Eric’s eyes bolted wide in agonized surprise. He gasped, horrified to find himself feeling such raw AWFUL pain! His eyes stung with salt and glaring light and he could hardly see. Panicked alarm took on the raw bite of terror for a single awful second before he blinked a second time… and was breathless with confusion. And exhaustion. And pain.

  What the hell?

  “Please stay still!” snapped the woman who was somehow handling him?

  He froze. Terrified of nearly two thousand Strength and even higher Quickness projecting his limbs with the force of artillery shells, blinking furiously to get a good look at what his senses made damn clear was a mortal woman. Though Mage Sight sensed something beyond his ability to define… her sky blue eyes were that of a no-nonsense girl, and despite the firm lines around her mouth, her skin was smooth and clear.

  A vibrant twenty-two. Twenty-three at most, he thought, noting the blond curls slipping free of her bonnet as she huffed in exasperation. Her jumper, blouse, and apron decorated in hand-stitched flower petals was that of a well-to-do peasant or free-woman, if the costume attire Elonia had once sported in a period piece was anything to go by. Her accent was strong Bostonian… but that was as much era as location so it wasn’t too hard to deduce that he was in another shadow realm where culture and time were a few centuries off from his own.

  “Thank you,” she huffed. “Now please stay still. I need to dress your wounds, and this liniment won’t place itself!”

  Eric’s eyes widened at that. “I’m fine,” he wanted to say, tried to say. But all he could do was wheeze and cough, only then truly registering his throbbing headache, shivering limbs, and the fact that it was actually hard to lift his head. Realizations that filled him with a jolt of unexpected panic, finally getting the words out that he desperately needed to say.

  “Why the hell am I so weak?” He whispered, earning an irate look from the young woman.

  “Watch your tongue. Gracious words only in Father’s house, if you please.”

  Eric blinked at that, cheeks flushing, hating feeling so out of sorts, so vulnerable that he actually had to worry or care about someone else’s opinion. Yet care he did, hating the spike of anxiety he felt until her furrowed brow turned to a tired smile.

  “There. Your wound has been properly cleaned and dressed. What monster tried to disembowel you with such a wicked knife… or was it a saber? Four slashes so precisely placed… the fiend was clearly a sadist, not a soldier worthy of the name. You’re incredibly lucky they cut no deeper than they had.” She sighed. “Father says you may sleep here for the night, though how exactly you managed to fall into the root cellar…”

  Eric inhaled to speak, before she abruptly shook her head.

  “No, please.” Her smile grew strained. “Best you tell us nothing.” She gave him a meaningful look. “We burned your uniform. We assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

  Eric blinked at this, foggy thoughts racing through his haze of pain and exhaustion.

  Did she think he was a soldier fleeing his regiment? A former redcoat slipping free of King George’s army to start a new life in the colonies? And why the hell were his thoughts so sluggish? Why did he feel so muddle-headed and weak?”

  A gentle hand squeezed his own. “Think of a name you would like us to call you.” Intent blue eyes met his own. “A fresh new name for a fresh new life.”

  “Eric,” he quickly said. “You may call me… Eric. A good name, don’t you think?”

  She blinked at this… then smiled. “It’s a good name. I like it.”

  A high pitched cry came from the floor above. She flushed, for some reason, a rosy color coming to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I… I have to attend to my little one. I’ll check on you later?”

  Eric swallowed his parched throat. “Yes, of course, and thank you,” he wheezed, desperate to speak as she turned toward the rickety looking stairs. “Before you go…”

  He nearly panicked, yet she could clearly make out his whisper, stilling her movements toward the stairs, as a gruff voice called from above. “Agda, attend to your babe!”

  “May I have something to drink?”

  The young woman who must be Agda flinched. “Ah. Yes. Of course. How foolish of me! Here. Sip this herbal tea. Slowly… very good.”

  Eric actually found himself smiling at the praise after forcing himself to deal with the awful cramping agony of even tilting his neck up for a drink of cool herbal tea. Sour and bitter, with just a hint of lemon… it nevertheless soothed his parched throat.

