Bog Standard Isekai

This couldn’t be real. Somehow, Brin had convinced himself that these creatures from his nightmares would stay in his nightmares. That was how he’d gotten himself to be able to sleep at night. He’d convinced himself that they were gone, that they were far away, not even real anymore. He’d told himself that he was protected, that he’d never have to worry about them ever again.

That’s why it felt like an impossibility. It was an impossibility. The dead don’t move. They don’t get up and walk and kill. They don’t hunt little kids and they definitely don’t do it twice in one lifetime. Yet here he was.

The undead soldier casually stood and faced him.

With slow, unthreatening movements, Brin slowly withdrew the bottle from his backpack and placed it in a loop at his belt. His mind gibbered in horror, his thoughts reeling, but for some reason his body was calm, like it knew what to do. His hands didn’t shake.

The undead cocked its head to the side, but was content to watch Brin make ready.

Brin withdrew his sword from its sheath. Then, oh so slowly, with the kind of slowness that you use when a police officer asks you to put your gun on the floor, he gently set the backpack containing Marksi on the ground. His first goal would be to get away, and to draw the undead away from Marksi. If he couldn’t get away… well he had some other tricks. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.

The undead raised his spear into the guard position.

Brin raised his sword straight up in front of him, a fencer’s bow that he’d seen Hogg do, then got into the guard position. He flipped the switch with his thumb.

The world stopped. The individual raindrops fell noticeably slower in the air. He needed to move; he didn’t know exactly how much time this would last.

In the first second, he dashed to the right. The sword sped up his perception, but it sped up his body even more than that, so he took five steps in the time it felt he should be taking one. The forest flew by around him, hardly more than blurs.

He glanced back, sure he’d already lost the undead, but he realized that he’d never given Hogg enough credit for how much he’d handicapped these things back then, because the undead was keeping up.

In the second second, Brin weaved to the side, but the undead moved to match him perfectly, as if inertia didn’t apply to him at all. The soldier made up the space between them and shot out with the spear as quick as an arrow.

Brin deflected it with a forearm, and even the glancing blow cut through his leather armor to scratch his skin. He swung his sword, and the undead jumped back. Brin turned and ran.

In the third second, Brin ran wildly. He needed a place where the undead wouldn’t be able to dodge, some kind of narrow gap. He saw a log fallen over a wide and lazy stream, more like a pond in slow motion. Or it could be moving quickly for all he knew; he was moving fast, splashing through fields of raindrops.

He ran to the log, and during the fourth second, he crossed it. It only went halfway through across the stream, so he leapt the remaining distance. When he hit the ground on the other side, he immediately turned and fired his wand.

Just as he’d hoped, the undead was in midair–no way to dodge. A beam of fire burst from his wand… but it was too slow.

The undead threw its spear into the ground, then jumped off it, over the fire beam which only singed the end of one foot.

During the fifth second, Brin turned to run, but something slammed into his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. A stone. The undead had hit him with a river stone.

He rolled to his back and brought out one of the other wands, one of the illusion ones. He fired it, and the undead dropped the second stone he’d picked up and jumped to avoid the bar of illusory flame. He left the stream and charged him, spear forward. Brin had one more illusion wand, but he knew it was useless. The undead could see heat, he wouldn’t be fooled a second time.

Six seconds. The undead was limping now, but he still closed the distance while Brin got to his feet. He lashed out with a swing from the side. In terror-fueled anger, Brin stepped into the blow, with one arm up to block and the other swinging his sword around.

His blocking hand caught the shaft of the spear, but he wasn’t strong enough to stop it and the blow came through. His helmet saved him, the spear glanced off it, but then slid onto his face. It sliced deeply into his cheek, glancing against his cheekbone and away. Brin’s sword hit its target, too, gouging a deep wound into the undead’s unarmored side. A notification appeared, one like he’d never seen before.

You have been scarred. Title granted: Scarred System Override: Scarred unlocked. Your wounds heal 10% slower.

That sucked! You could get bad Titles? In the moment of distraction from the notification, the undead punched him. His vision blinked black. The hit knocked him back, but he kept his feet and that gained some space between them. He ran.

Seven seconds. The undead could still run, but he was limping now and Brin quickly outpaced him. He gained ground, getting further and further away, until he nearly made it out of sight.

Then eight seconds had passed, and the magic ran out.

The rain poured down quickly again, like the world had been holding its breath, uncertain of the outcome, only now it knew. The undead, which had seemed like it was slowing and awkward, now clacked towards him at a breakneck speed.

Brin turned to run, and dropped the smoke bomb behind him. As soon as the plume of hot, static-charged smoke erupted behind him, he ducked down into the shadow of a nearby shrub.

The undead burst through the smoke an instant later, and kept running, expecting Brin to have made some headway.

Brin debated in his mind, whether he should run or stay hidden. Ha! Deja vu. Stay or flee. If he ran now, he might get away. He only had to get far enough away that the undead couldn’t see or hear him anymore, then he’d be set.

