Chapter 1

I crushed another skeleton’s skull with my boot and watched the green experience notification bloom in the corner of my vision. Strength: 47. Constitution: 52. The numbers kept ticking up like some cosmic odometer, marking the distance I’d traveled through this particular pit of undead misery, not in miles but in effort. Three hours of non-stop grinding through rotting corpses would do that.

The Tomb of the Archlich was exactly what you’d expect from a place with that name. Crumbling stone corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in probably a few millennia. Walls covered in faded iconography that might have been intimidating when the paint was fresh but now just looked sad. Lots of bones. So many bones. The architectural style screamed “evil overlord with a flair for the dramatic”—vaulted ceilings lost in shadow, pillars carved to look like screaming souls, that sort of thing. Points for commitment to the aesthetic, I supposed.

I pulled my sword—looted from some pompous death knight three floors ago—from the ribcage of what used to be a ghoul. The blade came free with a wet crunch, and I couldn’t keep the grimace of disgust off my face. The creature dissolved into black mist and another notification pinged. Constitution: 53.

The Hero’s Constitution was perhaps the most broken aspect of being isekai’d into this world. Some divine prick had yanked me from my perfectly adequate life, dropped me into a fantasy realm without so much as a “how do you do,” and granted me the ability to grow stronger by killing things. Like a video game character, except with actual viscera and the persistent smell of decay. I could literally watch my stats increase in real-time. It would have been cool if it weren’t so ... whatever this was.

A pair of zombies lurched out from behind a pillar. I sidestepped the nearest one’s clumsy grab and removed its head with a horizontal slash. Dexterity: 41. The body collapsed into a heap of rot and rusty chain mail before it, too, dissolved into black mist.

I hadn’t considered this about about grinding through dungeons, but the constant mindless violence actually gives you a surprising amount of time to think. Maybe too much time, really. I’d wandered further into this dungeon that I’d accidentally discovered to blow off some steam, frustrated at my circumstances, wanting to scream my protests to the universe, fully aware of how little it cared ... and as I was chopping through walls of undead, a silly, dark idea had germinated as a random thought and somehow found fertile ground amidst this collection of rotting flesh; I began to contemplate the possibility that the gods who’d dragged me into this world could actually be forced to regret their decisions. The more I ruminated on this idea, the more certain I became that I was not as powerless as I had originally assumed. I could tell there was a bright grin illuminating my face, and for the first time since ending up on this shithole I felt joy. Purpose. Direction. As the last zombie collapsed with a sound between a groan and a sigh, I slid my sword out of its torso, waded through body parts, and kicked open the next door.

The chamber beyond was larger, with a floor of cracked marble that might have been white once. Now it was the color of old teeth. More skeletons waited, because of course they did. These ones wore the remnants of ancient armor, their bones held together by magic and resentment. I could relate to resentment.

I strolled in. Their levels may have increased, but they weren’t really dangerous to me. Just more EXP.

The first skeleton raised a corroded sword. I parried, stepped inside its guard, and drove my pommel into its skull. Its forehead shattered, forcing the creature to stagger backward. Two more came at me from the sides. I ducked under one swing, felt the whoosh of air as the blade passed overhead, and swept the legs out from under the second skeleton with a low kick. It clattered to the floor and I stomped on its spine, crumbling it to dust as it stopped moving. The first skeleton regained its stance, half its skull still missing, and I almost casually removed its sword arm at the shoulder joint, then finished it with a swipe across the neckbone.

Constitution: 54. Strength: 48.

The numbers going up were satisfying, even though I couldn’t feel any physical difference. Maybe they were meaningless, but still, they at least gave the illusion of progress toward some nebulous goal. Something to measure myself against the me of the past, maybe.

That’s when I heard the voice.

Yessss ... come closer, mortal. I sense great potential within you.

I paused, my sword halfway through cleaving another skeleton in two. The voice was a whisper, sibilant and oily, sliding through my mind like something that had learned to speak from watching too many villain monologues. I finished the skeleton—Strength: 49—and replied out loud.

