Wait… no exit portal. No fast travel button. No glowing blue NPC saying "congrats, now fuck off back to the tutorial zone." Just me, a humming level 50 sword, endless ruined dragon architecture, and the creeping realization that I might be softlocked in the dragon realm forever while Bob turns Hattusa into a barbecue.
Hands shaking. Sweat pouring. Brain doing the classic isekai panic spiral:
Option 1: Climb down into the void after Uncle Infinite (hard pass).
Option 2: Fight The final boss of this area myself at level 20 with no party, no heals, and one fart poison sword from earlier (also hard pass).
Option 3: Kill myself and hope RNGSUS respawns me back in the city like a good little gacha game.
But real talk—if I die here doing jack shit for the religion, RNGSUS might just leave me in respawn hell with 0 believers and an eternity of 3 star pulls. Nah. Gotta think. Gotta use 100% of my smooth brain gamer knowledge.
Idea hits like a divine 0.01% pity pull: gamble on another god. Blasphemy speedrun, here we go.
I spot some ancient ruins across the horizon—massive archways, collapsed dragon scale roofs, hallways big enough to park a Boeing in. I hoverboard the Dragonforged Greatsword (because why the fuck not, it floats when I will it to) and zip over like the budget Iron Man I am. Land in front of what looks like an old dragon temple. Ripped banners, smashed torch holders, floor full of holes that drop into who knows what. Roof creaking like it's one bad step from pancaking me. Classic.
Push open the final double doors—ear rape screeching metal. Inside: a gigantic statue of some goddess (Time? Fate? Who cares—if she yeets me home I'll simp for her harder than I do for Lilith Akumaor). Kneel like a proper heretic.
"Uh… hey, lady. I know you're not RNGSUS, my one true lord and savior, but if you could portal me the fuck outta here, I'll… light a candle or something. Please don't smite."
Nothing.
Punch the statue out of frustration.
Hand hurts like a bitch.
"Goddamn it, even the forgotten time goddess is scamming me!"
Lay down next to her stone feet, defeated. Might as well starve here. Time dilation bullshit might mean Bob's already turned the city into ash while I'm stuck in dragon Narnia.
Wait.
In the game lore, "fast travel" wasn't actually teleportation. It was the goddess of time fast forwarding you through reality—like skipping cutscenes but for your whole body. If you tried to fast travel to a place you were already at, it just aged you forward a day or two. Wormhole visual effects because the devs thought it looked cool. And guess what? You literally couldn't climb this statue in game.
Grin like a maniac.
I scramble up her leg like King Kong with a boner for blasphemy. Step on her head. Nothing happens for a glorious second—then WHOOSH. Reality rips open. Spinning through rainbows, stars, crank person fever dreams, glimpses of random world locations. Feels like getting blender'd by time itself. Pop out the other side, fall flat on my ass next to the statue again.
Half my HP gone.
Brand new magic unlocked (basic mana channeling—yay?).
Stomach doing flips. I projectile vomit behind a pillar.
"Holy shit… it worked. But I feel like I just did six tequila shots with a side of existential dread."
Do it again.
And again.
And again—six more climbs, six more wormhole blender rides, six more half HP nukes and near blackouts. By the end I'm praying to RNGSUS between heaves: "Forgive me, lord, for simping another goddess. It was strictly transactional. I still only simp for RNG eternally. Amen."
Final prayer at the statue.
Big wormhole.
This time it spits me out for real—100 km outside Hattusa, in an apple orchard under normal blue sky. Grass. Birds. No sulfur stink air. I kiss the dirt like a man reborn.
Then immediately puke again.
Low HP. Starving. Sick as fuck.
Solution: become temporary apple hoarder. Stuff my inventory full, cram extras down my shirt and pants like a deranged squirrel. Eat like ten on the spot to top off HP. Sword back to hoverboard mode. Zoom toward the city at max gamer speed.
And of course—because the universe hates me personally—I crest the final hill and see it:
Bob.
Level 50 raid dragon Bob.
Circling Hattusa like a red scaled vulture, torching farms, shitting fireballs the size of cars, roaring like he's personally offended the city exists.
The emergency mandatory quest is live.
Guild hall is probably a screaming mess.
Defenses are paper.
