The enormous gap between my island and the island across from me poses a problem, but my magical fire compass insists the correct path is forward, straight across the empty air.

The blue-black void doesn’t seem to have a bottom, so I would probably die of dehydration before splatting against anything. Oh, hey, dehydration. I haven’t drank anything that wasn’t healing potion since arriving and I’ve been here, what, a few hours?

Luckily there’s a river literally right next to me. Well, currently a raging waterfall, but when I take a few steps back I’m by the creek again. I kneel down to the placid stream and scoop up a nice handful of water, dismissing [Find the Path] first so I don’t get a faceful of flame. It soothes my parched throat and I greedily drink more. Once I’ve had my fill I return to the cliff’s edge and peer over.

It’s odd staring down into the abyss. It’s particularly odd because I am supposed to be scared of heights, but I feel nothing. Back home I’d get nervous just climbing high stairs or crossing a bridge, but now I’m on the edge of a literal cliff to nowhere and I don’t feel scared at all, not even when I make myself vividly picture falling to my death. Something is very, very wrong with my fear response.

If my isekai cheat ability turns out to be some kind of fear immunity, I am going to murder someone.

I don’t see any way across the void, but if that was really true then why would the compass lead me here? Something about this setup feels too intentional. It’s in the way the waterfall faces the cliff, the clean edge. I can almost imagine the two sides clicking together.

Leap of faith? I scoop a handful of sand and toss it into the void. Most of it falls out of sight, but some of it lands on something invisible. I scoop more sand and keep scattering it until I can make out a whole platform fixed in the air just a single finger-length past the edge of the cliff. Invisible bridge! Called it.

I kick the sand-covered platform to see if it moves, and when it doesn’t I place a foot on it and apply pressure. No matter how much weight I shift onto it the tile doesn’t react, so I step on with both feet. Okay, now what?

I test the far edge of the platform and find a gap, but there is another tile on the other side of the gap. I repeat my testing process to make sure it’s secure, then make the crossing.

The rest of my trip across is tedious busywork; I cross platforms, test for a new platform, test the stability of the new platform, then cross again. Eventually I’m back on solid ground, landing on a patch of dirt up against the far side cliff face.

Now that I’m here I can examine things more closely, and what I find is intriguing: the cliff is too sheer, just like the top of the stairwell. There’s no sign of any entryway, just a perfectly-cut stone wall, but when I resummon the compass for a moment it continues to point forward.

I dismiss the spell and trace my fingers over the wall, looking for a hidden indentation or illusory surface. I keep the knife clutched tight, not willing to let it out of my grasp again after the disaster with the spider-dogs.

I find a spot on the wall that feels different and push. I’m expecting some mechanical contraption that makes a block of stone sink into the wall, or some kind of illusory passage that my hand will pass right through, but instead I find myself stumbling forward, hand against empty air.

I catch myself before my stumble can turn into a fall onto hard stone. I’m in a corridor of stone, the same type as outside but not as unnaturally smooth; there’s decent friction as I walk and I see striations in the walls. Behind me is more flat stone, with no visual indicator that it leads outside.

Another translocation. Seems that happens every time we cross a threshold. This place has fascinating spatial mechanics; could we exploit that in some way?

The hall curves off to the right. There are no torches to light the way, but this reality doesn’t seem to care about light sources; once again I can see perfectly fine in the lightless corridor. I follow the curve of the wall and in short order come to a wooden door.

The door looks sturdy and well-fitted to the stone hall, but there’s no lock and no handle. I pause by the door and listen for any sounds on the other side, but hear nothing. I kick the door with my foot and it creaks open. My knife is at the ready.

The chamber on the other side is uninhabited but not empty: there’s a wooden table and two wooden chairs, a tattered rug gathering dust, and two doors leading out. The door across from me is simple and unadorned, just like the one I just opened, but the door to my left is covered in ornate engravings.

I step inside and stab the rug, table, and both chairs, just in case any of them are mimics. I poke the doors too for completion’s sake. I have no reason to believe mimics exist in this world, but it seems like the kind of bastard thing that Azathoth would cook up to ruin my day, especially since I’ve already encountered other furniture that didn’t attack me.

None of the inanimate objects I menace cease being inanimate, and thankfully none of them bleed pink blood, so I ignore the furniture and push open the far door.

This room looks half-barracks half-storage: cots and blankets are crowded against the left wall while crates are stacked against the right wall. The siren song of loot calls to me and I start opening boxes.

