I woke up to chanting.
Never a good sign.
Not in a fantasy world. Not with the lingering taste of tax magic still clinging to my soul like emotional mildew.
My eyes fluttered open. I was tied to a post.
In a circle.
Of villagers.
Wearing robes.
And chanting.
"Oh co the chosen sponge, bearer of glow, let him suffer that we may flow!"
"What the actual fuck," I whispered.
A goat scread.
Not baa’d. Scread. Like it saw a bill it couldn’t pay.
Across from , Lilith stood calmly with her arms crossed, leaning against the town’s wobbly-ass tavern like this was just another Tuesday.
Mister Fog was sitting on a floating barrel, sipping tea, upside down.
Sir Galrik was building a stage out of wooden crates. "He deserves a proper ceremony!"
"For what?!" I yelled.
"For your noble sacrifice, obviously," Galrik said cheerfully.
"Oh good, you’re awake," said the mayor, who had swapped his oversized mustache for an oversized ceremonial hat that made him look like a religious mushroom. "Please don’t panic. It makes the ritual take longer."
"I wasn’t panicking," I snapped. "I was aggressively denying reality."
"That’s fair," Mister Fog nodded, "but unfortunately you did glow after being sneezed on by a sacred fox. And according to ’The Scrolls of h’, that qualifies you as a conduit for the Town’s Seasonal Atonent."
"What the hell is that?!"
"It’s like Spring Cleaning, but for sins," the mayor said brightly. "Every few months we pick soone to spiritually explode. It resets the town’s vibe."
"You don’t need to explode ! Your vibes are fine!"
A nearby tree burst into flas for no reason. A frog scread and exploded into coins.
"See?" the mayor said. "That’s not a good sign."
Lilith rolled her eyes. "Can we go already?"
"I’m kinda tied to a fucking pole!" I screeched.
Galrik stepped up to the podium he made out of two crates and a frightened pig. "People of Flinchville! We are gathered here today to witness the blessed detonation of our glowing friend, Cecil the Civilian, bearer of burdens, survivor of paperwork, and friend of foxes!"
"I hate all of you so much," I hissed.
[Quest Update: "Die for Other People’s Sins"]
Status: In Progress
Reward: None
Optional Objective: Try not to scream
The chanting picked up.
Mister Fog absentmindedly waved his hand and summoned a magical fireball shaped like a puppy.
"Don’t worry, it won’t hurt," he lied without blinking. "Probably just transmutes your flesh into cosmic noodles."
"WHAT?!"
"Best case scenario," he added.
I thrashed, trying to escape, but the ropes were enchanted with sothing called "Anxiety Resin", which tightened every ti I thought about taxes. So, you know. Permanently tight.
Then the ground began to shake.
"Oh, this part’s new," Galrik said.
A giant crack ford in the center of the ritual circle.
The villagers scread and scattered. Mister Fog floated higher, sipping tea like this was theater. Lilith summoned her scythe with a bored sigh.
From the crack ca... a tiny mole.
It looked around. Sniffed the air.
Then glowed bright red and roared in a deep, demonic voice:
"WHO DARES AWAKEN , THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS?!"
I peed. Just a little.
The mole’s eyes turned white-hot. Its fur started sizzling. The ground around it began to lt.
Lilith squinted. "Demon Mole."
Mister Fog nodded. "Level 99."
Galrik gasped. "A worthy foe!"
The mole pointed a claw at . "THAT ONE SHALL BE THE FIRST TO BE REDUCED TO ETHEREAL DUST!"
"I HAVE NEVER DONE ANYTHING WRONG IN MY LIFE!" I scread.
Lilith cracked her neck. "Let’s kill it before it eats him. Or worse, makes him important."
I woke up to chanting.
Never a good sign.
Not in a fantasy world. Not with the lingering taste of tax magic still clinging to my soul like emotional mildew.
My eyes fluttered open. I was tied to a post.
In a circle.
Of villagers.
Wearing robes.
And chanting.
"Oh co the chosen sponge, bearer of glow, let him suffer that we may flow!"
"What the actual fuck," I whispered.
