Caleb's palm scraped against damp timber, the rough texture grounding him in reality. His other arm clutched ribs that protested with each shallow breath. The alley walls pressed closer, narrowing his world to wet wood and the stench of decay.

  Just need a minute. Just one minute to think.

  The alley twisted ahead, leading to what looked like a small courtyard. Waterlogged crates, stained dark with mold, towered in stacks threatening to collapse. Refuse bins overflowed with the pulp of rotted vegetables and unidentifiable sludge. Good enough. A hole to crawl into while he figured out what fresh hell he'd stumbled upon.

  His feet splashed through puddles of things he didn't want to identify. Every move was a fresh inventory of pain. A dull ache throbbed in his throat from Rufan's grip. A grinding friction in his ribs flared with every breath, like broken glass shifting under his skin. And his dignity... that had fled the scene long ago.

  He reached the back of the small courtyard and leaned against the wall. It felt solid against his back as he finally let himself slump. A shuddering exhale escaped him, part relief, part barely controlled panic.

  Medieval fantasy world, new body, magic everywhere, and now I'm running from guards who kick children for fun.

  The scrape of a boot on stone cut through the quiet.

  Voices echoed from a darkened alcove near the courtyard's other entrance, their quiet tones carrying with a sharp edge. Caleb froze. His heart hammered against his bruised ribs. He flattened himself behind a leaning stack of crates, peering through a narrow gap.

  Three adolescent elven boys lounged in the shadows. One, a scrawny kid with greasy black hair, bounced on his toes. Unlike the elves from his Earth-born memories, these had various shades of green skin.

  "You should've seen me!" the scrawny one said, his voice high with excitement. "Shoved him right into that big puddle by the blacksmith's! He went down face-first!"

  A heavier, slower-looking boy next to him grunted something that might have been laughter. His blocky frame, topped with crudely cut, mud-brown hair, seemed a part of the grimy alley.

  "You call that dominance?" The third voice scraped low, each word a stone dragged over gravel. "My ancestors would have made him beg for the honor of drowning."

  The speaker stepped out of the alcove's deepest part. Forest-green skin and jet black hair framed amber eyes that gleamed with cruel satisfaction. He spun a bone-handled dagger between long fingers.

  Caleb's breath caught. [Perfect Memory] surged, unleashing a flood of Thal's life. A series of humiliations, of casual cruelties in the schoolyard, of being tripped in the market square. All of them perpetrated by this person.

  Narbok Blackbriar. The name arrived with a wave of remembered fear.

  Narbok sneered. "My father taught me the difference. There’s the strength you earn, and the strength you are. The Mistblood were strength made manifest. Instead of farming land like peasants, my ancestors harvested lives."

  The other boys nodded, their expressions a mix of awe and confusion. They were a pack, and Narbok was their alpha.

  Caleb's mind raced. He was trapped. To get back to the street, he had to pass them. He pressed deeper into the darkness, making his breathing shallow, hoping they would move on.

  "Hey, I know!" the scrawny one said. "We could hit Old Henrik's apple cart again—"

  "Peasant mischief," Narbok said with a sharp gesture. He scanned the alley, his amber eyes seeming to pierce the murk. "I need a real challenge. Something worth my time."

  His gaze swept past Caleb's hiding spot. For a long second, Caleb thought their eyes met. But Narbok looked away, turning back to his cronies. Caleb ducked down, vanishing from sight.

  Footsteps clattered through the courtyard, moving away. They're leaving. This was his chance.

  Caleb held his breath, counting the seconds. He waited until their footsteps faded, then slid from behind the crates. He moved on silent feet, keeping to the wall, his body revolting with every step.

  [New Skill Gained: Stealth (F) - Novice]

  He flinched at the notification, terrified it had given him away. Shoving the thought down, he moved toward the alley entrance—freedom was just a few feet away.

  "Well, well." The voice came from behind him, smooth and mocking. "The dull-ear finally shows his face in our territory."

  Caleb's head snapped around. Narbok stood at the entrance to the alcove he'd just passed, dagger spinning lazily. Two other figures emerged from around the refuse bins, cutting off his escape.

