When Aleria stepped off the last plank of the wooden bridge, the Blood Moor didn't welcome her.
It swallowed her.
Wet grass and mud took her sandals and pulled, dragging her a few centimeters down like the ground had teeth and was curious what she tasted like.
"Oh man," she complained, but the rain swallowed it before it could become a prayer.
Then the announcer voice came back—bright, cheerful—inside her head.
"ATTENTION, CHAMPION!!"
Aleria flinched so hard her teeth clicked. It felt like someone had turned her headphones to max and stapled them to her brain.
"Player Aleria Pendragon has entered the First Trial Ground: BLOOD MOOR. Monsters slain may yield unexpected rewards. Failure to complete an accepted quest will result in consequences beyond precedent! Good luck, and happy hunting!"
For half a second, the gamer part of her lit up—unexpected rewards, loot, progress—
Then the rest of her caught up.
That voice.
That tone.
Too chirpy. Too smug. Too much like the winged diaper-baby again.
Aleria stared into the fog.
"Great," she muttered, voice hoarse. "So Angel Baby wants me to speedrun Diablo II. Awesome. Love that for me." She swallowed. "Not the worst million-dollar challenge, I guess."
She adjusted her grip on the axe until her knuckles hurt. Lifted the cheap round shield. She was a short-stack princess in wet sandals with starter gear and a body that still felt wrong, which was… not ideal.
But there was no other choice.
So she moved forward—slow, careful—placing her feet where the ground looked less eager to eat her.
Fog chewed distance into nothing. The moor smelled like damp earth and rot—old rot, the kind that lived in soil and never fully left. Rain muffled everything: the wind, her breathing, even the quiet creak of leather against her arms.
Behind her, the encampment faded into gray—two guards holding spears like tired punctuation marks, and the rogue leaning against the bridgepost like she was watching someone walk into a grave.
Aleria glanced back once—just once—hoping, stupidly, that someone would follow.
No one did.
Then the sound came from ahead.
A shriek from the brush.
Her head snapped toward it—near a dead tree a stone's throw off the muddy path—
Three spikes erupted out of the grass and shot straight at her face, so fast they were just black lines slicing through rain.
Panic hit first.
Aleria squeaked—high, humiliating—and dropped hard to her knees, hunching like a startled animal.
The first spike ripped over her head.
The second scythed past where her eyes had been.
The third—
CLACK!
—hit her shield and ricocheted with a sharp metallic knock, the impact shoving her backward in the mud like the world had slapped her for being alive.
Aleria froze.
Blinking.
Mouth open.
A spike jutted from the ground in front of her, half-buried, trembling slightly from its own force. It was nearly as long as her forearm.
Thick.
Mean.
A you die now kind of projectile.
She stared at it. Then stared at her shield, like she couldn't believe it had just done something useful.
"…What the hell," she whispered.
For a heartbeat she didn't move.
Then she looked up into the fog—toward the tall grass where the attack had come from—
and rage arrived.
Hot. Immediate. Personal.
She sprang up like an angry rabbit, mud sliding off her knees.
"Oh HELL no," she spat, voice sharp and high. "Did something just try to kill me? You fuck. That is so not cool, man!"
The grass parted.
Something waddled out.
Dog-sized. Squatting. Wrong.
Red leathery skin stretched tight over wiry muscle. Patchy black fur slick in places like it had been licked raw. A belly too thin and too exposed.
And on its back—quills.
Not cute porcupine quills.
Spear-length spines that flexed subtly like loaded crossbows.
It looked like an angry porcupine designed by something that hated God.
It stared at her with eyes that weren't stupid.
They were mean.
"Quill Rat," Aleria breathed.
In a game, it was trash.
Here, "trash" meant it only needed one good hit to ruin her forever.
The creature chittered, furious, and its back shivered.
Quills loading again.
Aleria didn't let it finish.
She charged.
Sandals slapped wet grass. Mud grabbed at her feet. Cold water splashed her calves. She ran anyway—low, fast, shield up like a poor excuse for courage.
The Quill Rat fired.
SHRK—!
Three spikes launched.
Aleria tried to dodge—
—and her foot slipped.
For half a second she thought: This is it. This is where I die like an idiot.
But the spikes—
The spikes flew over her.
One sailed above her head. One ripped past her chest. One stabbed into the grass somewhere off to the side.
Aleria skidded to a stop, wide-eyed.
"…Holy shit," she breathed.
She wasn't good.
She was just short.
Too small a target for something firing at "normal human" height.
Aleria stared at the Quill Rat like it had personally embarrassed itself.
The rat squealed—angry, confused—and tried to scuttle away.
And Aleria's shock flickered into a grin.
"Oh," she hissed. "Nope. NOPE."
She sprinted after it.
Small meant light.
Light meant fast.
And fast meant the monster didn't get to decide when the fight ended.
