legion," he said aloud, tracing the crude drawings with his finger. "King Leonidas and his 300 Spartans, taking on Xerxes' army. Prideful, brutal, inspiring… and brave."
For a moment, he let himself get lost in the memory, the battles he'd imagined playing out in his mindscape. It was simple, childish even, but there was something pure about it.
Maybe, just maybe, he could find inspiration here.
Then, all of a sudden, while lost in his memories flipping each page, alarms blared, piercing through the air. Screams, explosions, and the guttural roars of monsters echoed outside his apartment. The peaceful nostalgia shattered in an instant.
Malcolm stood up, his heart pounding, and rushed to the window. He threw it open, the cacophony of chaos hitting him like a wall. Below, people were running in every direction, their faces twisted in terror.
Two massive minotaurs, their muscles rippling under dark fur, rampaged through the street. They wielded heavy axes, swinging them with brutal force. One of them flipped a car with a single heave, sending it tumbling end over end. A man inside screamed, his voice cut short as the minotaur brought its axe down with a sickening crunch. The beast roared, its voice shaking the ground.
Panic surged through Malcolm. "Shit, shit, shit!" he muttered, his mind racing. He grabbed the notebook, clutching it tightly, and bolted out of his apartment.
He sprinted down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat louder than the last. When he reached the ground floor, he hesitated for a moment, then pushed open the door to the street.
A car came flying toward him, hurled by one of the minotaurs. Malcolm barely had time to react. He dove back inside, slamming the door shut just as the car crashed into the building with a deafening explosion. The impact shook the walls, sending debris raining down around him.
"Too close," he muttered, his breath coming in short gasps. He scrambled to his feet, his mind racing. The front exit was blocked—he had to find another way out.
He turned and ran toward the back of the building, his grip on the notebook tightening. The other door was just ahead, but the sounds of destruction were getting closer. The minotaurs were tearing through the street, their roars growing louder with each passing second.
Malcolm burst through the back door, emerging into an alley. The chaos was slightly muted here, but he could still hear the screams and the thunderous footsteps of the monsters. He didn't stop to think. He ran, his feet pounding against the pavement, the notebook clutched to his chest like a lifeline.
The alley opened onto another street, this one eerily quiet compared to the carnage he'd just escaped. His eyes darted around, searching for a safe place to hide. A nearby convenience store caught his attention—its windows were intact, and the door was slightly ajar.
He sprinted toward it, slipping inside and closing the door behind him. The store was empty, the shelves still stocked with goods. Malcolm leaned against the counter, trying to catch his breath. His hands were trembling, but he held onto the notebook like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Outside, the roars of the minotaurs grew louder, followed by the sound of more destruction. Malcolm peeked out the window, his heart sinking as he saw the beasts turning the corner, their axes gleaming in the sunlight.
"Think, Malcolm, think," he whispered to himself. He couldn't stay here—it was only a matter of time before the minotaurs found him. But where could he go?
The minotaurs were now outside the store. The screams outside had grown distant, but the heavy, labored breathing of the beasts was deafening. Malcolm held his breath, clutching his notebook tightly to his chest. He could hear the minotaurs sniffing, their snorts echoing through the shattered storefront.
Then, in what felt like an instant, glass shattered. A massive axe crashed through the wall just above the counter where Malcolm hid, sending debris flying. He ducked, his heart racing, and scrambled to his feet. The minotaur roared, its voice shaking the air.
Malcolm didn't think—he just ran. He bolted toward the back of the store, his notebook still clutched in his hands. The back door led to a small parking area, a few cars scattered about. The main road was visible ahead, eerily empty now. He glanced back just as the minotaur charged, its massive body crashing through the wall like it was made of paper.
The beast locked its eyes on Malcolm, its nostrils flaring. Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment, hugging his notebook as he ran. How could such an unfortunate event befall me? he thought, his mind a whirlwind of fear and disbelief.
He kept running, the sound of the minotaur's hooves pounding behind him. But then, sharp pain shot through his knee. He cried out, crashing to the ground. His notebook skidded a few feet away. Malcolm looked back, his vision blurring as he saw the minotaur's axe embedded in the ground—and his decapitated feet lying beside it.
Pain seared through his right knee, blood pooling beneath him. He screamed, the sound raw and guttural. But he didn't stop. Gritting his teeth, he resolved himself and began crawling toward his notebook.
The minotaur's laughter echoed behind him, deep and mocking. It yanked its axe from the ground, savoring Malcolm's struggle. Malcolm kept crawling, his hands scraping against the pavement. The minotaur raised its axe again, and Malcolm braced himself.
The axe came down, and another wave of pain exploded through his left knee. He screamed again, his voice breaking. He looked down, his vision swimming, and saw blood gushing from both knees. His feet were gone.
The minotaur smirked, its laughter booming as it watched Malcolm writhe in agony. Malcolm's breath came in ragged gasps, but he didn't give up. He crawled again, inch by inch, toward his notebook.
The minotaur flipped him over with its axe, forcing Malcolm to face its grotesque smile. His consciousness was fading, his vision darkening at the edges. But his hand reached out, trembling, and touched the notebook.
The minotaur raised its axe one final time, its eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. Malcolm, with the last of his strength, flipped his hand in a defiant gesture—a final "fuck you" to the beast.
It's over, he thought, closing his eyes.
But then, an explosion erupted. Malcolm's eyes snapped open as the minotaur's head was torn from its shoulders in a spray of blood and bone. The massive body crumpled to the ground, and standing over it was a warrior—a woman clad in sleek, futuristic armor. Her blade gleamed, still dripping with the minotaur's blood.
She moved quickly, her eyes scanning Malcolm's broken body. "Medic! I need a medic over here!" she shouted, her voice sharp and commanding.
Malcolm's vision blurred again, his consciousness slipping away. The last thing he saw was the warrior kneeling beside him, her face a mix of urgency and determination.
Then, everything went black.