Several hours had passed while Greg lay unconscious in Violet’s office. By the time he made it back to the Gilded Gorge, it was early morning, and only a few of the most resolute drunks remained at their tables—fast asleep. Night had yet to cycle awkwardly into day but it was still somehow just ever so much brighter than midnight. Bartholomew was still standing at his bartender’s post, polishing a glass Greg wasn't sure he'd ever seen him actually put down.
“Greg!” the man bellowed loudly as if there weren’t a scattered crowd of drunks sleeping it off about. “Got some bad news. Your tab’s run dry. Also, got some giant—“
“—rats in the cellar, nasty little buggers, yes. I’ll take it,” Greg finished for him, almost unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. He was accepting a Quest. And not just any Quest. The Starter Quest.
Ever since he arrived in Blucliffe, Greg had made a Quest out of not doing Quests. He didn’t want XP. He didn’t want cool loot and awesome gear. He didn’t want the responsibility of saving the world. He just wanted to eat, drink and be merry. But Elowen had changed that. He still wanted to eat, drink and be merry but now he wanted to eat (healthily), drink (responsibly) and be merry (multiple times a night) with her.
That didn’t mean saving the world. Just one Quest, get a level and some abilities, maybe rescuing Elowen would count as its own Quest, but after that, he was done. He'd have proven enough to himself, and surely Elowen would give him a chance once he'd pulled off a daring rescue. Of her. Then they could finally get that drink without any further interruptions.
Just one simple, little Quest.
Greg heard the door to the cellar unlock automatically at the same moment Bartholomew pulled a lit torch out of his back pocket and placed it in Greg’s hand without ceremony.
“It dangerous to go alone,” he said. “Take this.”
Quest Accepted: “Rats in the Cellar”
(recommended for beginners)
The quest notification shrank into a small yellow exclamation point at the periphery of his menu. It blinked in and out, flashing a constant reminder to DO THE QUEST that wouldn’t shut up until he did.
“E-Z mode,” Greg said to himself. “GG.”
Greg took two steps toward the cellar door before remembering that torches were, in fact, hot. He juggled it in both hands and tried to pretend that’s what people do when you hand them torches. He managed not to shriek. He calmed his nerves, then squared his shoulders and descended.
The wooden stairs creaked under him disapprovingly. The torchlight flickered down the narrow, slanted passage, illuminating old barrels, stacks of crates, and a mop that had died there sometime during the last century. The air grew colder with each step. Damper, too, like it had just rained.
“Okay,” Greg muttered, voice echoing off stone. “Just rats. Stinky, regular rats. Starter rats. Recommend for beginners. Perfectly normal tutorial content.”
A small, friendly UI tip blinked to life in the corner of his vision:
Tip: Rodents are weak to bludgeoning damage. Stomp them!
“Cute,” he whispered. “Very reassuring.”
He reached the bottom of the stairs, torch held high. The cellar stretched out in both directions: one side a maze of stacked crates, the other a cluttered mess of old barrels, broken chairs, and a suspiciously large mound covered with a stained tarp. The whole room smelled like mildew, spilled beer, and giant rats.
Then something skittered in the dark.
Greg froze.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, that’s fine. That’s… rat-adjacent behavior.”
On instinct, he crouched behind a crate, which immediately sent a notification:
Stealth Challenge
testing: Agility + Stealth
Agility 1, Stealth 0.
Target: 10 (Easy)
...testing...
Challenge Failed!
You crouch loudly.
The skittering stopped.
Greg swallowed. His heart thumped painfully in his ears. He tightened his grip on the torch, then peeked around the crate.
Something moved, fast. A blur of fur and shadow darting between the barrels. Too big. Much too big.
Greg’s menu pinged.
New Enemy Detected!
Ratling – Aberrant Variant (Level 3)
Status: Agitated
Greg blinked at the glowing text. “Level three? For a starter quest? What kind of jankass game design—”
The creature emerged from behind the barrel.
And it was not a rat.
Rat-adjacent. The gnarled, corrupted thing stood hunched on two legs, and had long, gnarled hands ending in chipped claws. Its fur was patchy, its skin mottled. Eyes too large. Teeth too human. Its jaw twitched like it was trying not to scream.
Greg’s breath caught.
“Aw, hell no.”
The Ratling turned its head toward him, nostrils flaring. Its wet, sickly eyes locked on him with a terrible recognition, as if it knew him. As if it had once been capable of fear.
It hissed. Not a rat hiss.
A word.
“P…please…”
Greg backed up so fast he nearly tripped over a crate. “What the shit? Oh, fuck! Why? Why can you talk?”
The Ratling staggered forward, claws dragging across the stone floor with a sick metal scrape.
Greg raised the torch like it was a holy symbol. “Back! Stay back! I’m very flammable!”
The Ratling inhaled sharply, chest hitching like it was choking on its own breath. Its voice came out strained, animal instinct broken by humanity:
“End… it…”
Greg’s hands shook violently, but he didn’t run. He couldn’t. Elowen was somewhere out there, maybe facing worse. Greg couldn’t back down here, not from whatever this was.
