The air glitches.

Not metaphorically.
Literally.

A translucent screen slams into existence in front of my face like reality forgot personal space.

Blue. Rectangular. Rude.

TASK ONE
REACH THE CITY OF VELDRIN

Veldrin.

Of course it’s called Veldrin.

Every fantasy city name sounds like it sells either swords or trauma.

I stop walking.

Immediately.

Dead stop.

This is a mistake.

The woman behind me walks straight into my back.

“HEY—”

Someone else bumps into her.

Then another.

In three seconds, the street turns into a human buffering wheel.

“WATCH IT!”
“MOVE!”
“WHAT IS HE DOING—”

I squint at the screen.

“…Reach Veldrin,” I read out loud.

Why did I read it out loud.

Why do I always narrate my own downfall.

I clear my throat.

“Okay,” I begin, addressing nobody and everybody, “this appears to be a fetch quest. Classic. Low-effort. No explanation, no map, just vibes.”

People stare.

I gesture at the air.

“Yes, I know you can’t see this,” I say patiently. “That’s a design flaw. Not my fault.”

Someone mutters, “Is he talking to spirits?”

I wave dismissively.

“No, no, I’m talking to management.”

I rub my temples.

“Let me guess. Walk to Veldrin. Don’t die. Learn the rules by almost dying. Maybe unlock a skill like ‘Jogging’ or ‘Basic Survival.’”

A woman gasps.

Another whispers.

My monologue continues, because stopping now would be emotionally inconsistent.

“And Veldrin—Veldrin will either be very far away or emotionally expensive. Possibly both.”

Then—

A shout.

Sharp.

Accusatory.

“WITCH!”

I pause.

That’s… not part of my sentence.

Another voice joins.

“WITCH!”

Another.

“WITCH—HE’S A WITCH!”

My monologue slows, like a YouTube video buffering.

“…I’m not finished,” I mutter.

The shouting grows.

“WITCH!”
“LOOK AT HIM!”
“HE TALKS TO AIR!”
“HE SUMMONED A WINDOW!”

I slowly turn my head.

Very slowly.

Bad decision.

The street has… rearranged itself.

People are pointing.

At me.

Mostly women.

Lots of them.

Finger-pointing has never looked so coordinated.

I scan the crowd.

And I notice something important.

The men—

The men are leaving.

Quietly.

Casually.

Like this is a fire drill they’ve practiced before.

One guy avoids eye contact as he backs away.

Another straight-up runs.

A third whispers, “Not again,” and disappears into an alley.

Oh.

Oh no.

My brain connects dots at record speed.

Talking to invisible screens.
Sudden appearance.
No local accent.
Male. Alone. Confident posture.

This is not a good era to be mysterious.

Women start stepping forward.

Slow. Purposeful.

Not screaming yet.

That’s worse.

One of them picks up a stick.

Another tightens her grip on a basket like it’s a weapon.

I take a step back.

They take two steps forward.

I raise my hands.

“Okay,” I say calmly, “before we escalate to folklore, I would like to state for the record that I am not a witch.”

Someone yells, “HE’S DENYING IT!”

“Of course I’m denying it,” I say. “That’s what innocent people do.”

They advance faster.

My brain panics.

But my mouth?

My mouth monologues.

“Listen,” I say, backing up, “if I had magic, do you think I’d still be wearing starter clothes?”

A rock flies past my head.

That’s my cue.

I turn—

And run.

Not heroically.

Not gracefully.

I run like a man whose cardio stat was never unlocked.

The street explodes into chaos.

“GET HIM!”
“DON’T LET HIM CAST!”
“HE’S RUNNING—THEY ALWAYS RUN!”

I sprint past a fruit stall.

Apples fly.

One hits me in the head.

“WHY IS IT ALWAYS APPLES,” I scream, vaulting over a crate and immediately regretting it.

I knock over a barrel.

Someone trips.

Another screams victory like this is a sport.

I turn a corner.

Dead end.

“NOPE,” I say, pivoting so hard my shoe almost stays behind.

I barrel through laundry lines.

Clothes slap my face.

A pair of underwear gets stuck on my head.

I keep running.

“This is not optimal,” I pant. “This is not—”

A woman throws a broom.

It misses.

Barely.

I zigzag.

Trip.

Recover.

Trip again.

This world has terrible sidewalks.

I shove through a crowd, yelling, “SORRY—NOT A WITCH—JUST LOST—VERY LOST—”

Someone throws water on me.

“HE FLOATS OR HE DIES,” a woman yells.

“I DO BOTH,” I shout back.

I vault over a fence.

Land badly.

My ankle screams.

I scream louder to assert dominance.

Behind me, the chant grows.

“WITCH! WITCH! WITCH!”

I sprint into an alley.

Heart pounding.

Lungs burning.

Dignity gone.

“This,” I gasp, “is why I hate tutorials.”

I spot it.

A narrow side way.

Too narrow for mobs.
Too narrow for justice.
Perfect for cowardice.

I veer.

Hard.

My foot slips on wet stone and I slide into it like a man escaping taxes.

The crowd doesn’t notice immediately.

They thunder past the opening.

Boots. Skirts. Shouting.

“THIS WAY—”
“NO—THAT WAY—”
“HE WAS JUST HERE—”

They rush past me.

All of them.

Like a very loud, very angry parade that forgot why it started.

I press my back to the wall.

Hands on knees.

Breathing like I just ran from history itself.

“In,” I gasp. “Out.”

“In.”

Out is optional.

My heart is trying to escape my ribcage.

I wipe sweat off my face.

Okay.

Okay.

I survived.

I am alive.

I did not get burned.

I did not get drowned.

I did not get stoned—yet.

Progress.

Then—

A shadow moves.

I freeze.

Someone steps out from behind a wooden doorway.

A woman.

Beautiful.

Not “historically accurate” beautiful.

Suspiciously beautiful.

Clean face. Calm eyes. No panic. No pitchfork.

She looks at me.

Looks at the chaos rushing past.

Then back at me.

She raises a finger.

Gently.

And motions for me to come closer.

Hide.

My brain immediately screams.

NO.

This is the oldest trap in storytelling.

This is how men die.

But my lungs override my brain.

I whisper to myself:

“…Okay, statistically speaking, beautiful women offering help during witch hunts are either angels or plot devices.”

She gestures again.

Urgent.

I glance behind me.

The chanting is looping back.

I exhale.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll die romantic.”

I step toward her.

Still monologuing, because silence would mean reflection.

“Listen,” I whisper, “if this is a trap, I want you to know I respect the commitment. The timing. The face. Very professional.”

She smiles.

Warm.

Too warm.

That’s when it clicks.

The alley is too clean.

No trash.

No rats.

No smell.

And the door behind her—

It’s reinforced.

Thick.

Iron hinges.

Not a hiding place.

A holding place.

I stop.

Slowly.

“…Ah,” I say softly. “This is where the camera zooms in.”

Her smile doesn’t change.

That’s worse.

I take a step back.

She steps forward.

“WAIT,” I say, raising a finger. “Let’s talk about incentives—”

Something hits the back of my head.

Hard.

My vision explodes into white.

Again.

Of course.

The last thing I think before darkness takes me is—

I knew it.

I should have trusted the angry mob.

Then—

Black.

And the world politely turns me off.