I lifted my head and scanned the sad little courtyard.
This place was the newbie zone for the terminally ill, a pathetic patch of green where dying people came to pretend their respawn point wasn't just around the corner.
Couples held hands like they were trying to stop their partner from logging off permanently.
Some kid was chasing pigeons that were probably fatter than most of the players—I mean, patients.
A guy in a faded blue robe, basically a starter-level cleric outfit, was doing a rehab walk.
Each step was like he was lagging on a 56k modem.
Every single one of them pissed me off.
How dare they have a future to grind for.
A cold wind, sharp as a rogue's dagger, sliced right through the paper-thin gown they called armor.
It had zero defense stats.
I pulled it tighter, a useless gesture.
The chill wasn't on my skin anymore.
It was a permanent debuff, burrowed deep in my bones.
Stage four glioblastoma.
The universe's top GM had decided my subscription was up.
My eyes drifted to the lump in the plastic chair beside me.
Feng Yang Ming.
My brother-from-another-mother, my chief antagonist, my personal, long-suffering meat shield.
He tried to fuck me once.
Drunk off his ass, a fumbling, laughable attempt that ended with him passed out.
I tried to screw him a year later, mostly to piss off an ex.
We never closed the deal.
It was like trying to plug in a USB-A cable—always wrong the first two times, and by the third, you've lost interest.
We were way better at tanking hits for each other in whatever virtual world we were obsessed with that month.
And he was still here, thumbs flying across his phone, probably arguing about build stats on some forum.
"If you're trying for the 'tragically beautiful' look, it's not working," he grumbled, not looking up.
"You just look cold and pissed off."
"Maybe that's because I am cold and pissed off, you moron," I snapped, my voice a pathetic croak.
My family – the people who were supposed to be my party members – had vanished the moment the medical bills outgrew my trust fund.
Gone.
Like a failed side quest they'd dropped from their log.
"Whatever," he said, pocketing his phone.
"Just make sure you will me your game accounts.
"I'm not letting that Level 115 Archmage go to waste.
"The gear on that character is obscene."
Heat rose in my cheeks.
"You couldn't handle my character," I scoffed.
"You're a brain-dead tank.
"You'd die in the first mob pull without a meat shield of your own to hide behind."
"Me?!" he shot back, his voice rising with that familiar roar.
"I'm the one who was your meat shield!
"Who the hell do you think tanked Kael'thas for six hours while you stood in the back looking pretty and ninja-ing all the epic loot?
"Your entire in-game career was built on my HP bar and your legendary 'give me gear or I'll whine until you log off' skill!"
"It's not a skill, it's a strategy!" I yelled, slamming my lukewarm coffee on the bench.
"It's called resource management!
"Why would I waste time grinding when some idiot in shining pauldrons is willing to just hand gear over?
"It's efficient!
"It's something your thick warrior brain could never comprehend!"
My outburst echoed.
A few heads turned.
I glared back with all the venom I could muster.
The fury was a hot, satisfying bubble in my chest, but as it popped, the cold truth of his words hit me.
He was right.
I was a glass cannon with cracked glass, all devastating power but unable to take a single hit.
The rage, the injustice of it all, was too much.
"Why?!" the word tore from my throat, raw and broken.
"Why me?!
"Why do I have to die like this?!
"Weak and pathetic in a fucking hospital gown with a faulty zipper!"
Tears finally broke free, hot and shameful.
"It's not fair…" I choked out.
I really, really didn't want to die.
"Hey," Yang Ming said, his voice suddenly soft.
He put a warm hand on my shoulder.
"Don't…"
A scream cut him off.
Not mine.
It was a sound of pure terror, followed by the shriek of tortured rubber.
My head snapped up.
A delivery truck, a rust-bucket model that looked like it had survived an apocalypse, was tearing across the lawn.
It had jumped the curb, the driver slumped over the wheel.
It was swerving wildly, an angel of death in a chariot of peeling paint.
And it was headed straight for us.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized me.
No.
Not like this.
This is too stupid.
My gamer brain fired off a single, ludicrous thought.
I refuse to have my epic life story end with a cliché truck-kun… wait, does this mean I get reincarnated?
I tried to move, but my body chose that exact moment to betray me.
A bolt of white-hot agony exploded in my skull—my tumor, the final boss, landing a critical hit.
My limbs locked up.
A full-body system crash.
I was a mage without mana, without spells, and without her meat shield.
Just as the shadow of the truck fell over us, a force slammed into my side.
Yang Ming.
He'd shoved me with all his strength.
One last time, he was the tank.
He was the meat shield.
I tumbled off the bench, my head cracking against the pavement.
The last thing I heard was the sickening, final, wet crunch of impact.
Then… silence.
An endless, black void.
So this is it, I thought, a final flicker of rage surfacing.
Lame.
Then, silver text began to weave itself into existence.
Was that even a choice?
Fading was for losers.
"Reforge," I snarled into the void.
"And I better get a fucking damage buff."
The world reformed around me in a symphony of agony.
It felt like being ripped apart and stitched back together.
I gasped.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth.
I was lying on cool moss, my body aching but miraculously whole.
The gnawing pain was gone.
I pushed myself up.
My vision cleared to reveal a forest of impossible, silver-barked trees under two moons, one violet, one sickly green.
"Urgh…"
So this is what being reborn feels like.
It's a pain in the ass.
"Took you long enough, you moron."
The voice was light and melodic, but the tone was pure, unadulterated Yang Ming.
"I was about to start looting your corpse.
"Figured you'd have some decent starter gear."
My head snapped towards the sound.
Standing over me was an elf.
A ridiculously, unfairly beautiful female elf with silver hair and amethyst eyes.
She was all sharp, elegant lines and ethereal grace.
Great.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
All my life I complained that game devs never gave girls any eye candy, and now I get it in the form of my best friend.
I just stared.
My meat shield.
The guy who tanked every dragon so I could nuke it from orbit.
He was now a chick.
My brain, still reeling, formed a single, pragmatic thought.
Holy shit, he got specced into a high-Charisma, high-DEX build.
This is gonna be a problem.
"Yang… Ming?" I rasped, my own voice sounding strange.
The elf's perfect face contorted into his furious, familiar scowl.
"Don't you dare call me that," she snapped, her voice a smooth tenor laced with rage.
"What the hell is this?!
"What did you do, Lan?!"
She gestured wildly with long, graceful hands.
"I'm pretty, Lan!
Pretty!
"How am I supposed to tank anything when I look like I'll break a nail if I punch it?"
Her voice rose into a panicked shriek.
"And my dick is gone!
"Gone!
"How am I supposed to assert my dominance now?!"
My analytical gaze drifted from her furious face, past her slender neck, and… oh.
The system had given him the deluxe cosmetic package.
Smooth skin, elegant curves, and a very respectable pair of assets that were currently jiggling with his indignation.
Emotional distress causes jiggle physics, I noted clinically.
A passive debuff to his focus.
This observation was shattered when a cool breeze wafted through the forest.
It passed over Yang Ming, who shivered, and then it passed over me.
And I felt… a lot more of it than I should have.
An unfamiliar draft.
A strange and disconcerting sense of… air circulation.
My eyes snapped downwards.