  “Thank you.”

  Soft fingertips brushed his brow as she gazed at him with an almost motherly smile. “You’re welcome. I’ll check on you later.”

  Eric’s smile became a pained wince, earning a sympathetic look from his caretaker.

  “Rest,” she said, hesitating no longer to climb up the cellar stairs and tend to her child as the low voices of a man’s grumbles could be heard.

  Only then did his smile fade into a pained grimace as he strove to pull up his character sheet, horrified by what he saw.

  --______________________________________--

  Eric Silver

  (Critically Injured. Under the care of Journeyman Apothecary)

  Physical Characteristics

  Strength – 14

  Vitality – 13

  Finesse – 12

  Quickness – 13

  Appearance – 36

  Mental Characteristics

  Scholarship – 12

  Percepton – 13

  Willpower – 15

  Charisma – 13

  --_____________________________--

  “What the hell?” Eric had no words. What was almost as terrifying as seeing most of his attributes being slammed down to his baseline was that he had no further access to skills, class, Dominion Interface, or anything at all. His physical body was just as it had been when last he had lived in New York pre-apocalypse, save for his absurdly high Appearance, and he had no idea why.

  He swallowed down his sudden panic, eyes searching for any distraction finally took note of the root cellar, noting burlap bags filled with what looked like various types of tubers, mostly potatoes elevated on thick, sturdily made wooden shelves. Additional shelves were filled with collections of what looked like dried herbs, tinctures, flowers, and poultices in any number of clay pots and glass vessels. The chamber itself smelled a bit musty and earthy, yet the dirt floor was clearly swept regularly and kept quite clean, the cellar window he had somehow slipped through allowing for a fresh healthy breeze, with absolutely no sign of tyrannical Silvers using essence-tainted death weapons at all.

  Eric took a deep, shuddering breath. “Alright, let’s keep it together. If I understand right, I’m in the Enigmatic Realm. For all I know, this is perfectly normal for here. Terrifying, but normal, and probably explains why no one’s screaming about invading wolves or anything like that. While we’re here… we’re pretty much the mortals we were before the System transformed us? Maybe? And I know I have access to my Unified Perception… at least a bit of it, I think.”

  Then he froze, breath catching in his throat when he caught sight of his reflection in the cracked mirror she had left on the table beside his makeshift bed of stuffed linen and lamb’s wool upon a wooden frame… maybe to help treat his wounds? Regardless, there was no mistaking the solemn blue eyes looking back at him from features that were nothing short of exquisite.

  His ivory cheeks flushed.

  “Fuck if I don’t actually look like a faerie prince. Only… it’s me.” He winced, realizing it was indeed him, even if his jawline was slightly different, because he wasn’t packing sixty additional pounds of muscle that had been so packed with potency that his flesh was somehow more resilient than dreadnought battleship armor. And at over 780 points… over 180 points beyond that 600 number… with the step in potency from wood to copper to iron to steel to tungsten carbide to mithril… every fifty or hundred points or so… his flesh pounding into a starship would be like a mithril tipped spear plunging into a crude iron shield.

  And somehow, he was the mithril.

  He could barely get his mind around the madness of physical resistances relative to material hardness and durability and the whole thing was so shockingly absurd since he still felt like himself, always. Only now he was the same fragile mortal he had been at 17 with too handsome features and that was only because of...

  “Eve!” he whispered, suddenly getting it. Because he had had himself literally reforged on a genetic level. This beauty truly was his own. His children would inherit it, even if they started at level 0 and not boosted by whatever level of power or potency he and the future mother of his children had… should that day ever come to pass.

  “But wait, does this mean that my other attributes… none of that will carry over to my children? That I’m just a pretty boy with good bone structure and my kids will have to go through all that hell that I did, if they don’t want to be crushed under some other asshole’s heels? But wait, hadn’t Bun and I deduced that at least all the personal evolutions that I undergo as Eve’s disciple… all that should carry over to my future offspring, even if not multiplied by all my sweet titles and attribute boons?”

