She stares blankly at her vastly improved stats.

This… this doesn’t make any sense. Step back. There is one condition that must be met before mere visions could influence the real world: one or more elements within the dream must be real, and not just chemically-induced hallucinations.

Last night, why was she so sure of that sense of violation? Of invasion? What kind of creature or demon did she face? Hopefully, it’s really dead, and that’s why her stats have increased.

Hopefully, there’s not more of its kind lurking about. For gods’ sake, they are staying at the Church’s property. Is this not within the parameters of Holy ground? Does that matter at all?

Marcheline needs clearer rules.

Otherwise, she should go hunt for mushrooms and give drugs a go— to try and level up.

If it’s an unknown demon, and demons do exist back in the game (but not like this, what the hell), what are they doing a stone’s throw away from a gaggle of priests?

She shivers and hastily changes clothes. She moves even faster to seek proper human company, as last night’s bravado is long gone. Fearless March was crazy, she doesn’t know that woman.

She finds most of her friends sitting on a long wooden table, under the shade of a large tree. They’re serving out the beans that have been baking overnight, Hadrian is at the grill with the sausages.

Marcheline forcefully squeezes herself between Effie and Brian, Tristan’s siblings. The latter is petsitting Varm for her. “Hey, have you seen the Chief or your big bro?” maybe sound-boarding her ideas would help.

“They’re with the other Chiefs, talking.” Effie’s tiny nose twitches as she sniffs the food.

Their griller pipes in, “Your brother is helping some of them with their papers. Not all of them can read, you see.”

It can’t be helped, education isn’t widely available in this world. Marcheline is proud to say that, thanks to her, their little village is one hundred percent literate.

“You okay, March? Lookin’ a little pale this morning.”

“Just- just the cold.” Hadrian accepts that explanation and goes back to grilling.

She has just received a bowl of beans when they all hear a girl’s shouting, “Help, help!” Turning her head, Marcheline sees the girl who’s been glaring at her for the past couple of days.

The girl’s wild eyes zero in on her. She’s never interacted with this child before, she doesn’t even know her name. But there’s a strange, desperate look on the girl’s face. Marcheline isn’t a mind reader, nor is she particularly good at reading strangers’ expressions.

But she’s sure that this girl is looking at her like a raft amidst a stormy sea. This baffles her.

“Y-you, you!” the child says, “Papa isn’t waking up! He said you’d find me if something happened to him!”

What? Who?

Several heads at the table swivel around to look at Marcheline. “What?”

That guy and this kid barely interacted with anyone here, they kept mostly to themselves.

“You know old Sam- wait, what d’ya mean not waking up?” someone starts to ask Marcheline, but redirects on the more important part mid-sentence.

Marcheline hisses back, “I don’t even know he’s called ‘Sam’!”

The girl has burst into tears, light brown eyes looking at her accusatorially.

Now, that look is unwarranted. Marcheline flattens her lips, looking at the confused faces around her. She turns back to the girl, “Do you even know my name?”