The early morning light slanted through the trees in dusty gold streaks, hazy and a little too cinematic for Erynne’s just-woke-up brain. For one brief, blissful second, she thought she might be home.
Then she rolled over and felt the scratchy fabric of the unfamiliar bedroll, and caught the scent of ash, stew, and moss on the breeze.
Right. Still in Fantasy Land.
She blinked blearily at the sky and muttered, “Cool. Still not a dream.”
A few feet away, Alrik sat cross-legged by the fire, hunched over his glowing status screen like it was a new game release.
“You’re up,” he said without looking away. “Took you long enough. You missed the sunrise. It was majestic and full of meaning or whatever.”
Erynne groaned and sat up, her slippers flopping against the bedroll. “I’m still wearing pajama pants with rabbits on them. If we survive this world, it’s going to be through sheer spite.”
Alrik finally looked over, grinning. “Well, I picked a class.”
That got her attention. “Wait—what?”
He held up both hands. Two sleek daggers glinted in the light. They weren’t ornate or anything—just clean, balanced, practical weapons that shimmered faintly at the edges like the world hadn’t quite loaded their textures all the way.
“Boom,” he said. “Dancer class. I get buffs, agility, double-wielding, the whole thing.”
“You’re a Dancer?” she asked, rubbing her temples. “Like in that Fire Emblem game? Where you just stand there and make other people take another turn?”
Alrik made a face. “No, not that kind of Dancer. This one's more like from Final Fantasy. Agile, dual-wielding, flashy, and I can buff one person—usually you.”
She blinked. “So… a rogue who does parkour?”
“Exactly. But make it fabulous.”
She blinked. “Doesn’t that mean you use magic?”
“Not really. It’s mostly physical. I mean, I get one buff for myself and one for someone else, but my MP pool is trash.” He flicked a finger at his status window. “Your MP though? It’s like a wizard with a mana trust fund. You need to pick a magic class.”
She groaned again. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Alrik scooted over, waving at her screen. “C’mon. Let’s walk through it. You’re ranged. You hate melee. You panic under pressure. No offense.”
“None taken. It’s true.”
“So we eliminate all the glass cannons and melee DPS. You want something that can do damage from a distance, heal, and toss out a support spell now and then. Classic caster, support build.”
Erynne scrolled aimlessly through the glowing class list, squinting at the unfamiliar names. “There are… a lot of options. I have no idea what most of these do.”
Alrik leaned over her shoulder, smirking. “Good thing I already did the nerdwork. I checked out the whole class list while you were snoring.”
She swatted at him half-heartedly with her sleeve. “I do not snore.”
He rolled his eyes. “Right. Anyway. So here’s the breakdown. You’ve got a big MP pool, so magic is the way to go. No point picking something melee—you’d get flattened. You want to keep some distance, throw out spells, maybe toss me a heal when I inevitably do something reckless.”
“Sounds accurate so far.”
“Cleric’s the classic. All heals, some light spells, no personality. Sage is more balanced—heals and buffs, but not much firepower. Mystic Arcanist caught my eye, though.”
Erynne tilted her head. “That sounds like a magical librarian with attitude.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Bit of offense, bit of healing, bit of support. A little weird, a little niche. Very you.”
She tapped the icon and opened the preview. “It says I get three starting skills... Radiant Lance, Warding Light, and Heal.”
Alrik nodded. “Perfect. You can keep me alive while looking cool.”
“I already do that.”
Suddenly, a shout rang out through the trees.
“They’re coming!” It was Tovik.
A split second later, the faint but unmistakable sounds of howling, snarling, and crashing branches filtered through the air.
Erynne’s screen pulsed—[SELECT CLASS]—with an urgent chime.
“Oh, come on,” she muttered.
“Pick it!” Alrik said, already stuffing something into his pockets and grabbing his daggers.
Erynne jabbed the confirmation button.
