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  Not too far from the Karhold, where ironwoods stood silent watch, a small clearing opened up to the banks of a slow-moving river. The midday sun, filtered through a canopy of green, dappled the forest clearing and the edge of the riverbank with mottled light. A gentle breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the earthy musk of decaying leaves that carpeted the ground.

  At the edge of this tranquil scene, a bear cub a good bit larger than a hound pup cowered, its small form dwarfed by the vastness of its surroundings. The cub's dark eyes, wide with instinctive caution, darted between the treeline and the water's edge. Its tiny nose twitched, sampling the air thick with the promise of both life and decay.

  The river gurgled softly, its surface a mirror to the drifting clouds above. Along its banks, smooth river stones glistened with moisture, their surfaces worn by countless years of the water's patient caress. A few feet from the water's edge lay a scene of peaceful abandonment: a bag of thick, coarse canvas sprawled open against a bed of pebbles, its contents carelessly strewn about.

  A fine green tunic, the color of summer leaves and thicker and more ornate than it appeared at first glance, lay crumpled atop the bag. Beside it, a pair of brown trousers were tangled with a tall green cap, its tip bent backwards, flopping over. Two leather gauntlets, their surfaces etched with intricate designs, rested nearby. A pair of fine brown boots, their soles caked with mud, stood sentinel over the scattered garments.

  But it was the sword that drew the eye above all. It lay apart from the other items, its blade gleaming with an unnatural brilliance that seemed to challenge the very sun above. At its crossguard, a gem sparkled like the surface of the Last River under a summer sun, casting tiny rainbows across the pebbled shore. The sword's edge looked sharp enough to slice the very air, its white surface a perfect mirror to the clouds in the sky.

  The bear cub, driven by a curiosity that warred with its instinctive caution, crept ever closer to the water's edge. Each careful step was a gentle rustle against the underbrush, barely audible above the soft lapping of the river against its banks. Its tiny paws sank slightly into the damp earth, leaving a trail of delicate prints in its wake.

  As it neared the water, the cub's ears twitched at every subtle sound. The gentle gurgle of the river, the whisper of wind through leaves, the distant call of a bird - all of these registered in its heightened senses. It's dark eyes, liquid pools of wariness, never left the water's surface.

  The river, for its part, seemed a picture of tranquility. Gentle bubbles rose to its surface, popping quietly one by one. The soft 'plop' of each bursting bubble sent tiny ripples dancing across the water, distorting the reflection of the sky above.

  Suddenly, the cub froze, still a good distance from the edge. The bubbles began to rise with increasing urgency, each a soft explosion of air that sent larger ripples across the once-calm surface. The cub's muscles tensed, ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

  Without warning, the river's surface broke with a violent eruption. Water thrashed into the air as a grotesque, insect-like creature burst forth from the depths. The bear cub bolted, its tiny form disappearing into the underbrush with a speed born of terror.

  The creature that emerged was a nightmarish blend of crustacean and man, an abomination that seemed an affront to both nature and the gods. Its face was a horror of layered features, with multiple close-set eyes that glowed an eerie milky-white. A wide maw filled with needle-like teeth gaped open, rivulets of river water cascading from its depths.

  The monster's body mimicked the appearance of wet, rotting driftwood, a twisted parody of human form supporting six long, jointed legs. Each limb reached the height of a grown man's shoulder, ending in sharp, hook-like claws that slammed onto the riverbank. Mud and water splattered in all directions as the beast hauled itself from the river, a wet, gurgling roar tearing from its throat.

  Clutched in its monstrous jaws was a screaming, bloodied form - a boy, no more than five-and-ten. His blond hair, once likely the color of summer wheat, was now matted with fresh blood, mud, and river debris. All of it clung to his pained, pale face, which was contorted in a rictus of agony and terror.

  The boy's body, clad only in simple white smallclothes now stained red and brown, bore deep, gruesome wounds. The flesh around one side of his midsection was torn and ragged where the beast's teeth had sunk in, blood flowing freely from the gaping injury. His face and limbs were a canvas of gashes and wounds, likely inflicted by the monster's rough, spiked limbs as it had dragged him from the depths.

  Despite his grievous injuries, the boy thrashed wildly in the creature's grip. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath between screams of pain and fury. With every movement, the monster's pincers tightened, causing fresh spurts of blood to erupt from the wounds. The boy's hands, slick with his own blood, pounded viciously against the carapace that was the creature's face.

