The light did not blind him. It embraced him , warm and
silent, like hands wrapping around an old soldier's shoulders after the final
war.
Suspended above the void, the goddess hovered in radiance.
Her presence bent time itself , ancient, feminine, eternal. Her form shimmered
with stars. Her eyes held galaxies.
She spoke not with her mouth, but through thought , her
voice like a lullaby sung through stone and sky.
"Richard Montgomery,"
she said.
"You are seen. You are judged. You are chosen."
He said nothing. Words would've just cluttered the moment.
She descended slightly, her light trailing like flowing silk
behind her. In her palm, fire gathered , blue, cold, alive.
"You died in truth.
Not for gain. Not for glory. But for the life of another , a child you never
knew. You spent your years in service of justice, and though the world rarely
thanked you, we watched. I watched."
Flashes of memory flickered in the dark:
Flashlights in alleyways. Chalk outlines. Cigarette smoke
and bloodied knuckles. A child's ribbon found in a dumpster. A mother's
trembling hands at the door.
"You were not a holy
man. But you were honest. You stared evil in the eye, and you never blinked."
A vision unfolded between them:
A world cracked by war. Cities drowned in plague and fire.
Great beasts soaring over broken keeps. Nine black thrones atop nine ruined
kingdoms.
"This world is called
Mystara," she said. "It teeters on the edge of annihilation. Nine monster lords
rule over death, life, and freedom. Humanity hides behind walls. Elves fade.
Dwarves wither. Hope dies slowly."
"And you want me to…
what? Stop it?" Richard asked, bitter smile tugging at his lips. "I'm no chosen
one. I'm not even young anymore."
"You will be," she
said.
She raised her hand. The fire swirled into a sword-shaped
flame.
Then another spark , softer , like a heartbeat forming in a
star.
"You have no chains
in this new life. No orders. No badge. No name... unless you choose one."
"But the stakes are
real. You may die again. You may watch others die. No divine protection follows
you. Only your mind, your resolve… and what you're willing to become."
He stared into the fire. Into the shape of the blade. Into
the storm waiting beyond her words.
Then he nodded.
"I don't care if I
die," he said. "But I'm not letting the monsters win. Not this time."
She smiled , faint, sad, but proud.
"Then choose. Body,
name, and soul."
The flames surged around him, engulfing him in silver-blue
fire.
He could feel the weight of age peel off. The aches. The
sorrow. The scars of decades.
When the light faded, he stood barefoot in the dark , 18
years old again.
Jet-black hair, long and wild. Bangs draped over intense
brown eyes. A lean, silent frame shaped for war.
"Who are you now?"
the goddess asked.
He took a breath. Felt the new lungs, the new blood, the new
beginning.
"Zylas," he said.
"Zylas Lencaster."
The name echoed like a sword being unsheathed beneath storm
clouds.
The first breath in his new body came like a gasp dragged
through water.
He awoke on cold stone , naked, shivering, and alone. The
air tasted like mold, iron, and old bones. Somewhere far off, water dripped in
a steady rhythm, like a clock counting down.
He sat up slowly, every muscle foreign. His limbs moved like
someone else's. Longer. Younger. Stronger. His black hair clung to his face,
soaked in sweat that wasn't from exertion, but from rebirth.
The light was nonexistent.
Total, crushing black.
He blinked. Nothing changed.
He was underground, a basement perhaps? No, much larger, older.
He could hear his breathing echoing down a long hallway ahead
of him.
He was in a dungeon. Of that, he was certain. The air was
too still. The stone too old. Something about it felt… buried.
He rose to his feet, knees trembling under the unfamiliar
weight. He was lean now , tall, quick, but not bulky. Every inch of him built
for speed and precision.
He took a breath. And then another. Slower. Deeper.
Think. Don't panic.
He pressed a hand to the nearest wall. Felt the texture:
rough, pitted, wet in some places. Mortar long since eroded.
Hallways stretched in several directions. All unlit. No
noise. No wind. Just the silence of the dead.
But the silence didn't scare him. Silence had been his
companion for years.
He crouched low, listening.
And then he smelled it.
Rot.
Not just decay. Not old mildew or rats , but the
unmistakable, throat-clenching stench of reanimated flesh.
It was faint. Fading. But it told him what he needed to
know.
He went left.
Hand trailing the wall, he moved carefully. Step by step,
heart beating like a war drum in his ears.
The corridor opened into a wider chamber. He could just
barely make out outlines now , shadows of pillars, broken tools, rusted chains
dangling like dead vines.
And then he heard them.
Three figures, shambling.
Feet scraping. Groaning low. Wet and hollow.
Zombies, he thought.
Low-level. Not mindless, but close.
As they stepped into faint visibility, he could see their
armor , rusted breastplates, torn cloaks, melted sigils on what used to be
tunics.
Adventurers.
Once brave enough to enter. Now walking corpses. Eyes white
with rot.
He moved to draw his revolver , only to remember he had
nothing. No weapon. No armor. Just breath and instinct.