And here I come—level 20(ish), one OP sword, pockets full of stolen apples, mildly concussed from time blender rides, still reeking faintly of dragon fart poison from earlier.
"RNGSUS," I mutter, gripping the sword tighter, "if this is your idea of a 'blessing,' your sense of humor is fucked. But fine. Let's see if a prophet can solo a raid boss before the city burns and my church fund dreams go up in smoke."
I rev the hover sword like it's a crotch rocket.
Apples bouncing in my shirt.
Bob spots me.
Roars.
Dives.
Here we fucking go.
Bob circles Hattusa like a vulture that's personally offended by the concept of architecture. His wings blot out half the sky, red scales glinting like fresh blood under the sun. Arrows ping off him like rain on a tin roof. Guards scream, buildings catch fire, civilians run in every direction like ants when you kick the hill. Classic raid boss panic.
I come screaming in on Uncle Infinite's Dragonforged Greatsword, hoverboard mode engaged, pockets still bulging with stolen apples like I'm some kind of suicidal fruit piñata. Second sword in hand (the goblin fart one—don't ask). I aim straight for his wing membrane.
Slash!
…0 damage.
The fuck?
Numbers flash in my vision like a bad UI bug: [0 DMG – Target Level Difference Too High]
"RNGSUS what the actual hell?! I just beat a level 50 lore boss and this overgrown lizard is treating me like a mosquito?!"
Bob doesn't even look annoyed. Just flicks his tail like he's swatting a fly. Tail connects with my entire body. World spins. I crater into the dirt outside the city walls in the classic Yamcha pose—knees up, arms splayed, dignity in another dimension.
"Lucen, are you ok?!"
Soft, worried girl voice. Luna. Of course it's Luna. She's sprinting over, armor clanking, tits doing that physics defying bounce that makes me question game design priorities even in real life.
"Honestly… it's better than damn Uncle."
"Uncle?"
"Nothing. How we doing against Bob?"
She skids to a stop next to me, panting. "We just started fighting him but… none of our projectiles are working. At all."
"How about magic? Blow his scaly ass up with some fancy fireballs or whatever."
Luna looks at the ground like a kicked puppy, fingers twisting together. "Well… you see… no one can use magic right now."
I sit up so fast I almost choke on an apple rolling out of my shirt. "What do you mean no one can use magic? I literally saw plenty of mages in the city earlier!"
"About that…" She winces. "The annual magic competition is coming up soon. All the pro mages are holed up practicing or saving mana for the tournament. They're not coming to help. And the noob mages… well… they're so bad they're barely scratching him. Like, tickle damage."
I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard I feel cartilage creak. "So you're telling me the entire city's magical defense is currently busy jerking off to leaderboard rankings while a level 50 raid dragon turns the place into barbecue?!"
She nods miserably.
"If you weren't the main character and stupidly hot I would've fed you to Bob five minutes ago, swear to RNGSUS."
Luna blinks. "What?"
"Nothing. Looks like it's my time to shine. I got a new skill I wanna try."
I hop back on the hover sword, apples shifting uncomfortably in my pants. Charge mana into both hands like I've seen in a thousand anime openings.
"Ka… ma… ka… ma… ka… ma…"
Bob's head snaps toward me.
Jaws open wide.
One bite and I'm inside his mouth—head sticking out like a very unfortunate lollipop. Teeth grinding toward my shoulders.
"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH HELP MEEEEEEEEE—"
Bob shakes his head like a dog with a chew toy. I feel vertebrae pop. Desperate, I cram every drop of mana I have left into my core and—
BOOM.
Internal explosion. Dragon mouth fireworks. I blast out between his teeth in a cloud of smoke and scales, coughing up blood and sulfur. Sword catches my fall just before I eat dirt again.
HP critical. Apples time. I cram three into my mouth at once, shirt ripping open, fruit tumbling everywhere like a sad grocery heist gone wrong.
Max HP. Barely.
Bob roars and turns toward the city slums. Fire blast incoming—whole district about to become charcoal.
"God damn it Bob I hate this dragon."
I rocket back in. No beam this time—close range only. Mana condenses in my palm like a volatile little sun.
"RASENGAN!"
Point blank to the underbelly. Actual damage this time—scales crack, blood sprays. Bob screeches like I just owed him twenty bucks and ghosted.
