Chaos reigned around me—beastkin darting like spooked rats, panicking as the airships loomed closer on the horizon. There was shouting, scrambling, arguments about whether to retreat underground and risk exposing the ship… or stand and fight. Real high-stakes decision-making going on.

I had a window of time before the fun arrived… enough to get bored, start something stupid, or both.

Instead, I sat on a bench. Go figure.

Well, something vaguely bench-shaped. Half-broken, cracked, and probably used to introduce someone's face to stone. I liked to imagine it had a colorful past.

So yeah—there I was, just sitting there. Absolutely not helping. Everyone around me losing their damn minds, and I'm off in la-la-land daydreaming like a jackass, reminiscing about what a beautifully deranged nightmare I've become.

Not exactly a morale booster for the onlookers.

One of Phantasia's bodies was curled up in my lap, little blob of eldritch adorable. You'd think, given my tendency to eat basically everything, I'd have killed and devoured my cute little pet by now, right? —but nope. Not even tempted. I like her. She's got taste. Literally. Goblins, mostly.

Besides, how do you think I got her?

Yeah… already ate her.

I mean, she's technically part of my skillset now—some subconscious hive-mind echo of me, glued together with system bullshit and whatever's left of my sanity. Huh… semantics and details really aren't my thing.

I do wonder though…

What would happen if I ate her again?

Honestly, if I let the little hive loose, she'd probably clean house—chew through half the beastkin without blinking. And I'd probably join in.

But sigh... apparently I need allies. Or something. Not because I believe in "preserving life" or any of that moral crap. Please. That'd be laughable.

Still… I've got an auntie supposedly backing them, and I really don't feel like pissing off a goddess. Especially not if that creepy little loli's out there watching me.

Not saying she is, but let's not tempt Death by eating family. Or whatever they are.

See? I have restraint.

…Shit. That word tastes like ash.

Speaking of restraint—I sat there like a good little nightmare. Calm. Still. Totally motionless, while the sky promised war and the beastkin scattered as they lost their collective shit.

I drifted.

Thinking about my selves—plural.

I don't even know how many voices I've got stitched into this goo-brain. Some days, it feels like a few dozen slip past my ability to ignore them.

Other days? Hundreds of thousands.

They yell.

They whisper.

They bitch.

They gripe about anything and everything.

All. The. Fucking. Time.

So. So many of them are basically Hannibal Lecter with a pudding fetish.

Others? Full-blown circus clowns—glitter, chaos, and bloodlust in equal measure.

Yeah... my head's basically a group chat of murderers.

I probably have a kind one in there too. Somewhere. Real deep. Under lock and key. Rotting in the basement of my psyche.

But that's me. All of it. Every broken shard, every contradictory scream stitched together into this hot mess of a superglued soul. I've been torn apart, patched up with divine duct tape that does not play nice with my eldritch insides.

I'm basically a walking psych eval wrapped in spider silk with a flaming case of divine STD.

Or is it STI now?

Whatever. It burns either way.

With that burning in mind...

Oh, how I yearn to bathe in the blood of all who oppose me—and those who don't—while entwined in passion with my seductive vampire atop a mountain of corpses.

And afterward?

I'd casually craft a sandwich from the entrails of my mountainous conquest.

Mmmmhmmm!

Shush! We're still trying to make a point.

What point? All you're doing now is repeating ourselves.

So?

It's strangely comforting, all this swirling contradiction.

Okay—maybe not contradicting in the traditional sense. I mean, sure, my head's full of murder-happy lunatics and emotionally unstable drama queens, but some of them take their chaos seriously. Like, full theater kid mode—blood, tragedy, monologue. While others? Gleeful little clowns, giddy at the thought of turning people into skin balloons just for funsies.

See? Conflicting.

Sort of.

Maybe.

Shut up.

Even if someone offered to fix me—shove all the bits back where they belong, re-duct tape my psyche into a neat(er) little box—I'm not sure I'd take it. Hell, I'd probably set the box on fire just to hear if the screams echo.

It's not just the madness—it's the flavors of madness. The rich, bitter nihilism next to the sugary joy of unhinged homicide. I love it all. I hate it all. I crave it, I recoil from it, I am it.