He tightened his grip on the torch. “I don’t want to hurt you!”
The Ratling twitched, spasmed, then hurled itself at him with a shriek of pain and fury.
Greg barely got the torch up in time.
The creature slammed into him, knocking him flat onto his back. The impact stole the air from his lungs. Claws raked across his shoulder, tearing through his shirt. Greg screamed, kicking out wildly.
The torch fell from his hand, clattering across the stone. Shadows warped wildly, throwing the cellar into a dizzying, chaotic strobe of light and darkness.
The Ratling’s jaw gnashed inches from his face, breath foul and frantic.
Ratling used Leaping Strike… (hit).
Greg was hit for 7 piercing damage.
Greg reached out blindly, hand closing around something splintered and wooden: a broken broom handle. He didn’t think. He just swung.
The first hit made the Ratling recoil.
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The second made it yelp.
The third, fourth, fifth… deep breath…sixth…
Greg stopped counting. He swung until his arms burned, until his muscles trembled, until the creature stopped moving.
Greg used Pathetic Swipe… (hit).
Ratling was hit for 2 bludgeoning damage.
Greg used Wimpy Smack… (hit).
Ratling was hit for 2 bludgeoning damage.
Greg used Feeble Bonk… (hit).
Ratling was hit for 2 bludgeoning damage.
Greg used Weak-Ass Jab… (hit).
Ratling was hit for 2 bludgeoning damage.
Greg used STOMP… (hit).
Ratling was hit for 4 bludgeoning damage.
Greg used STOMP… (hit).
Ratling was hit for 4 bludgeoning damage.
Greg used STOMP… (hit).
Ratling was hit for 4 bludgeoning damage.
Ratling got its shit wrecked.
Then silence.
Greg stayed frozen, chest heaving, broom handle trembling in his hands. The Ratling lay still beneath him, limbs twitching faintly. Its eyes, glassy and wet, looked almost grateful.
“Th, thank… you…”
The cellar went deathly quiet.
Greg stared at the creature, the broom handle slipping from his fingers. His whole body shook.
This was not a starter quest. This was something else. Something deeper. Something wrong.
A new notification blinked.
Enemy Defeated!
+12 XP
Progress to Level 1: 12%
Then, underneath it:
Journal Entry Updated: “The Cursed” (1/6 Ratlings slain)
Greg swallowed thickly. “...great.”
Another noise came from deeper in the cellar.
Louder. Angrier.
He lifted the torch, still shaking, and tried to steady his breath.
“Elowen,” Greg whispered to himself. “This is for Elowen.”
And he stepped deeper into the dark.
Greg pushed forward because stopping meant thinking, and any amount of thinking would lead to turning right back around. He couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not when Elowen was being hauled off somewhere by moon-worshiping psychos.
The tunnel narrowed as he moved deeper, the walls changing from tavern stone to something older and more rough-hewn, uneven and ancient. His torch crackled, throwing long, jittery shadows across the floor.
The next room was larger.
And quiet. Too quiet.
Greg stepped in, broom handle gripped so tightly his knuckles felt like they might pop off. A soft sound drifted from the corner. A whimper.
“Hello?” Greg called, instantly regretting it.
Something shifted.
The torchlight revealed a small, wretched figure huddled against the wall, its knees pulled to its chest. For half a second Greg thought it was a child. Then it turned its head.
The face was stretched wrong. Same too big eyes. Same teeth. Patchy, clumpy fur. This was a Ratling, but small, trembling, clutching itself like it was cold.
“P…please…” it rasped. “Please… kill…”
Greg’s heart cracked.
This one wasn’t charging him. It wasn’t attacking. It wasn’t anything except in pain.
“Fuck me,” he whispered. “Why is this…? God, this is so fucked…”
The creature reached a clawed hand toward him, shaking violently. “End… hurting…”
Greg shut his eyes, raised the broom handle, and brought it down quickly, cleanly, trying to make it painless.
It didn’t stop shaking for several seconds.
Neither did he. Another notification:
Enemy Defeated!
+8 XP
Progress to Level 1: 20%
Journal Updated: “The Cursed” (2/6 Ratlings slain)
Greg stumbled backward, breathing ragged. “Two down,” he whispered. “Just… four more. Just four.”
Four more tragedies. Four more people he had to kill.
He didn't think. He kept moving.
The third Ratling dropped from the ceiling.
Ratling used From The Top Rope… (hit).
Greg was hit for 3 bludgeoning damage.
Greg barely raised the torch in time. The creature landed on his back, claws raking across his shoulders as it shrieked in his ear, high-pitched and panicked, like a child having a nightmare. Greg staggered forward, slamming his spine against the wall to dislodge it.
Greg used Bitch Move… (hit).
Ratling was hit for 2 bludgeoning damage.
It fell with a screech.
Greg swung. He missed. Swung again. Missed again.
The Ratling lunged.
He caught it by the throat.
Greg used Grapple… (success).
Its hands beat his face, claws cutting him open. Greg squeezed harder, tears leaking into the blood on his cheeks.
Ratling used Desperation… (hit).
