Caleb scraped his palm against damp timber, the rough texture grounding him in this new reality. He clutched his ribs with his other arm, each shallow breath protesting.
Just need a minute to think.
The alley twisted ahead, leading to what looked like a small courtyard. Waterlogged crates, stained dark with mold, towered in stacks threatening to collapse. Refuse bins overflowed with the pulp of rotted vegetables and unidentifiable sludge. Good enough. A hole to crawl into while I figure out what fresh hell I've stumbled upon.
He splashed through puddles of things he didn’t want to identify, every movement a fresh inventory of pain. His throat ached from Rufan’s grip. A grinding friction in his ribs flared with each breath. And his dignity… that had fled the scene long ago.
He reached the back of the small courtyard and leaned against the wall. It felt solid against his back as he finally let himself slump. He exhaled in a shudder, part relief, part barely controlled panic.
Medieval fantasy world, new body, magic everywhere, and now I'm running from guards who kick children for fun. This is not what I had in mind when I was asking for help getting out of my midlife crisis.
The scrape of a boot on stone broke the stillness.
He caught voices from a darkened alcove near the courtyard's other entrance, their quiet tones carrying. Caleb froze. His heart hammered against his bruised ribs anew. Flattening himself behind a leaning stack of crates, he peered through a narrow gap.
Three adolescent elven boys lounged in the shadows, but they were unlike the elf woman he'd seen on the street. Pointed ears, yes, but their skin was all different shades of green. Mycari. One, a scrawny young man with greasy black hair, bounced on his toes as he spoke.
"You should've seen me!" he exclaimed, his voice high with excitement. "Shoved him right into that big puddle by the blacksmith's! He went down face-first!"
A heavier-looking boy next to him grunted something that might have been laughter. His blocky frame, topped with crudely cut, mud-brown hair, seemed almost a part of the grimy alley with how he blended in.
"You call that dominance?" the third voice challenged. "My ancestors would have made him beg for the honor of drowning."
The latest speaker stepped out of the alcove's deepest recess. Forest-green skin and jet black hair framed amber eyes that gleamed with malice. He spun a bone-handled dagger between long fingers.
Caleb locked up. [Perfect Memory] surged, unleashing a flood of Thal's life. A series of humiliations, of casual cruelties in the schoolyard, of being tripped in the market square. All of them perpetrated by this person.
Narbok Blackbriar.
The elf sneered. "My father taught me what true dominance is: lineage. There’s the strength you earn, and the strength you are. The Mistblood were strength made manifest. Instead of farming land like peasants, my ancestors harvested lives."
The other boys nodded, the scrawny one looking on in awe while the big one just seemed… disinterested.
Caleb thought fast. He was trapped. To get back to the street, he had to pass them. He pressed deeper into the darkness, making his breathing shallow, hoping they would quickly move on.
"Hey, I know!" the skinny one said. "We could hit Old Henrik's apple cart again—"
"Peasant mischief," Narbok said, cutting the air with one hand. He scanned the alley, his eyes seeming to pierce the murk. "I need a real challenge. Something worth my time."
He looked past Caleb’s hiding spot. For a long second, Caleb thought their eyes met. But Narbok looked away, turning back to his cronies. Caleb ducked down, vanishing from sight.
Footsteps soon clattered through the courtyard, moving away. They're leaving. This was his chance.
Caleb held his breath, counting the seconds. Waiting until their footsteps faded, before he slid from behind the crates. He moved on silent feet, keeping to the wall, his body aching with every step.
[New Skill Gained: Stealth (F) - Novice]
He flinched at the notification, terrified it had given him away. Shoving the thought and notification down, he moved toward the alley entrance. Freedom was just a few feet away.
"Well, well." The voice mocked from behind him. "The dull-ear finally shows his face."
Caleb spun around. Narbok stood at the entrance to the alcove he’d just passed, dagger spinning lazily. Two other figures emerged from around the refuse bins, cutting off his escape.
A trap! Of course it was a trap. How else would it have gone today? Caleb tried to calm his racing heart.
They're just kids. They’re just. Kids. Caleb forced himself upright, ignoring the stabbing protest from his ribs that sent fresh jolts of fire through his battered frame.
Opening his mouth, he had English words at the ready; what came out was a lilting sound drawn from Thalorin's memory. The language flowed with borrowed ease, Thalorin's knowledge steering his tongue.
"Hey fellas, lovely day for loitering, isn't it?" The casual words emerged in what he identified as the common tongue. Each syllable felt both foreign and familiar: his mind hadn't chosen the words, but his mouth shaped them without hesitation. "I'll just be on my way."
His words fell flat. Narbok laughed, and the dagger never stopped spinning. “Loitering, he says. Tell me half-breed, did your mother teach you that big word before she got herself killed? Or does your drunk father mumble them between bottles?”
The other boys snickered, tightening their circle. The smaller one, a boy Thalorin's memories called Finn, danced back and forth with barely contained eagerness. The other, Durk, cracked his knuckles menacingly.