A goat scread.
Not baa’d. Scread. Like it saw a bill it couldn’t pay.
Across from , Lilith stood calmly with her arms crossed, leaning against the town’s wobbly-ass tavern like this was just another Tuesday.
Mister Fog was sitting on a floating barrel, sipping tea, upside down.
Sir Galrik was building a stage out of wooden crates. "He deserves a proper ceremony!"
"For what?!" I yelled.
"For your noble sacrifice, obviously," Galrik said cheerfully.
"Oh good, you’re awake," said the mayor, who had swapped his oversized mustache for an oversized ceremonial hat that made him look like a religious mushroom. "Please don’t panic. It makes the ritual take longer."
"I wasn’t panicking," I snapped. "I was aggressively denying reality."
"That’s fair," Mister Fog nodded, "but unfortunately you did glow after being sneezed on by a sacred fox. And according to ’The Scrolls of h’, that qualifies you as a conduit for the Town’s Seasonal Atonent."
"What the hell is that?!"
"It’s like Spring Cleaning, but for sins," the mayor said brightly. "Every few months we pick soone to spiritually explode. It resets the town’s vibe."
"You don’t need to explode ! Your vibes are fine!"
A nearby tree burst into flas for no reason. A frog scread and exploded into coins.
"See?" the mayor said. "That’s not a good sign."
Lilith rolled her eyes. "Can we go already?"
"I’m kinda tied to a fucking pole!" I screeched.
Galrik stepped up to the podium he made out of two crates and a frightened pig. "People of Flinchville! We are gathered here today to witness the blessed detonation of our glowing friend, Cecil the Civilian, bearer of burdens, survivor of paperwork, and friend of foxes!"
"I hate all of you so much," I hissed.
[Quest Update: "Die for Other People’s Sins"]
Status: In Progress
Reward: None
Optional Objective: Try not to scream
The chanting picked up.
Mister Fog absentmindedly waved his hand and summoned a magical fireball shaped like a puppy.
"Don’t worry, it won’t hurt," he lied without blinking. "Probably just transmutes your flesh into cosmic noodles."
"WHAT?!"
"Best case scenario," he added.
I thrashed, trying to escape, but the ropes were enchanted with sothing called "Anxiety Resin", which tightened every ti I thought about taxes. So, you know. Permanently tight.
Then the ground began to shake.
"Oh, this part’s new," Galrik said.
A giant crack ford in the center of the ritual circle.
The villagers scread and scattered. Mister Fog floated higher, sipping tea like this was theater. Lilith summoned her scythe with a bored sigh.
From the crack ca... a tiny mole.
It looked around. Sniffed the air.
Then glowed bright red and roared in a deep, demonic voice:
"WHO DARES AWAKEN , THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS?!"
I peed. Just a little.
The mole’s eyes turned white-hot. Its fur started sizzling. The ground around it began to lt.
Lilith squinted. "Demon Mole."
Mister Fog nodded. "Level 99."
Galrik gasped. "A worthy foe!"
The mole pointed a claw at . "THAT ONE SHALL BE THE FIRST TO BE REDUCED TO ETHEREAL DUST!"
"I HAVE NEVER DONE ANYTHING WRONG IN MY LIFE!" I scread.
Lilith cracked her neck. "Let’s kill it before it eats him. Or worse, makes him important."
________________________________________
Lilith stepped into the circle like a sleep-deprived goddess of overkill, her scythe dragging behind her with that classic tal-scraping-on-hellstone vibe. The kind that makes demons think twice and unpaid interns quit on the spot.
The demon mole didn’t flinch.
It levitated six inches off the ground, spun in a circle, and scread, "I HAVE FELT THE TOUCH OF THE VOID AND I WROTE A BAD REVIEW."
"Sa," Mister Fog muttered, conjuring a glowing rune that imdiately burst into confetti. "Oops. Wrong spellbook. That was from my birthday party."
Galrik unsheathed his sword with a flourish so dramatic, even his cape flapped for no reason. "Fear not, Cecil! We shall save you!"
"You tied to the post in the first place!"