Now he's pissed. Really pissed. Omega aggro. Eyes lock on me like laser sights.
A fire blast sweeps the slums. Four hundred square meters are gone. Who cares? Poor people aren't plot relevant anyway.
I bolt skyward on the hover sword. Bob chases. Five minutes of aerial tag—me zigzagging, him breathing fire like an angry barbecue grill. No escape. He's faster, tankier, and has a literal flight advantage.
Enough.
I cut the engines. Drop straight down like a meteor. Catch myself with the sword tip inches from grass. Open field now. Just wind, grass, and one very angry dragon landing twenty meters away.
We stare.
The wind blows softly. Dramatic as fuck.
I lunge—upward slash at his throat.
Claw swipe from the side. I'm airborne again. Land on my feet, skid, counter slash his flank. He roars in pain. I press—tail, body, leg. Hit after hit.
He rears back, wings spread. Gust knocks me flying.
Then comes the fire breath. Point blank. No dodge.
I charge mana into the Dragonforged Greatsword until it glows blue white.
All my strength in my legs. Leap straight into his face.
"GETSUGA TENSHOOOOO!!"
Black crescent wave screams out of the blade, carves a bloody trench across his snout. He bleeds.
But the fire breath hits full force.
The world turns white hot.
I'm cooking alive.
Armor melts. Skin blisters. I hit the ground rolling like a flaming barrel, screaming, shoving apples into my mouth from inventory. Healing ticks too slow. Burning status won't drop.
Bob stands back up—massive wound across his face, but still alive, still furious. Mouth opens for the finishing breath.
This is it. Game over. No continues. RNGSUS I'm sorry I doubted your divine gacha rates—
SHWING.
A single, perfect horizontal slice.
Bob's body splits clean in two. Left half. Right half. Both collapse with wet, meaty thuds. Lava blood sprays everywhere.
A figure steps through the steam.
Dark silver armor caked in dried blood. Massive greatsword resting on one shoulder like it weighs nothing. Face hidden behind a visored helm.
He walks straight toward me.
I wheeze, still rolling weakly. "Thanks… for the help… bro…"
He doesn't speak. Just raise one gauntleted hand. A waterskin appears. He pours it over me.
Burning stops instantly. Pain fades to manageable levels.
I gasp. "Who…?"
He nods once—short, curt—then turns and walks past me, continuing whatever eternal quest he's on like I was just a speed bump.
That had to be Grim.
Grim fucking Reaper expy. The dark knight who kills everything that moves. On a mysterious journey to find someone. No one knows who. Probably some dead waifu or betrayed master or whatever tragic backstory the devs slapped on him.
I owe him my life.
But also—
I check the system window.
[Assist Kill: Bob the Raid Dragon – Credit: Grim]
No main kill credit. No boss loot table for me. Just a participation trophy achievement: Crispy Survivor (+5% Fire Resistance, big fucking deal).
I scream into the smoking grass.
"DAMN YOU GRIM! I HOPE YOU STEP ON LEGO BAREFOOT FOR ETERNITY, YOU KILL STEALING EDGELORD BASTARD!!!"
Luna's running over again, eyes wide.
Dear degenerate reader—yeah, you, the one reading this while ignoring your responsibilities—told you. I almost solo'd a raid boss at level 20 and still got cucked by an NPC with better drip.
Praise RNGSUS anyway.
"My god, ahhh!" I scream at the top of my lungs, collapsing backward onto the scorched grass in what has to be the world's most pathetic dramatic faint. My back hits the dirt with a sad, wet thud—like a sack of regret meeting its final destination. Smoke is still curling lazily off my half melted armor like I just lost a cage match with a barbecue pit and the pit won on points. Charred leather peels away in sad little flakes every time I breathe. My eyebrows? Gone. Probably volunteered for the front lines and got vaporized first.
Man, this fucking sucks.
I should've just gone to hell. At least there'd be hot demon bitches with pitchforks, zero expectations, and an open bar that never runs dry. This isekai gig? It's just Truck kun's long con to make me suffer in 4K ultra HD with surround sound tinnitus. No harem forming organically around my misunderstood charm. No cheat skills that actually feel like cheating—just incremental bullshit that requires grinding like I'm back on retail WoW in 2007. No convenient village girls throwing themselves at the "hero from another world" because apparently "destined savior" is less attractive than "local tax collector with a mustache."
