A chill wind clawed at Kaelen’s bare skin. It carried the acrid scent of sulfur and wet ash, a smell he’d come to associate with the 'Ashfall Wastes' from countless hours in front of a screen. His eyes remained shut, a desperate gamble for sanity. _If this is the beginning of the end, a brutal game I’m forced to play, what’s the first move?_ First, assess. Gather every scrap of data. Only then could he hope to plot a path through whatever fresh hell this was. His mind, usually a restless current, steadied. He remembered the primary directive: information. Slowly, Kaelen unsealed his eyelids, scanning the gloom. Nothing had shifted. The same oppressive darkness, the same flickering, sputtering oil lamps casting long, dancing shadows. This wasn’t a simulation. It was too cold, too real. The grit beneath his bare feet, the metallic tang of fear on his tongue. He stood in a clearing. Twisted, skeletal trees, long dead, clawed at a bruised, moonless sky. Their branches, stripped bare, looked like skeletal fingers reaching for something long gone. Crude, flickering light spilled from dozens of rusted iron braziers. Their smoke stung his nostrils, thick with the smell of scorched bone and damp earth. And the people… Muscled figures, scarred and grim, filled his vision. Their faces were painted with tribal sigils, their bodies clad in scavenged hides and rusted metal plates. Savages. Every last one. Clan Elder Korg’s voice boomed, raw as grinding stone, cutting through the low murmur of the crowd. “Hear me, whelps! Today you shed the skin of childhood. Today, the Ash Mother witnesses your rebirth as true warriors!” Kaelen let the words wash over him, a torrent of incomprehensible sound that somehow, impossibly, made perfect sense. His brain registered the meaning, not just the raw noise. He felt a phantom ache behind his eyes, a sensation like knowledge being forcibly shoved into his skull. He wasn’t a medic, but his self-diagnosis was clear: full-blown dissociation. No idea how he got here. No idea *why*. “Approach, one by one! Claim the tool that calls to your spirit!” He needed to anchor himself. What was he doing just before this? The memory hit him like a physical blow. He’d been there, hunched over his rig, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his bloodshot eyes. _Desolation Frontier. Final boss room. Activated the portal. Then the blinding light, the system messages: ‘Tutorial Complete,’ ‘Transmitting to server…’_ The clarity only made it worse. More confusing. More terrifying. “Kael, son of Grath! Step forward!” First things first: physical status report. No immediate pain, but a thorough inventory was vital. He lowered his gaze. His breath hitched. He stiffened. What in the hell was this? “A cleaver! Good choice, Kael. May it taste the blood of the Blight-spawn!” His hands. They were enormous. Calloused. Scarred. They didn’t belong to Kaelen Varrick, data analyst, former gamer. Yet, they responded to his every mental command, clenching, flexing. He rotated his wrists, the heavy muscles shifting under the scarred skin. He swept his gaze down. His torso was a sculpted mass of corded muscle, intricately covered in dark, tribal tattoos. No shirt, just hardened flesh. It was a brutal parody of his own body, a cruel caricature. He took it all in. This giant, savage vessel. His own. There was no logic here. No hidden cameras, no psychological experiment. He pushed those desperate rationalizations away. Trying to force this situation into a familiar box would be foolish, suicidal even. Truth was simple. Science couldn’t explain this. Modern knowledge offered nothing. He was a barbarian, a savage, stranded in the Ashfall Wastes. “Next!” That chilling fact, the inexplicable body, was only the beginning. The language the Elder spoke wasn't English, or any tongue he’d ever heard. Yet, he understood it with unnerving fluency. It was as if an entire language database had been uploaded directly into his brain, complete with regional dialects and cultural nuances. “Jaxx, daughter of Vorlag! Approach!” Then came the strange familiarity. A sense of déjà vu so profound it made his skin crawl. Young warriors, stepping forward one by one, choosing their weapons from a pile of crude iron and