  His desperate, mangled shouts filled the air, echoing off the trees and across the water.The boy's situation was as dire as it was horrifying, his strength clearly fading even as he fought with the fury of one who knows death is near.

  "Fu-FU-gETOFFME!"

  – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –?

  All I wanted was to take a little dip, Greg thought, his mind racing even as pain threatened to overwhelm him. A little dip. Was that too much to ask?

  It had been almost a full week since his last wash, and he honestly didn't like going that long without at least rinsing off, even without soap. When he made his way to the river and stripped down to his underwear, he had no clue that a freaking monster was hiding along the riverbank. Hell, he didn't even know Westeros had monsters.

  Nobody told me that, he thought bitterly. He would have assumed Arryk would have said a little something about the weird insect looking monster in the water or anything like that, or maybe it was so normal the Westeros people didn't even think about it. They didn't seem to have adventurers or a demon lord or anything like that and all the dragons had been dead for like two centuries or whatever but why did nobody think to mention the fucking monsters that just swam at the bottom of the water. What kind of crappy fantasy world doesn't warn you about the river monsters?

  But when it had latched onto his leg and slammed his body down before dragging him under the water, he found out real quick that monsters were very much a thing here.

  His heart slammed against his chest like it was trying to break free as he finally managed to suck in a breath, water pouring from his mouth. That gasp for air quickly turned into a scream that tore through his throat, a sound of pure agony that echoed across the river. The numbing feel of blood leaving his body mixed with a sharp, all-consuming pain as the creature's pincers dug deeper into his flesh. It felt like being stabbed by a hundred knives at once, each one twisting and tearing.

  The world spun around him, a blur of motion and chaos. His own ragged breaths and the splashing of river water filled his ears as he thrashed in the beast's iron grip. Each gasp was a battle, the air barely reaching his lungs as murky river water clung to his nose and lips. The metallic taste of blood mixed with the dirty water, making him want to puke.

  The creature's head loomed over him, a grotesque mix of human and crustacean features that looked like something straight out of a nightmare. Its milky, glowing eyes stared at him, soulless and hungry. There was no understanding in those eyes, no remorse—just an endless, primal hunger that made Greg's skin crawl.

  Multiple rows of needle-like teeth, each dripping with slimy river gunk, snapped close to his face. The stench coming from the creature's mouth was overwhelming, a mix of rotting fish and something even worse. Greg could feel the jagged edges of its mouth scraping against his skin, each movement promising a painful end.

  "AAAARRGGGH!" Greg screamed as the beast's jaws clamped down harder. He hung in the air above the riverbank, the monster's monstrous teeth straining his ribs and forcing more blood out of his body as it shook him like a dog with a chew toy.

  Practically naked, with only his soaked white briefs keeping him decent, as a monster used him like a teething ring, Greg figured he should have been feeling more scared. And yeah, the fear was still there, a cold pit in his stomach that threatened to paralyze him. But it was being pushed aside by something else, something hot and fierce that burned through his veins.

  Pure, unadulterated rage.

  The thought that some random shitty beast was going to make him it's lunch was enough to act as a weird kind of anger-fueled painkiller. He wasn't going to question it, though. Not when it was the only thing keeping him fighting.

  As he'd been doing underwater before the monster had decided to break the surface again, Greg threw a vicious blow into the creature's face, his other hand gripping tight into one of the monster's many eyes, fingers piercing the gooey surface for leverage as he held tight to the things skull. His fist, clenched so tight they hurt, felt like it was hitting solid rock. The thing's shell was cold and slick, like wet driftwood, and just as hard. But Greg didn't stop; each punch came with a guttural scream, his voice rough and strained from both effort and fear.

  "Stop!" Punch. The beast's head jerked back slightly, the impact sending a jolt up Greg's arm that made his teeth rattle.

  "Fucking!" Punch. The beast roared, the sound vibrating through Greg's whole body.

  "Trying!" Punch. Another hit, this time Greg felt something give beneath his fist, a small victory that sent a surge of hope through him.

  "To!" Punch. The creature reeled, its grip loosening just a bit, enough for Greg to suck in a deeper breath.

  "Eat!" Punch. Greg's arms felt like lead, every muscle screaming in protest, but he kept going.