  They're just kids. Caleb forced himself upright, ignoring the sharp protest from his ribs that sent fresh jolts of fire through his battered frame. His dad-voice kicked in automatically, the exact measured tone he'd used countless times to defuse Katie's teenage tantrums back home.

  He opened his mouth, English words ready, but what came out was a fluid, lilting sound that wasn't his own. The language flowed with an impossible, borrowed ease, Thalorin’s knowledge steering his tongue.

  "Hey fellas, lovely day for loitering, isn't it?" The casual words emerged in what his host's memories identified as common tongue. Each syllable felt simultaneously foreign and familiar, like wearing someone else's fitted shoes. "I'll just be on my way."

  The words hung in the air like a bad joke at a funeral.

  Narbok's laughter cracked sharp as breaking glass—the dagger never stopped spinning. "Tell me, half-breed, did your mother teach you those pretty words before she got herself killed? Or does your drunk father mumble them between bottles?"

  The other boys snickered, tightening their circle. The smaller one—Finn, Thalorin's memories supplied—bounced on his toes with barely contained eagerness. The other, Durk, cracked his knuckles with theatrical menace.

  Annoying, racist kids, but still kids. This is something I can handle. I played a little football in high school. I'll just bull-rush the small one and—

  Caleb lunged toward Finn, trying to use his height advantage. Should have worked. Would have worked if his body moved the way his mind expected. But sixteen-year-old muscles didn't respond like forty-year-old instincts demanded.

  Durk's leg swept out with practiced ease, catching him from the side. The world tilted, and the alley floor met his jaw with a crack that rattled his skull. His knees and palms scraped raw against stone slick with things that didn't bear thinking about.

  Before he could process the shock, Narbok's boot caught him in the ribs with surgical precision.

  The kick connected, and a hot, splintering agony erupted through his side, stealing his breath and scattering his thoughts. His body's instincts, Thal's instincts, took over. He curled inward, making himself small, waiting for the beating to end.

  No.

  The thought was a spark of defiance in the overwhelming pain. This was Thal's response. To curl up, to endure, to accept the beating as inevitable.

  He shoved it down. The grown man inside him, the one who had dealt with obnoxious subordinates and infuriating clients, took control. This was just a different, more violent form of that.

  I am not going to be taken out by some brats. This is just pathetic. Get up!

  His resolve was rewarded with another impossible chime and window:

  [New Skill Gained: Ignore Pain (F) - Novice]

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  The impossible text flared in his vision. His focus splintered. A costly lapse.

  Finn's fist smashed his jaw, scattering coherent thought. Light flashed behind his eyes as copper flooded his mouth.

  He struggled to his feet, weathering Finn's onslaught. He tried to block, to dodge, to do something, but his initial movements were a mess of misjudged distances and tangled limbs.

  Yet, even as he failed, he felt a strange, intuitive process firing in the back of his mind. [Savant of the Body] was online, processing every failure as a data point. The sting of a fist on his cheek taught his body the exact distance to keep. A clumsy, rattling block taught his arms the proper angle for the next attempt. He was a learning machine running on pain and panic.

  "Not so tough now, are you?" Durk grabbed a fistful of hair from behind, yanking Caleb's head back. The smell of stale onions wafted from the boy's grin.

  Another kick to his lower back sent him sprawling face-first. His mouth filled with the gritty, sour pulp of rotting cabbage and the unmistakable sliminess of old cooking grease as he gagged. Rough hands flipped him over like a sack of grain.

  Narbok's knee pressed into his sternum, driving out what little air remained. The point of the bone-handled dagger pressed against his cheek.

  "This is what happens to half-breeds who forget their place."

  Like hell!

  Caleb's arm shot up, knocking the blade away with desperate strength. He bucked and twisted, managing to squirm out from under Narbok's leg. His body protested every movement, but the new Skill, [Ignore Pain], muted the agony to a manageable, distant ache. Like watching someone else hurt.

  He forced himself upright on shaking legs, raising his fists in a boxer's guard he'd seen in movies. Narbok gave him no time to set his feet, lunging forward, fists blurring in a storm of strikes aimed at Caleb’s upper body.

  Caleb's head snapped back as another strike connected with his jaw, sending him stumbling into a wall. The rough stone scraped against his shoulder as he tried to keep his feet. Everything hurt. His ribs where Narbok had landed that first solid hit, his arms from desperate attempts to shield himself, his legs from constantly backpedaling.

