There's a line from an old author that stuck with me:
"However thick the darkness gets, cling to the sliver of decency that makes you human."
Sorry, wise stranger.
In this reality, that sliver snaps like cheap wire.
I didn't die or black out. Something just yanked me out of my life—no warnings, no tutorial—and dumped me into a body that wasn't mine.
Since then, I've forced myself to accept almost everything:
that this "fantasy" world is a meat-grinder wrapped in prettier scenery;
that the shell I occupy isn't a celebrated wizard or noble knight but a… let's say, an unorthodox template;
I spawned on the outermost fringe of the continent, where even the maps shrug and scrawl Here Be Mist.
What I still can't swallow is the class tag the system glued to me: "Dread Sentinel."
Not quite human, not quite monster—caught between.
The mail-coach lurched over potholes, bodies crammed like beans in a pod. Where hope clustered, people pressed tighter; where dread gathered, cushions stayed empty.
Near the front, an earnest novice named Lyra recited light-soaked verses with the smile of someone determined not to see how bleak things are.
"Step toward dawn, even when the road bleeds. Faith endures where fear withers…"
Travel-worn faces drank in every syllable, as though grace were a currency they could still afford.
A gaunt widow lifted a shaky hand.
"Will my husband—he fell to the demon horde last winter—find peace above?"
Lyra hesitated, then whispered, "Courage opens the brightest gates. I believe he's already there."
A cracked chuckle cut through the carriage.
A mercenary in battered mail—Brann—leaned forward.
"If your Light cared so much, sister, maybe it would've blocked the demon's axe."
The coach erupted, shouting to apologize and threatening to rearrange Brann's face—but he only spread his arms.
"Preach all you want," he said, jerking a thumb at me, "when steel's swinging, that quiet specter back there is worth more than ten sermons."
Eyes drifted my way.
I sat alone, polishing a black longsword, helm shadowing a too-pale face. One glance back, then I returned to the blade.
Lyra shot to her feet, cheeks aflame.
"Compare me to a Dread Sentinel again and..."
She never finished.
Air shrieked. Talons peeled the roof like wet parchment. A one-eyed brute hissed, tongue snapping like a whip.
Up front, the driver's head was already between the monster's jaws.
"Out—move!" Brann roared, raising his shield. "I'll stall it!"
Lyra stayed, palms glowing with an embryonic miracle.
"Bright Father, lend—"
"Idiot!" Brann cursed, but too late: the creature lunged for the light in her hands.
I slid between them. Steel gauntlet met fangs; teeth scattered like gravel. The beast shrieked. I seized both halves of its jaw and ripped. Gore painted the boards, spattering Lyra's habit.
Brann's squad whooped.
I offered Lyra a clean cloth.
"Face," I muttered.
Her fingers shook as I dabbed—probably smearing things worse. The mercs roared with laughter.
More shadows prowled the roadside.
"Outside," I ordered. "This isn't over."
The skirmish ended messily. Half the passengers never stood up again.
Brann lay among them, torn open, eyes glassy. His friend cursed the sky.
I knelt by the most enormous carcass, plunged a gauntlet into its chest. A sour pulse of life and fractured spirit flooded my armor. The corpse shriveled to leather and bone.
The surviving merc gawked.
"He… consumes their essence."
Enough juice for a rank-up, if I can reach the Void Chapel.
I glanced toward a fallen villager. Lyra darted in front of the body.
"Please," she pleaded. "Let me give them rites first."
Instinct howled—dead flesh is fuel—but the echo of that anonymous author's words tugged harder.
I stepped back.
While Lyra murmured funeral prayers, the merc watched me like I'd grown another head.
"Stories paint Sentinels as darkness in plate," he said. "You're… different."
"Maybe," I replied. "Rest while you can. The road to Emberfall only gets uglier."
Sword sheathed, I started walking—one foot in humanity, the other in shadow—trailing a moral compass that no longer knows north.