Gabrielle’s crushing embrace was restricting blood flow. Rowan didn’t mind—he repeated this to himself—the loss of feeling in his fingers, because, above all, he wished for her to heal, mentally and physically. After that bout of extreme violence, she was holding up well.

She hadn’t ever been in a real fight, especially not a fight to the death. It clearly showed. Her usual cheerful demeanor had been hurt, but not killed. He doubted her bubbly spirit could be popped. She would always be his crazy, quirky Gabby.

Maybe too crazy during a certain time each month, though he’d never say that out loud.

“Row,” she said in a small voice, “I’m scared.”

His whole face twisted. “What, seriously? It’s just a fancy portal graphical effect.” Shades of electric blue and ivory white were rushing forth in thick strands and eddies, like a sideways waterfall. It was obvious Nargol had cast some kind of portal spell. They were floating through, weightless.

“Nope. Just kidding. Hehehe.” She patted the back of his numb hand. “And I saved ya back there.”

“I guess you did. Nice job.”

“Mmhm… So what did ya mean by precious fucktoy? Hmm?”

A cough scraped up his throat. “You know.” He smirked, and, on cue, the rushing magic around them dispersed in a shower of electric sparks.

Fresh cold air filled Rowan’s lungs. His feet met solid ground—soft, solid, damp ground that his toes sank into. Morning dew sparkled like a million diamonds. He was entrenched in waist-high grass, standing a few hundred yards from a body of calm water, perhaps a lake.

Sparse clumps of pine trees grew in just the right places to give the meadow a highly pleasing aesthetic as though painted by an old master. Thick shrubbery complemented the pines… as well as a few other trees which he did not recognize. In the distance across the lake, steep mountainsides walled off that side of valley. The only thing missing was a flock of sheep.

And, in fact, there were mountains in all directions, and the lake stretched rightward all the way to the horizon and beyond. That was no lake. This was a fjord. And from what he could see, they were standing a mile from a narrow, rigid gap in the stony mountains. Just one gap. Very safe. Very homey.

Gabrielle hugged him tighter, shivering. “Row, I’m cold.” She sniffed. “Build me a campfire.”

“You can do it yourself,” he said playfully.

“I need to lie down,” she said seriously. “I think that magic punch skill drained my body or something.”

Rowan sucked in a breath and held it. The very mention of that Orc stoked embers of hate. They were going to pay. That whole damned outpost was going to burn by the time he was done with them, Zachery included. Nargol’s mercy, however, was noted. He could live for saving Gabrielle further pain. Rowan exhaled and looked into her eyes. Dark rings hung deep. “Yeah, sure. Take a nap—or log out for a bit. I’ll setup camp, and I think this might be a good location for a base.”

“Kay.” She sank onto her bottom, dropped her iron bar, then laid back. The grass made for decent makeshift beddings. She mumbled, “I’m hungry too. Get me some strawberries, master. I’d like a basket full when I wake.”

His eyes rolled. “Fine.” The game’s hunger and cooking systems had escaped him. It was one of the many features players had been looking forward to for many months; for good reason. The dishes Synaptic had previewed looked simply delectable. And most importantly, players did not need use of magically-enhanced lavatories—an adventurer perk. NPCs were not as lucky.

Most intrusively, a panel expanded in front of his nose.

Gabby LeMort has invited you to a party. Do you accept?

He nodded, and her party entry appeared at the left along with his own. While his icon was a default silhouette, hers was a custom watercolor painting of her face that she had done during high school. Cute.

He said, “Good idea. I’ll wake you with the ping system if something happens.”

“Or…” She giggled sarcastically. “Just let me get eaten by a bear. Either’s fine.”

Head shaking, he waved her off into sleepy-land, then got to work on the fire pit. When he crouched down to clear a circle in the grass, his broken rib cut deeper into his body. An aching jolt lashed up his nerves all the way to his head. He dropped to a knee, gingerly touched the wound with dirty fingers. The skin was mostly intact, thankfully.

Does this need medicine? It’s not healing.

A slowly-blinking medical icon atop his health bar answered the question.

Debuff: Moderate Internal injuries (rib and left lung)

Slow regeneration

Bleeding ceased

10% reduced maximum stat points

Damn it.

His eyes zipped to Gabrielle’s party entry, and to his relief, no long-lasting debuffs had inflicted her character. She was only drained.

Rowan shook his head and got on with the job. He picked up Moonfyre—and noticed the Orc’s axe had also tagged along with the involuntary ride.

Rusted Orcish Iron Axe

Item Type: Melee weapon (one or two handed)

Damage: 14

Finally some luck.

Rowan whistled a victorious tune, and with a mental command, he activated his game interface’s grid overlay. A 3D lattice of transparent white lines drew outward from his position, outlining yard-high cubes. To an extent, this broke immersion, but he wasn’t one to complain; settlement-building was now ten times easier. And funner.