It's like eating ice cream—I love it because it's cold.

I hate it because it's cold.

The texture? Divine. And gross.

The taste? Perfect. And somehow awful.

But still? I want more.

Always.

So yeah, confusing. Probably. But that's exactly why I adore it. Them.

My many me's.

My deliciously fractured whole.

It's the contradictions that make me so... delightfully deranged.

Mmmm… Now I'm craving ice cream straight from the carton.

From the carton? That's psychotic. You're a monster.

What if we purée a brain and chill it in the skull—like a fleshy dessert bowl?

Ooh, love that. Extra points if it twitches.

Focus, idiots. We're supposed to be reflecting on our past, our soul, the whole existential spiral.

Ugh, fine. But can we try not to turn it into another ADHD meltdown this time?

No promises.

Yeaaaaah—fully embracing who I am is still a work in progress. Always has been. Even back in my past life, when I was Blake Lyanna Jefferson—a short, painfully thin goth disaster with raccoon eyes, chronic identity issues, and a full-blown vendetta against her own flat chest. Honestly, I looked like Hot Topic sneezed on an anxiety attack.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Truth is, I wasn't nearly as hopeless as I made myself out to be. The self-deprecation? Just armor. A habit. A vibe. But let's be honest—I never had much trouble finding tits, ass, and the occasional dick when the mood struck. (Not that the dick was a frequent craving—eventually came out fully and all that.) Still went through the obligatory identity crisis phase, like any good queer disaster.

Doesn't mean I don't still have a thing for femboys, though. Purrrrrr.

However, I never really saw myself as anything special. Probably because I wasn't. Just another moody goth girl with too much eyeliner and a whole lot of unresolved daddy issues—stepdaddy issues, to be precise. Maybe it was the constant drip-feed of backhanded insults and passive-aggressive jabs from my stepfather that finally wore me down. I still don't get what my Karen of a mother ever saw in that glorified oil stain of a man. When he wasn't busy shitting on everyone's self-worth, he was holed up in the garage, dry-humping that old Daytona he inherited from his grandfather.

Good riddance to all of it. I hope someone steals that damn car and drives it off a cliff—with him still locked in the trunk.

And now? Now I'm in a new world—or, well, a moon—where magic's real, monsters are dinner, and I've become something else. Something other. A full-blown psychopath, some might say.

Oh, you do. A lot.

Shut it! I'm setting a mood here.

Fine. Fine. Proceed.

I wonder if this life is just stripping away all the Earth-given bullshit and showing who I really was underneath—or if this monster form I'm sporting just makes it easier to indulge every unhinged, violent, cannibalistic impulse. Honestly? Doesn't matter. I'm having fun, and that's what counts.

Life's not perfect, obviously—I mean, it's me we're talking about—but the one constant in both lives has been this nagging, aching, soul-deep search for something. Or someone. I never knew what I was missing, just that something inside me always felt cracked. Incomplete. Cue the black lipstick and angsty playlists.

I could've handled the insults, even the creepy leers. But that emptiness? That's what really wrecked me.

Fine. Fine. My family melodrama was never that bad. In truth, it was all self-inflicted. My own little psychological pity parade, marching to a beat I didn't understand.

So, I tried to fill it—with hookups, with distractions, with bad decisions.

Spoiler: none of it worked. Nothing ever filled that hollow place inside.

Not until I ended up here.

Because something changed.

Something clicked.

It was like, for the first time in my past life—actually, scratch that. Past lives. I found what I'd been chasing all along.

Her.

Aislinn. My perfect, shattered soulmate... trapped inside the stolen skin of a girl named Aurelia.

Now, propelled by this newfound purpose, I'm ready to go to any lengths to get her back. I'd gladly bathe in the blood of my enemies, my allies, and even a few innocent bystanders if it meant reuniting with Aislinn—though, let's be honest, I might do that anyway. You never know.

And now, I'm so damn close. Just one last obstacle: a tiny speck in the sky, slowly growing larger as it looms ever closer.