  "What's wrong, half-breed?" Narbok advanced with confidence. "Can't even throw a proper punch?"

  The elven boy was right. His experience with conflict was limited to the HR complaints and lawsuits of Earth; he was a stranger to the casual violence of this world.

  The fist caught him in the stomach this time, driving the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, tang of blood on his tongue.

  Focus! Think! There has to be a way out of this!

  Another blow came—this one aimed at his ribs. Caleb threw up his arm in a clumsy block, but the impact still sent shockwaves through his bones. His elbow screamed in protest, and he bit back a cry of pain.

  "Pathetic," Narbok spat. The glob of saliva hit Caleb's cheek, mixing with the blood already trickling from his nose. "Your human blood makes you weak. You're nothing but—"

  The next punch came fast, but something was different. Maybe it was desperation sharpening his senses, or maybe his body was finally learning how to move, but Caleb saw it coming. He saw it clearly telegraphed. The way Narbok's shoulder lead the blow with a subtle dip, how his balance shifted to his back foot a fraction of a second too early.

  Caleb's arm moved almost on its own, its purpose to redirect the blow. His forearm connected with Narbok's wrist at just the right angle, sending the punch sliding past his ear instead of into his face. The motion felt strangely natural, as if some part of him had always known how to do this.

  The chime returned, softer this time, almost drowned out by the blood pulsing in his ears. More text bloomed in his vision:

  [New Skill Gained: Unarmed Deflect (F) - Novice]

  Narbok blinked in surprise, but recovered quickly. His next attack came lower—a knee aimed at Caleb's midsection. This time, Caleb managed to twist sideways, letting the strike glance off his hip instead of driving into his gut. It still hurt like hell, but he stayed on his feet.

  Another chime:

  [New Skill Gained: Dodge (F) - Novice]

  "Lucky," Narbok growled, though a flicker of uncertainty now tainted his amber eyes. He'd expected this to be easy. Another helpless victim to cement his reputation. Instead, his prey was learning, adapting.

  The assault continued, but the chaos was beginning to have a rhythm. His flailing became blocks. His stumbles became dodges. He was still a terrible fighter, but he was no longer a simple victim. When Narbok threw a wide, looping punch, Caleb brought both arms up in a cross-block, absorbing the impact across his forearms instead of his face. The force still drove him back a step, but he didn't fall.

  [New Skill Gained: Unarmed Block (F) - Novice]

  Each new Skill notification arrived like a switch being flicked, creating an intuitive cognizance in place of new knowledge. A growing awareness of what his body could do settled in. They were labels for desperate actions he was already taking to survive.

  A low growl escaped Narbok's throat with each failed strike. His precise jabs devolved into wild, predictable swings. He sacrificed form for brute force.

  He's getting angry. Getting sloppy.

  Caleb ducked under a haymaker that whistled past his ear, the wind of it cool on his skin.

  There.

  And in that moment of near-miss, one detail broke through the panic.

  His feet. Flat-footed. All his weight is wrong.

  He was off-balance.

  This brat was a common bully playing at being a warrior.

  The realization didn't make him a fighter. He was still getting hit, still accumulating bruises. But it gave him something he'd lacked. Hope.

  [New Skill Gained: Combat Analysis (F) - Novice]

  When Narbok's next punch came, Caleb managed to deflect it while simultaneously stepping back, creating distance. The bully stumbled forward, off-balance for just a moment.

  "Stop dancing around!" Narbok snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "Fight me properly!"

  But Caleb had no intention of trading blows with someone stronger and more experienced. Survival was the only victory that mattered here. He kept moving, kept deflecting and dodging when he could, blocking when he couldn't. His body shuddered with each impact, but he pushed through the pain with grim determination.

  The alley tilted and swayed as fatigue washed over him. His legs had turned to stone, his arms to soggy pasta. But he remained upright, awake, still battling in his own frantic fashion.

  Finn lunged for him from behind, his sharp intake of breath a dead giveaway. Caleb pivoted, his body moving with a new, instinctual grace to slip the clumsy grab. He drove his shoulder into the smaller boy, sending him stumbling into Durk. They tangled in a heap, cursing.