If the afterlife has a point system like some divine Steam achievement page, I was probably hovering right around 48% good back on Earth. Jerked off too much (quality over quantity, fight me), pirated way too many visual novels and JRPGs, called my mom maybe twice a year unless it was her birthday or I needed bail money. Close enough for heaven? Nah. Purgatory simulator it is—difficulty set to "masochist mode," permadeath disabled so I can keep experiencing new and exciting flavors of humiliation.
I roll onto my side, spitting out a clump of charred grass that tastes like regret and lighter fluid. "How's John doing, I wonder? Kid's probably living the high life right now—rich adoptive parents already in the loading screen, tragic backstory queued up and ready to drop like a gacha banner. If I limp back to the city half dead, maybe I can mooch off his future fortune. Prophet tax. Divine finders fee. 'Hey kid, remember when I technically saved your life by existing in the same zip code? Yeah, that's worth at least 15% of your inheritance, right?'"
Groaning like a sixty year old with arthritis and a fresh divorce, I launch myself upright using sheer spite, residual apple adrenaline, and the last dregs of dignity I have left. Hover sword reactivates with a low, pathetic hum—like a dying Roomba that's seen some shit. I zip toward Hattusa's walls, wind whipping through what's left of my singed hair (RIP glorious protagonist mane, you died as you lived: prematurely and unfairly).
The closer I get, the weirder it looks.
No guards on the ramparts.
No corpses littering the streets like discarded loot bags.
Just… destruction. Charred rooftops sagging like wet cardboard. Collapsed market stalls with blackened fruit still smoldering in neat little piles. Cobblestones cracked and glossy like someone tried to barbecue the entire city and gave up halfway through because the coals weren't hot enough. The air smells like burnt cedar, spilled wine, and crushed dreams.
I touch down inside the main gate. Silent. Eerie. Post apocalyptic ASMR: distant wind, occasional pop of cooling stone, my own wheezing breaths.
Then I hear it—music. Laughter. Clinking tankards. A very off key chorus of what might be a drinking song about a maiden's virtue and a dragon's… anatomy.
I follow the noise to the Adventurer's Guild.
The double doors are flung wide like they're trying to escape the building. Inside? Absolute pandemonium.
Everyone's hammered beyond human comprehension.
Tables are overflowing with food, spilled ale, half eaten roasted boar that's somehow still steaming. People are stripping out of armor mid dance, shirts and greaves flying like battle flags in a hurricane. A half naked bard is trying to play "Sweet Caroline" on a lute that's missing half its strings while two dudes attempt a synchronized keg stand directly on the quest board—pins and parchment fluttering like confetti. Women (and a few enthusiastic men) are grinding on tabletops with the confidence of people who've decided physics no longer applies. Someone's crying happy tears into a mug of mead while another person tries to shotgun an entire wineskin and mostly succeeds in baptizing himself. It's like the entire city decided the dragon attack was just foreplay for the world's sluttiest, most uncoordinated block party.
They're celebrating.
Celebrating killing Bob.
I stand there in the doorway, still smoking faintly, applesauce slowly leaking from a rip in my pants like the saddest war wound ever, watching these clowns raise tankards and toast "our glorious victory over the crimson scourge!"
Motherfuckers.
They literally did jack shit.
I dragged that oversized gecko away from the city walls on a suicide hoverboard run so Grim could collect his edgelord participation trophy and pose for the inevitable statue. I took fire breath to the face like it was a spa treatment from hell. I turned into a human Roman candle while screaming internally about respawn timers. And these dipshits are popping champagne corks (where did they even get champagne in fantasy Bronze Age?) like they landed the finishing blow themselves.
(Okay, fine—Grim did land the finishing blow. One clean, dramatic stab through the eye while Bob was busy trying to flambé me into next week. But semantics. I set it up. I tanked. Assist counts in my book, author.)
Quiet down in there, narrator. You're the one who wrote me getting cucked by an NPC with better hair and a cooler coat.
(And you're the one acting like a scorned ex blaming the writer. I just type what the degenerate muse whispers in the dead of night.)
Yeah, yeah. Monkey see, monkey type. Whatever. Keep simping for Grim, see if I care.