Too handy.

Four cubes worth of grass were gathered into a pile. In the soil, Rowan traced out a circle a yard in diameter with Moonfyre, then strode toward the nearest pine trees to collect stone and dry flammables. He roughly knew how to start a fire without matches, those childhood camping trips proving their worth.

Ninety minutes later, his efforts rewarded him a messy stone firepit, a pile of sticks ready for kindling, and seven beefy steaks of chopped firewood. He wiped his brow of sweat under the rising sun. No details missed, this certainly was as tiring as laboring in the real world—ultra-realism to a tee.

Now for the fun part.

He grabbed the driest stick of the lot and split it in two. He carved a shallow groove straight down the first half, then firmly gripped the other, rubbing up and down the groove as rapidly as his limited Agility allowed. A fire plow, this was one of the simpler methods, no flint required.

Beige wood darkened to shades of charcoal. Soon enough, first whiffs of smoke swirled into the air. The groove was burning hot. Rowan ripped tinder from his linen garb, held five strands to smoking back dust, rubbed gently. One, two, three, the tinder caught fire. Easy. Who needed magic anyway?

The fire pit was hungry for more wood before he knew it. Was this a world first achievement in wilderness survival? Probably not. That Orcish escapade had taken hours, and neither he nor Gabrielle had gained anything truly valuable out of it. No experience. No valuable loot.

Oh, the experience bar at the bottom was partially filled at two point one percent. That fatty Orc must’ve bled out—instant karma for hurting Gabrielle. A gleeful smile squeezed Rowan’s cheeks. Day one was taking a turn for the best.

Though the fire was roaring and the midday sun was cloudless, the breeze coming from the fjord only grew colder. Swaths of dew declined to thaw. The mountain peaks glowed white. How far north (or south) had Nargol thrown them?

By the angle of the sun… this place was verging dangerously close to one of the poles. Rowan wasn’t sure what to make of that; too many variables to consider. He simply stood and scouted for those strawberries, Gabrielle still asleep.

The meadow was devoid of berries or wild vegetables. No bees were in sight, and Rowan counted less than three dozen flowers. Over there, by that elderly tree, bright blue mushrooms grew on its roots. On a long-hanging branch, a squirrel-like creature noticed Rowan, became very still for a heartbeat, then dashed away in a steak of dim particle effects—magic. Much of the vegetation and fauna in this world were unique, magical.

There, maybe that plant tinged with a blueish hue carried some healing properties, but he wasn’t going to take such a dumb risk. That was the job for everyone else. Plenty of kind souls out there loved to post valuable information on the forums. Naturally, Rowan wasn’t one. The intricacies of Demonborn was top-secret by his accord.

And there, by three boulders, an apple tree was ripe for picking. Lucky again! But apples weren’t strawberries, and Rowan wasn’t going to disappoint his precious f—

Wife.

Gabrielle was his precious wife.

His forage landed him near a shallow stream—a few hundred yards from the campsite—running down from the mountains. Wisps of cleansing magic drifted downstream, erasing specks of drifting debris. More magic. Beautiful.

Lily-like plants floated on a pond. The water was still like glass, and clearer than he had ever seen, perfectly reflective. Upside-down mountains hung over his own eyes. The fatty Orc’s blood was caked onto the left side of his face, his linen garb in a horrid state. He certainly looked demonic.

An idea sprang and demanded Rowan’s hand. His finger pricked on the axe, a drop of blood falling onto the grass. He licked. Blood mixed with saliva. Salty iron swished back and forth for a dozen rolls of his tongue, but he did not feel anything awry.

Just what did Nargol sense? He must have a passive skill.

From nowhere, a feeling of euphoria and exhilaration blossomed and took over his body. Breaths quickened. Heat swept his skin, but in a bizarre way, as though his whole body had been dipped in oil and fire yet not at the same time. He couldn’t describe the feeling to a full extent, not in any Human way.

The reflection on the pond was unreal. A man was staring back at him, a different man; he had pearly, cloudy skin, chalky in texture, covered in a layer of dusty paint or thin clay. His hair was graying, and his eyes… Gods, his irises were a shade red not far off from blood, and the pupils were those of a cat’s. Was he turning into a feline?

No, that was ridiculous. He was no cat. He was not playing as a kitty. Never a kitty. Never a pussy cat.

A rush of something foreign swept his innards from head to toe, and around those eyes the skin cracked. A dark horned visage encroached from behind, classically demonic.

A transformation? His inner Demon unleashed?

His heart skipped three beats as he reluctantly looked at his hand. But the skin was normal. And as quickly as the rush of euphoria had came, the demonic magic left his body. His reflection faded back to normal, rippling. A strange red-spotted black fish was swimming away.

“Holy Hell. What was that?” he breathed and turned back toward Gabrielle, his heart still racing. Those strawberries could wait.