She closed the gap like a thrown rock.
"NOPE!" she snarled and slammed into it shield-first.
THUMP—!
The shove flipped it sideways. Quills scraped uselessly against the mud. Its belly rolled into view—soft, pale, horribly alive.
Aleria raised the axe.
And brought it down.
The blade didn't make a game sound.
It made a real sound.
A wet crunch.
Flesh giving way.
Something inside snapping like a stick.
The Quill Rat shrieked—high, broken—and its paws scrabbled in the grass like it could crawl back into safety.
Aleria hit it again.
And again.
Not graceful.
Not heroic.
Just fast, furious chopping—fear and adrenaline taking turns steering the swing.
The creature convulsed once—
…and went still.
Aleria staggered back, chest heaving, rain dripping off her hair. The axe hung heavy in her hand like it had gained weight just from doing what it was made to do.
She waited.
For the body to vanish.
For loot to pop.
For some polite, game-like confirmation that this was still a screen and not a slaughter.
Nothing happened.
The corpse stayed a corpse.
It lay split open in the drizzle, steaming faintly, black blood mixing with mud while its intestines slumped out like wet ropes. The rain didn't wash it clean. It only made it shinier—more real.
And then the smell hit her properly.
Not just blood.
Something sour and rancid—half-digested filth, rot, old meat.
Aleria's face tightened.
Her eyes flicked down—
and she saw it.
A human hand.
Pale. Swollen. Half-chewed.
Nestled among the creature's guts like a punchline from hell.
That did it.
Aleria gagged so hard her eyes watered.
Then she vomited directly onto the corpse.
Right on the hand.
Like her body was trying to apologize to the universe for being alive.
The baby-angel voice rang out in her head, cheerful as ever:
> "Kill confirmed. Experience gained: 21."
"Shut up," she choked, and vomited again.
Bile and panic splashed into the mud, mixing with black blood into a foul slurry that steamed faintly in the cold rain.
"Oh god—fuck—okay—nope—nope—"
She gagged again, stumbled away, shielding her face like distance could save her from the smell. She got several steps before she finally stopped and forced herself to stand upright, shaking, axe in her right hand, shield in her left.
Breathe.
Don't look at it.
Don't think about hands in stomachs.
She swallowed hard, trying to force calm into her spine.
Okay. You killed something. That's… a start.
Next time: don't stare. Don't process. Just move. Just survive. The thinking can happen later—if later exists.
Then something groaned in the distance.
"Grrrraaaahhh…"
The calm shattered.
Aleria turned.
Out of the fog, something was coming.
Slow. Dragging. Wet footsteps that didn't even try to hide.
At first it was just a darker smear moving through gray.
Then it stepped into view.
Tall. Pale skin hanging loose like old cloth. One arm half-rotted to the elbow, fingers stiff and clawed. Its jaw sagged at an angle that made its neck look broken. Teeth black. Eyes filmed over like dirty marbles.
It lifted both hands—
and shambled toward her at a pace that was almost insulting in how unhurried it was.
Aleria's heart jumped hard enough to hurt.
"Oh shit," she breathed. "Is that a fucking zombie."
She tightened her grip on the axe.
"No thinking," she muttered. "Just… do."
She moved first.
Then charged—shield up—feet slipping in the mud as she slammed into it with all her little, furious, girly might.
They went down together.
A petite princess body-checking a corpse twice her size.
The impact rattled her ribs. Mud exploded up her legs. Her shield jammed into its face, pressing against snapping teeth, and for one horrible second it felt like wrestling a rotten animal that didn't know it was dead.
Its hands shot out faster than she expected.
Nails raked across her side and back—sharp, burning lines—like it was trying to hug her apart.
"AH—HEY!" she yelped. "Stop clawing me, you bastard—!"
She drove her right fist into its face.
Harder than she meant to.
The head jerked. Rotten flesh gave with a sick, spongy resistance. The corpse didn't feel pain, but it lost balance—and that was enough.
Aleria scrambled up, boots—no, sandals—skidding in mud. She stomped at its torso out of pure rage—
and her foot sank into its belly.
Warm. Soft. Wrong.
Aleria recoiled with a strangled sound of disgust, jerking her foot back like she'd stepped into a toilet.
"Nope—NOPE—"
The zombie tried to rise, jaw snapping.
Aleria lifted the axe with both hands, face twisted, eyes watering—
and brought it down on its head.
The skull didn't split cleanly like in movies.
It collapsed.
Like a melon hit with a hammer.
The impact burst the top of its head open and something wet and dark spilled out. The corpse dropped immediately, arms going slack, mouth still open like it wanted to complain.
Aleria yanked the axe free and staggered back.
Her stomach lurched again.
She gagged and turned her face away as fast as she could, blinking rain out of her eyes, refusing to look too closely—refusing to let the sight crawl into her memory and set up camp.
