"Yeah," I say. "First time."
"Well, welcome," he says, then gestures around. "Market's that way if you need supplies. Inn's over there if you need a room. And stay out of the dark alleys if you know what's good for you."
He gives me a friendly nod and continues on his way.
I stand there, watching him go.
He was just... normal. A normal person giving normal advice. Not a scripted response. He actually looked at me, sized me up, and decided to be helpful.
This is too real.
I need to test this more. Make sure I'm not losing my mind.
I walk over to a merchant's stall. A woman is selling fruit—apples, oranges, some kind of purple berry I don't recognize. She looks up as I approach.
"Can I help you?" she asks. Her voice is warm, friendly.
"How much for an apple?" I ask.
"Two coppers," she says.
I pat my pockets. Empty. Of course they're empty. I didn't bring any money to the convenience store that morning. That morning when I died.
"I don't have any money," I say.
She shrugs. "Then I can't help you. Come back when you do."
Not rude, just matter-of-fact. She turns her attention to another customer who's actually buying something.
I step back, my mind racing.
This is real. The people are real. They have their own thoughts, their own motivations. They're not just standing around waiting for me to interact with them.
They have lives.
I'm actually in another world.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I'm not on Earth anymore.
I'm not in my apartment.
I'm not even dead in the normal sense. I'm here. In this place.
This impossible, medieval fantasy world.
And the goddess put me here.
To play her game.
I look around again, this time with a different perspective.
This isn't just a world. It's a trap. A beautiful, detailed trap designed to kill me over and over until I either complete whatever insane missions she has planned or lose my mind completely.
And somewhere in this town is the Sword of Beginning.
The objective of the first mission.
The thing I need to find to progress.
But I died five times trying to find it in the game. Five times.
And here, dying means losing something. I don't still get how, but it is still terryfying.
I feel a wave of panic rising in my chest. This is too much. I'm not ready for this. I'm just a college student who plays too many video games. I'm not a hero. I'm not special. I'm just—
"Mister?"
I jump, spinning around.
There's a little girl standing behind me.
She's small, maybe six or seven years old, with blonde hair pulled back into two neat pigtails tied with red ribbons.
She has big, bright blue eyes that look up at me with curiosity.
She's wearing a simple dress—faded blue with white flowers embroidered on the hem—and she's holding three balloons.
One red, one yellow, one blue, their strings clutched in her small hand.
She's adorable. The kind of kid you'd see in a wholesome children's book.
"Uh, hi," I say, my voice a bit shaky.
"Are you okay, mister?" she asks, tilting her head. "You look lost."
I glance around. A few people are watching us now, but most are going about their business.
"I..." I don't know what to say. "Yeah, I guess I am a bit lost."
Her face lights up. "Oh! I can help! My mama says I'm really good at helping people. I help lost people all the time!"
She beams at me with such genuine innocence that I feel some of my panic subsiding.
Maybe this world isn't all bad.
Maybe there are actually good people here. Good kids.
"That's really nice of you," I say, managing a small smile. "But I think I'll be okay. I just need to—"
A gust of wind blows through the square.
The strings slip from her hand.
"Oh no!" she cries out, her eyes going wide.
The balloons float upward, caught by the breeze, drifting away from her.
"My balloons!" she says, reaching up helplessly. "Mister, please! Can you help? You're taller!"
She looks up at me with those big, pleading eyes.
The balloons are drifting higher, but they're not that high yet. Maybe ten feet up. If I jump, I might be able to grab the strings.
Without thinking, I lunge forward.
"I got it!" I say, reaching up with both arms.
I stretch as high as I can, my hoodie riding up, exposing my stomach to the cool air. My fingers brush one of the strings—almost got it—
And then I feel it.
Something sharp. Cold. Pressing against my exposed skin.
And then pain.
White-hot, searing pain in my abdomen.
I freeze mid-reach, my arms still extended upward, my eyes going wide.
Slowly, I look down.
There's a knife sticking out of my stomach.
A small knife. Child-sized, with a wooden handle.
And the little girl is holding it.
She's right in front of me, her small hand gripping the handle, the blade buried deep in my flesh just above my belly button. Her face is no longer innocent and sweet.
She's grinning.
A wide, manic grin that shows all her teeth.
"Gotcha," she says in a sing-song voice.
"What—" I try to say, but the word comes out as a choked gasp.
She twists the knife.
The pain explodes. It's like nothing I've ever felt. Like my insides are being torn apart. I stumble back, grabbing at the knife, at her hand, at anything—
She pulls the knife out in one smooth motion.
Blood gushes from the wound. Hot. Wet. So much blood.
It soaks through my hoodie in seconds, dark red spreading across the gray fabric.
It drips down my jeans, pools around my sneakers on the cobblestones.
I press my hands against my stomach, trying to stop the bleeding, but it's useless.
The blood pours between my fingers, warm and sticky. I can feel it. All of it. The tearing. The bleeding. The dying.
"What the fuck," I gasp out. "What the fuck—"