  He winced, shaking away the pointless thoughts. The only thing he knew for sure was that this shadow realm had suppressed him, and perhaps suppressed anyone of any power back to baseline… save for the shape of the vessel in which their souls are contained. And his shell now was a bit prettier than it had ever been before.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “But even if my future kids are born as innocent babies no stronger than any other… hopefully we’ll have systems in place to safely train our kids to achieve Bronze with nice strong cores and no peril at all with their dad always at their backs, looking out for them with every encounter, and as far as cultivation goes…” he flashed a rueful grin. “Grateful as I am to my patron, I’ll be wanting my children to embrace a Benevolent Fates version of a cultivator’s journey, like Richard was able to enjoy, and Eve is his mom… or grandmom? So… yeah. We find their affinities, we use our outrageous wealth to buy the best quality and safest and friendliest cultivation manuals and instructors that we can… and we make sure they can live safe, happy lives and ascend just as far as they can without risking peril with no support at all. And if they do choose to be insane idiots like their dad… I damn well will give them every skills, spell, and life lesson learned to keep them safe as best I can.”

  He then dared a smile for future dreams still a long ways away. “And they’ll be lucky as heck to be second gen classers on an ascending world, with daddy securing lots of sweet, safe territories with Adventurer’s Promise & Paradise and other boons so they can play life on ‘privileged family win mode’ and not ‘die, common-born scum mode.’ And isn’t that what so many elites probably want for their own children when they do their best to plant their own scions here on Earth to bloom with its forced ascension?”

  He frowned down at his abdomen. “I can’t Interface with my skills, but still... my wound feels normal. Not tainted or cursed or anything. Even if the poultices make it itch… hopefully that’s a good thing?”

  He then winced, throat soar and abdomen throbbing when he twitched, and he did the only thing he could think of to help himself at that moment.

  Fall back into a feverish sleep, praying he’d feel better sooner, rather than later. Because one thing he sure as hell wasn’t going to do was try to sneak out of this terrain while still severely wounded, risk being just as weak as he was now at least for a few seconds after emerging, and be quickly taken out by any armor-clad psychopath eager for his head.

  ***

  “Are you awake? I’m going to change your liniments now. Please don’t be alarmed.”

  Eric hissed, instantly jolted out of a panicked dream where he had been fleeing for his life as he was chased by… what the hell had he been chased by?”

  He blinked open gummy eyes with a curse, only to see a frowning Agda gazing intently at his injuries, a sight that made his guts crawl with anxious tension… before she gave a slow nod. “Good. Healing as well as I could hope for, and the inflammation is gone.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “fortunately I have lots of bless wort and mountain daisies, so the perforations should fully heal without you dying of septicemia.”

  Eric paled at that. “Yeah… not dying of septicemia sounds like a good thing.”

  Surprisingly, this earned a chuckle. Then a worried frown. “Eric, do you have to relieve yourself?”

  Eric flushed. “Um… yes?”

  “Good.”

  She handed him a clever looking clay vessel shaped much like a urinal before turning primly around. “Please take care of yourself. I’ll examine the urine and we’ll see how you’re progressing.”

  Eric swallowed. “Um… would it be possible for you to…”

  “Yes?”

  Eric sighed. “Never mind.” He was surprised to find that he had absolutely no problem at all taking care of business, despite the pretty young woman gracious enough to look away. If anything, it was all he could do not to sigh in relief, smiling sheepishly when she handed him an astringent smelling cloth. “Wipe your hands, we’re civilized here. Now I’ll get you your soup and tea.”

  Eric almost chuckled, but sensed the sharp surge of pain he would receive if he was that foolish, so instead he smiled and nodded and in very short order found himself eating ravenously, the rather savory chicken stew and freshly baked sourdough bread enhanced by clotted cream a true delight upon his tongue, savory and tangy and so very soothing as he sipped his tea, though his entire lunch had been consumed with the patient assistance of Agda.

  “Thank you,” he said when she aided him by readjusting the pillows under his back and head once more.

  She smiled, eyes twinkling. “It’s quite alright, Eric. My Emily is just as trying an eater as you are.”