But instinct was enough.
He let the first one come close , then ducked low, sweeping
its legs from under it with a fluid motion that surprised even him.
His training at the academy, he realized.
My body still remembers what I trained for.
The second lunged. He sidestepped, grabbed its wrist
mid-swing, and dislocated the shoulder with a twist and a downward elbow.
Bones cracked. The zombie shrieked like a kettle on fire.
The third moved faster , not normal for a zombie.
It slashed with a jagged dagger made of bone.
He was too slow.
The blade grazed his shoulder. Burning pain. First blood.
He gritted his teeth and rolled with the momentum, grabbing
a broken chain from the floor and wrapping it around the thing's neck.
A sharp pull. A crunch.
It collapsed, thrashing.
He stood over them all, panting, blood running down his arm.
Then something shifted in the air.
His hand moved on instinct , a phantom gesture he didn't
remember learning.
And from the darkness… something answered.
A weapon shimmered into being in his hand , heavy,
beautiful, ancient.
A revolver. Blue steel. The same shape as the one he died
with… but different. Alive.
The barrel glowed with inner flame. The grip pulsed like a
heart.
He raised it.
Aimed.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Each shot struck true , the blue fire licking across the
corpses like holy judgment.
And when the last one fell, they didn't rot.
They burned. Ashes scattered across the stone, never to rise
again.
He stood alone again.
In the dark.
But now he had a name. A weapon. And three less monsters in
the world.
Zylas Lencaster, he
thought.
And I will not die in the dark.
Zylas stared at the revolver in his hand, still warm with
power.
Where did you come
from?
It hadn't been there when he arrived. It hadn't existed in
the dark. It had simply appeared , no fanfare, no light, no divine voice. Just
summoned by thought. Or need.
Yet it felt like it belonged to him. The weight, the
balance, the way his fingers fit around the grip like old friends reunited.
She gave this to me,
he realized.
The goddess. A familiar shape from a familiar life , to help
ease the transition.
He holstered it , or tried to. There was no holster. Just a
waistband and blood.
He grunted and kept moving.
The hallway narrowed. His hand traced stone again, rough and
cold.
After a few more turns, he reached a crumbling archway and
beyond it , stairs.
They spiraled upward, cut directly into the stone, ancient
and worn by time. Moss grew in cracks. Bones lay scattered like forgotten
warnings. But there was a pull now , not just gravity, but something more.
Up is where the
living are.
So he climbed.
Step by step.
As he rose, the darkness thinned , not quickly, but
steadily. Shadows peeled back. His body became more visible. First his fingers,
then his arms. The long staircase curved like a corkscrew, and every turn bled
in a little more detail: the cracks in the walls, the silver threads in the stone,
the faintest scent of torch smoke.
And then… voices.
He stopped just below the next landing.
Male voices , four of them. Young. Laughing, but with the
kind of edge that men wear when they're hiding fear.
Zylas crouched low, pressed himself to the inner curve of
the wall, and listened.
"I'm telling you, the
left path loops back," one said.
"Bullshit. That slime pit wasn't there before."
"We're wasting time. The Guild says we've got till sunset to
clear one floor."
"Shut up. Something's coming."
Their voices turned to panic.
Zylas peered just enough to see.
Four adventurers in mismatched leather stood at a junction.
Young, maybe late teens, armed with dull blades and cheap confidence. Then came
the groans , familiar, low, wet.
Zombies.
Three of them again, lurching from the far end of the
corridor.
The boys hesitated. They weren't ready.
The one in front swung wildly and missed. Another panicked
and dropped his dagger. The third tried to cast a fire spell and fumbled the
chant.
One was bitten , badly , on the shoulder.
"Get him out of
there!" someone shouted.
"We can't, he's
turning!"
They turned on him.
They ran.
Zylas didn't think.
He stepped forward into the corridor, raised his weapon, and
fired.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Each shot ignited with cold blue flame, lighting the stone
walls in flashes of brilliance.
Three zombies collapsed into piles of ash.
The bitten boy lay groaning, twitching , already turning.
His skin greyed before Zylas's eyes, mouth twitching toward an unnatural snarl.
The kid looked up at him, tears in his eyes.
"P-please… I don't…
want to…"
Zylas knelt beside him. Quiet. Unshaking.
"You won't," he said
softly.
One shot.
Ash.
Silence fell.
He exhaled and looked at what was left.
He scavenged what he could:
A black, tattered cloak.
A small satchel with vials , two red potions, a green one he
didn't recognize.
Simple black trousers.
Scuffed boots, still sturdy.
And a scrap of parchment with a crude map and a Guild stamp.
He dressed quickly, fastened the satchel across his
shoulder, and stepped toward the light.
Each step up grew brighter now.
The scent of rot gave way to dust. The air warmed. Birds
chirped far above.
He didn't look back.
He stepped into the light , not like a man reborn, but like
a shadow climbing out of a grave.
And the world of Mystara opened its eyes.