I back out of the guild before anyone notices the charred prophet standing in their doorway like a rejected extra from Mad Max: Fury Road. No point starting a riot. Not yet. My HP is in the red, my MP is a rounding error, and my dignity is on life support.
Streets are still empty outside the guild bubble. Weird. No playable characters anywhere. No Alexander the Greatsword Woman charging through the rubble like a one woman siege engine, armor gleaming, war cry echoing off the walls. No Young Gun desperately trying (and failing) to contribute 0.3 DPS with his signature bow that might as well be shooting wet noodles dipped in disappointment. Kinda glad that loser wasn't around—guy's banner was cursed in the gacha anyway; pulling him felt like pity charity.
Alexander though… lore wise she should've been second only to Pride herself right now. Knight so OP the devs had to nerf her passive in three separate patches just to stop forum threads from imploding. If she'd shown up, Bob would've been paste in ninety seconds flat. Instead? Nothing. City's partying like they earned it. Typical NPC behavior—steal credit, then throw a parade for themselves.
I pass food stalls (charred beyond recognition), barbershops (windows smashed, scissors scattered like murder evidence), fortune tellers (cards scattered like confetti, one still smoldering with a half burnt "The Tower" card staring up accusingly). Finally reach the orphanage where John should be getting adopted into wealth, tragedy, and my eventual 10% management fee.
I push the door open with more force than necessary.
A tired looking woman in a soot streaked apron greets me with the enthusiasm of someone who's seen too much today and has zero emotional bandwidth left.
"Well, hello there."
"Hey. Where's John? John Smith. Kid about this tall, destined to be either a crime lord or the richest bastard alive—take your pick. Probably has protagonist hair already growing in."
Her face falls like someone cut the strings. She looks away, wringing her hands so hard I can hear the knuckles pop.
"Oh… sir… I'm so sorry. He was kidnapped. Not long ago."
My brain short circuits. Loading… Loading… Error 404: Hope not found.
"Kidnapped? By who?"
"While the dragon was attacking… someone broke in through the back. Took him. Just… gone. No note. No witnesses. Nothing."
I feel something hot and ugly crawl up my throat like bad sushi coming back for revenge.
"God damn it, woman. You had one job. One fucking job. This is why they're taking funding away from places like this—you can't even keep track of the plot relevant orphans! Do you know how much narrative weight that kid carries? He's basically a walking side quest with compound interest!"
She flinches hard, dropping into a squat and covering her head like I'm about to swing a warhammer.
I raise my hand on pure reflex—then freeze.
…No.
Not today.
Not like this.
I lower it slowly, turn on my heel, and walk out without another word. The door closes behind me with a soft, final click.
Plans officially fucked six ways to Sunday.
John was my golden ticket to easy street. Passive income. Early retirement. Now he's probably chained in some slaver's cart headed for the black market, or worse—being groomed for his tragic origin story without me getting a single cut of the royalties. I can already see the montage: sad violin music, slow zoom on tear streaked face, convenient slave collar conveniently engraved with "Property of Future BBEG."
I slump onto a nearby bench that's still warm from residual dragonfire, staring at the smoking skyline like it personally owes me money.
Okay. Reset. Deep breath. Cope.
Luna's party is dead, scattered, or hiding under a table somewhere.
John's gone—plot device napped.
Alexander and Young Gun MIA (probably off screen grinding side quests or arguing about DPS meters).
Grim better stay the fuck away—he already stole my thunder once today and I'm not in the mood for round two.
Pride's still out there with her two meat shield bodyguards and that gooner chick whose name starts with Le something and whose entire personality is "horny and unhinged" dialed to eleven.
Marabelle's still an option. Sweet, humble, bakes good bread, probably wouldn't stab me in my sleep unless I really deserved it. Good potential ally. Low yandere risk. High cinnamon roll energy.
And Humility—
Wait.
Humility.
How the actual fuck did I forget Humility?
She's literally crashing in my inn room. Using my bed. Probably spending my last coins on room service pastries and scented oils while I was out getting flambéed by a dragon the size of a small apartment complex.
I bolt upright so fast the bench creaks in protest.
If that crazy bitch spent all my money I'm going to— No. Deep breaths. RNGSUS loves patience. Sometimes. Occasionally. On leap years. Whatever.
I sprint toward the inn, hover sword trailing faint embers behind me like a very angry comet.
