They brought me to a whitewashed building shaped like a seven-pointed star. Three stories tall, maybe a hundred meters wide, it loomed like something important. Every point of the star had its own tower, and dead in the center stood a bell tower that climbed six stories into the sky. Considering how much bigger this place was compared to the buildings around it, I figured it was either a church, a hospital, or a very dramatic bakery.

  The man didn’t say anything. Just dropped the wheelbarrow in front of the massive door, scooped me up like a crippled princess, and carried me inside.

  The interior was quiet, clinical, too clean. He went through a set of heavy wooden doors and up a flight of stairs. On the second floor, we passed through a narrow corridor lined with stone arches before he turned into a small alcove. The room was simple: a bed, a table, a chair. On the table, a single candle flickered beside a pyramid-shaped crystal glowing faintly yellow.

  He laid me down on the bed as if I might break—honestly, I wasn’t far off. He placed his hand on my shoulder, gave me a slow, silent nod, and left.

  Then she entered.

  The ram-girl moved toward me with that same strange calm, pulling something from her satchel. It was a bracelet—ornate and elegant, made of six thin silver bands woven into complex, almost hypnotic patterns. She slipped it gently onto my wrist.

  Then she took my hand in hers.

  I felt a gentle warmth flow through me as her golden energy seeped into my skin, traveling up my right arm and focusing into the bracelet. The metal glowed faintly, humming with something old and powerful.

  I didn’t know what it meant, but for the first time in what felt like forever… I wasn’t afraid.

  “Here—can you understand me now?” she asked softly. “My name’s Hope, by the way. I’m a priestess here at the Chapel of the Order.”

  I nodded with my eyes. It was all I could really do.

  “This bracelet is enchanted with a translation spell. If you use it moderately, the charge should last a couple of days. I’ll recharge it for you when it runs out.”

  She smiled gently. “I’ll go grab something to clean you up… and maybe something to eat, too.”

  A small blush crept up her cheeks, and she hurried out of the room in a flustered pace.

  I was left alone again. All in all, I couldn’t complain right now. The last week had been the most painful and confusing one of my entire life.

  Hope returned carrying a bucket of water and a bundle of cloth under one arm, her overstuffed satchel bouncing on her hip. An innocent smile played across her face when she saw me. It curled up into her eyes, and I felt myself staring.

  Oh shit, am I staring? Crap—what do I do?

  Ah right, I can’t move. Guess staring it is, then.

  She quickly set everything on the table and started stripping the crusty rags from my body. I hadn’t seen myself since whatever hellstorm brought me here, but now that I had a look—well, damn. My body looked like an Olympic gymnast’s: toned, lean, and definitely not what I remembered waking up with. Neat.

  She started washing my face with a damp cloth and soap, working her way downward. When she got to the waist, she hesitated—then skipped down to mid-thigh and kept going to my feet.

  Then she started blurting nervously, words tumbling out.

  “I—I apologize, but we have to make sure you’re completely clean. We can’t risk any miasma from the grave clinging to you—it could spread and spell doom for a lot of people.”

  She continued her work with mechanical precision, but I couldn’t help but notice the faintest glint in her eyes—a little too much amusement at my expense. Was that a sadistic grin buried in there?

  She was close. Very close. When our eyes met, I saw her expression shift—pure white complexion suddenly blooming red.

  Guess she forgot I was still conscious.

  She quickly finished and wrapped me in a set of plain white monastic robes, then pulled out a bottle of milk and a small jar of gruel, pouring it into a bowl.

  “Let’s get you filled up,” she said with a wry smile. “I don’t know what happened to you, but you shouldn’t be alive. When I found you, you didn’t have a pulse. In fact… you still don’t. Your heart was sliced in two, yet your blood kept flowing. Like you willed it to keep moving. Which is impossible without mana. But here’s the weird part: I can’t sense any mana. Or runa. Nothing.”

  I must have looked confused—or panicked—because she kept talking, thankfully not the type to enjoy silence.