  He flushed at that, then grinned. “Sounds like a wonderful child.”

  Her bemused smile grew strained, Eric sensing so acutely the pain in her gaze.

  “Thank you, Eric. She’s… she’s my greatest treasure.” She sighed. “It’s a pity her father didn’t feel the same.”

  Eric blinked at this. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t be. I was young and foolish and gave my heart to a boy who looked so handsome by moonlight… melted my heart with honeyed words… then gone with the first rays of dawn.” She sighed. “A single act that granted me a beautiful angel, and the scorn of half the town.”

  Eric winced, recalling all too well how absolutely savage people could be centuries back, when girls were viewed more as valued commodities than human beings to be respected and cherished for who they were as a person, not just the dowry they could bring.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She gave him a gentle smile, shaking her head. “Don’t be. The shame is my own, though I absolutely refuse to let anyone look down on my child. For Emily is as innocent as any baby born under heaven’s grace.”

  Eric dipped his head, knowing now wasn’t the time to spout the beliefs and mores of a culture so different than her own. “It can’t be easy, but if your ability to care for me is anything to go by, you’re talented, knowledgeable, and a wonderful mother and apothecary.”

  For some reason, his words made Agda blush, soft blue eyes widening at his words.

  “I… thank you, Eric. I…” She gazed down at her own restless hands. “I’ve always studied diligently and hard, doing my best to make Grandmother proud, learning her arts. Even if she forsook me publicly… her heart warmed for Emily enough that she made sure I had the book of tinctures I had studied since I was a wee lass, and I’ve done my best to master the arts learned by her knee, suffice that I can care for the needs of the farmers in this area while my father runs the farm, and we are accepted, at least. Even if I haven’t been invited to any of the sewing circles.”

  “I’m sure that will come with time,” Eric said kindly. “How old is your Emily?”

  Agda’s eyes brightened with a mother’s joy. “She just turned one. And how grateful I am that we got through that first year, despite its hardships, and that she is in good health, hasn’t had a fever in half a year, and is all good spirits when her teeth aren’t coming in.”

  “Sounds like a treasure,” Eric said.

  “The greatest treasure of my life,” Agda said with a fond smile, before giving him a curious look. “Have you…”

  Eric sighed, cheeks flushing. “I…” His eyes stung with unexpected heat. “I loved someone once, but war and strife tore them away.” He flashed a bitter smile. “Perhaps it would be best if I avoided anything serious, at least until this time of strife has passed… or I’ve gotten so strong that no one could ever tear my love away again.”

  Agda flashed a sad smile. “If only we could be so strong. All we can do, Eric, is find the strength to endure… and savor what happiness we can.”

  “Agreed,” Eric said with a tired sigh, eyes closing as the tender woman gently tucked him in. “If only we could be so strong.”

  He felt the softest brush of something against his brow. “Rest, Eric. I’ll come back to see you in time for supper.”

  Eric smiled, a half dozen questions on the tip of his tongue that all faded into the sweet languor of healing darkness as he slipped away in warm currents of halcyon dream.

  ***

  “Focus, child! If you would claim him, then you must fight for him!”

  “The curse is too strong, Grandmother. What could be the source of this awful taint?”

  Eric grimaced against the sleep paralysis that he absolutely hated, knowing that he was both quietly sleeping in a root cellar, and at the same time burning up with awful fever, wracked by chills his ascended body should be so over now, even as he lay in the center of a ritual circle of chalk, surrounded by three women wearing Roman togas and ancient gold bangles and headbands that were so out of place in this era, in the center of a moonlit field, the air alive with restless breezes that he dreamed were spirits, countless ghosts far thicker than any ether he had ever encountered before.

  “You know the source of the taint well enough, child,” hissed the crone amongst the three. “The same reason why the wolves, once so bold in their demands for our most precious herbs and greatest treasures now demand no less than a blood sacrifice… and our greatest treasure.”

