Darkness was an indifferent god.
Wrapping its arms around Zane as he drifted between realms, between what was real and what was not.
It was a cruel, formless abyss, whispering truths that mortal minds refused to accept.
There is no fairness in the world. Strength is the only currency of survival. The weak perish not by choice but by inevitability.
And then, he awoke.
A sudden, painful gasp tore from his lungs as his senses ignited like torches in a pitch-black cavern.
The first thing he noticed was his sense of smell—the stench of damp earth, rotting wood, and the unmistakable iron scent of blood.
His body felt strange, smaller, frail.
His fingers, no longer human, were thin, clawed things, trembling.
Then came the voices.
"We are all going to die,"
a strange male voice said, clearly not human. Another soon spoke as well.
"Then let us die standing, not crawling in the filth like rats!"
Although these voices spoke in a language that was clearly not English, he could understand them... Zane could understand them.
Zane's eyes slowly fluttered open. He found himself lying on the dirt in what appeared to be a jungle.
His thoughts raced.
'Where the hell am I?'
'What's going on?'
His breath came in ragged gasps, chest rising and falling with a strange rhythm.
He forced his trembling hands—no, claws—to move, digging into the damp earth beneath him as he pushed himself upright.
His eyes darted around, struggling to adjust to the dim moonlight filtering through twisted trees.
His vision finally steadied.
That's when he saw them—short green creatures, ragged clothing, pointed ears.
Goblins.
Some were wounded, skin covered with sweat and blood, black hair matted to their foreheads.
A couple of them seemed to be arguing, while others trembled behind some leaves.
His gaze drifted down to his own body, noticing he was green as well, with only a small brown rag covering his private parts.
'Wait... What the fuck…'
Zane's breath hitched as a chill went down his spine.
'Wait... Don't tell me.'
He soon found his reflection faintly in a pool of dark water beside him—sharp teeth, yellow eyes glowing dimly under a furrowed brow.
'I've become… a fucking goblin?'
"We're fucked! Fuckin' cursed to die like piss-soaked rats in the dirt!"
one goblin spat, clutching a bleeding wound on his side, his face twisted in pain and fury.
"Shut up you fool, pick up a dagger and fight!"
"Better that than shitting yourself while you rot like some spineless maggot!"
another yelled, dragging himself to his feet, gripping a crude, rusted dagger with shaking hands.
Their words—rough, sharp, filled with rage and desperation.
The language was strange… yet somehow, impossibly, Zane understood every curse, every snarl.
It carved itself into his mind as if he'd spoken it his whole life.
Zane's heart pounded. Fear mingled with something else—something primal.
A flicker of instinct buried deep within this new, fragile body. He stumbled to his feet, legs weak and unsteady.
'Where the fuck am I?'
'What happened to me?'
'And why do I understand them?'
He tried to remember what he was doing before all this.
'What… was I doing last?'
His thoughts reced.
Images flickered in his vision—his dimly lit room, the faint sound of his old laptop, the glow of a loading screen.
Primal Online.
He had been playing it late into the night, grinding through dungeons, his fingers glued to the keyboard until sleep claimed him.
'Is this… some kind of dream? A nightmare?'
He held on to the idea like a fragile sense of hope.
Maybe he'd just passed out at his desk. Maybe he'd wake up any second now, face pressed against the keyboard, drool pooling under his cheek.
But then—
"I FOUND A GROUP OVER HERE!"
The shout pierced through the haze of his thoughts like a dagger, sharp and real. Too real.
Footsteps followed, heavy and fast, trampling the undergrowth.
Zane's ears twitched instinctively, the sounds unnervingly crisp.
The goblins around him froze, their weapons slipping from trembling fingers. Panic erupted like wildfire.
"We're fucked!"
"Run, you shit-for-brains! RUN!"
Another yelled, shoving past the wounded as if their lives meant less than the dirt beneath their feet.
Some sprinted, disappearing into the twisted grasses, their ragged breaths fading into the distance.
Others stayed—whether from stupidity, stubbornness, or sheer paralysis due to fear, Zane couldn't tell.
Then the grass ahead rustled violently, and from the shadows emerged death itself.
A man clad in gleaming steel, bloodstains already darkening the edges of his armor, stepped into the clearing. His face was hidden behind an iron helm, only the cold glint of his blue eyes visible through the narrow slit.
He gripped a massive sword, its blade chipped and stained with dried blood.
Befir the goblins coud even react, he moved.
The sword came down in a diagonal arc, slicing through the first goblin like it was made of paper.
Flesh tore, bones snapped, and a wet THWACK echoed as the creature's body hit the ground in two twitching halves.
Blood sprayed, splattering the grass, the trees—Zane's face.
His breath hitched, eyes widening in pure horror.
The man didn't stop, he want fir the next target. Another goblin tried to flee, but the sword cleaved through its spine, severing its torso from its legs in one clean stroke.
Guts spilled out in a steaming heap onto the blood-soaked earth.
Screams filled the air.
A goblin charged with a rusty dagger, only to have the man's sword shatter it mid-thrust.
The next swing carved through the goblin's neck, sending its head flying, spinning through the air like a ball before landing with a sickening plop.
Zane couldn't move.
His legs felt like stone, his claws trembling at his sides. His heart thundered against his ribs, every beat screaming at him to run, to do something.
But all he could do was watch.
Watch as the life drained from wide, terrified eyes. Watch as blood soeked the ground. Watch as the line between game and reality shattered with every wet crunch of steel meeting flesh.
'This isn't a dream.'
And with that thought he turned and ran desperately for his life.