sharpened bone. This scene. The ritual. The harsh setting. It all screamed _Desolation Frontier_. Not just the game, but the opening sequence for the 'Scavenger Brute' class he’d mained for years. The moment you created a new character, this was the cutscene, before you even reached the character creation screen. Was this really a coincidence? The game he was playing, the character class, the sudden light… “Jaxx, daughter of Vorlag! You are now a warrior of the Ashbound! May the blessing of the Blight-Stone guide your blade!” Blight-Stone. The name echoed in his raw, new ears. Kaelen’s blood ran cold. The final, damning piece of the puzzle slotted into place. The Blight-Stone was a crucial lore element in _Desolation Frontier_, a corrupted artifact that powered the endgame boss. This was it. He was in the game. His game. His bloody, brutal game. “This is… Desolation Frontier?” a voice whispered, ragged and strained, right beside Kaelen. He flinched, not daring to move his head, but his eyes darted sideways. A young warrior, broad-shouldered, with eyes wide and terrified. He looked… out of place. Different from the others. Panic thrummed in his ragged breathing. He, too, knew the name. Another one. Another outsider. Just like Kaelen. Kaelen’s gut twisted. He needed to talk to him. To find out. But the opportunity evaporated before it even materialized. “Who spoke?!” Korg’s voice cracked like thunder, making Kaelen’s ear canals vibrate. For a terrifying second, his head swam. He came back to himself with a jolt, the Elder’s furious gaze sweeping the line of novices. Korg’s eyes narrowed, fixing on Kaelen’s general vicinity. “Was it you, whelp?” Kaelen shook his head, a smooth, practiced denial. He didn’t think. He simply acted, his gaze flicking to the terrified warrior beside him, an unspoken accusation. A move so quick, so instinctual, it felt alien. Yet, it was perfectly executed. The Elder’s eyes shifted, honing in on the true offender. _Sorry, pal. You chose to speak the unspeakable. On this unforgiving Frontier, ignorance is death._ “Was it you, child?” Korg repeated, his voice dangerously low. “Y-yes?” The warrior stammered, his eyes wide with confusion. “Did I… did I mumble something about _Desolation Frontier_? Why?” This idiot. Didn’t he feel the atmosphere? The sudden, thick silence that had fallen over the assembly? Korg’s face, usually a mask of weathered stone, now held a strange, sad grimace. “It was you.” A flicker of genuine regret, or something close to it, crossed the Elder’s eyes. Kaelen felt a cold premonition, an instinctive urge to retreat. He subtly shifted his weight, putting a sliver more distance between himself and the doomed warrior. The man tilted his head, a pathetic, hopeful smile forming. “Is this part of the ritual? Maybe because I figured it out too quick, I get a bonus or something?” No. There would be no bonus. What happened next was too fast for Kaelen’s eyes to truly track. A blur of movement. A flash of polished obsidian. Then, a wet, sickening thud. _Thwack._ That was it. The fleeting moment passed. The head, severed clean at the neck, rolled in the dirt, a dull, sickening sound. It tumbled once, twice, before coming to rest at the feet of a gaping novice. The sight was unreal, like watching a poorly rendered cutscene. White bone, crimson muscle, and something viscous—brain matter?—splattered across Kaelen’s face. A visceral tableau that should have triggered nausea, panic, a primal scream. Instead, his mind remained unnervingly calm. He felt nothing. No revulsion. No shock. Just cold, calculating analysis. As if he was watching a stream, not a live execution. PSSSSSSSHHHHHHH! Blood geysered from the stump of the neck, painting the ash-dusted ground a shocking, vibrant red. Only one question echoed in Kaelen’s head: _Why?_ “An Ash-Fiend spoke through the mouth of Borin, son of Kalen. Young warriors, excise the fiend’s whispers from your minds! Forget the words just uttered!” Korg’s voice, raw with fury, ripped through the silence. The information clicked into place, chillingly clear. 1. He, Kaelen, was an 'Ash-Fiend.' An evil spirit. 2. If discovered, he would die. Brutally. 