Annoying, racist kids, but still kids. There's a fight brewing I want to avoid, but escape is something I can handle. I played a little football in high school. I'll just bull-rush the small one and—
Caleb lunged toward Finn, counting on his height advantage. Except his sixteen-year-old muscles didn’t respond like forty-year-old instincts demanded, and he moved slower than he needed to.
Durk swept his leg out casually, catching him from the side. The world tilted and the alley floor met his jaw with a crack that rattled his skull. He scraped his knees and palms raw against stone slick with things that didn’t bear thinking about.
Before he could process the shock, Narbok drove his boot into Caleb's ribs.
As the kick connected, his side flared in splintering agony, stealing his breath and scattering his thoughts. His body’s instincts, Thal’s instincts, took over. He curled inward, making himself small, waiting for the beating to end.
No.
Defiance stirred through the pain, and he shoved the fear response down. The grown man inside him, the one who had dealt with obnoxious subordinates and infuriating clients, took control. This was just a different, more violent form of conflict resolution.
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I am not going to be taken out by some brats. This is just pathetic. Get up!
He earned another chime and notification:
[New Skill Gained: Ignore Pain (F) - Novice]
The useless text flared in his vision and splintered his focus. A costly lapse.
Finn smashed his fist into Caleb’s jaw, scattering coherent thought. Light flashed behind his eyes as he tasted blood on his tongue.
He struggled to his feet as he continued to weather Finn's onslaught. He tried to block, to dodge, to do something, but his initial movements were a mess of misjudged distances and tangled limbs.
Yet, even as he failed, he felt a strange, intuitive process firing in the back of his mind. [Savant of the Body] was online, processing every failure as a data point. The sting of a fist on his cheek taught his body the exact distance to keep. A clumsy block taught his arms the proper angle for the next attempt. He was a learning machine running on pain and panic.
Durk grabbed a fistful of hair from behind, yanking Caleb's head back. Stale onions wafted off Durk as he leaned in, grinning. "Not so tough now, are you?"
Another kick to his lower back sent him sprawling face-first once more. He gagged on the gritty pulp of rotting cabbage and old cooking grease. Rough hands flipped him over and Narbok drove his knee down into Caleb’s sternum, driving out what little air remained. The point of the bone-handled dagger pressed against his cheek.
"This is what happens to half-breeds who forget their place."
Like hell!
Caleb shot his arm up, desperately knocking the blade away. Bucking and twisting, he managed to squirm out from under Narbok’s leg. His body protested every movement, but the new Skill, [Ignore Pain], muted the agony to a manageable level. Almost like watching someone else hurt.
He forced himself upright on shaking legs, fists raised in the closest thing to a boxer's guard that action movies had ever taught him. Narbok gave him no time to set his feet, lunging forward, fists blurring in a storm of strikes aimed at Caleb’s upper body.
Another strike connected with his jaw, snapping his head back and sending him stumbling into a wall. The rough stone scraped against his shoulder as he tried to keep his feet.
"What's wrong, dull-ear?" Narbok advanced confidently. "Can't even throw a proper punch?"
The elven boy was right. Caleb had no business wading into this world's casual violence.
Narbok punched him in the stomach this time, driving the air from his lungs. Caleb doubled over, gasping.
Focus Foster! Think! There has to be a way out of this!
Another blow came, this one aimed at his ribs. Caleb threw up his arm in a clumsy block, but the impact still sent shockwaves through his muscles. He bit back a cry at the fresh spike of pain.
"Pathetic," Narbok spat. The glob of saliva hit Caleb's cheek, mixing with the blood already trickling from his nose. "Your human blood makes you weak."
The next punch came fast, but something was different. Whether it was desperation honing his senses, or his body finally learning how to move, Caleb saw it coming. He saw it clearly telegraphed: the way Narbok led with his shoulder on a slight dip, how his balance shifted to his back foot a fraction of a second too early.
He moved almost on instinct, arm rising to redirect the blow. He drove his forearm into Narbok’s wrist at just the right angle, sending the punch sliding past his ear. The motion felt strangely natural, as if some part of him had always known how to do it.
The chime returned, almost drowned out by the blood pulsing in his ears.
[New Skill Gained: Unarmed Deflect (F) - Novice]
Narbok blinked in surprise, but recovered quickly. His next attack came lower, a knee aimed at Caleb's midsection. This time, Caleb managed to twist sideways, letting the strike glance off his hip. It still hurt like hell, but he stayed on his feet.
[New Skill Gained: Dodge (F) - Novice]
“Lucky,” Narbok said, though he looked uncertain for just a moment.
The assault continued, but the chaos was beginning to have a pattern. Caleb's flailing became blocks. His stumbles became dodges. He was still a terrible fighter, but he was holding his own. When Narbok threw a wide, looping punch, Caleb brought both arms up, protecting his face by absorbing the impact across his forearms. The force still drove him back a step, but he kept his feet.
[New Skill Gained: Unarmed Block (F) - Novice]
Each new Skill notification flashed out, seeming to recognize the knowledge he was gaining as he grew more and more aware of what his body could do through each exchange.
Narbok growled at the continued failed strikes. The elf devolved from precise jabs to wild, predictable swings. He sacrificed form for brute force.