  "ME!" Greg drew his arm back further, some instinct guiding him as his stomach churned with energy. A warmth traveled up from his gut, spreading through his arm and into his raised fist, which started to glow with a faint light.

  With all the force he could muster, Greg's fist connected with the monster's battered ugly face. There was a sickening crunch, like stepping on a giant beetle, as his raw and bleeding knuckles burst through the woodlike texture of its skin and into its buglike skull.

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  The creature's head cracked open with a wet snap, and bits of its shell went flying like shards of broken glass. Underneath the driftwood-like armor, the inside was slick and goopy, a mix of thick blood and jelly-like gunk that oozed out of the jagged wound. The creature's broken head showed a twisted mix of human-like bones and bug-like bits, with thick, ropey stuff holding together a gross mass of grayish brain gunk that was spilling out in clumps.

  The beast started thrashing around like crazy, its claws flailing wildly as it tried to keep hold of Greg. With a sound like a dying frog, its jaw hung open, and Greg fell onto the edge of the riverbank hard. The impact knocked the wind out of him, sending a fresh wave of pain through his battered body.

  Blood, his blood, warm and sticky, streamed down his sides. It soaked into his wet underwear before getting washed away by the river. The coppery smell of it filled his nose, making him gag and bringing him back to his senses.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, the blond teen started to drag himself forward. His elbows and forearms dug into the muddy ground, leaving tracks in the soft earth as he inched his way onto solid land. Every movement was agony, his muscles screaming in protest, but he kept going. He had to get away from the water, away from that thing.

  Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only a minute, his entire body was on the grass. The cold, wet blades tickled his skin, a weirdly normal sensation after the nightmare he'd just been through.

  Exhausted and in more pain than he'd ever felt in his life, Greg turned his head and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground beside him. It left a red stain on the green grass, a stark reminder of how close he'd come to dying.

  "...fuck this shitty isekai," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  The monster behind Greg finally stilled, its body sinking back into the river with a slow, almost mournful gurgle. The sound of its massive form displacing water echoed in Greg's ears almost like a massive toilet flush, if toilets were filled with river water and monster guts.

  Greg's pained scowl shifted to a tired grin, the kind you'd see on someone who just finished a marathon made of pain. "...fu-fucking... finally," he rasped out, his voice sounding like he'd gargled with gravel.

  As he lay there on the riverbank, feeling like a human-shaped punching bag, Greg felt an energy filling him. It was familiar by now, like an old friend that only showed up when he was half-dead. The warm energy rushed to his most grievous wound, the gaping hole at his side that looked like someone had tried to turn him into a donut. Greg could feel it working now, the usual weird itchy-burny sensation that made him want to scratch like crazy, but he knew better. Slowly but steadily, it started stitching itself back together, flesh knitting like some kind of gross, bloody sweater.

  In no time, it'll be like I never got nommed on by the Creature from the Black Lagoon's uglier cousin, Greg thought, watching with a mix of fascination and nausea as his skin closed up. At least for that one big wound.

  The many other bruises and cuts all over the rest of his body? Not so lucky. They throbbed and stung, a symphony of "ow" playing across his skin.

  "Stup..." He took in a deep breath as he sat up, finally able to do so without feeling like his insides were trying to become his outsides. The air tasted like river muck and blood, but it was better than choking on water. "Stupid healing power."

  He didn't mean that.

  Not really.

  He knew it was useful, like having a paramedic on speed dial inside his own body. The thing was though, useful as it was, the power weirdly only seemed to act on his most life-threatening wounds. It was like having the world's pickiest doctor, one that only cared about the "you might die in the next five minutes" stuff and ignored everything else.

  It healed a small piece with every serious wound he landed in a fight, or the whole thing if he managed to kill whoever - or whatever - was trying to turn him into a Greg-kebab. If he wanted to come out of a fight without bleeding from a dozen different places, he'd have to take down or kill a few more people faster than they could kill him.

  And considering I'm only slightly better with a sword than a bunch of bandits and barbarians, that's easier said than done, Greg thought with a grimace. It's like being the best player on a Little League team made up of blind kids. Sure, you're better, but you're still gonna suck compared to the pros.

  He took in another deep breath, the air still smelling—and his tongue still tasting—of river water, blood, and something that might have been monster guts. Greg held up a hand, focusing as he barely acknowledged the scurrying of feet behind him. Ash, his furry sidekick, came running up to nuzzle into his side like an overgrown, bear-shaped cat.