  “Mana and runa are the two forms of magic in this world. Order and Chaos energy,” she explained, setting the bowl aside. “Normally, you’d have at least one. If you had both, you’d be a walking disaster—they’d tear each other apart using your body as a battlefield. You’d probably explode in a week or two.”

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  She laughed at that like it was a good joke.

  “But in your case, there’s… nothing. Yet here you are. Alive. If I had to guess, I’d call it a miracle. So—tell me, which god do you pray to, young man?”

  She waited. Then I remembered I couldn’t speak and gave an embarrassed chuckle.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter for now. You’re in good hands. Father Mathias will come see you tomorrow. You should rest. Your body still needs sleep, even if you’re some kind of undead miracle.”

  She collected the remains of my sad little meal, blew out the candle, and left the room in darkness.

  Sleep found me quickly—finally. For the first time in a week, I felt at ease.

  The next morning, as the first light of the sun crept in, I heard a soft knock at the door. A moment later, it opened.

  A man stepped in—tall, probably six foot six. Built like an NFL linebacker who moonlights as a bouncer at a bar run by ogres. His neck was the size of a telephone pole, and his square jaw looked like it had been carved from a slab of granite.

  This man didn’t look like a priest.

  He looked like a grizzled war veteran just back from the front. Eyes sharp. Posture controlled. Power radiated from him like heat from a forge.

  He glanced at me, and for a moment, his eyes flared blue—just a flicker—and then he seemed to relax.

  “Good morning, son,” he said in a deep, steady voice. “My name is Father Mathias.”

  Okay, Father Mathias. Sure. And I’m the Easter Bunny.

  “Sister Hope was right,” he continued. “I don’t sense any mana or runa in you. That’s... rare. But I also don’t feel the telltale stain of a demon cultist either, which is a relief. Seems your body’s been through some trauma, but I’d say within a day or two, you’ll be able to move again. Let me assist.”

  He stepped closer and placed a heavy hand over my heart.

  Warmth surged through my chest, spreading out like liquid fire through my veins. Not painful—but intense. Like someone had plugged me into a sunbeam.

  “Hm. Curious,” he muttered. “Your body conducts mana like that of a Master Magus—smooth, unresisting—but as soon as my mana enters your bloodstream, it just... vanishes. Like it stops existing. Yet your vitality increases. Fascinating.”

  He looked me over again, his expression thoughtful but calm.

  “Tell me, son—what is your name?”

  “S–Sam,” I said with difficulty, my throat raw and scratchy. But hey, my mouth finally managed to blurt something out. Progress.

  Mathias nodded, his face unreadable. “Well, Sam, I have a few questions. I was hoping you might help me find some answers.”

  He sat by the bed like this wasn’t his first bedside interrogation.

  “What’s the last thing you remember before we found you in the public grave?”

  I took a breath and gave him the cleaned-up version of my week from hell—hunting trip, lightning bolt, waking up stabbed, and the pit of corpses. Left out the whole “fighting a literal army of hell with a gun-axe that shoots hate” bit. Sounded a little unhinged. I figured, best to keep the demon-slaying fever dreams to myself for now.

  Mathias nodded slowly, his expression a mix of curiosity and calm.

  “Well, Sam. That’s quite the… week. But tell me, why would you hunt bears alone? Normally that sort of beast requires a full party—hounds, equipment, strategy. Are you an adventurer of high rank?”

  I gave him a tired smile.

  “Bears where I come from aren’t monsters. You can hunt them solo if you’re careful. I’m just a simple guy with a steady hand.”

  That caught his attention. “Where is it you come from, son? Is it far from here?”

  “That… depends,” I said, trying to sound vague but not suspicious. “I don’t think it’s anywhere near here.”

  He seemed to be waiting for more. So I gave him the kind of non-answer that might pass for truth if you squint hard enough.

  “It’s isolated. Cold winters. Big forests. Small towns. People like to mind their business.”