Then the voice chirped in her head again, bright and pleased:
> "Kill confirmed. Experience gained: 18."
Aleria stood there, chest heaving, rain running down her face, staring at herself as if she needed confirmation she was still intact.
"…Huh," she whispered. "Wow. I just killed a rat and a zombie."
She swallowed.
"I guess I'm on a roll."
She barely had time to let that thought exist before the grass exploded.
Three small, fast red blurs burst out of the fog, shrieking madly.
Imps.
She recognized them instantly.
They came low and feral, like rabid monkeys armed with knives—thin bodies, red skin slick with rain, faces twisted into permanent hate. Little blades flashed as they rushed her all at once, feet barely touching the ground.
Aleria's stomach dropped.
"Oh fuck—three—"
They hit together.
She swung the axe and missed completely—fog and empty air—while one knife slashed at her side, a hot line of pain grazing her skin. Another blade sliced toward her thigh, barely catching her as she jerked back. The third struck her shield with a sharp clink as she blocked it on instinct.
"Ah—dammit!" she screamed. "Get away from me!"
She backpedaled, slipped, caught herself, and swung again—wild, desperate, furious.
She had no technique.
No form.
Just panic and momentum.
And somehow—
somehow—
one of the imps ran straight into her blade.
The axe struck its face with a wet, sickening crunch. Bone folded. The front of its skull collapsed like a dropped melon. It fell without ceremony, twitching once before going still.
> "Kill confirmed. Experience gained: 12."
Aleria blinked.
"…Wow," she breathed. "I actually did that."
The remaining two imps shrieked—and ran.
Not regrouped.
Not circled.
They bolted.
Something in Aleria's brain flipped instantly, fear snapping into fury.
"Oh no you don't," she snarled.
She sprinted after them.
Her bare feet tore through wet grass. Pain flared from her wounds, but adrenaline slammed it down like it wasn't allowed to exist yet.
The first imp tripped on a root.
Aleria caught up in two strides and buried the axe into the back of its head.
It went still instantly.
> "Kill confirmed. Experience gained: 12."
"Yes," she gasped, grinning through clenched teeth like a lunatic. "Got you. Self-defense. Totally justified."
She sucked in a breath.
"Double kill. Let's go for a triple."
The last imp was fast.
But Aleria was smaller.
Lighter.
And right now—angrier.
She lunged and tackled it into the mud, her compact body slamming it down with everything she had. The imp shrieked, knife hand flailing toward her ribs.
She didn't give it room.
She brought the shield down on its skull.
Once.
The shriek turned into a grunt.
Twice.
Wet sound.
Again.
And it was over.
> "Kill confirmed. Experience gained: 12."
Aleria staggered upright, rain washing blood off her hands and face in thin red streams. Her chest rose and fell hard with every breath, heart hammering so loud she felt it in her throat.
She turned slowly, scanning the fog, half-expecting something else to leap out at her.
Nothing moved.
And then—dangerously—a thought surfaced.
"…Holy shit," she whispered. "That was actually kind of… easy."
She grimaced immediately.
Sure, she was bleeding. Her thigh burned. Her side throbbed.
One bad hit and she'd be dead.
But once she stopped freezing?
Once she moved?
It wasn't complicated.
Dodge the attacks.
Put the axe into heads.
Heads break.
Things stop moving.
Aleria wiped blood from her stomach, rain glinting faintly off the muscle beneath the grime.
The fog shifted.
Farther out, shapes moved—more shambling corpses, scattered and slow.
Beyond them, a taller figure stood still, arms raised, muttering something that crawled through the fog like a chant.
A shaman.
And farther still—
something huge moved.
Slow. Heavy. Certain.
The grass bent beneath its weight.
Aleria's grin twitched.
Her stomach tried to rebel again.
She gagged, spat, wiped her mouth hard.
"Okay," she muttered. "Still gross. Very gross."
She tightened her grip on the axe.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Alright," she whispered—half prayer, half curse. "Let's go farm some experience points."
And she stepped forward—
…completely forgetting to check a single corpse for loot.
---
Three hours later, Aleria no longer looked like someone you could mistake for fine at a distance.
Her "clothes" weren't clean. They weren't even clothes in any respectable sense—just shredded leather and rag-wrappings clinging to her in stiff, crusted bands. The straps had torn and stretched, hanging on through nothing but stubbornness, blood, and sweat. Mud had wormed into every seam. Gore had dried into a dark varnish. The whole outfit had stopped feeling like something you wore and started feeling like something that had grown on you—like the Blood Moor had dressed her itself.
Her pale skin was striped red and black.
Not just her blood.
Other things.
Warm things that had cooled. Things that had splashed and stuck and dried into her pores, like the land was trying to brand her as belonging here.