  "Useless!" Narbok's face twisted with rage. He'd retrieved his dagger, all pretense abandoned. The blade emerged with deadly purpose, beyond games now.

  Caleb jerked back, feeling wind kiss his face as steel whistled past. Too close. Way too close. The pretense of a schoolyard fight was gone. These kids might actually kill him.

  His [Combat Analysis] spotted an opportunity in desperation—a stack of rotting crates leaning drunkenly against the wall. The bottom supports were already compromised, wood soft with moisture and decay.

  He feinted left, drawing Narbok's attention. The older boy took the bait, amber eyes tracking the false movement. Caleb sprinted right, rounding a stack of crates and then slamming his shoulder into it with every ounce of strength his battered body could muster.

  Wood groaned. The entire structure swayed, teetered, then came crashing down in an avalanche of mold and debris.

  Narbok roared as a crate caught him across the shins. Durk and Finn scrambled back, shielding their faces from flying splinters.

  Caleb didn't wait to admire his handiwork. He scrambled over the wreckage, wood tearing at his already-bloodied palms, and sprinted down a connecting alley he hadn't noticed before. His body moved with newfound coordination, each step more certain than the last.

  "Run, half-breed!" Narbok's furious voice rang out behind him. "There isn't an alley in this village you can hide in! You're dead!"

  The threat followed him like a promise, but Caleb didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. His only focus was distance. Blessed, life-saving distance between him and his first taste of real violence in this nightmare world.

  He burst onto a marginally wider street, lungs pumping like forge bellows. Every part of him hurt despite the pain-dulling skill. Blood trickled from his split lip. His palms left red smears on his torn shirt as he tried to steady himself against a wall.

  But he was alive. Battered, bruised, but breathing.

  The blue windows still hovered at the edge of his vision, patient and somehow ominous. Game rules in a world that clearly didn't play games. Skills gained through desperation rather than grinding experience points.

  Caleb stared at the floating notifications, his mind latching onto a recognized concept. Game system. Stats. Skills. Just like Jack's endless RPGs.

  He closed his eyes, focusing inward. "Status," he whispered through split lips. Nothing happened. He tried again, louder. "Status."

  The street remained silent, indifferent to his command.

  "Character Sheet. Menu. Open Stats." Each phrase came more desperate than the last, memories of Jack's excited game terminology flowing through his mind.

  His commands yielded nothing but the taste of blood and the distant sounds of pursuit.

  One more barrier between him and survival in this world. He could see the Skills he'd gained but couldn't access or understand them.

  His hands shook as adrenaline began its inevitable retreat, leaving only cold reality in its wake. Suburban life hadn't prepared him for back-alley knife fights with bloodthirsty elf children. His corporate skillset of spreadsheet navigation and meeting survival felt laughably useless.

  I need to learn. Fast. Or I won't survive long enough to figure out why I'm here.

  The thought carried significance beyond its words. This wasn't Earth.

  Kids with real weapons. Guards who kick you for sport. And a damn game system popping up to tell me I’m good at getting my ass kicked. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. A middle-aged dad in a teenager’s body, with a target painted on his half-elven back. Crumb.

  Somewhere behind him, he could hear angry voices and the crash of debris being kicked aside.

  Caleb pushed off from the wall and forced his aching body into motion. He needed somewhere safe. Somewhere to think. Somewhere to figure out how a man who'd spent four decades avoiding conflict was going to survive in a world that seemed built on it.

  The street ahead branched in three directions. Behind him, the sounds of pursuit grew closer.

  He chose left and ran. His feet splashed through puddles that reflected a village he didn't recognize, under a sky that wasn't quite the right shade of blue.

  Every step took him further from anything resembling home. Every breath reminded him that Evelynn, Katie, and Jack existed in a different reality—one he'd probably never see again.

  A memory of Evelynn's face tried to surface, but he shoved it down. He couldn't think of her now. He couldn't think of any of them. To remember was to break, and he couldn't afford to break. Not with Narbok's promise echoing off the stone walls. Not with blood in his mouth and Skills appearing in his mind like gifts from a cosmic vending machine.

  The street curved ahead, leading deeper into the village. Caleb followed it, driven by nothing more than momentum and the animal need to survive.