  “And yet you can see the specter of death in their gazes. They know their hour wanes, their king already slain by a wild faerie prince,” whispered the woman of porcelain features and ageless mien, neither old nor young, with the hips of a mother and the broad shoulders of a farmer’s wife. Yet Eric’s spirit sensed an ancient power flowing through her, her and the others even as their voices echoed through the glade, ancient words and whispers of power that Eric forced his feverish mind to focus upon, tasting the wondrous potential of ancient arts unlike any he had witnessed before.

  The eldest crone snorted, even as the chant rang on, Eric belatedly realizing they were communicating via spirit, their voices lost in harmonies that rang against his shivering soul.

  “Do you truly believe the faerie queen would take an interest in such at this late hour? Her tribe never left the forests of our motherland, so why would she emerge in the new continent now?”

  This earned an enigmatic smile from the ageless beauty. “And yet a prince of the people lays before us, for his beauty is unearthly, as any fool can see. And we all know that no mortal wolf has claws larger than any mountain lion. Claws infected with a truly twisted strain of Lycanthropy. A disease that should have doomed any normal soldier fled from his regiment, yet this boy lingers still.”

  The crone among them glared at the youngest, cheeks flushing even though her voice rang true.

  “Truly? When we are the farthest thing from a pristine triumvirate? Our youngest spring blossom, representing purity and renewal, my chosen heir, rutting like pigs in the muck to spit out a common mortal brat from the worst of the worst? A no-good huckster who’s already fled? And you think Winter’s Queen would bless our poor coven even so?”

  “Yes, even so,” the middle woman said with a sympathetic smile for their youngest, whose tears flowed down flawless cheeks burdened with regret. “Women have been fools for love since the time of Lilith and Eve. I suspect that ancient queen has more sympathy for a woman’s aching heart than you would give her credit for.”

  “It matters not,” said the spirit of the tired-sounding crone, shaking her weary head as her body continued to belt out words of power and hope. “The hour grows late, the full moon is almost upon us, and the demands of our enemies grow insistent. Our men are few and our muskets old and worn. With our silver stolen by the very trickster who stole my granddaughter’s heart, I fear our days our numbered.”

  Eric gazed down with pity at the three women struggling so hard to aid his poor, feverish body… before scowling, his spirit only now perking at the teasing whisper of the wind all around him.

  Wind trying desperately hard to blow away the tiny malevolent specter even now cackling as it burrowed into Eric’s flesh.

  A tiny portion of his mind knew he should be howling with pain. Yet, honestly, it felt like the itchy sting of a mosquito, and no worse.

  Eric glared down at the cackling specter, whispering his own words into the ether.

  “Mollet, roboro ventus plures dies!”

  All three women stiffened at the haunting words echoing through the breeze, though by some miracle they didn’t break off their ritual. If anything, their sonorous chant grew in pitch and intensity as the cackling spirit of a doomed Mord screamed, finding itself trapped in a cage of air.

  Eric’s spirit dove down to glare at the howling wolf-shaped flare of malice snarling and howling and doing all it could to rip itself free of Eric’s cage.

  “By the ancients, I’ve never seen spirits manipulate Wind so precisely!”

  “Sisters, ward yourselves! I sense a—”

  Eric glared at the snarling specter, sensing ancient hate that transcended a single lifetime, Silver encrusted malice in the form of a Contender’s disease eager to infect and feast and claim yet another pitiable soul.

  It was a pustulant seed Eric would happily crush under his metaphoric feet. Yet he knew damn well that a powerless coreless Contender, now as weak as any mortal, had no hope of defeating a Silver-Tier specter.

  And it’s cold laughter made it clear that it knew it as well.

  “Soon, you foul pup. Soon I will claim you and feast once more! The greedy vulture spirit beast you claim couldn’t help but gorge on the feast before it. Meat I infected with my plague! Meat that you must leave to rot until another fool comes to feast! And then I will rise up once more, for I am Mo—”

  “Repudio!” Eric snarled, the air ringing with the weight and authority of Dominion’s Wrath instantly abjuring the howling taint, shattering the ritual circle and sending the tiny coven lurching back, crying out in shock and dismay as Eric drowned in darkness once more.