Gasi

It had been hours.

Hours.

Greg Veder had been trudging through the snow-blanketed forest for what felt like an eternity, his shoes sinking into the powdery white bullshit. The boy's legs burned, each step feeling like he was wearing concrete boots instead of his drenched wet sneakers.

Hours.

It had been hours of this shit, and the only thing keeping Greg from losing his mind completely was the steady stream of bear-themed tunes he belted out at the top of his lungs.

Hours of belting out "Bare Necessities" and "The Bear Went Over The Mountain" on repeat. His playlist of bear-themed tunes was embarrassingly short, but hey, Ash seemed to dig it. The little bear cub trotted alongside him, looking way too chill for a wild animal.

"...forget about your worries and your strife," Greg warbled, his voice cracking on the high notes.

But whatever, no one was around to judge his vocal skills except Ash, and the bear couldn't exactly post a review on UTube.

Thank god for Disney, he thought, glancing down at his fuzzy companion. Ash, the bear cub he'd somehow acquired like a fucking animal companion in an RPG, trotted alongside him, seemingly unbothered by the cold and Greg's atrocious singing.

"I mean the bare necessities, that's why a bear can rest at e-" Greg's impromptu karaoke session screeched to a halt as he burst through the treeline, his jaw dropping so fast he nearly got whiplash. There, nestled in a small clearing like a goddamn winter wonderland postcard, was a village.

"Holy shit on a shingle!" Greg whooped, his face splitting into a grin so wide it threatened to break his chapped lips. "Ash, buddy, we fucking did it! We found civilization! Or at least, like, the medieval fantasy version of it."

Without wasting a moment, Greg hauled ass towards the village, the snow crunching under his feet. His mind raced with possibilities. Oooh, I'm gonna get one of those big ol fantasy turkey legs and some mead and a busty elf tavern wench to sit on my lap and a-

But before he could get too lost in his Tolkien-esque fantasy, a strange feeling prickled at the back of Greg's neck. It was like the vague unease of realizing you left the oven on mixed with the oh-shit sense of incoming danger usually reserved for horror movies.

What the-

Without really thinking about it, he stumbled slightly, his foot catching on a hidden root beneath the snow. As he pitched forward, an axe whistled through the air where his head had been a split second before, embedding itself in the snow with a meaty "thunk."

"Jesus H. Christ on a cracker!" Greg yelped, scrambling back on his hands and feet like a demented crab. His eyes bulged as a wild-eyed man who looked like he'd stepped straight out of a How to Be a Fantasy Barbarian handbook burst out of the trees, another axe already in hand.

And he wasn't alone. Two more extras from the Barbarian Casting Agency followed close behind - a burly dude wielding a sword that looked like it had been used to butcher a few dozen hogs, and a woman with a spear who seemed like she'd never seen a shower.

Granted, all three of them looked like that, but she had some especially grimy skin.

"Hey, hey, hey, w-wait!" Greg's voice cracked as he scrambled back, crab-walking away with wide eyes. His eyes darted to where Ash was already scampering away, the bear clearly having more survival instinct than him. "Ash, run! Use those fuzzy little legs!"

Talking to a bear in English. Yeah, that's totally normal, Greg. Good job. With a yelp that sounded more like a terrified Chihuahua than anything else, Greg leaped to his feet, yanking his sword from his back. The blade felt about as light as a railroad tie, and the cool energy that had been zipping through it earlier felt like more of a weak fizzle than the surge it was before.

"Wait, wait, hold up!" he babbled, his voice pitching higher with each word as he held the sword up.

But the barbarians didn't seem interested in talking. The axe guy charged forward with a roar that sounded like a pissed-off grizzly bear with a megaphone, his weapon whooshing down in a deadly arc.

"Fuck fuck fuck me!" Greg's internal monologue went full R-rated as the barbarian swung at Greg's midsection with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. ShitshitSHIT! Greg barely managed to get his sword up in time, the impact sending vibrations through his arms like he'd just used a baseball bat on a steel mailbox.

"Shit!" Greg gasped, his muscles screaming in protest. Jesus, it's like trying to block a fucking wrecking ball!

He staggered back, arms feeling like overcooked ramen noodles from deflecting that blow. The sword, which had sliced through a weapon like it was made of marshmallow fluff just hours ago, now felt like a heavy dumbbell.

Come on, magic sword! Greg pleaded silently, his heart doing a drum solo against his ribs. Don't fail me now, you Excalibastard!