  Mathias nodded, though I wasn’t sure if he believed me or was just being polite. “You’re in the city of Havenfall, in the province of Norestria, within the Empire of Melenor. The only realm that does not share a border with the Empire is the Dwarven Dominion. Perhaps you hail from there?”

  “Definitely not,” I said, already feeling the heat in my throat. “Saint calisse de tabarnak d’osti de criss de saint-ciboire!”

  Mathias recoiled slightly, then straightened with alarming speed.

  “You are a priest! But I’ve never heard of those sacred relics you invoke the power of! Do you serve the Order, brother?!”

  Oh no.

  I held up my hand slowly. “It’s just… the way we speak. Where I come from. We express ourselves… passionately.”

  Mathias stared at me for a long moment before easing back into his seat, letting out a soft hum of contemplation.

  I didn’t offer any more specifics, especially not about how my people lived, what kind of tech we had, or how different it was. That kind of knowledge could be a big card to play later. And right now? I needed to survive. So, best to go around the topic in circles and keep the conversation as foggy as my memory supposedly was.

  Still, as we circled around my origins like two polite wolves sniffing at a fire, a conclusion slowly took root in both our minds.

  I wasn’t from anywhere on this planet.

  And despite the strange, probably divine circumstances of my arrival, and the nightmare I’d just endured, Mathias didn’t seem scared or angry.

  He looked… thoughtful. Concerned, maybe. But also like he was starting to believe I might be something important.

  “You shouldn’t be alive,” he said at last. “Yet you are. That alone speaks volumes. Perhaps the gods aren’t done with you yet.”

  "Well, I’ll see you later. I have duties to attend to, son—but rest easy. You’re safe now," Father Mathias said, tapping my shoulder like I was part of the team already, before walking out with the kind of heavy-footed purpose only a six-and-a-half-foot tank of a man can manage.

  Left alone again, I drifted back into my thoughts. Okay, time to get strategic. I needed a plan—something to keep me breathing and, ideally, out of any more ditches filled with dead people.

  Should I join their church? Hmm. I’m not exactly the kneel-and-pray-for-hours type. Mathias did mention something about adventurers, though… That could work. Hunting monsters, gathering meat, making coin. But if this world had any kind of power scaling, I’d probably be at the “squishy tutorial mob” tier right now. Yeah, better gather intel first, maybe work my way up from “tragically unprepared” to “mildly competent.”

  Weapons. I needed weapons. Something that didn’t require divine intervention or spontaneous reincarnation to wield. That axe-gun-thing I saw in the trench? Still haunted my dreams. If I could find that again, we’d be in business.

  An hour or so later, Hope walked in carrying a platter so overloaded it could’ve fed a small militia. Cheese, bread, cured meats, fruits, nuts—basically everything I didn’t know I was craving until I saw it.

  Her smile was radiant, lighting up the room like the morning sun finally got its act together. Even her voice had that same kind of warmth, brushing away the tension in my shoulders like it never existed.

  "Good morning, stranger," she said, her tone so soft I practically melted into the bed. "May I hear your name?"

  When my eyes fell on her, I understood—her name couldn’t have been chosen more perfectly.

  Hope.

  She was exactly that to me. A thread of light reaching into the nightmare, dragging me back from the jaws of death and madness. Like a lighthouse for a sailor mid-tempest, or that last match you find in your pocket when the night’s too long and too cold. She wasn’t just a person. She was a reminder that maybe, just maybe, the world hadn’t entirely gone to hell.

  "I’m Sam," I said, the words slow and clumsy, but real. My throat still felt like sandpaper but I powered through. "Thank you for saving me yesterday, Hope. I owe you. Big time. If you ever need anything—anything at all—I’ll pay you back a hundredfold. That’s a promise."

  She blinked, surprised maybe, or just flustered. A blush crept up her cheeks again, and she smiled that same disarming smile that felt like a warm fire in winter. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

  And honestly? I didn’t mind the silence one bit.