“Yeah, that’s not creepy at all.”

The voice hesitated. I could practically feel its confusion rippling through my skull.

Do not fear, young one. I mean you no harm. I sense you are different from the others who have entered this sacred place. You seek power, yes? Glory? I can grant you these things and more.

I dispatched three more skeletons while considering my response. A rusted axe clanged off the junk pauldron on my shoulder—Constitution: 55, thank you very much—and I returned the favor by introducing the skeleton’s skull to the nearest wall.

“Okay, let’s be real here,” I said, patting bone dust off my rusty chainmail—another looted item commandeered from an undead with delusions of adequacy. Maybe I should be looking for some pauldrons? I’d have to keep an eye out. “The chances of you being a benevolent entity in these circumstances are basically non-existent. I’m in a place literally called the Tomb of the Archlich. You’re a disembodied voice offering me the dreams of idiot youngsters whose minds have never been deflowered by a single original thought. There is no scenario where this leads to me performing a selfless good deed by helping you.”

More silence. I could sense the awareness behind the voice recalibrating.

“I’m not being judgmental,” I continued, crushing another ghoul that had shambled out from a side passage. “I’m just suggesting you be more straightforward. The whole seductive whisper thing is a bit played out.”

I ... see. The voice had lost some of its oily confidence. You are indeed different from the usual ... heroes who venture into this place. Perhaps we can speak plainly, then. I am ancient and powerful, sealed away by jealous gods who feared my strength. I can offer you knowledge beyond mortal comprehension. Riches that would make kingdoms bow before you. Women—or men, I do not judge—beyond counting. The secrets of magic itself.

I stopped to examine a side corridor, decided it wasn’t worth my time, and continued down the main passage. The floor sloped downward. Definitely heading toward a boss room. I thought about the voice’s words; the fellow was surprisingly progressive given its apparent milieu. Doesn’t judge, huh? I chuckled under my breath.

“Let me guess,” I said. “All I have to do is help you with a small problem. Something trivial. Probably involves breaking a seal on your tomb so you can once again darken the skies of the world and bring about an age of undeath and suffering.”

The silence this time was longer. I fought my way through another cluster of undead—Constitution: 56, Dexterity: 42—and paused, waiting for a reply.

You— The voice stopped itself. You are remarkably perceptive. A hint of disappointment came across the mind-speak. Clearly this conversation was not going the way the creature had hoped.

“I’ve seen this movie.” I kicked a skull down the corridor and watched it bounce off the walls. “Played the game. Read the book. This is a pretty standard setup.”

And yet you continue deeper into my domain.

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged, though obviously the voice couldn’t see it. “I’ve got my reasons.”

Revenge? The voice seized on this like a drowning man grabbing a rope. Yes, I can sense it in you. Someone has wronged you. The gods themselves, perhaps? They are capricious and cruel, are they not? Together, you and I could—

“You’re not wrong about the gods being assholes,” I interrupted. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Why don’t you explain exactly what you want me to do?”

This seemed to genuinely confuse the voice. I continued fighting through the undead horde while it processed, methodically making my way closer to whatever was at the end of this wide corridor. A particularly large skeleton wielding a two-handed sword came at me with surprising speed. I rolled under its swing—Dexterity: 43—came up behind it, and severed its spine. The bones clattered apart and I absorbed the experience. Strength: 50. Nice round number.

You ... you want to know how to free me? The voice sounded like someone who’d just been asked how to kill puppies, even though he really hated puppies.

“Is that a problem?”

Most mortals require ... persuasion. Trickery. I had prepared elaborate deceptions, carefully constructed arguments to lead you toward my liberation while making you believe it was in your own best interests.

“Pointless.” I pulled a healing potion from my belt and took a swig. Not that I needed it—Constitution: 57 kept me pretty resilient—but the dungeon air was dry and the potion tasted like cherries and I just felt like pausing for a moment. “How about you just tell me straight?”

This is most irregular.

“I’m an irregular kind of guy.”

