CHAPTER 4 — “The Girl Who Stayed”
I wake up to sunlight stabbing me directly in the eyes.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling is wrong—too low, too full of holes, too present. I’m used to waking up to nothing. Two hundred years of nothing tends to set certain expectations.
Then the memories crash back, and I remember: dead body, goblin dungeon, murder rabbit, shitty farm.
Right.
This is my life now.
You snore.
I jackknife upright, heart hammering, hand reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. Johnson is sitting on the pillow next to my head, watching me with those ancient, judgmental eyes.
“Don’t do that.”
Do what? Exist near you while you make sounds like a dying walrus? I can’t help existing, Velthar. That’s a you problem.
“You could have slept somewhere else.”
I could have. I chose not to. Your proximity is… strategically valuable. His nose twitches. Also, your body heat is acceptable. This cottage is drafty.
I rub my face, trying to scrub away the last cobwebs of sleep. Everything hurts. My arms, my legs, the dozens of cuts and bruises I didn’t properly heal yesterday. Edrin’s body is not built for dungeon crawling, and it’s making sure I know it.
“What time is it?”
Mid-morning. You slept for eleven hours. Like a baby. A very loud, snoring baby.
Eleven hours. I can’t remember the last time I slept that long. Actually, I can—it was never. Even before the betrayal, I was always awake too early, mind racing, unable to turn off the constant calculations and theories and plans.
Exhaustion, apparently, is a cure for insomnia.
The old woman is expecting you, Johnson continues. Granny Thorn. She sent a child to knock on the door two hours ago. I stared at him until he left.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
You needed rest. You were useless yesterday—imagine how useless you’d be today without proper sleep. He hops off the pillow, landing on the floor with a soft thump. Besides, I was curious how long you’d stay unconscious. The answer is ‘impressively long.’ Your survival instincts need work.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing at every movement. The straw mattress has left imprints on my skin. There’s something crawling in my hair that I really hope is just a piece of hay.
“I need to wash.”
Desperately.
“Thanks.”
I’m a supportive companion. It’s what I do.
The well behind the cottage is dry, because of course it is, but there’s a stream about ten minutes’ walk through the overgrown fields. I find it by following Johnson, who apparently explored the entire property while I was unconscious.
Water source. Berry bushes—poisonous, don’t eat them. Old root cellar that collapsed sometime in the last century. And there’s something living in your barn that I haven’t identified yet.
“Something living?”
Large. Mammalian. Possibly aggressive. His ear twitches. I’ll investigate later. After you stop smelling like goblin intestines.
The stream is clear and cold, fed by snowmelt from mountains I can’t see from here. I strip off Edrin’s ruined clothes—there’s no saving them, they’re more blood than fabric at this point—and wade in up to my waist.
The cold hits like a punch. Every cut stings, every bruise aches, and for a moment I just stand there, gasping, letting the shock wash through me.
Then I start scrubbing.
The water runs red, then pink, then finally clear. I work at my skin until it’s raw, until every trace of yesterday is gone, until I can look at my hands and see flesh instead of gore.
These aren’t my hands. Not really. They’re Edrin’s hands—rough from farm work, calloused in places mine never were, scarred from accidents I don’t remember having. I flex them, watching the tendons move under skin, and I try to feel something like ownership.
It doesn’t work.
You’re dissociating.
I look up. Johnson is sitting on the bank, watching me with that unreadable expression.
“I’m what?”
Dissociating. Disconnecting from your physical form. It’s common in cases of traumatic soul transfer, apparently. I read about it once.
“You read?”
I’ve had a lot of time. His nose twitches. The point is, you need to stop. This body is yours now. The previous occupant vacated. Squatter’s rights apply.
“That’s… not how I’d describe it.”
How would you describe it?
I look down at the water. At my reflection—Edrin’s reflection—rippling on the surface. Young face. Tired eyes. A stranger wearing my soul like an ill-fitting coat.
“Theft,” I say quietly. “It feels like theft.”
Johnson is silent for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is different. Softer. Almost gentle.
Edrin Thatch died of mana sickness. Alone. In a cottage that was falling apart around him. His last wish was for someone to take care of his tomatoes. A pause. You’re not stealing from him, Velthar. You’re finishing what he started.
“You don’t know that.”
I know he left a note asking for exactly that. I know his body was failing and his soul was ready to move on. And I know that you—whatever you are, wherever you came from—have a chance to do something with this life that he never could.
