I realized something was wrong before I even opened my eyes.
The floor beneath me was rough. Cold. Stone. Not my bed. Not my apartment. Not home.
I opened my eyes to a blue sky—too blue, too bright, like someone had turned up the saturation.
I thought I died.
What's going on?
I pushed myself up. Around me lay an abandoned village. Stone walls reduced to rubble. Homes hollowed out. Cobwebs draped across doorways like funeral veils.
Where am I?
I dusted myself off and turned in a slow circle. The village was deserted. No people. No animals. Just broken buildings and the wind whistling through empty windows.
Then I heard them.
"Guys—I smell something."
I spun around.
A group of five men stood at the edge of the ruined street. Their clothes were torn, stained, hanging off gaunt frames. Each carried a weapon—rusty blades, cracked spears, a hammer that looked more like a rock tied to a stick.
The one in front had face paint smeared across his cheeks and a bronze pitchfork clutched in his hands. He was shorter than the others but moved like he was in charge.
"This one's bigger than our last prey," he said, his voice raspy like he'd been swallowing gravel.
I stepped back. My breathing changed—shallow, quick, like my body knew something my mind hadn't caught yet.
"Who are you?" My voice came out shakier than I wanted.
The leader walked closer. His chest was bare, covered in intricate red tattoos that spiraled across his pale skin. A rough beard framed his sunken face. His eyes were hungry.
"You see, we're here to help you." His accent was thick—almost Irish, almost something else. "Heard a commotion. Thought you might need assistance."
"Where am I?" I stepped back again. "Who are you people?"
The man's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was iron. His fingers were bony but strong—stronger than they had any right to be.
"Oohhh, a healthy one." His mouth curled into a smile. His teeth were yellow. Broken. "You'll feed all of us for days."
I tried to pull away. His grip tightened.
"Running prey." His tongue ran across his lips. Drool gathered at the corners of his mouth. "I like that, my boy. Haven't eaten in days, you see. And you—" his eyes crawled over me, "—you're probably the tallest man I've ever met."
I didn't think. I just moved.
My knee drove into his groin. Hard. His feet left the ground. His grip released. He crumpled.
I ran.
"DON'T LET THAT BASTARD RUN! KILL HIM!"
I didn't look back. I just ran. The sound of their boots pounded behind me—closer than I wanted, farther than I feared.
A house. Intact. The door was wooden. Old. Solid.
I crashed through it and slammed it shut behind me.
The room was dark. Dusty. The air was thick and stale. My eyes adjusted.
Weapons lined the walls. Swords. Spears. Lances. Axes. A collection of death, gathering dust.
And then I saw it.
A sword longer than all the others. Massive. Heavy. Resting on a cracked stone pedestal like it was waiting for someone to claim it.
My hand reached for it before my mind caught up.
The blade was cold. Rusted. Older than anything I'd ever held.
The door shuddered behind me.
"We know you're in there, big boy!" A voice, laughing. "Come out! We don't bite—we devour!"
My heart pounded. Louder. Faster. Harder. Like it was trying to escape my chest.
My vision blurred. My mind fogged.
Then—black.
---
Brooklyn. America. Rush hour.
I was walking home from work. Tired. Dragging. The streets were packed—people heading home, people heading to night shifts, everyone moving, no one looking up.
6pm. Maybe later. My boss had kept me late again. A meeting that could have been an email.
People parted around me like I was a rock in a river. Some stared. Some whispered. An old man stopped me with a hand on my arm.
"Wow, you're really tall. You play basketball?"
"No, sir. Just an office worker."
He laughed and walked away.
Ahead, a little girl stood in the middle of the road, chasing a ball. A car was speeding toward her.
No one else noticed.
No one else moved.
"Crap."
I ran.
I pushed her out of the way.
I looked at the car.
Then—white.
---
I gasped back to consciousness. The air was different. Wrong.
I was outside. The house was behind me. The door was splintered.
I looked down.
A severed head stared back at me.
"AARRGGHH!"
I kicked it. It bounced across the cobblestones, rolling to a stop against a broken cart.
I looked around.
Bodies. Twisted. Mangled. Torn apart. The men who had chased me—the five of them—lay scattered across the street. Their blood painted the stones. Their weapons lay broken beside them.
I dropped to my knees and vomited.
What happened?
What did I do?
The claymore lay in front of me. Covered in blood. Rust flaking off the blade, replaced by something darker. Something deeper.
I tried to lift it. It was heavy—maybe ten kilos. My arms shook. I couldn't hold it for more than a few seconds.
If I couldn't lift the sword... how did I kill them?
"You're finally awake."
I spun around, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
An old man stood at the edge of the street. He wore battered armor—dented, scratched, scarred by a hundred battles. A sword hung at his hip, smaller than my claymore but sharper. More dangerous.
"Who are you?"
"Easy, young man." He crossed his arms, unbothered by the corpses around him. "I'm just checking up on you."
He tossed a package toward me. I caught it on instinct.
"Sweet bread. You look hungry. Sit down. Rest."
I stared at him. "Why are you helping me?"
"You literally killed seven cannibals with a claymore you can barely lift." He sat down beside me, reaching for the sword. "Call it chivalry. I have a soft spot for the hopeless."
He picked up the claymore with one hand. No effort. No strain. Like it weighed nothing.
The blade began to glow.
The rust flaked away. The metal underneath was dark—navy blue, almost black. The leather hilt was worn but solid. At the base, a pommel shaped like a dragon's head gleamed in the fading light.
"What is this?" I whispered.
"I'm helping." The old man turned the blade in his hands, studying it. "This sword is mithral. Quite rare."
"What's mithral?"
He stood and swung the blade in a slow arc. It cut the air like it was born to do it. "You'll see."
He handed it back to me. The weight was the same—heavy, awkward—but different now. Like it was waiting.
"This sword seems valuable."
"It is." He dusted himself off. "And it seems like you're one of them."
"One of what? What are you talking about? Where am I? Who—"
"My name is Draka." He turned toward the dark forest at the edge of the village. The trees were black against the gray sky. Impossibly tall. Watching.
"Draka of Drakva." He looked back at me, his eyes hard, ancient, tired. "The Berserker."
He started walking toward the trees.
"If you want to survive..." He didn't look back. "...follow me."