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The trail stretched ahead, a faint ribbon of trampled grass threading through a wild expanse of gray-green plains. Gale walked steadily, the chipped dagger gripped in his right hand, its newly etched runes—Cut [?] and Sharp [?]—gleaming faintly under a sky thick with wispy clouds. A brisk wind tugged at his wrinkled button-up, the light blue fabric rippling against his chest, carrying a crisp bite that prickled his exposed forearms and chapped his lips. His sneakers—worn from Earth, laces fraying—crunched softly on the uneven ground, kicking up faint puffs of dust that mingled with the sharp, green scent of crushed blades. Beyond the swaying grass, dark hills rose, their slopes cloaked in a patchy quilt of pine and thorny scrub, needles glinting like emeralds against the muted browns of brittle twigs.
The sun hung high, a pale disc veiled by the cloud-strewn canopy, casting long, thin shadows from scattered boulders—gray hulks crusted with pale lichen, their surfaces pitted and smoothed by centuries of wind and rain. A subtle hum thrummed through the air, an undercurrent of energy that stirred the Divine Sigil on his forearm with a gentle, persistent warmth, like a coal buried under ash. His stomach growled, a low rumble that twisted his gut into a tight knot, and his throat rasped dry, the taste of dust lingering on his tongue. Water and food—he needed both, soon. The open plains had offered nothing but whispering grass and stone, and this new body, strong as it felt, wouldn’t run on willpower alone.
The trail dipped gently, the ground sloping into a shallow hollow where stunted trees clustered—gnarled oaks with bark like cracked leather, twisted hawthorns clutching a few stubborn, yellowing leaves that rattled in the breeze. A thin stream wound through the basin’s heart, its surface a ribbon of silver catching the midday light, gurgling over a bed of smooth, glinting pebbles. The sound rose above the wind’s soft howl, a musical trickle that promised relief. Gale eased down the incline, gravel skittering under his sneakers, the faint clatter swallowed by the rustling leaves overhead. Up close, the water ran shallow—barely enough to wet his soles—but clear, flecked with tiny stones that shimmered like polished glass in the current.
He knelt, setting the dagger on a flat rock beside him, its blade scraping the surface with a faint scritch. Cupping his hands, he scooped the stream’s offering—cold, sharp with a mineral bite that stung his palms—and brought it to his lips. The chill slid down his throat, soothing the dryness, leaving a clean, metallic aftertaste. He drank again, deeper this time, then splashed his face, droplets clinging to his messy brown hair and running down his stubbled jaw. The water rippled, reflecting a stranger’s face—hazel eyes sharper without glasses, a leaner frame than the one he’d left smeared on a crosswalk. “New me,” he muttered, a half-smirk tugging his lips as he shook the dampness from his fingers.
His stomach growled louder, a nagging ache that clawed at his focus. Water quenched one need, but food loomed larger now. The stream offered no easy bounty—no plump fish darted in its shallows, just a flicker of minnows too small to chase. The trees stood barren, their branches empty of fruit or nests. “Gonna have to get creative,” he said, voice low, wiping his hands on his jeans—faded at the knees, still clinging to Earth’s dust. The trail stretched onward, promising something—people, game, anything—but his gut demanded answers now.
He straightened, snatching the dagger, and froze. A new scent cut through the clean dampness of the stream—smoky, rich, the unmistakable tang of roasting meat. His nose twitched, stomach clenching with sudden, ravenous hunger. The breeze carried it from the hollow’s northern rim, where a faint wisp of gray curled above the skeletal branches, twisting into the sky like a beckoning finger. “Someone’s cooking,” he whispered, grip tightening on the dagger’s hilt. People might mean food, maybe allies—or trouble. Ninety-nine rivals lingered in his thoughts, but Runicar’s words echoed—they were far apart. This could be locals, or something stranger.