But the sword didn't seem to be in a cooperative mood. It flickered weakly in his hands, the cool energy that had zinged through it earlier now little more than a tired fizzle.

"I'll gut ye like a fish, boy!" Axe Guy snarled, his breath hitting Greg like a slap of rancid meat.

"Wow, okay, first of all, invest in a fucking Tic-Tac, dude," Greg wheezed, ducking another wild swing that nearly took his head off. "And second, what is it with you guys and gutting? Is that, like, your go-to threat? Because it's getting a little old, not gonna lie."

The burly sword guy let out a bellow that sounded like an enraged walrus and charged, his blade glinting viciously in the weak winter sun. "Stand still, ye wee southern shite!"

Greg yelped and pirouetted out of the way with all the grace of a drunk ballerina, catching himself from face-planting in the snow. "I'm from New England, that's like super North!!"

"Die!" Axe Guy shouted.

Greg stumbled back, his feet tangling in the snow like an uncoordinated Bambi. "K-kill yourself!"

The barbarian's response was another wild swing. Greg ducked, feeling the whoosh of air as the axe passed inches from his bowl cut. Mom's gonna be so mad if I come home with an undercut but also… Stop taunting the scary murderous barbarians, you idiot! the sane part of his brain screamed. But the rest of Greg was running on pure adrenaline and pants-shitting terror, his mouth moving faster than his common sense.

The spear woman took a jab at him, her aim scarily accurate for someone who looked like she skinned bears for fun. Greg barely managed to parry, the impact sending judders up his arm.

"We'll make ye squeal, kneeler!" she hissed, her eyes glinting with malice.

"Kneeler?" Greg panted, his brow furrowing even as he backpedaled frantically.

He was cut off by Axe Guy's roar as the barbarian came at him again, swinging his weapon like he was trying to win a gold medal in the Fuck Greg's Shit Up Olympics. Greg parried desperately, his arms screaming in protest, his sword growing heavier with each blow.

Think, Veder, think! he ordered himself, his mind racing like a hamster on meth. You've seen every fantasy movie and played every RPG. What would the hero do in this situation?

But his mind was blank, a buzzing white noise of panic and the singular thought of oh god I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die.

And then, in a moment of crystalline clarity that felt like the universe's sickest joke, Greg remembered a move from one of his favorite video games. Fuck it, he thought wildly. If I'm gonna die, I might as well die like a fucking weeb.

With a scream that was equal parts battle cry and terrified shriek, Greg spun in place, channeling every ounce of his strength, every iota of his fear and adrenaline and sheer, pants-pissing desperation into the motion. The sword arced through the air, a blur of celestial white against the bleak gray sky.

There was a moment of resistance, a sickening sensation of blade meeting flesh and bone. And then, with a wet, meaty thunk that would forever be seared into Greg's nightmares, Axe Guy's head separated from his shoulders and went tumbling through the snow like a gory soccer ball.

Greg stared, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his brain struggled to process what he'd just done. He felt like he was going to puke, cry, and pass out all at once, his stomach doing a triple backflip as the reality of the situation hit him like a sledgehammer. Oh cool… it doesn't get easier.

The spear woman screamed, a raw, primal sound of rage and grief that cut through Greg's spiraling thoughts like a knife. She charged, her weapon aimed right at his heart, murder in her eyes.

Greg reared back, bringing his sword up with shaking hands. The taste of bile rose in Greg's throat, his face turning a shade of green that would make the Jolly Green Giant jealous. He reared up, pointing his sword at the other two barbarians with shaking hands. His voice came out as a strangled squeak, wavering and cracking like he was at the very start of puberty all over again.

"F-fuck! God, why do you guys keep making me kill you?"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

As Greg yanked his sword from the back of the spear-wielding woman, her body slumped to the ground with a dull thud. She joined her fallen comrades on the blood-stained snow, looking more like discarded ragdolls than the fierce warriors they'd been moments ago. The metallic stench of blood mixed with the crisp winter air, making Greg's stomach churn.

"FUCK!" he shouted, his voice cracking like he was going through puberty all over again. The silence that followed felt almost as oppressive as the fight itself. His hands dropped to his sides, suddenly feeling like they were made of lead.

Greg's arms trembled, not from the cold or fear, but from the adrenaline crash hitting him like a truck for the third fucking time that day.

Greg Veder stood over the bodies of all three of the fallen berserkers, his chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly drained from his system. The sword in his hand felt heavy, the weight of the lives he'd taken pulling at his arm like an anchor. He'd never killed before, not for real, and the reality of it hit him like a suckerpunch to the gut.