A soft whoosh surrounded her like a rising breeze, and a warm golden glow swirled around her hands. A simple wooden staff shimmered into existence and settled neatly across her lap. It hummed faintly, like it was excited to finally be held.
She stared at it. “Okay. That’s... kind of cool.”
Alrik flashed a grin. “Welcome to the party, Mystic Arcanist.”
He turned just as Luma strode into view. “I assume you’ll be joining?”
“Hell yeah,” Alrik grinned.
“Don’t die,” Erynne muttered, gripping her new staff.
He winked. “Only if I get XP first.”
With that, he sprinted off with the others, weapons drawn, disappearing into the trees toward the approaching sounds of chaos.
Erynne sat frozen for a second, heart racing.
Then she stood slowly, raised her staff like someone trying to remember how to hold a broom, and whispered, “Okay... time to pretend I know what I’m doing.”
Erynne stepped past the treeline, her slippers soft in the grass, staff clutched like a security blanket. Mist clung to the ground, and the air buzzed with tension.
Alrik noticed her first. “Hey! You sure you’re up for this?”
“Nope,” she said, voice tight. “But I figured if I’m going to die in a fantasy world, I might as well go down swinging.”
He grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
Tovik turned as she approached, his axe already braced. “Stay behind the line. Use that staff of yours wisely.”
“I’ve had it for about five minutes,” she said. “So... no promises.”
Luma snorted. “Just aim away from the rest of us.”
“I’ll try!”
She took a shaky breath and moved into place beside Alrik, who looked way too comfortable dual-wielding knives for someone wearing a hoodie.
Then she saw them—dozens of small shapes hopping toward the village.
Rabbits?
No, not quite.
At first glance, they were almost adorable—plump, twitchy little creatures with soft gray fur and fluffy tails. But then one lifted its head, and she caught the glint of its eyes.
A dim, burning red.
Another one turned, baring a mouth full of needle-like teeth.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Why do the bunnies have teeth?”
A chorus of soft, chittering snarls filled the air. One of them lunged at a tree, clawing the bark with unnatural strength.
Tovik stepped up beside her, axe already raised. “Blightbuns. They were forest grazers once. Harmless. Now... not.”
“They're kinda like... rage rabbits,” Alrik said, appearing on her other side. “Adorable until they explode your kneecaps.”
“Focus!” Luma snapped, knives flashing as she flanked a low ridge. “They're circling!”
The Blightbuns didn’t wait. They surged forward, dozens of them in a wave of scrabbling paws and glowing eyes.
Erynne raised her staff. “Radiant Lance!”
A beam of focused light shot from the staff’s tip, blasting a rabbit mid-leap. It vanished in a puff of singed fur and red mist.
She blinked. “I got one!”
Alrik grinned as he ducked and slashed two more in quick succession. “That’s my spell-slinger!”
A sharp cry rang out behind them. One of the Blightbuns had broken through the line and was clawing at a younger beastfolk’s arm.
Tovik didn’t miss a beat. “Get him back to the village!” he barked.
Another beastfolk broke from the fight, grabbing the injured one and hauling him toward the safety of the camp.
They kept coming. Dozens more. One leapt straight for Alrik’s face—he caught it with a spin and slammed it to the ground, panting.
“I am not dying to a murder rabbit,” he growled.
“Left!” Tovik barked.
Erynne pivoted and fired again—another Blightbun burst into light and ash. But even as they fought them back, more emerged from the fog.
“Why are there so many?” she shouted.
“They’re not supposed to swarm,” Fauna said quietly, her voice cutting through the noise. Her antlers shimmered faintly as she raised both hands, forming a low barrier of wind to deflect another wave. “Something is driving them.”
A louder chittering cry echoed from the trees—a distorted, garbled version of a rabbit’s squeal. Then it appeared.
Twice the size of the others. Eyes glowing brighter. Its back twitched with pulsing veins of red corruption.
The boss Blightbun.
TO BE CONTINUED...
