Earth...?

Pain... so much pain.

Though not uncommon for Vance, this time, it came with confusion.

Wasn't I racing? Where is this?

As if answering his unspoken question, the air carried the sounds of battle—despairing cries, clashing steel, and the unmistakable scent of death. Then, a voice, shrill with terror, pierced the chaos:

"The city is done for! The orcs won't stop!"

"Hold! The Ascendant's will be here any minute!" Another voice, steadier yet strained, bellowed above the din, offering a sliver of hope.

Time seemed to stall as a flood of questions crashed into Vance's disoriented mind.

The city? Reinforcements? Orcs? Am I in a play?

Instinctively, he tried to turn his head, desperate for a better look at his surroundings. But even that simple movement felt foreign—his body sluggish, unresponsive. He lay sprawled on the ground in a contorted position,like a chalk outline as if awaiting an detective with a moncole to investigate his "murder."

A ridiculous thought. One that almost made him chuckle—if not for the sheer agony tearing through him.

Then, something even more unsettling dawned on him.

"My body...?"

"Wait... this isn't my body!"

Panic surged as he forced himself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. His breath came in ragged gasps. His vision steadied, and he finally took in his form—thin arms, a frail frame, a body that wasn't his.

Too small. Too weak. Where are my scars? My muscle? What is this? 16? 17, maybe?

Had he crashed one too many times, scrambled his brain beyond repair? Like Calhoun, the half-senile mailman? A bitter chuckle almost escaped his lips.

Then, like a switch flipping, a strange sense of euphoria and clarity overtook his panic—a survival instinct honed from years of pushing himself to the limit. His nerves steadied. His breathing evened.

As a series of questions immediately followed.

Am I dead? Is this the afterlife?

Bracing against the pain, he pushed himself up from the ground. His limbs trembled under the effort, pain lancing through him like molten needles. And then he saw it.

The world around him.

Towering flames consumed wooden buildings, their flickering glow casting long, eerie shadows across cobblestone streets slick with blood. Bodies littered the ground—some whole, others mutilated beyond recognition. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning wood, blood, and something far worse.

Beneath his feet, the earth trembled—not with the rhythm of life, but with the echoes of death.

This city—or what little remained of it—was now his reality. The constant, searing pain in his body made sure of that.

And then, he saw it.

A shadow moved into the street before him with slow deliberate steps that echoed death.

Hulking. Monstrous. Unstoppable.

Even at a glance, Vance knew the figure stood at least 6'7"—a beast of rippling muscle that would make even the most elite athletes seem frail. Dark green skin glistened under the fire's glow.

Fangs jutted from its mouth. A long, dark ponytail hung over its broad back. And in its grip, a massive club lined with barbed wire dragged something—no, someone—across the stone street. The grating sound was sharp, nauseating.

And the figure?

A human body—or what remained of one.

The orc stopped. It sniffed the air. Once. Twice. Then, slowly, its head turned toward Vance.

A wicked grin stretched across its face. Emerald-green eyes glowed amid the haze of fire and smoke.

And Vance recognized that look instantly.

Predator. Prey.

It was the same gaze a wolf had before striking its helpless game. The same expression his father wore when lining up a fresh kill on their hunting trips. A look filled with cruel amusement, the thrill of the chase, and a deep love for the inevitable slaughter.

A expression he was all too familiar with.

And now, confused, disoriented, and helpless, Vance was the hunted.

The realization struck like a hammer. His pupils shrank. His breath hitched. A familiar rush coursed through him—that exhilarating, terrifying high he had felt countless times in extreme sports and on the frontlines.

Fight?

Run?

Hide?

No, how?

Where would I even go?

I can barely stand! And there's no way I can outrun that thing!

Then, it hit him.

Where he was.

A bitter, almost hysterical chuckle escaped his lips. This was no accident. No mere disaster.

This was a battlefield.

A massacre.

And somehow... he was right in the middle of it.

Standing face to face with death itself.

"Where the fuck on Earth...?"