On the other hand, if the undead figured out his ruse quickly and returned, running away would give away his hiding spot. Stay or flee? He hadn’t missed this game.

He stayed hidden, just like last time. He wasn’t sure if this was his plan or if he’d just frozen in terror.

Then undead returned less than a minute later. He’d been nearby; he would’ve seen Brin if he’d tried to make a break for it. He’d been right, but that didn’t make him feel better.

The soldier walked with obvious effort. It clutched its wound in its side, still oozing black blood. Why did undead bleed? Make no mistake, he was glad they did. But why?

How wounded was it? Could he take it now? He didn’t think so. At the same time, he wasn’t sure he would get the choice.

The smoke bomb was still going, obviously distracting the undead. He looked at it longingly, then shook his head and scanned the surrounding forest, only for his gaze to inevitably be drawn back to the smoke bomb.

As long as that smoke bomb kept going, he was safe.

All too quickly, it started to putter out.

Brin had two items left. The spent sword of speed, and the potion. He had one plan left. A bold, stupid, silly plan. Perfect. He should die as he lived.

“Fine! You looking for a real fight? You got it!!” He threw the sword on the ground and smiled. He looked at the potion, and started laughing. He was going for triumphant laughter, but it came out hysterical. Good enough.

The undead, sensing that something was up, ran towards him.

Brin laughed, and brought the potion up to his lips.

The undead jolted in surprise, leapt towards him and got there in the nick of time. He stabbed Brin in the chest with the spear, but his full attention wasn’t on it because it didn’t pierce the armor. His other hand reached out to grab the potion away from Brin’s mouth.

Brin let him have it. He punched the potion into the undead’s face. He’d liked to have shattered the glass, but glass is actually pretty tough. Even so, the motion poured the bottle's contents right into the undead’s eyes.

Brin jumped back, scrabbling away from the undead until his back hit a tree. His feet wanted to run, but that wouldn’t work. If the potion didn’t work, then anything else he tried would be futile.

The undead blinked.

It tilted its head to the side again.

It spoke. “Ah. Freedom. How nice. What a strange freak of fate for the two of us to meet again here. Out of all the days you could have gone hunting. Out of all the scouts you could have run into. You run into me. Here and now. I hazard to guess that’s no coincidence.”

“No. No, I don’t suppose it is,” Brin let out a shuddering half-laugh, half sob. He breathed in and out, too quickly. He had to force himself to stop hyperventilating.

It was really over. The potion had worked. The undead wasn’t going to kill him. Still, it was standing there, that thing from his nightmares. It was just… standing there, looking at him with those dead, unseeing eyes. Not just standing there. It was talking to him. He wasn’t going to die, but he’d almost rather fight to the death again than hear the dead speak. The undead’s voice sounded like frogs in a blender.

“You seem to have the advantage of me, sir. Do you recognize me?” asked Brin.

“Of course, Aberthol. It’s me. I am, unfortunately, your father.”

To Brin’s surprise, the first thing he wanted to shoot back with was that his name was Brin and that Hogg was his father. How strange was that? He hadn’t forgotten about his dad on earth, who for the record was a really good guy. But here in his current world, it was true. For better or worse, Hogg was his father.

He wasn’t stupid, though. The undead must recognize this body. Aberthol. He finally had the boy’s name.

His eyes widened in shock, and the undead seemed to accept that response.

“You must have many questions. We must be quick about them. That potion should be drunk, that you splashed it on me means that we have limited time. I will warn you before I return to my previous master’s control, so that you may slay me.”

“You’re ok with that?”

“Of course.”

"How are you talking? I knew the potion would free you from the necromancers control, but I figured you'd go into a blind rampage. I didn't think it would bring back your personality," said Brin.

"My soul never left," said the undead. "We remain as we were, only chained, able to act only as directed."

“That sounds like torture,” said Brin. “I’ll put you out of your misery soon.”

“I find it quite restful. There is no pain. Anxiety and guilt have fled. I have no will or agency. My body moves on its own. My mind thinks on its own. Without effort or struggle,” said the undead. “But come, I know you have better worries than that.”

“Why were you so much stronger than all the other undead I’ve faced?” asked Brin.

“You faced other undead? How strange. Were I still a man, I would be sorrowed to hear that. To answer your question, not stronger. Faster. I was a [Scout] in life. I imagine most of the undead you faced were animated commoners.”

“Tell me about the night you died,” said Brin.

“When we entered the town, you must imagine what they thought of us. A woman and a man traveling alone with a child? And the woman carrying an aura of authority, ordering her husband about and claiming to be an [Enchantress]? I think they must have seen the fatigue in our features. The worry in our eyes. You can imagine what they must’ve thought.”

“They thought she was a [Witch]. They shunned us,” said Brin, nodding along like he already knew.