Gale crept forward, keeping low, sneakers pressing silently into the soft earth. The trees thinned, their gnarled limbs parting to reveal a clearing—a rough circle of trampled dirt framed by a low ridge of rocks, a smoldering fire pit at its heart. Three figures sprawled around it, and his breath hitched as a translucent window flickered into view:
[Enemy Identified: Kobold Scout]
<ul>
<li>Level: 2</li>
<li>Health: 30/30</li>
<li>Description: Small, reptilian humanoids with nocturnal habits. Weak alone, dangerous in packs. Known for ambush tactics and crude weaponry.</li>
</ul>
Kobolds. His pulse quickened, mind racing. Three of them, higher level than him, but the daylight dulled their edge—nocturnal, caught out of their element. Up close, they were grotesque, nightmarish despite their size. Barely three feet tall, their sinewy frames were sheathed in mottled, greenish-gray scales that glistened like a festering wound, slick with a sheen that caught the sun. Wedge-shaped heads jutted with snouts full of jagged, yellowed teeth—crooked and sharp, protruding past thin, cracked lips. Beady red eyes squinted against the glare, pupils slitted like venomous serpents, half-blind in the brightness. Clawed hands, tipped with black talons, clutched makeshift spears—sharpened sticks lashed with flint points, stained with old blood and crusted gore. One gripped a crude longsword, its blade nicked and broad, dragging in the dirt—too large for its wiry arm, a weapon meant for bigger hands. Tufts of coarse black hair sprouted from their scalps, matted with grime and flecks of dried flesh, and whip-like tails lashed lazily, stirring the dust with faint, dry scrapes.
The fire crackled, a skewered rabbit roasting above it, its fur singed to ash, flesh browning with a faint, fatty sizzle that sent tendrils of smoke curling upward. The aroma hit Gale like a punch—rich, gamey, maddening to his empty stomach. The kobolds chittered in guttural snarls, a cacophony of snaps and hisses that grated on his ears, their movements sluggish. One yawned, maw gaping to reveal a forest of needle-teeth, pinkish gums glistening with saliva and bits of old meat. Another scratched the ground with a claw, carving aimless furrows, while the sword-bearer poked the rabbit, its forked tongue flicking out to lick its snout, leaving a wet, bloody smear from some prior kill.
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“Dangerous in packs,” Gale murmured, ducking behind a hawthorn, its thorns snagging his sleeve. These weren’t cartoon lizards—they were predators, feral and vicious, their scales rippling like a plague over their flesh, reeking of rot and bloodlust. Three against one, even drowsy, could end him fast with just a dagger. But that rabbit called, and the sword gleamed—a longsword to them, a short sword to him, better than his rusty blade. His mind whirred, cleverness taking root. He didn’t need to fight head-on—not yet.
He slipped back, retreating to the stream’s edge, the gurgle masking his steps. “Ambush tactics,” he muttered, recalling the window. “Let’s turn it around.” Daytime was his advantage—their squinting eyes, their lethargy. The ground near the water glittered with loose stones—fist-sized, smooth from years of current. An idea sparked. Distraction, misdirection, guile. He pocketed two stones, their cool weight tugging his jeans, and checked his resources—two crystals, one from the valley, one fresh from his earlier test.
Back at the hawthorn, he peered again. The kobolds lazed, the rabbit’s scent taunting him. He gripped a stone, steadied his breath, and lobbed it westward, past the camp. It clattered against a boulder, a sharp crack slicing the air. The kobolds jolted, heads snapping toward the sound, red eyes narrowing. They hissed, snatching spears, and shuffled that way, tails thrashing. The sword-bearer growled, clutching its weapon, staying put.
“Two gone,” Gale thought, calculating. He tossed the second stone farther west, another crack. The sword-bearer snarled, hesitated, then lumbered after its kin, dragging the blade through the dirt. Gale darted forward, heart pounding, staying low as he reached the fire. The rabbit dangled, half-cooked, its heat searing his fingers as he yanked it free. He dropped behind a fallen log, clutching a crystal and the dagger, the meat’s warmth pressed against his chest.
The kobolds chittered, their hisses echoing from the trees, confusion in their snarls. Gale peeked—two scouts stabbed at shadows, flint tips glinting, while the sword-bearer sniffed, snout twitching. He snatched the dropped longsword—short for him, heavy but balanced, its hilt rough with leather scraps crusted in dried blood—and bolted east, sneakers pounding the earth, rabbit tucked under his arm. The glowing dagger lay abandoned, its light winking out in the grass.