Rancid meat, moldy bread, and pools of sludge that might have once been fruit don’t fill me with confidence, but I squeal with delight when I find a hooded black cloak. I happily equip my new article of clothing and keep searching. I find metal canteens with water still inside and throw one inside a pouch on my backpack.

The next box contains an assortment of medical supplies, all of which I pocket: a few bandage rolls, a needle and spool of thread, and a bottle of modern antiseptic. The antiseptic is labeled but again I note the conspicuous absence of any brand or logo. The bundle of rope in the next box won’t fit in my backpack, but the half-empty box of matches will.

The last box is the largest and has mouth-watering contents: three plus-sized heavy-duty lotsa-pockets not-pink backpacks! They look like the kind hikers take with them, big enough to fit a week of supplies. I rifle through and they’re all empty, but they have way more space than my dinky little monstrosity.

I go to lift one and wow it’s heavy. Too heavy, I realize. I can take it out of the box and move it around but if I load it up any more than my current backpack I probably won’t be able to run with it. I’m already starting to feel the weight of my pack and there’s barely anything in it. It makes an annoying sort of sense: when I was still in school I used to get out of breath just carrying textbooks from one class to another.

This is vaguely humiliating, so I’m glad no one’s here to see. Except Azathoth, the perving bastard.

I reluctantly let the superior backpack go out of concern for my poor, aching back. With my sacking of the storeroom complete I return to the antechamber and inspect the ornate door. The carvings are of scenes that wouldn’t look out of place in a religious text: sufferers kneeling in prayer, faces of anguish, the strike of a lash. I push the door and it swings open. On the other side is a hexagonal room, five more doors, and another monster.

Because why wouldn’t there be another monster?

The monster resembles a human, mostly, but one that’s been stretched out to twice its height and tortured for weeks or longer. All of its limbs are too long and lanky, and it has six of them: two legs bent, kneeling, clothed in ragged trousers; and two sets of arms sprouting from two sets of shoulder blades on an elongated torso bare of coverings.

The lower arms, shorter, are clasped in prayer, while the upper arms are busy striking the creature’s back with many-whipped scourges that end in metal barbs. The monster flagellates itself in steady, controlled motions, and by the scar tissue and dried blood covering its naked chest it must do this often.

The creature’s head is hairless, and symbols I have no frame of reference for have been carved into the top of its head. It wears a thick blindfold over its eyes and there are streaks of dirt staining the creature’s cheeks like dried tears. The monster’s mouth is the oddest part for how normal it looks: perfectly-proportioned and clean, with full-bodied lips and pristine white teeth. It moves that oddly-perfect mouth in some repeated chant, but what I hear is a chorus of whispers like a dozen people murmuring too quietly to be clearly heard.

Its head is initially bowed, but when I step inside the room it lifts its head in my direction and stops flagellating itself. It’s still kneeling in the middle of the chamber, a solid few meters from me but way too close for comfort. The whispers stop and the monster speaks.

“Do you know regret?” Its voice is unnerving for how beautiful it is, choral and resonant like a choir in harmony. The voice is vaguely male, but only in the way that deeper voices can dominate a certain kind of group singing.

I debate running, but I don’t know which door is my goal and if I summon the compass this thing might just take that as provocation. Better to play along. “Can you clarify your meaning? Are you asking if I know the definition of regret, or if I personally have regrets? I mean, the answer to the former is that of course I know what the word means, I read books.” That last line makes me sound like a smarmy kid bragging about her advanced reading level to her classmates, but that’s exactly who I was in grade school so it fits.

The creature does not take my evasion well. It rises to its feet, moving slowly, and four arms hang limp at its sides. At its full height the creature has to hunch over to avoid the roof of the cavern. It speaks again. “Do you know regret?”

I feel like lying is the best move here. Lying is always the best move. I lift my chin confidently at the giant and proclaim, “I have done nothing wrong, ever, in my entire life. I’m basically perfect–divine, one could argue, and I have–and I regret absolutely nothing.”

The monster’s lips curl back and that choral voice commands, “Repent!” with all the gravitas a choir can muster.

Okay, so maybe lying wasn’t the best move.

The flagellant lurches forward and swings wildly with both scourges, but each step is a laborious motion for the creature and I’m already sprinting away. Where the attack connects with solid stone it leaves a wicked gouge in the wall. Wow! That’ll just fucking kill me!