"Semantics!" he roared, charging the mole with a war cry that translated roughly to "FOR DRAMA AND GLORY!"
The mole opened its mouth.
The noise it made was... hard to describe. It sounded like a choir of dying printers singing Gregorian tax hymns while being electrocuted. Galrik was flung backward into the tavern, which imdiately collapsed — probably out of sha.
The mole turned to .
"YOU CANNOT ESCAPE FATE, TINY FLESH-NUGGET."
"I have student loans!" I yelled. "Isn’t that punishnt enough?!"
[Passive Skill "Survivor’s Guilt (Lv. MAX)" Activated]
Effect: You have beco temporarily uninteresting to the enemy.
Bonus: You now sll like damp socks and regret.
The mole blinked. Its glowing eyes dimd slightly.
Lilith took the opportunity to yeet herself across the circle in a blur of red and steel. Her scythe scread as it cleaved through space-ti and possibly so laws of physics.
She sliced the mole clean in half.
Silence.
The two halves of the demon twitched, paused, then exploded into black confetti and a single glowing coupon that read:
"One Free Therapy Session With Satan"
Mister Fog caught it midair. "Mine."
Galrik limped out of the tavern rubble with a chair stuck to his armor. "Is it over?! Did I slay it?!"
"No," Lilith said. "You almost slayed yourself."
"Excellent. Close enough."
The villagers slowly erged from behind haystacks, chimneys, and a single overturned bucket.
The mayor stepped forward, rubbing his hat. "That was... incredible. Horrifying. But incredible."
He looked at with newfound reverence. "You truly are blessed."
"HOW?!" I screeched. "I LITERALLY DID NOTHING."
"That’s what makes you special," he said with a nod. "You survived through the power of complete irrelevance."
[New Trait Acquired: "Unkillable Nobody"]
Description: Fate refuses to take you seriously, so it keeps accidentally letting you live.
Effect: 30% survival in apocalyptic scenarios. -100% respect.
Sir Galrik hoisted into the air like a soggy trophy. "Let it be known: Cecil the Civilian has faced a demon mole and lived!"
I flailed weakly. "I peed!"
"Even braver!" he bellowed.
Lilith walked past, muttering, "I give it three days before sothing else tries to eat him."
Mister Fog floated behind, already chewing the coupon. "Technically, he’s overdue."
Chapter 4:
The Dungeon of Mandatory Therapy?
When we finally left Flinchville, I expected to travel to a nice field. Maybe so adows. Possibly a hot spring where I could cry quietly and re-evaluate my life.
Instead, I was led into a dark hole in the ground called the Dungeon of Mandatory Therapy—an underground facility built during the Age of Emotional Reckoning by monks who believed monsters just needed to talk about their feelings. Spoiler: the monsters ate the monks. And their feelings.
Sir Galrik clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Behold, brave Cecil! The first test of our destiny awaits!"
"The first test already gave rabies and a tax debuff. I’m failing this sester."
Mister Fog floated ahead, rotating upside-down. "This place has excellent acoustics for inner screaming."
Lilith didn’t say anything. She just stared at the dungeon’s entrance, which was carved in the shape of a giant frowning face, above which the words "PLEASE CONFRONT YOUR TRAUMA RESPONSIBLY" were etched.
I looked at the sign, then at the others. "Do we have to go in?"
"Absolutely," Galrik said. "It’s tradition!"
"Tradition to do what? Develop chronic anxiety?"
He drew his sword. It glowed heroically. "To conquer it!"
We descended into the first floor. The torches lit automatically with blue fla.
You have entered: Floor 1 – Denial.
Mood Debuff Applied: Emotional Avoidance.
All damage reduced by 50% if you say, "I’m fine."
"I hate this place," I whispered.
The first room was full of mirrors. Each one showed in increasingly worse scenarios: failing at sword school, getting dumped by a dryad, being replaced in the party by a more attractive intern.
I stared. "...Okay, that last one was personal."
A mirror shimred and a copy of stepped out. Sa face. Sa pathetic posture. But this one smiled.
