Jackal Among Snakes

In the middle of a vast plain, a single, well-travelled dirt road led to a tower. The tower was circular and made wholly of a dark gray stone, and it stood hundreds, if not a thousand feet tall. Stained glass windows dotted its side at points. Its walls were inscribed, giving the stark gray building depth it otherwise lacked. If one were to stare for a while, they could see faint trails of light dancing along the engravings. They were the dim afterglow of enchantments that kept such a piece of architecture standing.

On one of the floors in the middle of the colossal structure, a set of gray eyes stared out the stained-glass window, peering at the sun. Or rather, the suns—dual balls of fire stood high in the sky, partially shielded by clouds. One star was white, the other orange. The white star was the smaller of the two.

The owner of the gray eyes was a remarkably tall man with wavy obsidian-color hair. He sat cross-legged at a window-side table, a bronze hand mirror hanging loosely from his idle hand. He wore drab gray robes that looked to be made of burlap. An owl had been sewn onto the shoulders of his garments. The robes covered his figure well, but his pale bony fingers and gaunt face betrayed a skinny physique. Despite his gauntness, though, he was quite handsome.

The man’s name was Argrave. Staring at these two suns in the sky, he was rather confident he had gone through the five stages of grief in the past few hours: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and then acceptance.

The subject of his grief was himself—or rather, his past life.

Argrave’s first reaction, denial, could perhaps be considered ordinary when awakening in a body wholly unfamiliar to him. These long, skinny legs and these harsh, steely eyes must have been the result of an overactive subconscious, he was sure. Alternate realities were merely theories without evidence. This ‘transmigration’ must be a fever dream induced by… well, fever, naturally.

But reality refused to change, and he was forced to confront a fact; he had transmigrated into a game, namely, ‘Heroes of Berendar.’

In the ‘anger’ phase of grief, Argrave stewed over what he had left. He was just a college student—a college student midway through his studies, at that. His life was just beginning. Now, he was here? He was in a miserable world where most of the cities lack basic sanitation?

But Argrave had always been a calm person in his past life, and his anger faded quickly.

Argrave third tried to bargain in his process of grief. He pleaded to whatever existence had taken him here to take him back—or better yet, to give him a different character. Why had he transmigrated into this game, ‘Heroes of Berendar?’ Why had he transmigrated into Argrave of Vasquer, a person all but universally reviled? Argrave of Vasquer was a bastard of the royal family, not some noble scion. He was but a minor NPC in ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ and one who met a very unpleasant end regardless of the player’s interference.

pleas went unanswered, and

from a college student to a miserable, sickly, and altogether worthless villain. Many people felt a good degree of ill-will towards him. The fact that it was his favorite

his fortune, the worst of the five stages came and went

That could be said for everyone, of course, but having

game wikis.’ Some people had to be martyrs, delving through the game for thousands of hours to fill out wiki articles that future players would use. Argrave was one such underappreciated saint. He was the

this extensive knowledge would reassure Argrave.

fun. ‘Heroes of Berendar’ was fun, indeed; it had great wars, foul monsters, ancient calamities and gods, and other

bothered Argrave more. The game had nine pre-made characters to select from, each with varying styles. One could make a custom character, too. Their personalities were all different, as were the

the bronze hand mirror on the table. He didn’t see his gray eyes looking back

[Sickly], [Weak], [Intelligent], [Magic Affinity

(D)], [Healing Magic (D)], [Illusion Magic (D)], [Inscription

mirror was how the player viewed their stats. So much had been ripped away; he could not see his attributes, for instance, nor his health and fatigue. The menu had been

heaviest thing Argrave had ever held. Without fail, this little mirror followed the player through every second of ‘Heroes of Berendar.’ It was a companion to importance, a symbol, unwittingly, to duty. The player decided the fate of many things in the continent of Berendar, through their action or inaction.

end up. And the player always had the very

grip tightened around the hand mirror. Suddenly, he threw it aside. It bounced against the wall, ringing quietly, and then slid across the floor while spinning. He watched it as it spun, twirling wildly about like some twisted game of ‘spin the bottle.’ It stopped pointing at

stared at

to the bed where he cleaned it off with the white bedsheet. He gazed at the simple menu in the mirror, walking to the window where the dual suns still stood outside. He could remember those traits and skills displayed on the menu by

The former Argrave was not untalented. [Intelligent] was a very good trait: it increased all skill gains by 25%. It was worse than [Quick] or [Genius], but such traits were rarer than rare, and no original main character possessed it. What’s more, a High in [Magic Affinity] was a

intention of being a warrior. He disliked touching people, and doubly so touching blood. The path of