He’d have vastly preferred being alone with Elowen.
“You sniveling worm!” he snarled, wiping the blood from his mouth and bringing his sword up in a position ready to attack. “I’ve sent men to the Hells for less!” Greg could feel the searing heat of Petar’l’s red-hot anger from where he stood. Or possibly that was the searing heat of his flaming magic sword. Either way, Greg believed him.
The rest of his gang moved to the side, out of the combat theater, and took Elowen with them. She followed, slowly, one hand clasping the opposite wrist as she looked back over her shoulder and locked eyes with him for one fleeting, wistful second. Her eyes went down, then forward again in a silent goodbye.
Greg balled up his fists. He didn’t have a weapon. He wasn’t wearing any armor. He hadn’t been in a fight since the 7th grade. But he’d be damned if he let anyone treat Elowen like that. He might be damned either way.
CHARACTER SHEET
Petar'l Velyar
Race: Elf
Class: Thief
Subclass: Assassin
Level: 4
Vitality: 125 (125)
Essence: 50 (50)
Might: 10
Agility: 40
Fortitude: 20
Intellect: 20
Cunning: 40
Willpower: 25
Charisma: 30
Manipulation: 40
Appearance: 45
A lethal wisp of Elven precision, moving like poetry written in someone else’s blood. If he speaks to you, it’s probably your last conversation.
Greg examined the stats in the preview window. They looked bad. Or good, actually, which was bad for him. His armor looked serious and his blade was clearly no joke. The guy was a real-deal adventurer and a seasoned one at that, if he was Level 4. Fighting monsters and clearing out dungeons; risking life and limb on a regular basis, that kind of thing.
A dialogue menu appeared.
- May your friends greet you in hell!
- Sorry!
Greg met Petarl’s enraged eyes with a steely determination and selected his own dialogue.
“Fuck you, dude.”
The fight began.
Petar’l was an Assassin, and he clearly had magical gear, so Greg knew he had to be ready for anything. He might disappear and reappear right behind him. Or shoot out blood-sucking whip lashes or turn into a panther made of smoke. This guy had an army of tricks up his sleeve, Greg suspected, and shit was about to epic-level crazy in here.
Petar’l used Basic Attack… (hit).
Greg was hit for 27 piercing damage.
Petar’l defeated Greg.
Greg is wounded by a mortal blow.
No healing potion. No cure spell. No reload. This is what dying felt like. It felt a lot like getting stabbed through the gut and bleeding to death on a filthy tavern floor.
He wasn’t sure how it happened, but Greg was on his back now. He stared at the ceiling and made himself comfortable. He could still see Petar’l standing above him, spitting in disgust. He couldn’t feel it land on his face. He wondered what death even meant in this world. Would he wake up back on Earth? Or maybe it would reload to this morning, and he could do the whole day differently. It didn’t feel like it was about to reload, though. It felt like his life was seeping out of him and into the floorboards, where no amount of scrubbing would ever really get it out.
Scraps and echoes of his life flashed before his eyes. Moments blew by him like leaves in the wind, but he couldn’t hold onto them for long. His father laughing at something on the TV. His mother throwing a sock into the bathtub instead of the laundry hamper. Riding bikes to school. His first dance. Meeting Lydia. Graduating from college. Losing Lydia. A job interview. Logging into Microsoft Teams. Completing a Jira ticket. Waking up in Blucliffe. Fighting that damn chicken. All of it had led him here, to this moment. To getting run through by an angry gothic elf.
I’ve wasted my life, Greg thought. I wasted it on Earth, and I wasted it here... and now I’m just wasted.
The shock was starting to wear off and the pain in Greg’s belly blossomed from a dull, seismic ache to a volcanic symphony of searing-hot pain. The blade was magic-touched, surely, and probably poisoned as well. As much as he was enjoying the chance for genuine self-reflection, Greg wished he would hurry up and die.
But the pain wouldn’t let him die peacefully. It pulsed brighter and sharper, dragging him back into a body he no longer wanted to inhabit. For once, he didn’t shove the feeling down. He let it burn through him. He let himself feel the pathetic shape of his life, both here and on Earth.
He’d always been clever. Always been the kid teachers said had “so much potential.” And every time he fell short, every late assignment, every dropped hobby, every abandoned dream… he’d told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t care. That quitting was easier than failing. He had built an entire identity around shrugging off things that scared him, until eventually the only thing left of him was the shrug.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Here in Blucliffe, he had told himself he was relaxing. Enjoying the simple life. Taking a break. But the truth was unmistakable now, as blood pooled warm beneath him:
He had just been hiding.
He had hidden in normal life, hidden in this world, hidden from every chance to be something more. And now, at the actual End of Everything, he finally understood the shape of the void he’d carved into himself. All that wasted potential. All that wasted time. A life full of things he could have done and just didn’t.
If I had just tried, Greg thought. If I had just once pushed myself, instead of running… God, I could have been so much more. Even here. I could have been smart about it. I could’ve learned. Adapted. Gotten better. I could’ve-
The thought caught in his chest. A knot of longing unraveled into a cathartic release of open despair.
If I had another chance, he thought, swallowing copper and regret. Just one chance… I’d try. I’d really try this time. With everything I have. I swear I would.
His vision dimmed at the edges, figures shrinking into silhouettes and then a blur. Darkness crept over him like a slow-closing curtain.
Greg wasn’t afraid. He was furious with himself.