A shriek tore through the air—high, guttural, a sound like tearing flesh. Gale glanced back, stomach dropping. The kobolds had wheeled around, red eyes piercing the daylight’s glare, locking onto him with predatory fury. Trained scouts, hunters—they weren’t letting him slip away. Two gripped spears, raised high, flint tips dripping with a dark, rancid ooze, while the swordless one bared its claws, glistening with filth. Their tails lashed, driving them forward, claws gouging the earth, faster than their camp-sloth suggested, a trio of death closing in.
“Shit,” Gale gasped, legs burning as he sprinted, the hollow’s edge a jagged line of rocks ahead. The stream’s gurgle faded under the wind’s howl and the kobolds’ wet, snarling breaths—close, too close. He had seconds, a frantic heartbeat to think. The short sword swung awkwardly in his grip—he didn’t know how to use it, not beyond panicked flailing that’d leave him gutted. Two spears, one clawed menace, all lethal. He needed a plan, now.
He stumbled behind a boulder—gray, slick with lichen, chest-high—and ducked low, breath heaving. The rabbit thumped to the dirt, the sword’s weight dragging his arm. “Lexicon,” he rasped, mind a whirlwind, willing the window open:
[Rune Lexicon]
<ul>
<li>Description: Contains the 1,000 most-used words in your native tongue (English), paired with their divine runes. Combine 2-5 words to craft effects, fueled by energy crystals. Sigil activation required.</li>
<li>Note: Full list accessible via mental query. Experimentation encouraged.</li>
</ul>
Words flashed—fight, strong, blade, know, help—a frantic scroll as snarls neared. “Sword… teach… me… use… better,” he muttered, piecing it together, cleverness clawing through panic. He pressed the crystal to the blade’s flat, hissing, “Sword Teach Me Use Well”—[? ? ? ? ?]—fingers trembling as he scratched the runes, jagged and sloppy. The Sigil flared, heat searing his arm, and the crystal melted into motes, sinking in with a crack. The sword pulsed, a jolt in his palm, and a sensation bloomed—not a vision, but a ghostly whisper, an instinct guiding his grip, his stance, whispering where to strike, how to block. No mastery, just a lifeline.
The kobolds rounded the boulder, shrieking, a chorus of guttural rage. A spear thrust, flint gleaming, and Gale swung, the ghostly nudge twisting his wrist. The blade met the shaft, splintering it with a snap, but the second spear lanced in, grazing his thigh—a hot, wet slash ripping through denim and flesh. Blood welled, dark and thick, soaking his jeans, pain exploding as he staggered. The unarmed kobold lunged, claws slashing, and Gale hacked, guided by the rune’s whisper—steel tore through its shoulder, scales splitting, black blood spurting in a rancid arc. It screamed, a wet gurgle, guts spilling as its arm dangled by a shred of sinew.
The spear-wielder thrust again, flint plunging toward his chest. Gale parried, the ghostly instinct tilting the blade, but too slow—claws raked his arm, tearing skin in bloody ribbons, muscle screaming. He roared, swinging wild, the sword biting deep into the kobold’s neck—flesh parted, bone crunched, a geyser of dark ichor painting the boulder. It collapsed, twitching, entrails leaking into the dirt. The last kobold—the swordless one—snarled, lunging with teeth bared, but Gale stabbed, guided again, steel punching through its chest. Scales shattered, ribs cracked, blood and bile bubbling as it fell, a limp, gory heap.
Gale sank to his knees, gasping, blood dripping from his arm and thigh, staining the earth a muddy red. The rabbit lay smeared in dirt and crimson, the short sword slick with gore. Pain throbbed, grim and real, but he’d survived. Windows flickered:
[EXP Gained: 75 (Combat Victory)]
[Skill Unlocked: Basic Swordsmanship (Rank 1)]
<ul>
<li>Description: Grants rudimentary proficiency with swords. Improves with use.
[Quest Received: Clear the Kobold Lair]</li>
<li>Objective: Locate and defeat the Kobold Leader.</li>
<li>Subquest: Eliminate all 37 Kobold Scouts.</li>
<li>Reward: Unknown.</li>
</ul>
He clutched the sword, its rune-etched whisper fading, leaving a faint echo of know-how. “Not… dead,” he croaked, tearing into the rabbit—hot, gamey, tainted with dirt and blood, but fuel. His wounds wept, the kobolds’ butchered remains stinking of rot and iron. This world was brutal, monstrous—and he’d carve his way through it.