  Giving the little guy a head scratch - because even in a world of magic and monsters, you don't ignore your animal companion - Greg triggered the magic in him. Something about the mental image of gripping his sword managed to work really well for that, like his brain had decided "sword = magic go now".

  "Heal," he muttered, the word feeling warm on his tongue.

  A ball of ethereal golden light formed in his raised palm, bright and strong. It looked way more impressive than it had a week ago when he'd first used it on that knight. Back then, it had looked more like a bunch of fireflies trying to imitate a baseball.

  Now, though?

  It was more like a small, translucent pale sun in his hand, minus the whole "burns your eyeballs if you look directly at it" thing.

  Ever since he had gotten those flashes of memories of another life as some kind of battle nun in some other world—Greta Veder? That's still weird to think about—Greg had noticed that all his healing magic seemed to have gotten a lot stronger. Two, maybe…

  No, three times as strong as when he first started using it.

  He wasn't sure why that was.

  Maybe magic was like a muscle, and he'd been unknowingly hitting the mystical gym? One second, you go from struggling to light a candle and next you're starting forest fires. Or maybe Greta's memories were like some kind of magical steroid, beefing up his healing mojo.

  But then again, he also wasn't sure this was just healing magic either.

  If he had to be honest, his second element felt almost exactly like the spells Greta had been using when she was training to be a battle nun. He'd used a bunch of the spells Greta's memories had dropped in his lap, like some kind of mystical care package.

  There was that first night when he created a "Sanctuary" to keep those animals from finding or getting close to the hiding spot he'd found for him and Ash. It was like an invisible "No Monsters Allowed" sign, and he'd been doing the same thing every night since to keep away bandits and again, those same fucking animals.

  Thankfully, no more animals had showed up during the day either. Because nothing says "great day" like running into Westeros' version of Cujo every time you try to take a leak.

  Which had let him experiment with the other spell he had remembered from Greta.

  For the first time in almost three months, Greg Veder had been able to drink pure, clean fresh water and not the weird tasting stuff he refilled from rivers and springs in the North.

  Those spells were a lifesaver.

  Literally, he thought with a dry smile, looking at the healing ball of magic in his hand. It pulsed gently, like a heartbeat made of light.

  Which... raised a question, actually.

  He wasn't sure nuns were allowed to use spells... or magic, at all really, but then that wasn't his world, in the first place. Maybe in Greta's world, nuns were less "Sound of Music" and more "Dungeons and Dragons". Honestly, nuns being badass spell-slingers who kicked ass and took names in the name of the Lord would definitely make going to church worth it.

  He'd have to think more on that honestly. Add it to the ever-growing list of "Weird Shit to Figure Out When I'm Not About to Die."

  Right now, though, he was just grateful for the magical first-aid kit in his head. So, thanks, Greta, he thought as he kept the spell going. Wherever she was, whatever version of him she might have been, he owed her one.

  Or several.

  In barely half a minute, all his remaining scrapes, cuts and bruises sealed up completely and the completely damp and waterlogged Greg Veder found himself taking in another deep breath of air, this one entirely pain free. It felt like coming up for air after being underwater for way too long—which was exactly what happened, funny enough—his lungs expanding fully for the first time since the fight began.

  Before he could let it out, his eyes widened as his soul expanded at that same moment, ballooning out in search of something. As often as it happened, it was always at least a little bit of a shock to feel like his entire being was suddenly made of stretchy taffy, reaching out for... something. In no time at all, it snapped back into shape, only to balloon out immediately as Greg's eyes widened a second time in quick succession.

  The feeling of his soul stretching out even wider and the feel of his body changing as he sat on the ground was enough to draw a sharp gasp from his lips. The first one may have been noticeable, but this was… undeniable. His entire body felt like it was being put through a taffy puller, if the taffy puller was messing with his insides instead of candy.

  It was so stunning that when his soul stretched out a third time to a much smaller degree, he almost didn't even notice it. He likely wouldn't have even paid it any attention if it wasn't for the large brown backpack popping into existence right in front of his lap, like the world's weirdest magic trick.

  Great, now I'm accidentally summoning luggage. What's next, magic socks?

  The teenager cast a confused blue-eyed glance down at his furry traveling companion, receiving one back in return.

  "My powers are weird, dude."

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