He's getting angry and it's making him sloppy.
Caleb ducked under a haymaker that whistled past his ear, the wind of it cool on his skin.
There!
And in that moment of near-miss, he caught one detail through the panic.
He's flat-footed, and his weight is all wrong!
Narbok was clearly off-balance.
This brat is just a common bully playing at being a warrior. He's not so much better at fighting than me that I can't get out of this.
Caleb was still getting hit, still accumulating bruises. But these observations restored something he'd started to lose: hope.
[New Skill Gained: Combat Analysis (F) - Novice]
When Narbok's next punch came, Caleb managed to deflect it while simultaneously stepping back and creating distance. The bully stumbled forward, off-balance again for just a moment.
“Stop dancing around!” Narbok said, spittle flying from his lips. “Fight me properly!”
But Caleb kept his distance instead. Survival was the only victory that mattered here. He kept moving, kept deflecting and dodging when he could, blocking when he couldn't. His body shuddered with each impact, but he pushed through the pain with grim determination.
The alley tilted and swayed. His legs had turned to stone, his arms to soggy pasta. But he remained upright, conscious, still battling in his own frantic fashion.
Finn lunged for him from behind, the hiss of his indrawn breath heralding the attack. Caleb pivoted, his body moving with new grace to slip the clumsy grab. He drove his shoulder into the smaller boy, sending him stumbling into Durk where they tangled into a heap and crashed to the ground, cursing.
“Useless!” Narbok growled as he brandished the dagger he'd retrieved, out for blood.
Caleb jerked back, feeling wind kiss his face as steel whistled past. Too close. Way too close. The pretense of a schoolyard fight was gone. These teenagers might actually try to kill him.
Through [Combat Analysis], he spotted an opportunity in desperation: a stack of rotting crates leaning drunkenly against the wall. The bottom supports were already compromised, the wood soft with moisture and decay.
He feinted left, drawing Narbok's attention. The older boy took the bait, eyes glaring as he tracked the false movement. Caleb sprinted right, rounding the stack of crates and then slamming his shoulder into it with every ounce of strength his battered body could muster.
Wood groaned. The entire structure swayed, teetered, then came crashing down in an avalanche of mold and debris.
Narbok roared as a crate caught him across the shins. Durk and Finn scrambled back, shielding their faces from flying splinters.
Caleb didn’t stay to admire his handiwork. Scrambling over the wreckage, wood tearing at his already-bloodied palms, he sprinted down a connecting alley he’d overlooked until now. He moved with newfound coordination, each step more certain than the last.
“Run, coward!” Narbok roared behind him. “There isn’t an alley in this village you can hide in! You’re dead!”
The threat followed him through the twists and turns, but Caleb didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. His only focus was on distance. Blessed, life-saving distance between him and his first taste of real violence.
He burst onto a marginally wider street, lungs burning and heaving with each stride. Every part of him hurt despite the pain-dulling skill. He steadied himself against a wall, bloodied palms leaving red smears on his torn shirt.
But he was alive. Battered, bruised, but breathing.
The blue windows still hovered at the edge of his vision, patient and somehow ominous. Game rules in a world that clearly didn't play games. Skills gained through desperation rather than grinding experience points.
Caleb stared at the floating notifications, his mind latching onto a recognized concept. Game system. Stats. Skills. Just like Jack's endless RPGs.
He closed his eyes, focusing inward. “Status,” he said through split lips. Nothing happened. He tried again, louder. “Status.”
The street remained silent, indifferent to his command.
"Character Sheet. Menu. Open Stats." Each phrase came more excitedly than the last, memories of Jack's game terminology flowing through his mind.
His commands yielded only the taste of blood and the distant sounds of pursuit. One more barrier between him and survival in this world. He could see the Skills he'd gained but couldn't access or understand them.
His hands shook as adrenaline began its inevitable retreat, leaving only reality in its wake. Suburban life had shaped him for performance reviews and school pickups. Back-alley knife fights with bloodthirsty elf children were a different curriculum entirely. His corporate skillset of spreadsheet navigation and meeting survival was laughably useless here.
I need to learn. Fast. Or I won't survive long enough to figure out my new life here.
Somewhere behind him, he could hear angry voices and the crash of debris being kicked in frustration.
Caleb pushed off from the wall and forced his aching body into motion. He needed to find somewhere safe. Somewhere to think. Somewhere to figure out how a man who had given four decades to avoiding conflict was going to survive in a world that seemed built on it.
The street ahead branched in three directions. Behind him, the sounds of pursuit grew closer.
He splashed through puddles that reflected a village he didn’t recognize, under a sky whose blue coloring looked slightly wrong.
Every step took him further from anything resembling home. He fought back a memory of Evelynn’s face. He couldn't think of her now. Couldn't think of any of them. To remember was to break, and he couldn’t afford to break here. Not with Narbok's promise echoing off the stone walls. Not with blood in his mouth and Skills appearing in his mind like gifts from a cosmic vending machine.
The street curved ahead, leading deeper into the village. Caleb followed it, driven by momentum and the animal need to survive.