The corridor eventually opened into a larger chamber. The architecture here was more intact, less weathered by time. Large white stone pillars, perhaps eighteen inches in diameter and 8-9 feet high stood arranged in a circle before a rusted iron altar, with glowing gems resting atop them. Intricate carvings covered every surface—scenes of armies bowing before a skeletal king, cities crumbling to dust, the usual conquest imagery. At the far end of the chamber, a massive door stood sealed with chains that glowed with soft golden light. Divine magic. I could feel it from here, a warm pressure against my skin like standing too close to a fire.

Very well, the voice said, and I could hear something new in it—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest hint of respect, maybe with a bit of challenge to see just how different I was from the garden-variety tomb raider. The seal upon my tomb requires three components to break. First, the blood of a hero willingly given. Second, the destruction of the seven binding stones that channel divine power into the seal. And third, a declaration of intent spoken in the divine tongue.

I walked toward the sealed door, my footsteps echoing in the vast chamber. No more undead attacked. We’d apparently reached the threshold where the minions gave way to the main attraction.

“Blood of a hero. That’s me, I assume? This whole Hero’s Constitution thing probably qualifies.”

Indeed. The gods marked you as a hero when they brought you to this world. Your blood carries their blessing—or curse, depending on one’s perspective.

“Yeah, I’ve got opinions about that.” I examined the chains. Up close, I could see prayers inscribed in the links, tiny words in a language I couldn’t read but somehow understood. Entreaties to various gods for eternal binding, for justice, for protection of the mortal realm. “And the binding stones are the crystals on top of the pillars?”

It’s like you’ve done this before. Yes. The seven pillars support the stones. They will be ... defended.

“Of course they will.” I turned to survey the formation more closely. Seven pillars, seven binding stones. This was a scene straight out of a few dozen fantasy stories, and the bright yellow crystals glowed with an arrogant confidence, like they were sure they were more than enough to keep this monster at bay forever. “And the declaration of intent?”

The words must be spoken to direct the magic. I can teach them to you when the time comes. So, like a password then. One the Archlich already knew. Maybe the gods even told it when they set up this little prison. I tutted to myself; these gods really didn’t understand operational security. Or perhaps it was more fun to taunt him, showing that he could escape, if only blah blah blah... That would certainly be in character for those chuckleheads, and of course it satisfied so many tropes that I couldn’t even single one out for being especially relevant.

I walked to the nearest pillar and examined the crystal, just out of reach. It looked warm to the touch, thrumming with power. Beautiful, in a way. Some god had poured significant juice into these seals. They really didn’t want this creature getting out.

Which made me want to let it out even more.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m even considering this,” I said, running my fingers over the carved surface of the pillar.

The thought had crossed my mind. You are remarkably forthcoming about your awareness of the consequences. Most would-be liberators prefer to believe they are doing something noble.

“Here’s the thing.” I turned to face the sealed door, though I knew the Archlich—because that’s obviously who this was—couldn’t actually see me yet. “I was pretty happy where I was. The gods yanked me out of my life without asking. Dropped me in this world and expected me to serve their whims while, what, being grateful? Saving the kingdom? Marrying the princess? Defeating the Demon Lord? The whole hero’s journey bullshit. All in their name, for their games and bragging rights. Whoever flips the most tables wins.” I gave the pillar a test punch. It rang like a bell but didn’t move.

Constitution: 58. The notification appeared like punctuation to my point.

“So recently I decided, fuck that. Fuck them. If they want a hero, they’re going to get exactly the kind of hero they deserve. One who doesn’t give a shit about their games and rules. I flip my own tables.”

You would unleash me upon the world simply to spite divine entities? The voice sounded fascinated. That is ... refreshingly honest. And remarkably petty.

“I prefer the term ‘resentment-oriented.’” I drew my sword and eyed the pillar. Which was more durable, a heavy iron sword dripping with an undead curse or a rock blessed by gods? “Besides, you’re not my problem. You’re theirs. They’re the ones who imprisoned you. They’re the ones who created this whole situation. They beat me in Round 1 before I even knew I was playing their game. I’m just ... calling for best two out of three.”