Not at dying. That felt like a pretty appropriate outcome for this series of events. But at never truly living. At never giving his own potential even a single honest attempt. At the unbearable, agonizing certainty that he could have been something special… if he had tried.
His vision started to blur and fade. The circle of villains began to recede, only Elowen remaining above him, looking down mournfully. He tried to reach for her, but his arm did not respond. He tried to call her name, but when he opened his mouth, only blood came out.
And then, he died.
* * * ?_? * * *
Elowen used Spark of Life
Greg recovered 16 Vitality
The resurrection spell felt better than cold aloe gel on a sunburn.
Greg’s body lifted from the dirt-and-blood-soaked floor, suspended and bathed in a glowing, golden light. His blood seemed to pour back into him, his heart pumping anew as the flesh of his ghastly wound closed again tightly, like there was never a scratch.
For a moment he stayed hovering at the apex of his ascent, before slowly lowering to the ground. As the glow around him faded, Greg could have sworn he heard angelic music receding as well. He found himself standing in the tavern again, staring at his own stomach in disbelief.
A thin swirl of magic still trailed from where his wound had been to Elowen’s extended finger.
Greg blinked hard, still not convinced he was standing, breathing, seeing. When he finally looked up, Elowen stood before him exactly as she had in his final moments: silver hair tousled, freckles dusting cheeks too tired for their age, green eyes bright with concern she was trying (and failing) to hide.
“You’re alive,” she breathed, relief softening the rigid line of her shoulders.
Greg swallowed. “Fuck, it looks like it.”
“Greg.” She stepped closer, her voice low and serious. “That was very brave. And profoundly stupid.”
He opened his mouth, but she held up a finger, the same finger that had just rewound his mortality like a cassette tape.
“Please,” she continued, “stop helping me. You do not know what you’re walking into, and I cannot be distracted trying to keep you safe.”
There was no anger in her tone. That somehow hurt worse.
Greg stared at her, searching her expression for mockery, disappointment, anything. What he found instead was something unexpected: fear. Of him or for him?
“I couldn’t just let them—”
“Yes,” she said softly, “you could have. Most people would have. And I wish you had.” She looked away for a moment, jaw tightening as though bracing against memory. “People around me tend to die, Greg. Don’t add yourself to the list.”
Greg, still wobbly on his newly reconstituted organs, managed a weak smile. “Too late?”
Elowen exhaled a breath that was half frustration, half something else entirely, and shook her head.
“You’re a clown,” she murmured. “Don’t do anything else stupid. I’m not wasting another spell on you.”
Greg realized this was the longest conversation they’d had since they’d known each other, just in time for Petar’l to storm over and ruin it.
Petar’l let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes so hard it looked like he might sprain something. “Gods, Elowen,” he drawled, wiping Greg’s blood from his blade onto the hem of Greg’s own shirt. “You resurrect the man and then scold him? You truly never change.”
Elowen’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t rise to the bait.
“Always the same,” Petar’l continued, circling her with a predator’s ease. “Worrying about everyone. Hoping the world will be kind if you are. It’s so adorable. And pointless.”
He flicked his gaze toward Greg, curled protectively around his newly healed stomach. “This one earned his death. His life is a tragedy, and I was merciful to end it so swiftly. What do you want, Elowen? A world where no one ever gets hurt?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
Petar’l barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “And that,” he said, tapping her breastplate as if she were a stubborn child, “is why you will never survive it.”
Behind him, the rest of his crew were already gathering their gear, muttering uncomfortably. Thud jerked his chin toward the door. “Boss?”
“We’re leaving,” he spat. “We can camp outside the dungeon, better than this hellhole anyway,” he continued, sheathing his sword with a clean metallic snap. “Besides, Elowen will be happy to provide us with the comforts of home, I’m certain. Isn’t that right, Elowen?”
He stepped back, offering Elowen a mocking little bow, equal parts elegance and insult.
“Come now, little lamb,” he commanded, and she fell in at his side.
Greg felt the fury within him flickering again. Jistos and Todd gathered up their packs and started drinking out of any unattended mugs laying around. The dwarf, Doran, was already out the door and the half-elf Nars shot only a quick backward glance before following.
The heat in Greg’s chest kept rising. Not the dull, shapeless frustration he’d carried his whole life, but something sharper, cleaner, forged in pain and clarity. Dying had shown him exactly what doing nothing would earn him. Now that he was back, he felt different. Like he'd learned a lesson, although he wasn't sure if it was the right one. As Petar’l and his gang strode for the door, Greg pushed himself upright, jaw clenched, and realized with startling clarity that he wasn’t going to let them walk away. Not after everything he’d just bled, broken, and clawed his way through.
“Hey asshole,” Greg managed to croak through his terror.
Petar’l froze in his tracks, unsure whether to laugh or to scream. He took a beat to measure himself and then turned slowly to face Greg again.
“You really want to waste your second chance, commoner?”
A dialogue menu appeared.
- My life isn’t the one in danger anymore. Yours is.
- I didn’t come back from the dead to let you walk out unscathed. Try me.
- Before you leave, I need something from you: your dignity. Hand it over.
- I will absolutely run away after this sentence, but you’re still going to hear it.
Greg took hold of the fury inside of him and brushed the dialogue options away. He knew exactly what he was going to do this time. He knew exactly what to say.
“Fuck you, dude”.
He had a new notification.
Surprise Attack!
Thud used Unarmed Attack… (hit).
Greg was hit for 16 bludgeoning damage.
Thud defeated Greg.
Greg is knocked unconscious.