He shook his head. “Only your feet must touch harmony,” he said, and pointed. “There. Stand upon the stone. It connects us to the earth below, and through it, to the divine.”

  Great. Foot magic.

  I eyed the rest of the priests as I stepped forward, one bare foot at a time, onto the weird warm-stone pedestal. The gender ratio was… surprisingly even. One had freckles and a jawline that looked too young for the job. All of them stared with the calm intensity of people who either knew something I didn’t, or believed so hard it didn’t matter.

  “So I just have to sit?” I asked, with all the confidence I absolutely did not feel and hang Jerry in a prepared alcove. Didn’t want him to die with me.

  “Yes, sister,” came the quiet reply. The chamber felt different now.

  Not just eerie… consecrated. Dim lighting pressed in from high sconces, flickering low like tired stars. Around the edges, squat clay bowls spilled trails of incense into the air, curling white smoke like lazy ghosts. The scent hit me, sharp herbs, burnt resin, something ancient and spicy. It clung to the roof of my mouth.

  The Votary stepped forward, her arm bandaged now, the fabric neat but slightly stained. A reminder of our earlier ice-fists-tantrum. She didn’t bring it up.

  She raised a hand, and the whispering stopped.

  “The ritual is simple,” she said, voice clear. “Your body will be burned by the sacred flame by the rite. Your soul will be loosed, cast into the liminal.” Her eyes met mine. “If it returns… changed. Chosen. Accepted. You will awaken anew in new body.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” I asked, keeping my tone light even as my throat dried.

  “Then you will not awaken,” said one of the elders. His voice was the kind that cracked stone. “There is no punishment. Only failure.”

  Cool. So casual death. Totally fine.

  They all turned in unison, forming a complete half-circle now. Centered around me.

  “We require your vow,” said the Votary.

  I blinked. “My what now?”

  “That you accept the death of this life,” she said. “And that you will not resist the path ahead.”

  “The gate opens only to those who step forward willingly,” another priest intoned, older, his robes singed at the hems like he’d spent time too close to divine bonfires. “Without that vow, the ritual cannot begin.”

  I swallowed hard. The weight of the incense, the stillness, the expectation, it all piled up like invisible hands on my shoulders.

  But this was the only way.

  “Fine,” I said, voice low. “I vow. I’ll walk the path. Willingly. No rage quitting.”

  The Votary smiled faintly; the smoke thickened, and the chants began.

  The air changed.

  Not like wind or weather, no, this was a presence. Saevrin’s shadow rippled through the chamber like a tide held just beyond the shoreline. He didn’t step through. Didn’t speak. But he watched. I felt it. Felt him. Like the pause before thunder. Like every person in the bar had turned to face me.

  Then the light hit.

  A divine flare burst through the temple, not warm or bright, but absolute. It pressed against my skin without heat. Soundless. Timeless. The priests didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out. They just… faded into the periphery, like a background whispers in a collapsing world.

  The throne ignited.

  Fire bloomed around me, not from below or behind, but within. Pale flame licked up my arms, trailed my collarbone, curled under my fingertips.

  And I felt nothing.

  No pain. No panic. Just a stillness so complete it was like I’d never moved. Like I’d never lived.

  My breath slowed.

  The chair was gone. The room. The Votary. The scent of incense. Everything peeled away like frost from warming glass.

  Even me.

  My fingers… weren’t mine anymore. My body shimmered, fading at the edges. Not disintegrating.

  Detaching.

  And my soul, whatever that really was, slipped free.

  I didn’t rise. Didn’t fly. I drifted. Somewhere deeper. Folded between layers of the world, like a pressed leaf in a forgotten book.

  And there it was.

  A realm with no sky. No ground. Just reflections suspended in dark light. A mirror hall of what-could-be. They circled me, moved with me.

  Queen. Crowned, veiled in gold, power coiled in her fingers like leashed storms. Alone.

  Warlord. Unbound rage written in every motion. Terrible and terrifying.

  Not-a-dragon. The ruler of the sky. Overpowering.

  But I knew it was all fake, because of those stupid damn wolves. I glanced to the side and found another that he offered me.

  Slave with pickaxe in hand. Shackled, bent, eyes hollowed by years of obedience and unmade defiance.

  All of them… were me. Or could be.

  Each one stared back through the reflection, waiting. The question wasn’t spoken. It didn’t need to be. And I had no choice in this matter anyway. It was already decided.

  And then, Saevrin’s voice, not loud, not soft, but final, echoed across the void like the closing of a door.

  “The First Child has chosen.”

  I opened my eyes to a blue screen.

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  “What the fuck is this?” I grumbled, swatting the screen like it was a fly trying to sell me life insurance. It blinked out of existence with a soft ding, which honestly made it worse.

  I blinked, then blinked again.

  Not a temple. Not a hospital. Not even one of those weird guild houses.

  I was inside some kind of low, round tent, soft light filtering in through stitched seams in the fabric above. The ceiling stretched wide and domed, held aloft by wooden poles dark with age and soot, rising from the floor like fingers cradling the sky.

  The central beam had carvings, simple ones, rough, almost ritualistic.

  The air was warm, dry, and thick with the scent of smoke and something herbal. Not incense. More like boiled bark and dried meat. The kind of scent that lingered in your hair and claimed it as property.

  Fur mats covered the ground beneath me, layered like sediment. Worn cushions leaned against a low wooden chest. A kettle hung over a coal basin in the center, its handle blackened from long use. No fire now, just the faint warmth left behind.

  The space was cluttered, but lived-in. Tools in leather wraps. Bundles of herbs hanging upside down from cords. A few ceramic bowls stacked unevenly near the flap that passed for a door, their glaze chipped, but still gleaming where the light touched.