Still parked on my butt, petting Phantasia like some creepy villain on a break, I had no clue what the beastkin's plan was. Didn't care much either. My eyes were locked on the descending airship at the head of the little fleet. Standing at its front—or bow, or whatever the hell the front of a boat is called—was a stocky dwarf gleaming in gold and silver-plated armor. Kinda like Anal-lyth's fashion statement, but this red-bearded chunk had way more silver going on.

And slung over his shoulder? A massive hammer—easily twice my size. Which, let's be real, is saying something. I smirked.

"Compensating for something, little guy?"

Does he look familiar to anyone?

Nope. All dwarves look alike—short, grumpy, and forged out of beard trimmings and poor mead.

Okay, that's racist.

Pfft. Against dwarves? Please.

Fantasy racism is still racism.

No, it's satire!

Shut up.

—Cool. Let's kill him.

No! Let's seduce him.

WHY?!

I don't know! He's shiny!

...So many of us hate you right now.

GOOD. FEED ME YOUR HATRED.

The dwarf at the tip of the airship locked eyes with me, and I caught a glimpse of a dark gleam in his eyes. His lips seemed to curl into a predatory smile, although it was hard to tell for sure with that thick red beard obscuring most of his face. Not to mention, his helmet—adorned with ridiculous wing designs—kept pulling my gaze away from his expression.

Whatever it was, I wasn't fond of the way he stared down at me. I resolved to kill him either way.

That was the plan—until the stout bastard did the unexpected.

He leapt.

Right off the airship.

And landed not far from me like it was no big deal. No flashy superhero pose. No crash of earth or rumble of mana. Just—boop—upright on straight legs like he was hopping off a porch step.

What the fuck?

"Howdy," I greeted, cocking my head. "Have we met before? Honestly, it's hard to tell—you all look alike."

Realization flickered across his face. That leering gaze shifted into something more appraising.

"Aye, I remember ye now. Ye be the one that exploded in the dungeon ruins? Singed the hair off me nuts, that did," he said, his thick accent dancing over each word.

Ugh. Why do dwarves always have accents?

None of the beastkin have them. None of the elves.

Is my Polyglot skill just fucking with me now?

"Yeah, that wasn't one of my finer moments," I admitted, still seated and stroking Phantasia in my lap. "Though, I'm surprised you survived."

"Surprised I survived?" he barked, shifting the massive hammer on his shoulder with a one-handed shrug. "Ye be the one that bloody blew up! How in the hells did ye survive that?"

His left hand gestured wildly while the right never budged—still balancing the oversized death tool like it was a purse.

"Tsk, Mr. Dwarf, a lady's gotta have her secrets," I drawled, putting on my best Southern accent for added flair.

Pfft, we're no lady.

More like a whore, bitch, cunt—

ZIP IT!

"The name's Einarr. Champion Einarr," he announced, that dark gleam flashing back into his eyes.

"Champion?" I gasped, yanking my hand off Phantasia's pudding-flesh and clutching my chest like I'd just heard Elvis had risen. "Well, I declare," I said, laying it on thick. "Turns out, I've got a champion of my own."

A grin curled across my lips.

"Anal-lyth, I know you're watching from somewhere," I cooed over my shoulder, voice dripping with sugar and sin.

"Ugh," came Anlyth's groan from behind me.

"What?" Einarr froze mid-glare, his face twisting with sudden disbelief.

I didn't even turn around. My focus stayed on the shiny hammer-toting dwarf in front of me as I resumed petting Phantasia's gooey body like a queen atop her throne—regal, composed, and radiating that charmingly hostile Southern belle energy. You know the type. All smiles and fuck you very much.

"Paladin Champion Anlyth," Einarr growled, venom coating each syllable. "I thought ye'd just run off. Forsaken yer oath to the ascended, to righteousness—but never did I think ye'd shack up with these… lesser, vile species. The very ones we swore to purge from this realm."

"Hey!" I snapped, brow arching high. "I might be vile, but who the hell are you calling lesser?"

Behind me, I heard Anlyth let out a weary sigh.

"Einarr, can't you see what we've been doing? Look around you," she urged.

I didn't glance back, but I could practically feel her gesturing to the ruined city around us—like it'd help make her point hit harder or something.