“[Ashthorn].” My dagger is wreathed in green flame and I keep it pointed at the monster, ready for it to come at me again.

The flagellant moves slowly, with great weight behind every motion, and turns to face me once more. “Repent!” cries the unearthly chorus, and the creature makes another lumbering lunge toward me.

I was outpaced by Needles and outpaced by the tarantula-dogs, but I finally have an opponent slower than me and I’m reveling in it. I dodge the attack even easier this time and I can feel [Ashthorn] helping in subtle ways; the dagger isn’t literally making me faster, but it’s nudging me to be more efficient in my movements, and that adds up.

The monster crashes its whips into the wall and has to take a second to recover, so now it’s my turn. The flagellant’s back is even worse than its chest, the skin torn raw and even the flesh scourged away in areas to reveal bloody bone. I’m not sure how much harm I can even do to this thing but I stab it with the burning blade, driving my dagger into exposed muscle and sinew.

When I pull the dagger out, wisps of green flame cling to the wound. The flames crackle and hiss, and I can see the flesh of the wound starting to char.

The creature turns to face me and I take a step back to get out of reach but I’m blindsided by a backhand from one of the lower arms. I’m sent flying and I think I hear a rib crack even before I slam into the ground and lose all the breath in my lungs. The dagger slips from my grasp and clatters across the floor, extinguishing as soon as it leaves my hand, and I lie there sucking in air for precious seconds before I can force my body to move again. I scramble for the knife on hands and knees but the monster is on me again and I have to roll away from another scourge swing, putting the flagellant between me and my weapon.

I push myself off the ground and sprint to the wall furthest from the dagger. The monster lumbers after me, scourges scraping the ground, and again that perfect voice cries out, “Repent!” It swings as soon as it’s in range and I dodge the blow but only by inches; the agonizing pain in my chest is slowing me down and without the dagger I’m clumsy and uncoordinated. As soon as I’m clear I turn on my heel and race for the dagger. I scoop it up and reignite it with a pained word.

The flagellant advances. I dodge, wincing at the flare of pain, and this time I play it safe and don’t go in for an attack. I can see the burnt wound on its back where I stabbed with [Ashthorn], but the trickle of blood is slow to emerge. Is the dagger cauterizing the wound!? That is insanely irritating if true.

My broken rib is wrecking me, but another exchange plays out as I move defensively and puzzle over how to kill this horrible bastard. I can’t trade blows like I did with the not-ghost and the spider-mutt; I’ll die before I can drink the last of my healing potion and that still won’t be enough to kill it. If I attack from the front it’ll break me with those scourges and if I linger too long behind the monster it’ll just grab me with that second pair of arms.

Another swing, another dodge, another moment to breathe. So if no single stroke will win this fight, reverse tactics: wage a war of attrition and cripple its ability to fight. I dismiss [Ashthorn]’s flames, quietly relieved that the agility effect isn’t tied to the burning effect.

The chorus calls for repentance once more, and when the flagellant strikes the wall I duck low and stab its ankle. The dagger sinks in and I leap back before the giant’s grasping hands can seize me. The monster makes no noises of pain, but I can see the blood starting to drip, and when it comes after me next it’s limping.

The flagellant’s limp makes up for my screaming rib and I win the next exchange. This time I manage to stick the shoulder of a scourge-bearing arm. The arm doesn’t suddenly drop limp, I’m not that lucky or that good, but when the flagellant pulls back that arm for another swing its stops halfway to its previous zenith.

I repeat tactics. The monster lunges, I dodge, I give it a glancing blow and back off. Not all my attacks manage to do any damage, but the dagger’s assistance is making me more accurate than I should be and enough blows land to make a difference.

The creature is tough, but it isn’t invincible. With each new wound it flags more, and though I’m tiring too the adrenaline keeps me a step ahead. When the monster misses again and lingers for a few more seconds, straining, before gathering for another assault, I see my opportunity.

On the next round I go for the kill. As soon as I’m clear of the scourge swing I step back in and drive [Ashthorn] into one of the monster’s blindfolded eye sockets. My dagger passes through the blindfold and finds something squishy, and I shove it deeper, but as I push it in one of the flagellant’s lower arms grabs my leg and squeezes. Bone shatters and my leg gives out but I hold tight to the dagger and I drive it down to the hilt. “[Ashthorn]!” I scream. The blade ignites inside my enemy’s brain.