"Hey, champ," it said. "Maybe we’re not useless. Maybe we’re just misunderstood."
"I think you’re the tutorial boss," I said.
Lilith stepped in and smashed the mirror with the hilt of her scythe.
"Therapy complete," she said, deadpan.
Mirror Cecil has been obliterated. 10 Self-Awareness
Next was the Room of Bottled Emotions. Glass jars lined the shelves, each labeled: "Childhood Sha", "Unprocessed Grief", "That Thing You Said in Fourth Grade".
One jar pulsed red and began to shake violently.
"Oh no," I whispered. "I think that one’s mine."
It exploded.
Out ca a ten-foot manifestation of my 14-year-old self, wearing fingerless gloves and yelling about how no one understood his poetry.
Sir Galrik stepped forward. "I’ll handle this."
"NO!" I cried. "He’ll just get stronger if you validate him!"
Mister Fog threw a bottle labeled "Disassociative Humor" at it. It burst into laughter, then collapsed into glitter.
You have defeated: Angsty Version of You.
Reward: 1 Resilience. New Status: Emotionally Bruised.
At this point, Lilith turned to the group. "There are six more floors."
"No," I said, already lying on the ground. "Nope. I am emotionally out of mana."
Galrik carried like a bride. "Onward, to Bargaining!"
I scread the whole way down the stairs.
You have entered: Floor 2 – Bargaining.
Mood Debuff Applied: Desperate Reasoning.
Passive Effect: All failed persuasion checks now result in unwanted bartering.
We stepped into a circular room lined with shimring doors. Each door had a plaque with things like "What If I Was Taller?", "Maybe If I Apologized to Everyone I’ve Ever t?", and "Please Just Give One More Chance."
"Let guess," I said. "We have to pick a door and beg for rcy from our past choices?"
"No," Mister Fog replied. "You have to. We’re just here for the loot."
Lilith opened a sack and pulled out three enchanted coupons labeled ’1 Free Emotional Outburst – Expires Soon.’
I picked the door that read "Maybe If I Trained Harder..." and stepped inside.
It led to a boxing ring where a shredded version of stood, flexing aggressively.
"Hello, Weak ," said Buff . "You skipped leg day."
"I don’t have leg days!" I scread.
Buff rushed with the speed of crushed dreams. I threw a punch—it bounced off his abs like a Nerf ball.
Sir Galrik called from the doorway, "Believe in yourself!"
I got suplexed.
Lilith peeked in. "Try crying. That’s technically water magic."
So I did. I ugly-cried so hard the emotional moisture turned into a critical hit. Buff slipped on my tears, hit the ropes, and knocked himself out.
Victory! You have unlocked: Crying as a Combat chanic
When I limped out, the rest of the group had already cleared two treasure chests and were roasting marshmallows over a fire Mister Fog made out of regret.
We descended to Floor 3.
You have entered: Floor 3 – Depression.
Warning: Movent speed reduced by 40%.
Party morale decreasing...
The walls were made of unpaid bills and slowly lting motivational posters. A sad piano played in the background, looping endlessly.
"Gods, I feel like a Tumblr account," I whispered.
We passed shadowy figures curled up on couches, watching old sitcoms and muttering, "Just one more episode..."
"Do not engage," said Lilith. "They’ll ask you to hold their drinks, then never co back."
I stepped on sothing.
"Oh, sorry," said a floor tile. "Didn’t an to be in your way. It’s fine. I’m used to being ignored."
The entire floor was sentient and had abandonnt issues.
"I think the dungeon is trying to relate to ," I muttered.
By the ti we reached the floor boss—The Ennui Wraith—I was ready to lie down and accept the void. Luckily, Lilith just stabbed it in the eye.
It turned into a beanbag chair.
Boss Defeated! Floor 3 Cleared.
Sir Galrik hoisted up again like I was a sack of therapy potatoes. "We’re halfway there!"
"Halfway to what?" I asked.
Mister Fog looked at the next staircase. "Floor Four. Acceptance."
Lilith cracked her knuckles. "Ti to accept you’re still our at shield."
I scread again. For once, it echoed perfectly.
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