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.

went unanswered, and

gone 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 game did little to curb his mental

of the five stages came and went

acceptance. This was his life. He was in a bad position, sure, but in ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ his future prospects were limitless. That could be said for everyone, of course, but having those prospects and knowing how to use them

‘lore master,’ or perhaps a ‘master of esoteric knowledge.’ Most preferred the term, ‘weird nerd that fills out game wikis.’ Some people had to be martyrs, delving through the game for thousands of hours to fill out

might think this extensive knowledge would reassure Argrave. Instead, it only served as fuel

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

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 paths they

He didn’t see his gray eyes looking back at

[Tall], [Sickly], [Weak], [Intelligent],

[Blood Magic (D)], [Healing Magic

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 stripped of

‘Heroes of Berendar.’ It was a companion to importance, a symbol, unwittingly, to

the player always had the

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

against the table, kneading his forehead as he stared at the mirror.

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

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 godsend for a mage character. These extreme blessings were combated by the [Weak] and [Sickly] traits. [Weak] was fixable if he exercised and ate properly.

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