Rewind: A Grimdark LitRPG Series (Pyresouls Apocalypse, Book 1) by James Callum (reading tree .txt) 📕

for another door, ready to Dive back into the Margins, when he realized the young man was staring open-mouthed at him. He had just witnessed Midarian kill a god, though he doubted the man understood the significance.

More importantly, Erastus’s portal was still open.

He turned, studying the magic – not terribly complex by his standards, but then Erastus earned his station like all the elite and influential did; by the circumstance of his birth – and decided that he would not consign the young man to whatever plans Erastus had for him.

Erastus had already pulled him from his particular brand of Earth. Midarian couldn’t send him back, and quite honestly wouldn’t have wanted to. Aldim offered adventure and true growth that anybody would kill for.

Many had.

Midarian stepped to the side of Erastus’s dais, not willing to share the same platform as the dead creature. He summoned a gilded throne, appropriately gaudy and bedazzled not with precious gems uncountable but with cheap plastic costume jewelry.

Much better.

He took a seat, acclimatizing himself to the ebb and flow of the weave upon Aldim. Once attuned, he shifted the portal to another location. Wherever Erastus had meant to send the boy looked positively villainous.

Midarian didn’t know the world of Aldim well but he figured depositing the guy in a stretch of woods at the foot of the mountains was a better destination than a barracks full of soldiers wielding cruel-looking black blades.

Crossing one leg over the other, Midarian watched the man with a curious twinkle to his glowing eyes.

The man didn’t scream or run. That was a good sign. But he also wasn’t being sucked up into the portal as Midarian had expected.

Something was missing.

His attention span waning, Midarian looked back over the weave of the magic Erastus had set into motion.

Aha, you gods and your marks.

He snorted and rose from his throne. “C’mere,” he called to the young man.

The last thing Hal recalled was passing out at 3 AM on his couch. He had just spent the last several hours catching late-night surge fares and then cleaning all the vomit from the back of his car.

He had expected to wake up a few hours later, stumble blindly to the bathroom, then do the adult thing and go sleep on his bed full of unfolded clothes he had been putting off for the last three days.

Instead, he jerked awake in the middle of the night and fell into darkness. The terrible nightmare hadn’t ended there, falling dreams weren’t that uncommon considering his near-phobia of heights.

Hal pushed himself up from the hard, cold floor and lifted his gaze to the strange cherubic, blonde-haired boy’s face that sat so strangely on the robed body of a man.

The robed man had his arms spread wide with a disturbingly rapturous expression. His long sleeves dragged across the marble floor, partially obscuring another figure behind the man from Hal’s point of view.

Somebody was sneaking up behind him, though sneak wasn’t quite the right word. The jean-jacketed man sauntered toward the baby-faced man’s back, two daggers of opposing qualities pulled free and held out to the side in mockery of the robed man.

His intent was crystal clear.

Maybe Hal should have called out a warning but something kept his mouth shut. This was something bigger than himself at play here. So he stood witness as a casual bystander and tried to wake himself up from this hellish dream.

The Assassin struck and took down Babyface with casual grace. Streams of golden fluid erupted from the wounds and flashes of light chased the blood as it splattered across the room. Miraculously, it soiled neither the Assassin’s clothes nor Babyface's.

Hal watched the blood change color and harden into something that resembled cooled lava. It was then that he realized without a doubt that he was not dreaming.

He would have suspected a bad acid trip if he had ever tried the stuff.

Hal’s brown eyes locked with the strange glowing orbs from deep within the dark confines of the Assassin’s red hood.

He looked like no assassin Hal had ever seen or dreamed up in all his life. No black leather with dozens of hidden pockets. He wore a garish red hoodie beneath a jean jacket.

Who still wore jean jackets? The Assassin looked like he wanted to be an extra on Stranger Things.

The Assassin casually rolled a free hand and summoned a golden throne out of the air. He looked at the body, then something in the air to Hal’s left. Hal followed his gaze but saw nothing except empty space.

The chamber was a dimly lit cavernous expanse, candelabras placed every ten or twenty feet cast flickering reflections on the gaudy marble flooring. The roof was held up by a series of fluted columns that vanished into the gloom overhead.

It was like somebody heard a story about the Greek gods of antiquity and attempted to model this place after them. Except the creator lacked even the most basic comprehension of ancient Greek architecture or aesthetics.

The whole thing was a caricature of ancient Greek style.

“C’mere,” called the Assassin as he rose and wandered over to the body.

Hal found his legs answering the smooth voice without conscious thought. He stood beside the body within spitting distance of the Assassin who had turned all his attention from Hal to the body.

The Assassin crouched and braceleted the corpse’s wrist with his own hand. The hand flopped about as he raised the arm and jiggled it. “I think there’s still some juice left in this thing. Give me your right – no – your left arm.”

Hal resisted the urge to obey, unsure why he had come any closer to the killer. “I’m good, thanks,” Hal managed to say.

“Listen kid, I appreciate the brass ball routine as much as the next guy. But I’m kind of in a rush here. There’s a magical otter that will be very cross with me if I miss our date for tea. So give me your hand or so help me….”

The lingering threat hung in the