She smelled like iron and rot and sweat—and under it all, something sharper and more intimate:
fear that had lived too long inside one body and turned into a scent.
She didn't know how many Quill Rats she'd killed.
She didn't know how many Fallen she'd hacked down after they swarmed her—shriek-laughing, knives flashing like teeth. How many dead things had clawed at her legs with broken nails. How many times she'd nearly slipped in the mud and died because her bare feet had nothing between them and the world's hunger.
She'd stopped counting.
And worse—
she'd stopped reacting.
The screams didn't register anymore.
The gore didn't slow her swing.
The stink had become background noise—like rain, like wind.
Only movement mattered.
Only threat.
Only killing whatever came close enough to touch her.
That was all.
So when another Quill Rat burst from the brush—low and fast, quills flexing, ready to fire—Aleria moved without thought.
Shield up.
She slammed forward and caught it sideways before the volley left its back. The impact flipped the creature onto its side. Its quills scraped uselessly against dirt, making a sound like knives on stone.
Aleria didn't hesitate.
She brought the axe down.
CRACK.
The blade split it open. The rat twitched once—
and went limp.
Aleria stood over it, breathing hard, rain dripping off her lashes, the axe suddenly heavy in her hand.
And at that exact moment—
a pillar of milky white light descended from the sky and swallowed her whole.
Aleria froze.
Then she laughed.
Ragged. Exhausted. Half-mad—like the sound had crawled up from her throat without asking permission.
"…Leveling up again."
It wasn't the first time the light had found her out here.
At first she'd flinched whenever it hit—instinct screaming trap—but the moor had trained even that out of her. Now it was just another thing that happened.
A reward.
A leash.
The glow soaked into her skin like warmth poured into cracks. She reached down and yanked a small barbed quill from her side. Then another from her shoulder.
Blood welled up immediately—dark and thick in the rain—
then slowed.
Then stopped.
Under the light, wounds knit shut at a visible rate. Skin pulled together. Torn muscle closed like a zipper drawn through meat. Bruises faded from purple to nothing. The raw ache in her shoulder softened. The shaking in her arms steadied.
Strength surged through her—hot and undeniable—like molten metal being poured into her veins.
She lifted her hands into the glow and stared.
They looked the same.
But they didn't feel the same.
They felt denser. Loaded. Warm. Heavy in a satisfying way, like her body was being upgraded by a cruel engineer who only spoke one language:
more.
And the weirdest part?
Her shape shifted with it.
Not in some holy, miraculous way.
In a slow, infuriatingly aesthetic way—like the Nightmare World was sculpting her into something it wanted to watch.
Her waist tightened. Her hips settled a fraction rounder beneath the straps. Her legs felt stronger, cleaner in their lines—runner strength, fighter balance. Her chest felt a shade fuller with each surge of power, as if every level quietly rewrote the same message into her flesh:
You will survive. And you will look good doing it.
Aleria's face twisted.
"Are you serious," she muttered through clenched teeth. "I'm getting stat buffs and a… makeover?"
For one brief, terrifying moment, her body hummed with a pleasure she didn't want to name.
Her jaw tightened. She swallowed hard, forcing the reaction down like bile.
Then the pillar faded.
The Blood Moor rushed back in—fog, rain, rot, trees like crooked teeth.
Two interfaces bled into her mind, dark red against gray.
[New Character Status]
[New Skill Points]
Aleria didn't pause. Didn't debate.
She opened Status.
Five attribute points waited there, bright as coins.
No thinking required.
She spent them the way she'd been spending them every time—like stacking bricks into a wall she intended to hide behind.
+3 Strength
+2 Vitality
Done.
Then Skills.
One point.
She put it where she always put it when she wanted the world to die faster.
Axe Mastery.
Done.
Level 5.
It was almost laughable how fast the numbers climbed when the killing didn't stop.
And every level so far had gone the same way:
Strength. Vitality.
Again and again.
Skills split between Axe Mastery and Howl—because Howl bought space, and Axe Mastery ended fights faster.
And both of those mattered, because this wasn't a game anymore.
Here things died screaming.
Here every hit that landed hurt like it had a personal grudge. Wounds didn't shave off a number—they tore flesh, burned, bled.
And yet she was adapting.
That was the part that unsettled her most.
Not the gore.
Not the pain.
The speed at which her mind had learned, in only hours, to stop caring about anything except survival.
Aleria wiped the axe on wet grass. The blade smeared red-black, the motion practiced now, almost casual. She straightened slowly.
She looked down at her hands again.
They didn't tremble anymore.
She tightened her grip on the axe and lifted her eyes into the fog.
Something moved out there—faint shapes, waiting, listening.
Aleria's mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
More like the first hint of a snarl.
"Alright," she breathed, voice low and rough. "Next."
And she stepped forward into the Blood Moor like a girl learning, very quickly, how to survive a place that only loved her when she killed.