"Fuck!" The word burst from his lips, raw and ragged, his voice cracking under the strain. "Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!"

He wanted to throw up. He wanted to curl into a ball and cry. He wanted his mom, and his bed, and his normal, boring life where the worst thing he had to worry about was getting beaten up for running his mouth.

But this is my life now, he thought, a bitter laugh bubbling up in his throat.

His hands shook as he lowered the sword, the blade caked with blood and gore. Five. He'd killed five people. Five living, breathing human beings, with families and dreams and...

No. No, don't think about that. Greg shook his head violently, as if he could physically dislodge the thoughts. They were trying to kill you. It was self-defense. You didn't have a choice.

But that didn't make it any easier. That didn't erase the sound of their screams, the sight of their blood staining the snow crimson.

He'd been running on pure instinct, no skill or overwhelming power – just dumb luck and a desperate will to live. Tripping around and scrambling all over while barely avoiding decapitation wasn't exactly the heroic image he'd had in mind.

I'm gonna scream my head off when I get a bed and a pillow, I swear. As he stood there, swaying slightly, something brushed against his leg. He glanced down, half-expecting to see another attacker coming for his ankles or something.

Instead, he saw Ash, the bear cub, nudging him softly. The little guy looked up at him with those big, dark eyes, somehow managing to look both concerned and adorable at the same time.

"Oh... Ash," Greg chuckled weakly, relief washing over him at the sight of the unharmed cub. "There you are, lil guy. Thought you might've bailed on me. Can't blame you, though. This is some messed-up stuff."

As he bent down to scoop Ash into his arms, a distant uproar caught his attention. It was like someone had cranked up the volume on a medieval warfare soundtrack – shouts, the clashing of metal, and the unmistakable cries of people having a really, really bad day.

Greg's head snapped up, his eyes widening as he spotted the source.

The village.

The one he'd been so eager to reach, the promise of warmth and food and maybe even a bed driving him forward. It was under attack, at least two dozen figures climbing over the walls. Holy shit, he thought, his stomach twisting into knots. It's a raid. An honest-to-god, Vikings-and-pillaging raid.

Even from a distance, Greg could hear the terrified cries of the villagers, and see the small plumes of smoke already starting.

Oh, come on! Greg felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach, like he'd swallowed an angry hedgehog. I can't... This is like, way above my pay grade. He stumbled a few shaky steps backward, his mind racing as he eyed the overwhelming number of attackers. Five of these guys were already hard, but twenty... thirty?

That was just straight-up unfair.

Maybe I could just... not? The thought crept into his mind, tempting and terrible all at once. This isn't my fight. I could grab Ash and just... leave.

Before he could spiral further into his moral crisis, a profound surge of energy coursed through him. It was like that feeling when his soul had expanded those few times before, but cranked up a few more notches. This time it was different – more potent, more demanding as it expanded outwards. And with that expansion came a choice, a fundamental decision that he felt in his bones, one presented to him not in words but in raw, overwhelming feelings.

One path felt orderly, bright and shiny, like the good ending in a video game. It promised light, peace, and the kind of prosperity you'd see in a tourism ad for a fantasy kingdom. The other path... well, it was definitely more powerful. But it also reeked of darkness, corruption, and the kind of rage that'd make a Sith Lord look chill.

Light Side... or Dark Side?

The choice hung there, as real and heavy as the sword in his hand. For a split second, Greg wondered what it'd be like to choose the dark path. To have all that power, to make everyone who'd ever laughed at him pay...

But nah.

That was edgelord territory, and Greg Veder was no edgelord. He was a hero, damn it.

Or at least, he was gonna try to be one.

Without hesitation, Greg chose Light. The decision clicked into place within him, like slotting the final piece into a jigsaw puzzle. Something fundamental in his soul felt different – firmer, unshaken. Even with the lingering nausea from the fight and the fear still gnawing at his guts, most of his panic dissolved. In its place was a newfound resolve, steely and sure.

He tightened his grip around his sword, lifting it from the snow with a renewed sense of purpose. The blade felt lighter now, humming with an energy that matched the determination coursing through him.

Okay, I'm guessing that's the call to adventure? Greg squared his shoulders, his gaze fixed on the village. It was time to be the hero he'd always dreamed of being, even if the reality was a lot messier and scarier than he'd imagined.

Rushing forward, he grumbled under his breath, "Let's go do the hero thing."