I stare at the rabbit. At this impossible creature who talks in my head and eats goblin faces and somehow knows exactly what to say when I’m drowning in my own thoughts.
“Why do you care?”
I told you. I’m investing in you. His ears swivel forward. A good investment requires maintenance. Consider this maintenance.
“Emotional support from a telepathic murder rabbit.”
I prefer ‘psychological intervention specialist.’ It sounds more professional.
Despite everything—the cold water, the aching body, the existential crisis I’m clearly having—I feel my mouth twitch.
“You’re an asshole.”
The highest compliment. Now get out of the water before you catch hypothermia. Dead investments are worthless investments.
I don’t have clean clothes.
This becomes apparent when I’m standing on the stream bank, dripping wet, staring at the pile of blood-soaked fabric that used to be Edrin’s only outfit.
There might be something in the cottage, Johnson offers. A chest, maybe. Dead people usually have more than one set of clothes.
“Usually.”
I said ‘usually,’ not ‘always.’ Lower your expectations. It prevents disappointment.
The walk back is cold and uncomfortable, made worse by the fact that I’m essentially naked and the morning air has a bite to it. Johnson leads the way, occasionally glancing back with what I can only describe as amusement.
You look ridiculous.
“Thank you for that observation.”
You’re welcome. I live to serve.
The cottage, thankfully, does contain a chest. It’s shoved in the corner behind the bed, covered in dust and what might be mouse droppings, but it’s there. Inside, I find two sets of clothes—both rough-spun, both patched in multiple places, both designed for function rather than fashion.
But they’re clean. And they fit. Mostly.
You look like a peasant.
“I am a peasant. Technically.”
You’re an Archmage wearing a peasant’s corpse like a disguise. There’s a difference. Johnson hops onto the bed, settling into a sunny patch. Now. Are we going to see the old woman, or are you going to stand there admiring yourself?
I’m not admiring myself. I’m trying to recognize myself. But Johnson doesn’t need to know that.
I check my status before heading out. Habit now. The kind of habit you develop when your survival depends on knowing exactly how pathetic you are at any given moment.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ CURRENT STATUS │ │Velthar (Healer, Level 3) │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │ HP: 65/65 │ MP:18/18 │ │ STR: 10 │ AGI: 12 │ │ INT: 14 │ WIS: 16 │ │ DEX: 13 │ LCK: 4 ││ │ │ Skills: │ │ \[Basic Bandaging\] Lv.
1 │ │ \[Herb Sense\] Lv.1 │ │\[Weed Identification\] Lv.
1 │ │ \[Poultice Crafting\] Lv.1 │ │ │ │Companion: Johnson \[?
??\] │ │ --- Status: Insufferable (standard) │ │ ││ Traits: │ │ \[Fragmented Soul\] --- 80% mana capacity sealed │ │ └─Mana recovery rate: 0.
3% │ │ │ │ "Level 3. Four skills. Zero of themuseful │ │ in combat.
You're basically a pharmacist │ │ with a deathwish.
" │ └─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Level 3. After killing a floor boss and fourteen goblins. This is either the slowest progression curve in System history or the universe is personally invested in keeping me humble.
“Let’s go.”
Granny Thorn’s cottage is on the opposite side of the village from mine, which means a twenty-minute walk through streets that are slightly more alive than they were yesterday.
People are out. Not many, but some—a woman hanging laundry, a man repairing a fence, two children playing some kind of game involving sticks and a ball. They watch me as I pass, curious but not hostile. News of yesterday’s dungeon clear has apparently spread.
“That’s him,” I hear someone whisper. “The one who killed the goblin chief.”
“With a rabbit,” someone else adds. “A magic rabbit.”
Magic rabbit. Johnson’s mental voice drips with disdain. I’ll have them know I’m a perfectly ordinary rabbit who happens to eat faces. Nothing magical about it.
“Should I correct them?”
Gods, no. Let them think what they want. Mystery is more useful than truth.
We reach Granny Thorn’s cottage—slightly less decrepit than mine, with actual flowers growing in boxes under the windows—and I knock on the door.
It opens immediately, like she was waiting.
“You’re late,” she says. “I expected you two hours ago.”
“I overslept.”
“Clearly.” Her sharp eyes move from me to Johnson, sitting at my feet. “And you brought the rabbit.”
She sees more than she pretends to, Johnson observes. Careful with this one.
“You said to bring him.”
“I did.” She steps back, gesturing us inside. “Come in, then. We have things to discuss.”
The inside of Granny Thorn’s cottage is… not what I expected.