Greg was hit for 1 slashing damage.
“S…stop…” he begged, not sure who he was speaking to.
Greg applied Choke… (hit).
Ratling suffers 6 bludgeoning damage.
Note: And we do mean suffers!
The Ratling gurgled, spasmed, then went limp.
Enemy Defeated!
+14 XP
Progress to Level 1: 34%
Journal Updated: “The Cursed” (3/6 Ratlings slain)
Greg leaned against the wall, panting so hard he thought his ribs might crack. His vision swam. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His whole body felt like one giant bruise.
Starter Quest my ass, Greg thought. This game isn’t balanced for shit.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, Greg. Three down. Three to go. You can do this. You can do this because-”
He thought of Elowen.
The way she looked at him before he died. The way she resurrected him, pouring her heart into it. The way Petar’l dragged her away like she was nothing.
Rage flickered in his chest like a hot, tight pulse he recognized all too well.
He swallowed it down and went deeper.
The fourth Ratling wasn’t alone.
Two small bodies were curled together under a broken table, breathing shallowly. When Greg stepped close, their heads jerked up in unison, eyes glowing with unnatural moonlit sheen. They scrambled out, moving almost in sync; one fast, one slow, both making a sound halfway between a sob and a growl.
“Please… hungry…help…”
“End—end—END—IT—”
They charged him together.
Greg swung the broom handle sideways, cracking one across the jaw. It spun, crashed into a barrel, then came back shrieking. The other launched onto his torso, clawing at his chest.
Ratling used Slice… (hit).
Greg was hit for 1 slashing damage.
Greg roared a burst of raw, panicked fury. The combat log became a flurry of updates he began to ignore. He grabbed the creature on his chest and slammed it into the floor. Once. Twice. Three times.
The second Ratling latched onto his leg, teeth sinking deep.
Greg screamed, kicked, and stomped.
His breath came in ragged, hysterical gasps. His muscles burned. His hands were slick with blood. His, theirs, he didn’t know. He crushed the last Ratling under his heel.
Silence.
Enemy Defeated (x2)!
+10 XP
+10 XP
Progress to Level 1: 54%
Journal Updated: “The Cursed” (5/6 Ratlings slain)
Then another popup.
Caution: Low Vitality (3/25)!
Greg collapsed to his knees, trembling violently.
He didn’t feel heroic. He didn’t feel brave. He felt hollow. Scraped out. Full of something hot and buzzing that scared him.
“Elowen,” he whispered. “Just… hold on.”
He forced himself to his feet.
One left.
The final Ratling waited in the last place left; a storage chamber lined with old ale casks. It stood in the center, swaying, its back to him. Smaller than the others. Shoulders heaving. Claws dripping.
Greg stepped forward, broom handle raised.
The Ratling spoke before he could attack.
“Greg?”
Greg froze. He knew that voice. Not well, not intimately. But well enough.
Because it was Bartholomew’s nephew, Tim. He was practically a kid, maybe 19 or 20. A kid who'd loved making spicy potato bread, and always greeted Greg with a friendly nod when he entered the tavern, even though he knew it meant he'd be cleaning up his vomit a few hours later.
A kid who hadn’t been seen for two weeks.
“Please…” Tim... the Ratling... whimpered, turning toward him. “It hurts… it hurts so much… I don’t… want… to be…”
It lunged.
Greg didn’t swing out of bravery. He didn’t swing out of self-defense.
He swung because the alternative was letting him suffer.
It took three hits. Then two more when Greg realized he hadn’t actually died yet.
The final shriek echoed off every wall. Then faded.
Enemy Defeated!
+20 XP
Progress to Level 1: 74%
Journal Updated: “The Cursed” (6/6)
Greg wiped his face, gasping.
In the dead Ratling’s hand was a necklace: a small shard of metal shaped like a crescent moon, etched with faint glowing runes.
Veylun’s mark. Moonborn corruption.
This wasn’t about giant rats.
This was a warning. A message.
A prelude.
A new notification popped up.
Journal Complete: “The Cursed”
Main Clue Discovered
Progress to Level 1: 100%
Greg stared at the pendant, rage throbbing under his skin like a second heartbeat.
Something ancient stirred in him — deep, primal, like a drumbeat beneath his ribs.
Level Up!
Level Reached: 1
RECOMMENDED CLASS: BARBARIAN
Confirm? [Y/N]
Greg clicked [Y] without hesitation. Fuck being a wizard or some shit. He was half-dead (88% if he wanted to be a nerd about it), soaked in blood and angry as hell. Barbarian felt... right. It felt like something he could do.
New Abilities Unlocked
New Skills Unlocked
Barbarian Cosmetics Unlocked
Please access the menu complete your selections.
A low growl escaped him before he could stop it. Not a sound he'd ever made before. Not a sound he recognized.
But a sound something in his soul seemed to remember. He closed his fist around the pendant until it cut his palm.
Then he staggered back toward the stairs; bloodied, changed, shaking with something that felt disturbingly close to purpose.
And somewhere in the darkness of his vision, the Level Up menu quietly flickered… waiting.
What class would you have picked?