“Well yes they thought that, but… do you remember being shunned? People don’t treat you badly when they actually know you’re terrible and powerful. They welcomed us with full hospitality.”

The way he’d phrased that… it was odd.

The undead continued, “The town’s Prefit entertained us in his own home. Fed us from his own table. He and his wife promised to look after you when your mother and I went to face the army.”

“The undead army? Why would you try to face it?” asked Brin.

“We were surrounded. What else could we do? I expect she thought she could talk her way out of it. Foolish. You don’t talk your way out of treason to Arcaena. Not even if you’re one of her precious little apprentice [Witches]. They cut me down immediately, and by the end of the night I joined the army. Her death, I imagine, took much longer.”

That confirmed it. His birth mother… was a [Witch]. Not just any [Witch], but an apprentice of Arcaena. Then how had she made that artifact that saved his life, the one only [Enchantresses] could make? Unless… [Weaver] wasn’t the Class that [Witch] evolved from. [Enchantress] was. Chamylla.

Something else about that bothered him. “People here, they say that Arcaena doesn’t tolerate other [Witches] in her queendom.”

“Yes. Of course they would say that,” said his zombie dad. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

He sat before Brin answered, still clutching the wound in his side. It was possible he’d bleed out before the magic of the potion ran out. That would be fine by Brin. As much as the undead claimed kinship with him, he felt nothing but fear and disgust for the monster. But he needed this information.

“Could she still be alive?” asked Brin.

“If she is, then she wishes that she were not.”

“So the undead army really came from Arcaena. Not a Burrow Kingdom. What’s it doing all the way out here?”

The undead cocked its head in confusion. “Did you really not hear us, when we spoke of this? I know she ordered you never to listen, but can a child really turn his ears off?”

Brin ventured a guess as to what kind of relationship that child had with his mother. “Fear can make you do crazy things.”

“This is so. I cannot offer you an apology for never interceding. I resented you, as another chain around my neck. Now in death, I cannot claim otherwise. The dead have no use for lies, comforting or otherwise.”

“I’ve moved on,” said Brin, though if he needed another reason to really not care about this guy, that was it. “Tell me about the army.”

“It was both. Our spies found a Burrow Kingdom in the wastes. When Aberfa learned of it, she rebelled. She could serve someone who wanted to rule the world without hesitation. However, serving someone who actually mightsucceed in conquering the world was a different story. There is a level of madness and death that even your mother couldn’t accept.

“Aberfa tried to take control of the army, but the others beat us there. We fled. We sought to make it to Steamshield. Perhaps if we brought a warning to Frenaria they would offer us sanctuary. This potion’s effects will soon wear out. You should slay me soon.”

“Do undead have weaknesses I should know about?” asked Brin.

“We are weak to fire. Bright heat blurs our vision.”

“And it doesn’t hurt? Even that wound in your side?”

“No. You need not pity me. What may look like pain or fear or anger is simply a readjustment of tactics due to changing conditions. We must obey our orders. We must preserve ourselves. We must preserve our master. Anything else?”

“Who is your master?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is the Burrow Kingdom?”

“I don’t know. In the Wastes.”

“What’s their current plan for the army?”

“To bring it home. Therein lies the difficulty. If the army is discovered too soon, the whole continent will unite against Arcaena. However, if they can move across the Boglands in secrecy, then only Prinnash lies in their way. They will burn a line straight across Prinnash and then reinforce Arcaena. The world will still unite against her, but it will be too late. She will be unassailable.”

“Then they don’t want to destroy Hammon’s Bog...” Brin thought out loud. “They want to get past without anyone noticing. If I wanted to get a message to them, to talk things out, is there a way to contact them?”

“You could write a letter. We have orders to retrieve any mail we intercept.”

“Is there another way I’m not thinking of? A way to stop this army before tens of thousands of people die?”

“Perhaps in life, I could have made a plan. I have no wish to bend my mind to this now, and you lack the means to force me. Oh. One thing I should mention. I had another family, before your mother took me. You have a half-sister, and two half-brothers. They may yet live. A town called Canibri, in Prinnash.”

He didn’t know how to feel about that. A strange sense of longing, maybe, to meet someone related by blood. Someone who wasn’t a corpse, who hadn’t tried to kill him.

“My mother was Aberfa, right? What’s my last name? And what’s your name?” asked Brin.

The undead paused, confused. “You are Aberthol Beynon. And I was Cadwy Baines. Cadwy Beynon after I was taken. Are you… are you not Aberthol?”

Brin winced, then smiled, then winced again when the smile reminded him of the oozing gash on his face. “Sorry.”

The undead twitched, then started to shake.

“Is it the potion? Is it wearing off?”

“Slay me now, whoever you are. Or perish.”

Brin picked up his sword, and hacked off his father’s head. It took four tries before the head finally tumbled to the ground.

A tinkling chime sounded as a series of notifications appeared.

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