"The beastkin aren't lesser or vile. They didn't attack our kingdom. They didn't bring ruin. We brought it to them. We're the ones who slaughtered and pillaged. How can that be righteous?"

Her voice trembled with that sickening blend of guilt and conviction. You know the one—the I've seen the light but it cost me everything flavor.

Einarr scoffed, unmoved. "Is that it? Ye betray us for a handful of beasts? Barely worth a hand jerkin'?"

Charming.

"The gods' demands are cruel and evil," Anlyth shot back, sharper now.

"Aye," he replied with a shrug, "every crusade's got its dark side. Gotta wet yer whistle if ye want the light to shine, eh?"

I tilted my head.

"Shouldn't that be, like… 'it's always darkest before the dawn' or something?"

"Oh! Aye, that's a good one," he exclaimed, pointing at me like I'd just offered him a bite of brain pudding. He turned to Anlyth, nodding with approval. "What she said."

Another sigh escaped Anlyth.

Gods, I was really rubbing off on her.

Sighing had become the universal language of why the fuck am I still here?

I risked a glance around.

Quiet.

Empty.

Figures.

Beastkin always vanish when the drama hits its peak.

Cowards.

Yeah. At least die dramatically, come on.

"If ye've forsaken us and your god Jörmun," Einarr growled, "then ye ain't a Champion no more, are ye? Booted out of the system's divine grace."

"Oh, I didn't betray Jörmun." Anlyth's voice turned syrupy sweet, laced with something far more unsettling. "He traded me off."

"W-What?" Einarr blinked. "And which god do you serve now?"

Did his accent just slip for a second?

No. Maybe?

I'm starting to think dwarves are doing it on purpose—faking the accent just to fuck with everyone. That's why Polyglot can't catch it.

Bastards.

"Umm, hello?" I said, raising a hand. "I did mention I have my own Champion, didn't I?"

"You can't be serious," he scoffed, squinting at me like I'd sprouted a second head. "An ascended goddess? Are ye even in the system? What level are ye?"

I couldn't help but respond with a touch of haughtiness.

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call myself a goddess… though I'm not opposed to the title."

Still seated on my gloriously dilapidated bench, I kept stroking the purring, plushie-sized Black Pudding unicorn curled in my lap.

"And yes, for your information, I am a User," I added, savoring the absurdity of it all.

"And yer level?" Einarr pressed, fingers twitching like he couldn't wait to throw hands.

"Don't answer that," Anlyth snapped from behind me.

I shrugged, voice oozing mischief.

"Twenty-Five."

Are you actually serious?

What?

Einarr's expression twisted in disbelief.

"Y-Ye've ascended?" he sputtered—then lost it, practically doubling over with laughter.

"I'm inclined to believe him," Anlyth muttered, suspicious as ever.

"Honestly, not lying," I said, throwing a casual glance over my shoulder at her. "Dungeons are hard to find."

I added a pout for dramatic flair—because why not? Gotta sell it.

Anlyth's face went from skeptical to what-the-fuck- in 0.2 seconds. Then she moved—sword and shield bursting to life in a flash of golden radiance. Only… something was wrong. Her actions looked slow, delayed—like I'd stumbled into a slow-mo action scene with none of the cool music.

And me?

My head jerked forward, twitchy and sharp, like some unseen force had yanked my strings. At the same time, Phantasia began merging into me—her gooey form folding into my chest with a sickeningly familiar pull.

It felt wrong.

Forced.

Shoved together like wet puzzle pieces in a blender.

The world twisted.

Tilted.

Reality broke into watercolor madness.

Just as my face snapped forward, I saw it.

Einarr.

Hammer raised.

Already mid-swing.

The colossal weapon barreled toward my stomach—closer, closer—

—CRACK—

The hammer struck.

Time collapsed.

My body lifted from the bench like a ragdoll hit by a meteor. Limbs flailed. Everything spun.

Then time snapped back like a whip.

The full force of his swing surged through me—thunder in motion—and I went flying, launched like meat confetti across the ruined courtyard.

Spiraling. Twisting. Breaking.

Welcome to the chaos.

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