If you have force of war: Go to chapter 3

  If you have fearless: Go to chapter 7

  If you have observer: Go to chapter 8

  If you have none of these: This is your chapter. You decided to fight the hooligan.

  You draw your sword and charge, heart hammering in your chest.

  "I'm going to have to remove you from here. You're disturbing the locals." You say, but your voice is raspy, slightly betraying you.

  The man grins — a wide, broken thing — and his glowing white eyes fixate on you like a predator spotting prey.

  "Me? Leave? This is my freedom! You can't take it from me." He drops his crystal pipe on the ground, it shatters into a hundred pieces.

  Then he moves. You swing your sword at him with all your strength, hoping to scare him off.

  A blur of crackling lightning, he ducks your sword with almost unnatural speed.

  His fist, wreathed in flickering purple energy, slams into your sword hand — the impact so sharp and jarring that your weapon goes clattering across the ground, useless.

  "My weapon?" Your eyes bulge out as your heart almost stops.

  You barely have time to gasp before the real beating starts.

  A knee crashes into your gut, folding you over.

  An elbow smashes into the back of your head, sending stars exploding behind your eyes.

  Another punch — straight into your ribs — lifts you off the ground for a brief, humiliating moment. You feel thunder dance around your bones, writhing inside of your flesh.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The magic dancing over his skin sings and spits with each hit, frying your nerves, burning your muscles from the inside.

  You hit the dirt hard, gasping, clutching your side where the pain feels wrong, deep, breaking.

  The man doesn't even bother finishing you off.

  He just stands over your broken body for a second, laughing — a shrill, chaotic sound — then stumbles off into the streets, the crackling of his magic trailing after him like a ghost.

  You lie there, battered, humiliated and bleeding to death slowly as your injuries take their toll. There is nobody around to help you, this is the edge of town.

  You weren't the hero.

  Just an idiot with a sword.

  The sky above you slowly blurs, clouds drift slowly. The air feels cooler, but the pain echoing from your entire skeleton keeps reminding you of your incoming end.

  You die a nobody, with a head full of regrets and a broken body.

  HOWEVER: If you have Back-Alley Medicine:

  You use your medical knowledge to save yourself.

  Gritting your teeth, you drag your battered body upright, coughing blood onto the dusty ground.

  Your vision swims — but your hands know what to do, even if your brain doesn't. You've seen people in worse condition than yours, and you've even saved some of them.

  You tear a strip from your cloak and press it against your side to stop the bleeding.You mutter a half-remembered mantra over the wound — the kind your old master insisted worked, somehow. A faint green light answers you, weak but real. It hurts more than any injury, but it's worth it.

  "Healio Sepetra Cuzaka." A green light fades over your wounds, You feel your energy drop even lower but somewhere in the sea of pain there is healing.

  Your fingers move with desperate efficiency as you grab your canteen and clean the worst of the bruises and wounds with a canteen of stale water. The pain is terrifying. You grind herbs you keep hidden in a pouch at your belt, smearing the bitter, numbing paste over your wound.

  It isn’t clean. It isn’t professional.

  But it will probably keep you alive.

  Your body still screams in protest, but your mind clears.

  You can still move. You can still fight — barely.

  You spit blood into the dirt, pull yourself upright against the broken fence, and stare after the crackling figure disappearing into the streets.

  Next time, you swear, you’ll be ready. You head to the doctor at the adventurer's guild.

  Go to chapter 4