Aleric was still processing everything. His mind felt like a crowded room where everyone was shouting at once.
Athena — Goddess of Wisdom and War — had agreed to stand beside him. She did not kneel, nor did she submit. She chose to stand next to him. The word carried a weight he wasn't sure he was ready to carry. It implied a level of expectation that made his stomach do a slow, nervous flip.
And somehow, that alone shook him more than the monsters, the summoning, or the well inside his chest. The power was an abstract terror; Athena was a very real, very sharp reality.
He blinked and realized she was still watching him, eyes sharp and analytical, as if she were dissecting every flaw in his posture, every tremor in his breath. He felt like a specimen under a microscope.
He stepped closer, flustered, wiping a smudge of dirt from his new leather bracers.
"I— You don't have to look at me like that. I know I'm weak. I'll fix that."
"See that you do," she replied evenly, her voice devoid of pity.
She straightened to her full height, spear and shield settling into her hands with the ease of someone who had held them for millennia. The bronze plates of her armor caught the fractured sunlight, casting warm reflections across the forest floor. She looked like a statue come to life, terrifyingly perfect.
From above, Sofia descended in a silent arc, wings barely disturbing the air. She landed upon Athena's shoulder with predatory grace. The owl's talons made a faint clack against the bronze pauldron.
"You returned swiftly," Athena said. "What do you have to report."
The owl's golden eyes flicked briefly toward Aleric, measuring him with unsettling intelligence. He felt judged by a bird, and the worst part was that the bird seemed right to do so.
Athena noticed. "You may speak freely. His path is now entwined with mine."
Sofia dipped her head. "Mistress… approximately forty kilometers northwest lies a dirt road. It looked recently used. Carriage tracks remain pressed into the dry soil. However, the surrounding region is not safe."
Athena's gaze sharpened. "What did you see?"
"I observed large hounds. Their bodies emitted heat that distorted the very air. Their fur moved like flame. I have not seen such creatures before."
Aleric muttered under his breath, the terminology of a dozen RPGs surfacing in his mind. "That sounds like Hell-hounds…"
Sofia continued. "Near the road, bipedal figures were shambling about. They did not react to my presence as I flew overhead." She hesitated. "And ten kilometers east of the road… there is something else."
Athena's posture shifted subtly, a predator sensing a rival. "Did you approach?"
"No. The sensation alone was sufficient warning. Had I flown closer, I do not believe I would have made it back."
Silence followed, heavy and thick with the implication of a threat that could scare a divine familiar.
"That is enough," Athena said. "Well done."
Sofia fluffed her feathers, pleased.
Aleric rubbed his chin, his mind racing to categorize the impossible. "Shambling humanoids that ignored your overhead flight… probably undead."
Athena glanced at him. "What makes you think so?"
"I'm just going by probability," he answered. "On Earth, in most myth and fantasy settings, creatures like that are undead. Usually they would be the lowest-tier threats. Some would call them predictable."
"And the hounds?"
"Probably Hell-hounds. They are pack animals that have a high fire affinity. They usually have an aggressive pursuing behavior. They don't usually stop until they catch their prey."
Athena studied him more carefully now, as if seeing a new kind of tool in his kit. "You apply fictional information to reality."
"It's still pattern recognition," he replied, shrugging slightly. "Even if what they said on earth is wrong, it's still better than no information at all."
A pause lingered between them. "You may prove useful after all."
He tried not to grin, but a small, boyish sense of pride flared in his chest.
Athena turned back to Sofia. "What is the likelihood of contact if we approach the road?"
"The hounds were moving away. The undead on the other hand roamed near the road itself. I counted roughly twenty of them."
Athena nodded once. Then she looked to Aleric. "Should we avoid them or face them?"
He considered it carefully, weighing the fear in his gut against the need to grow. "If we avoid them, we might cross paths with the unknown presence or we can come face to face with the hell-hounds. At least the undead are predictable. I'd rather test myself against something we can anticipate."
Athena gave a small approving incline of her head. "Then it is agreed."
Her eyes then shifted to his stance. "Is this your first time wielding a sword?"
He scratched his cheek, feeling the unfamiliar stubble on his new jawline. "Is it obvious?"
"Even sheathed, you carry it like a borrowed tool. Your posture lacks familiarity and your hands show no callouses which shows me you have no history of training or fighting."
He sighed. "Fair."
"War and fighting is not theory," she said calmly. "It is execution. You will have to learn."
She stepped closer and tapped the flat of his short sword. The metal rang with a clear, cold note. "This is a close-range weapon. It has a limited reach, which means you will need precision. You will also need to strike decisively."
Her eyes locked onto his. "When you fight with this sword, aim for the throat, heart, or brain. Do not linger. You miss, step back and set yourself for an other strike."
She turned toward the trees. "If force fails, use the terrain. Roots. Elevation. Obstacles. The environment itself is a weapon."
Her voice hardened slightly. "I will draw the majority of them away. You will engage the rest."
Aleric swallowed, the lump in his throat feeling like a stone. "I understood."
Shortly after they moved.
