I woke up to the sensation of hot breath on my face and the vague smell of blood, cinnamon, and something that had definitely pissed on a wizard’s robe.
I opened one eye. The glowing fox was still there.
It stared back with all three of its glowing, fox-shaped eyes. No blinking. No twitching. Just that predator gaze like it was deciding whether my intestines would pair better with morning dew or mushroom gravy.
"Good morning!" Sir Galrik bellowed at full hero volume, slapping a frying pan onto a rock like it owed him money.
I flinched so hard the fox yawned. Yawned. Not moved. Not ran. Just yawned, like "This prey is beneath me."
Lilith kicked dirt into the fire and glared. "Can we eat something that doesn’t scream this time?"
Mister Fog floated by upside down, gnawing on a biscuit. "It only screamed because you cooked it wrong."
"I cooked it exactly right," Lilith snapped.
"Exactly wrong," he sang, and somersaulted through a branch like a haunted balloon.
Meanwhile, I was still trying to remove myself from under the fox without losing a kidney. "Um. Anyone want to... help me with the thing that may or may not be about to snack on my soul?"
Sir Galrik walked over, took one look, and grinned like an idiot. "Oh, you’ve made a spirit bond! Very rare. Very sacred."
"What does that mean?!"
"It means that beast has claimed you. Body, mind, and — probably — soul."
I froze. "Claimed me how?"
"Difficult to say. Could mean it sees you as a companion, a protector, a snack that’s not ripe yet..."
"WHAT?!"
"Don’t worry," he said, waving it off. "As long as you don’t make eye contact or break its trust, you’ll be fine!"
The fox sneezed directly into my mouth.
[New Condition Acquired: "Mystic Rabies"]
You’ve been infected with a spiritual illness known only to apex predators and unlucky bards. Symptoms include: glowing fingernails, accidental summoning, uncontrollable sobbing, and slight immortality.
Duration: ???
Cure: None. Probably.
"I need a doctor," I choked, rolling away as the fox finally trotted off like it had better idiots to haunt.
"We don’t have doctors," Lilith said, sharpening her scythe without looking up. "We have Mister Fog."
I turned. "Mister Fog, I need healing."
Mister Fog was licking a rock.
"I’m busy," he said.
"I might be dying!"
He floated closer, poked my forehead with one glowing finger, and squinted. "Hmm. You’ve got... something. Might be spirit rabies. Might be soul worms. Could also just be indigestion from all the trauma."
"That doesn’t help!"
He nodded solemnly. "Then I’ve done my job."
Sir Galrik clapped me on the back — I saw stars and one potential ancestor — and beamed. "Come! The road to destiny awaits!"
"I can’t feel my spleen!"
"Then you won’t miss it!"
And just like that, we were moving again. Through the woods. Past murder trees and singing rocks and one bush that tried to bite Lilith. She bit it back.
I staggered behind them, holding my ribs, glowing slightly, and trying to remember why reincarnation was supposed to be cool.
[New Title Acquired: "Burden Bearer"]
You carry everyone’s bags because no one else wants to.
Strength -1. Dignity -10.
Bonus: Your knees now creak louder than your will to live.
I now carried:
One cursed scythe (Lilith’s)A teapot Mister Fog said was "sentient but chill"And a bag full of what Sir Galrik called "battle snacks," which looked suspiciously like raw meat and a brick of what might’ve been cheese, or soap.
After an hour, my arms were shaking, my feet were bleeding, and I was pretty sure my shadow winked at me.
"Are we close to a town?" I asked.
Sir Galrik laughed. "No."
Lilith snorted. "We left the last town because someone summoned a gelatinous priest."
Mister Fog shrugged. "He owed me money."
We continued marching through the forest like a traveling circus of trauma.
Every few steps, I tripped on a root, sneezed glowing glitter, or hallucinated the trees whispering insults at me. At one point I swear a squirrel threw a rock and yelled, "DO BETTER."
I was starting to think the world hated me on a molecular level.
Eventually, the trees gave way to a clearing — and a small wooden sign nailed to a stick that read:
WELCOME TO FLINCHVILLE
Population: Nervous
There was a second sign underneath it:
CURRENT THREATS:
Goblin FluBandits Who Are Too PoliteThe Wind (??)
Sir Galrik proudly stomped into town like he owned the place. I limped after him like a guy one sneeze away from reincarnating again. Lilith walked with her scythe resting lazily on her shoulder while glaring at everything with her usual don’t test me unless you want your soul inverted expression. Mister Fog hovered behind, playing chess with himself in mid-air. And losing.
The town was, in a word, pathetic.
A few crooked huts. A well that smelled like tears. A tavern called The Hiccuping Hag that leaned so hard to one side, I thought it was either drunk or cursed.
Everyone stopped and stared as we entered. A farmer dropped his bucket. A dog fainted. A small child pointed at me and whispered, "That one’s glowing. Like grandma before she exploded."
I gave a weak wave.
Sir Galrik put his hands on his hips. "Fear not, citizens! For we are here to protect you from whatever cowardly evil plagues this land!"
The mayor stepped forward. A very short man with a very large mustache that seemed to have absorbed half his face.
He bowed low. "Brave warriors! Thank the stars! Our town is in peril!"
"What sort of peril?" Galrik asked, sword already halfway unsheathed because he didn’t know how to relax.
"It’s... the well," the mayor whispered.
We all looked at the well.
It bubbled. Just a little.
Lilith squinted. "What’s wrong with it?"
The mayor leaned in, voice trembling. "It talks. It keeps asking about taxes."
Mister Fog’s head perked up. "What kind of taxes?"
"Emotional taxes."
"Oh no," Fog muttered. "It’s a sentient bureaucracy. This land is cursed."
Galrik clapped. "Aha! A cursed well! Just like in the prophecies!"
"What prophecies?" I asked, already stepping backward.
"The ones I just made up," he said proudly, marching over to the well.
Before anyone could stop him, he drew his sword and screamed, "UNHAND THESE VILLAGERS, YOU FILTHY PLUMBING DEMON!"
Then he stabbed the water.
The well screamed.
THE WELL. SCREAMED.
[Boss Battle: "Gregory, the Tax Well" – Initiated]
Type: Sentient Bureaucratic Horror
Weaknesses: Logic Loopholes, Fire, Student Debt
Warning: Has over 400 forms of psychological warfare
Gregory the Well roared: "DO YOU HAVE A RECEIPT FOR YOUR EXISTENCE?"
Galrik bellowed and charged. Lilith sighed and cracked her knuckles. Mister Fog whispered something eldritch that made the tavern sign cry.
Me?
I tried to run.
I got six feet before Gregory’s tax aura hit me.
[You have been inflicted with ’Filing Anxiety’]
You now question every decision you’ve ever made.
Movement speed -80%.
Self-esteem -999.
I collapsed face-first into the mud.
The last thing I heard before blacking out was Mister Fog yelling, "FUCK YOU, GREGORY!"