Halfway there, the air changes.
Heavy. Ominous. Like the atmosphere itself gained fifty pounds and decided to sit on my chest.
A pale hand shoots out from the alley mouth and slams against the brick wall with enough force to crack mortar.
Then she steps into the moonlight.
Humility.
Hood up. Posture wrong. Shoulders hunched like a predator playing at being prey. Fingers twitching at her sides like she's fighting the urge to strangle something—or caress it to death.
She's clutching a fat coin pouch—my coin pouch. Same weight. Same telltale clink of mixed silver and copper. Untouched. Miraculously.
I exhale hard through my nose.
"Oh. It's just you. Sorry I dipped for a bit—had to go save the city from Bob. You know how it is. Classic Tuesday."
She slowly reaches up and pulls the hood back.
Her eyes.
They're wide. Too wide. Pupils blown like she's riding the world's worst high mixed with religious ecstasy and a side of unmedicated mania. Lips parted in a smile that doesn't reach sanity—more teeth than expression. A thin line of drool glistens at the corner of her mouth before she licks it away absently.
"Ohhhh… there you were, darling~"
The word drips like syrup poured over razor blades.
"I've been so good. Saved your money. Slept in the streets. Waited. Every. Single. Night. Heheheha…"
Her neck tilts at an unnatural angle—almost 45 degrees, like a broken doll trying to look cute. Voice flat. Dead. But the giggle bubbles underneath like something drowning and still trying to laugh.
Schizophrenia speedrun any%? Sleep deprivation delirium? Or did my little "purification" session with the belt flip a switch in her brain she can't flip back—and now she's permanently stuck in yandere factory settings?
I swallow audibly.
"Uh… yeah. Cool beans. If you want, I can get us back into the inn. Proper beds this time. Separate ones. Very separate. Like, continent separate if we can swing it."
Her eyes light up—impossible to tell if it's joy, murder, or both having a threesome in her head.
I book the room anyway. Innkeeper doesn't even blink at my charred state—just slides the key across the counter like this is normal Tuesday customer service.
Two beds. One window (barred). One door I triple checked is locked, then barred with a chair for good measure, then reinforced with spite.
I collapse onto mine, inventory open like it's the only thing keeping me sane.
Bob assist rewards finally loaded after the world's slowest server tick.
Mostly XP (nice bump—almost level 21 now, baby steps toward relevancy), a pile of fire scorched scales that still radiate heat, one still beating dragon heart (gross, pulsating, smells like sulfur and barbecue sauce), and two actually broken items that make my inner gacha addict cream his nonexistent pants:
[Bob's Ember] – Equip to any weapon or armor. Grants permanent fire aura / imbues attacks with burning damage. Stacks with other elemental effects. (Flavor text: "Even in death, Bob burns.")
[Bob's Binding Rope] – Equip to any weapon. Transforms selected weapon into a retractable grappling chain. Range scales with wielder's strength + 50% bonus from dragon heart resonance. Can reel targets in or yoink yourself to them. (Flavor text: "Come closer… or I'll make you.")
I stare.
Equip both… to Uncle Infinite's Dragonforged Greatsword?
Infinite range flaming grappling hook sword.
Mobility. Crowd control. AoE fire DoT. Style points through the fucking roof. I can already picture it: swinging through the air like a budget Spider Man while everything around me spontaneously combusts. Peak protagonist energy. Finally,
I slap both onto the sword immediately. The blade hums happily, runes flaring crimson, then settling into a low, hungry glow. Chain wraps around my wrist like a security blanket made of dragon leather and bad life choices. Feels warm. Almost comforting. Almost like it's purring.
Humility sitting cross legged on her bed.
Staring.
Unblinking.
Smiling that same flat, unhinged smile.
Every few seconds her head twitches—like a glitchy NPC trying to load new dialogue.
I grip the sword tighter, chain links clinking softly.
"Night, Humility."
"Good night… darling."
The way she says it makes my skin try to crawl off my body and find a new host.
Yeah.
I'm not sleeping tonight.
Not even a little.
Praise RNGSUS.
I'm gonna need every pity pull, every lucky charm, every divine favor He's got left in the vault.
Because if she makes one wrong move toward my bed—
Well.
Bob's Ember is about to get a field test.
And I'm fresh out of mercy charges.