The forest thickened as they advanced. Mud swallowed their boots in places. Roots twisted beneath moss like coiled serpents. Slick rock faces forced careful climbs. The air grew heavier, the scent of rot and damp earth intensified. Every step was a lesson in the reality of his new body.
His legs began to ache long before the second hour passed. The armor, though well-fitted, felt heavier with every incline, the straps chafing against his skin. His lungs burned more quickly than he expected, not used to sustained exertion under weight and tension. He realized with a jolt of frustration that having an athletic build didn't automatically mean great stamina.
Regardless of how uncomfortable it became, he said nothing. Athena did not slow. She moved through the brush like a ghost made of bronze.
Nearly three hours passed before Athena raised a hand. Aleric froze instantly, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
She tilted her head slightly. "They are ahead."
He heard nothing but the blood rushing in his ears. But he trusted her senses.
"I will divide them," she said quietly. "You eliminate what is left, just as we planned."
"Understood."
She vanished into the undergrowth like a blade slipping between armor plates.
Moments later, the forest erupted.
Shrieks. Splintering wood. The sharp percussion of divine steel striking corrupted flesh. The sounds were wet and violent, stripping away any lingering sense that this was a game.
Aleric exhaled slowly. Then ran.
He burst through the brush and reached the road. Four remained. Four. He stared. She had taken the rest in the time it took him to draw a breath.
His mouth went dry. Breathe. In. Out. He drew his sword.
The smell hit him first. Rot. Wet decay. Fungal sweetness layered over old death. It was a physical wall of stench that made his eyes water.
His stomach lurched violently. Don't you dare, he hissed to himself.
The first undead lunged. He flinched. Actually flinched. It was a humiliating, reflexive jerk of his body. Its claws scraped across his chest armor, sending him stumbling backward.
He was too slow. He swung wildly. The blade hit the collarbone and struck with a sickening, meaty thud. He yanked it free, spraying black, turgid fluid across his arm.
The second reached him. He tried to pivot but tripped on a hidden root. He hit the ground hard, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze.
One fell on top of him. Its breath flooded his face — hot, wet, rancid. It smelled like an open grave in midsummer.
He shoved frantically, the blade pinned between their bodies. Teeth snapped inches from his nose, yellowed and jagged.
"GET OFF!"
He jammed his forearm beneath its jaw to keep it back. Think. Use your environment. Athena's words echoed through the static of his panic.
He drove his boot into its knee and twisted. The rotting joint failed with a wet pop. It toppled just enough. He rolled free, scrambling backward through the dirt.
The other two closed in. Panic clawed at his throat. He forced himself up.
One lunged again. This time, he pivoted. It was a clumsy manoeuvre. The thrust struck ribs instead of the throat. It grabbed his shoulder. Pain exploded down his arm as it tried to pull him down. He headbutted it instinctively. Useless. Idiot. His forehead throbbed with a dull ache.
He shoved it backward, ripping the blade free. Claws raked down his thigh. The leather absorbed most of the damage. But not all. Heat flared from shallow cuts. The sting was sharp and grounding.
Four is too many.
He retreated deliberately now. He scanned his surroundings. There were rocks, roots before he saw it. A small depression near a tree. A hole. He moved toward it.
One charged. He stumbled intentionally. It followed. Its foot plunged into the depression. Its balance collapsed. It pitched forward.
This time, he did not hesitate. He drove the blade down through the base of its skull. The resistance of the bone gave way, and the creature went limp.
It went still. Three left.
Another slammed into him. They fell. His sword flew from his hand. Panic surged white-hot. The undead clawed at his face. He rolled violently and kicked upward. His heel cracked against its torso. It staggered.
He lunged for his sword. Fingers wrapped around the hilt just as the third crashed into him. They slammed into a tree. Stars burst across his vision. His back screamed in protest from the impact.
He stabbed blindly. Once. Twice. Again. The weight slumped.
Two left. Both advanced more slowly now almost out of cautiousness.
His arms trembled. His breath tore through his lungs. Winning is living.
He grabbed a fallen branch and hurled it into one's face. It distracted it for a heartbeat. He rushed the other. No wild slash this time. He tackled it into a rock outcrop. Its spine struck stone. Its head snapped back. He thrust upward through the eye, and it dropped.
One left.
The final undead seemed to hesitate. Aleric's legs shook violently. Blood soaked into his thigh, warm and sticky.
It lunged. He stepped into it and managed to grab its wrist. He pivoted awkwardly and nearly fell—But managed to redirect its momentum past him. He turned and drove the blade through the back of its skull with everything he had left.
It collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Then there was silence. Real silence.
Aleric stood there shaking, his chest heaving as he fought for air. Sweat stung his eyes. His lungs burned. His arms felt like lead. His thigh throbbed.
He had been sloppy, inefficient, and ugly. But he was alive. That was enough.
He closed his eyes briefly and felt the well inside him. It did not surge or roar. It remained vast and untouched. The violent pressure that had accompanied his earlier recklessness was absent now.
It felt steady now. It was as if the well was waiting, respecting the fact that he had fought his own battle.
He had not reached for it. He had fought with what he possessed and survived.
His grip on his sword was steadier.
Then, he remembered. Athena was still fighting. He hurried and ran in the direction of the fighting that could be heard in the distance.