Screams tear out of my throat as fresh agony courses through my calf and up into my thigh. Pain, pain, pain, more than I’ve ever felt, unbearable, unimaginable, it just keeps building. I keep twisting and my leg keeps shattering into more and more pieces until finally, finally, finally, the pressure eases off.

The monster falls to the ground and I fall with it, the pair of us crumping in a heap. I am screaming, crying, shattered. I clutch at my ruined leg and wail and the pain keeps rising. I can see shards of bone and pulped flesh, a gruesome visage of spilled blood and mangled meat.

Dimly, somewhere in that pain-induced fog, I remember the potion. My hands are shaking as I fumble with the zipper of my backpack and pour everything out onto the bloody floor of the stone chamber.

I see the crystal flask and grasp at it, pull it close, bring it to my mouth. I try to force my hands to still but they won’t listen. I tear the stopper off and don’t care where it goes, I just need to be whole. I pour the potion down my throat, spilling some, and let the empty bottle slip between my fingers.

Warmth. That comforting, amazing, loving warmth flows through my veins. It washes over my chest and eases the pain in my ribs. It washes down my leg and drowns the lancing agony. My whole body is warm and soothed and whole and I lie there on the bloody floor with eyes closed, tears still leaking out.

The warmth recedes and the cold comes in. The pain is gone but my body still shivers from shock and anguish. I’m sobbing, I realize; the sobs wrack my chest and pour out of my throat.

Why? Why is this happening to me? Am I being punished? Is this what I deserve for all my sins? Am I meant to suffer until I break? I’m not special, I’m not strong, I can’t handle this. I’m weak. I’m worthless.

My sobs get quiet, and numbness replaces the anguish in my chest. I sit up, open my eyes, and stare at the empty potion bottle with its “Drink Me” tag.

If not for that potion, I’d be dead. Her gift saved me.

I snarl and bare my teeth. Azathoth is the reason I had to use it in the first place. It’s her fault I was stabbed and slashed and beaten. Her fault for bringing me to this wretched world full of horrors. The hate rises and escapes me in a low growl. She gave me that to prolong my suffering! Her “gift” justified throwing deadlier monsters at me.

It kept me alive.

Kept me alive, but didn’t give me any power. Kept me alive and powerless so I have to rely on it just to keep moving.

As I continue to stare at the potion, reality sets in. It’s gone now. The potion is gone. My “free fuck-up” card is gone. What do I do now? What do I do without my lifeline?

Mechanically, numbly, I start filling my backpack with everything I threw out. There’s blood on the notebooks, on everything, but I wipe off as much as I can on my thoroughly-dirtied outfit.

Hydration is essential for maintaining normal function, my brain intones clinically, so I take a drink from the canteen before securing it in its pouch. I zip up my backpack.

We have to keep going. The only way out is through. We can still win this.

I rise to my feet and turn to the dead flagellant to retrieve [Ashthorn], but the monster isn’t there anymore: instead the dagger is lying embedded in a heart of fired clay, the ceramic organ made to look ritually scarified. Huh. Okay. Definitely adding that to the list of questions I have for the first halfway-decent source of exposition I find.

I rip [Ashthorn] from the clay heart. I’m half-expecting the heart to explode in an energy wave or something like that, but all that happens is that a few cracks spread across the ceramic. I shove the heart in my backpack, then summon the compass. The arrow of the seeking spell points to one of the four side doors, so I walk over to it.

This door has carvings like the one that led to the central chamber, but also has a proper handle and a bar that’s been lowered to block the door from opening. I glance at the other side doors and confirm they all have the same setup. So whoever resided here didn’t care about blocking passage in or out of the rest of this place, but these rooms contain things they wanted to keep trapped inside. How promising.

I gather myself before the door and try to wipe off as many tear-stains as I can. I’m filthy with blood and dirt, but I can’t really do anything about that, and I can’t do anything about this embarrassing outfit either. I just have to avoid looking weak. [Find the Path] led me here but it can’t speak for me; I have to convince whoever is on the other side of this door that I am worth joining. I have to prove myself to be charismatic, intelligent, interesting, and worthy.

I wince as I note that they probably heard me sobbing, which won’t help my case. I need to lie my ass off and hope they can’t see through me. I raise the bar, plaster a confident smirk on my face, and open the door.

On the other side I see a stone room, a circle of salt, and a horned man standing inside the circle.