Chapter 1: Dungeon Awakening

The stench hit Alan Grey like a sucker punch—rotten straw, damp stone, and a sour whiff of decay that churned his stomach. He snapped awake, head throbbing as if he'd taken a baton to the skull, the darkness around him thick and disorienting. "What's that smell?" he muttered, voice hoarse. "Did the precinct dumpster catch fire?" His mind flickered to a cluttered desk—case files stacked high, a cold coffee mug, the hum of a late-night radio—before the illusion shattered. This wasn't a stakeout crash pad. This was something else entirely.

He blinked hard, and the gloom sharpened into a grim cell. Rough stone walls loomed close, slick with moisture that glistened in the faint light seeping through three fist-sized windows high above. Dawn's first rays stabbed through, barely cutting the shadows, dust motes swirling in the beams onto his chest, now wrapped in a ragged prisoner's tunic. The straw beneath him crunched, cold and soggy, sending a shiver up his spine. His wrists stung; deep purple bruises ringed them like manacles. A sharper pain flared in his thigh—a knife wound, crusted with blood, slashed across the muscle. "Day one's just kicking off," he growled, glancing at the light. "And I'm already in the hole."

"Where am I?" he rasped, running a hand through his tangled black hair, wincing as it tugged the faint scar on his cheek—an old souvenir from a bar brawl bust. The air was heavy with rust and rot, a far cry from the gunpowder tang of his old life. He squinted at the iron bars ahead, rust flaking off in patches, and beyond, a shadowed corridor stretched into silence. A low, mournful bell tolled from the distance, its clang steady and deliberate—once every hour, he'd bet, like a countdown to judgment. His gut twisted. "Okay, Alan, think," he muttered, profiler instincts kicking in. "Ambush? Deep cover gone bad?" A dry chuckle escaped. "No—this isn't a cartel den. Too medieval for that."

Then it came—a flood of memories, slamming into his skull like a breach team with no warning. They weren't his, not the ones earned through a decade of FBI service, but they poured in relentless and vivid. Alan Grey, assistant to the Borderton sheriff. Five silver coins a month, a sack of grain. Parents gone—father skewered in a border raid, mother lost to fever. Sister, Alice, my only kin. Three days ago, patrolling Greenvale… fire everywhere… then blackout. Woke up here, charged with arson. Fire's coming in three days. The deluge stopped, leaving him gasping. He clutched his head, breaths sharp. "Transmigrated—straight into a death trap."

A shaky laugh broke free. "Dead folks? Check. Orphan card? Check. But this ain't a profiler's gig—it's a one-way ticket to the grill." He steadied himself, FBI training snapping into place. The pieces clicked: Borderton, a rugged frontier outpost; Greenvale, an elven forest now ash; the Church branding him the torch-man; and Alice, his frail sister, praying somewhere while he rotted. "At least I've got family," he muttered. "But three days till the bonfire? That's a tight clock." This was Saintland—medieval fantasy hell where knights swung steel, mages muttered spells, and the Church burned first, asked later. No rights, no backup—just flames for the guilty. He flexed his hands, feeling a strange strength—nine-tier Squire, whatever that meant. "Tougher than my old bones," he grunted, "but not enough to punch through this."

Footsteps thudded down the corridor—heavy, deliberate, a familiar gait. The iron door screeched open, and Pete loomed in, fortyish, grizzled beard catching the torchlight. His stained grey tunic hung loose, a short club swung at his belt, and he hefted a splintered tray with a rock-hard bread loaf and a dented jug. "Morning rations, torch-man," he sneered, tossing the bread through the bars. It thudded into the straw. "Three days till you're ash—eat up while you're still breathing." Alan caught it mid-air, crust scraping his palm. "Torch-man? Cute," he quipped, voice steady, probing. "Who's pinning that on me?"

Pete snorted, setting the jug down with a clang. "Greenvale's cinders, that's who. Old Tom at the tavern swears he saw blue flames shoot fifty feet high—dragon fire, he called it. Sheriff Henry says it's you, and the Church don't argue." Alan's profiler ears perked—blue flames, fifty feet, a witness named Tom. "Specifics," he noted silently. "More than rumors now." He tilted his head, casual but sharp. "Blue flames, huh? Never saw dragons out there—did Tom? Or you?" Pete scratched his beard, eyes flicking away. "Just what folks saw—hellish stuff. Henry didn't need more'n that to nail you."

Alan leaned closer, bread in hand, voice dropping to the low, measured tone he'd used on cagey perps. "Fifty feet's a big claim, Pete. Sounds like someone's spinning tales. Henry got a witness list, or just Tom's word?" Pete's hand twitched near his club, a tell Alan clocked—nerves, not anger. "Don't push it, Grey," he growled. "Henry's the law—Church backs him. That's all you need to know." Alan's smirk widened, thin and knowing. "Church, huh? Funny—they don't strike me as forest-watch types. Who's feeding Henry his lines?"

Pete's jaw tightened, but he didn't bite. "Keep flapping, torch-man. Fire's patient—it'll wait." He turned to go, boots scuffing stone. "Pete," Alan called, voice cutting sharp now, the edge that broke liars in the box. "My sister—Alice. She's at the chapel. Tell me she's holding on." Pete paused, half-turning, his scowl softening a crack. "Praying, last I saw. Coughing her guts out—sickly thing. Won't last long without you." The words hit like a slug to the chest. Alan's grip on the bread tightened, knuckles whitening. He saw her—Alice, golden hair damp with sweat, clinging to him after their parents' graves, her whisper frail but fierce: "Don't leave me, Alan." His chest burned, deeper than any bullet scar. "She's tougher than you know," he said, half to himself. "I'll get out—for her."

Pete shrugged, trudging off. "Fire don't care about tough, Grey. Dawn's next." The door slammed, leaving Alan with the echoes. He sank back, bread clutched, staring at the claw marks on the floor—last stands of the damned. "Three days—seventy-two hours," he calculated, FBI precision locking in. "Day one's ticking—sun's barely up." He bit the bread, nearly cracking a tooth, and spat it out. "Could brain a perp with this. Medieval catering's a bust."

He paced, chains rattling, mind racing. "No panic—work the case. Rule one: assess, adapt, overcome." His eyes flicked to the bars, rust flaking under his touch. "Blue flames, fifty feet—chemical or staged. Henry's dirty, Church is muscle. Need the file—logs, statements. Alice—she's sharp, even sick. She's my shot." The bell's echo faded, dawn creeping higher. He smirked faintly. "Three days to crack a fantasy rap from a cage. Beats bleeding out in a bust gone south."