3. That severed head could have been his. The realization sent a shiver down Kaelen’s spine, a deep, primal tremor that his analytical mind couldn't override. Even after witnessing the decapitation, this thought was the one that truly froze his blood. “Talon! Alert the Bone-Keepers! And take this filth!” “What of the Rite?” A scarred warrior asked, eyes fixed on the oozing corpse. “It continues! The Ash Mother demands it!” Despite the arterial spray, the ritual resumed. No one flinched. Not the hardened warriors, not the other young novices. This was commonplace. Horrific, but routine. Perhaps it was the years spent grinding through unforgiving games. No one needed to tell Kaelen what to do. His internal quest log, invisible but screaming, had just updated. His body still wanted to tremble. He forced it still. He copied the blank, stoic expressions of the warriors around him, his face a neutral mask. No incongruity. No suspicion. To them, he was an Ash-Fiend, possessing the rightful soul of a son of the wastes. Discovery meant swift, brutal obliteration. “Next!” But the next call made his heart sink with fresh dread. “Kennel, fourth son of Roric, come forth!” He didn’t know his name. This wasn’t a minor detail. This was a death sentence. To stand frozen when your name was called was to invite immediate, lethal scrutiny. “Next!” He could pretend he hadn’t heard. A likely story. But what if Korg, already suspicious from the previous incident, pressed him? What if he asked, “Who is your mother? What are your ancestors?” Kaelen had no answer. “Next!” Desperation sparked a flicker of desperate hope. _What if I’m called last? Then I don’t need to know!_ “Next!” Pathetic. He, Kaelen Varrick, pragmatic survivor, relying on sheer, unadulterated luck? He, whose entire life had been a masterclass in bad fortune, culminating in this glorious, world-ending transport? No. Luck was for fools. He needed a plan. A solid, calculated gambit. “Next!” His eyes darted, discreetly. Not his head, just his eyes, scanning the faces, the subtle shifts in posture, the unconscious habits of the other novices. His chin remained pointed forward, his expression fixed. A seed of an idea began to sprout. “Next!” It wasn't foolproof. Far from it. But time was a luxury he didn’t have. He made the decision. This was the only way. “Next!” “Next!” “Next!” The calls continued. Kaelen counted, a silent rhythm in his head. Two seconds. Each time. Eight names. Eight silent, internal counts. “Khor, son of Yoric! Approach!” The moment arrived. The voice rang out. Two seconds ticked by. No one stirred. No one moved a muscle among the remaining novices. Kaelen stepped forward. His shoulders back. Head held high. He strode towards the Clan Elder with every ounce of manufactured confidence he could muster. Step. Fear was a bitter taste in his mouth. He still didn’t know if it was his name. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Step. If his judgment was wrong, Korg would know. The Elder’s eyes would pierce through the charade. He might ask for Kaelen’s mother’s name, for his ancestral lineage. He had no answers. Step. Yet, he didn’t falter. He breathed deep, steadying the trembling in his limbs, maintaining his unwavering stride. One reason. Simple. Brutal. Because it was the most probable. “Young warrior, choose your blade!” The choice was right. He saw no doubt in Korg’s weathered eyes. Just the same grave, gentle acceptance he’d shown to every other novice. Relief, sharp and exhilarating, coursed through him. He lived. Less than ten minutes had passed since his forced arrival. Yet, he had already accepted this new, horrifying reality. Denying it was for the dead. This wasn't a dream. This was the Ashfall Wastes. And he was Khor, son of Yoric. He would become this savage, this brute. He would live by this name, breathe this ash-choked air, spill blood on this scorched earth. He had no idea how long this twisted game would last, or if there was even a way home. He knew nothing beyond the urgent, primal need to survive. Perhaps, he mused, a sardonic twist to his lips, once the 'game's' clear conditions were met, he’d find his way back. But that was a thought for another, safer time. Now, there was only the cold, sharp reality of the weapon pile. And the life he had to claim.

Marked for Survival