  This wasn’t a city.

  This wasn’t even a village.

  I’d landed in the middle of somewhere, alright. I glanced down at myself. New body. New stats. New world.

  And, of course, no weapons.

  “Great,” I muttered, brushing stray hay from my thigh. “Love this. Ten outta ten reincarnation. Where’s the customer support button?”

  My body looked the same. Same height. Same fingers. Same slightly too-long blue hair that never behaved. But there wasn’t a mirror, and now wasn’t the time to check if the crown god gave me better cheekbones.

  A shadow passed the tent wall, slow and stalking, like a predator choosing its moment. The canvas rustled, the sound soft, too soft. Whoever it was, they knew how to move. A voice called out, urgent.

  A shriek.

  I inhaled sharply, nose flaring. “Saevrin promised this,” I whispered.

  Then I pulled as in the temple. Mana came, tentative, but obedient. It slithered into my fingers like cold whiskey. I shaped it, more by memory than instinct, and let it harden.

  A jagged icicle formed in my palm.

  My eyes narrowed. This isn’t the Rimelion I know...

  The interface was different. Less polished, less game-like. Like a rough draft of the real thing. Which made sense. Because I wasn’t a player anymore.

  Outside, the voices grew louder. Angry now. Heated. Steel hit steel, metal clanged like the start of a duel, but it didn’t stop. Not a spar. A skirmish.

  A raid?

  “Okay, Charlie,” I murmured, glancing down. The clothes were simple, soft wool, dyed in earthy browns. Tunic belted at the waist, bare feet still cold from the ritual stone. No armor. No heels. No backup. “Don’t fight and die for real, okay?”

  I dropped the icicle. It shattered with a sharp crack; the shards vanishing into the woven floor mat.

  The shadow reached the entrance.

  I braced, heart climbing into my throat.

  The flap peeled back, and for the briefest second, all I saw were eyes. Too wide. Desperate. Not a threat.

  A girl. Maybe younger than me, maybe just thinner, hair in long dark braids, skin marked with old sun. “Run!” she gasped, her voice full of panic. “They’re coming for us!”

  “Okay!” I snapped, and we bolted out of the tent together… into hell. Dozens of tents ringed the makeshift camp, many already consumed by flame.

  Thick black smoke clawed at the sky, choking the air with the stench of burning wool and scorched flesh. Desperate screams tore through the morning light. Shapes sprinted through the chaos. Children with too-small feet and wide eyes. Elders dragging packs they’d never get far with. Warriors bleeding from places they shouldn’t be able to stand with.

  The raiders were everywhere.

  Their armor gleamed in patches through the smoke, dark metal inscribed with lines, some kind of coat draped over their shoulders. And the masks. Wolf faces worn like a mockery of me.

  One hacked through a fleeing man’s spine without slowing down. Another casually tossed a flaming jar into a tent where someone still screamed.

  The girl’s hand was trembling in mine. I held tight. “Don’t—”

  She ripped herself free. “We have to run!” she cried, her voice too high to sound like a plan.

  She dashed for the edge of the camp, fast and reckless. I saw it happen before she did.

  A raider turned.

  He didn’t even rush. Just nocked an arrow, pulled back with bored precision, and let it fly.

  The shaft punched through her foot with a crunch, and she collapsed screaming, curling around the wound.

  “Good girl,” said the woman, voice smooth and soaked in smoke. She wore layered armor, gilded and rune-stamped with so many protections it looked more ceremonial than practical… except I knew damn well it was practical. Hero-mode me probably wouldn’t leave a scratch. Current me? I’d bounce off her like a pebble on a tank.

  “If you don’t run,” she added, mounting a dark, muscle-heavy beast that passed for a horse, “you can ride with me.”

  I glanced up at her from under the veil of my hair. She looked… fifty, maybe. But her proportions were off, too tall, too lean in places that shouldn’t be. Her skin was tinted wrong, like someone had mixed with pale clay and smoke. Not human.

  I had a choice. Defy her. Play the rebel. Like I did with Saevrin. Or…

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered, lowering my gaze like a good little nothing. My bare feet curled slightly in the dust.

  She let out a laugh, deep, like someone genuinely enjoying a fucked-up play. Then, without missing a beat, she lobbed a fireball toward a nearby tent. It detonated with a thumpf, cloth and sparks spiraling upward as if the place had spontaneously combusted from despair alone.

  “You know what that means?” she asked, casually turning her monstrous mount.

  I risked a glance. Her grin was all teeth, not warmth. “You… claim ownership of my life now?” I asked quietly, swallowing hard. The words tasted like ash.

  Her gauntleted hand clapped against my back with a sharp clang, hard enough to send me staggering. “Exactly!” she boomed. “Clever for a steppe elf!”

  I doubled over, trying to suck air back into my lungs. Her hit had knocked it clean out. And just as I was recovering, wham, she smacked me again, like it would help. Weirdly… it did. I wheezed in a half-cough, half-laugh, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.

  Then a scream ripped through the air.

  One of the camp warriors, an older elf with face paint and cracked knuckles, had just driven a curved blade through the gut of a raider. Red bloomed fast, too fast, and the invader dropped, twitching.

  “The chief’s making a fuss,” the woman said, almost bored. She clicked her tongue and adjusted her reins. “Wait here, girl. I need to go crush their hopes.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. Her mount surged forward with a growl and a spray of gravel, leaving me standing alone in the chaos, ears ringing, breath shaking.

  So this was slavery.

  Level zero. No sword. No buffs. And no idea how the hell I was getting out of this.