Dirty Rotten Magic

I regained consciousness with a violent, guttural cough as if my insides were staging a rebellion. My body, still half-submerged in the cold, murky water, convulsed as I struggled upward. Gasping and disoriented, I moved clumsily from lying prone with my face still wet, finally kneeling and retching again into the water. The sound of my retching mingled with the soft gurgle of the stream, creating an eerie symphony of distress. When the last remnants of the water—whether from my stomach or my lungs, I couldn't tell—had left me, I was left dry-heaving into the liquid, a desperate, futile expulsion of remnants of pain and confusion. When the convulsions eventually subsided, my senses gradually began to sharpen, and I became aware of my surroundings.

Blinking away the droplets clinging to my eyes, I discovered I was at the edge of a narrow, trickling stream. In the clear water, nestled beneath my hands and knees, lay small pebbles in myriad shades of brown and black, their smooth surfaces glistening under the dappled light. With a groan that resonated deep from my battered body, I managed to push myself upright. My vision, still blurry and disoriented, gradually revealed that I was surrounded by woodland—a lush expanse of vibrant, bright green leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. Towering trees, grand and ancient with gnarled, knotted trunks, stretched towards the heavens as if guarding the secrets of an age-old forest. Swooping limbs dangled like nature's own tapestries, while an unruly mix of bushes thrived on the fertile, nut-and-seed strewn ground below. A chaotic orchestra of insect buzzes and the distant, thunderous roar of a waterfall formed an otherworldly backdrop, as thick vines draped around the trees, their mossy tendrils clinging to darkened bark. The forest floor burst unexpectedly with brightly colored flowers, a vivid splash against the otherwise muted browns, all illuminated in patches by sunlight filtering through the upper canopy—a sight that stirred memories of a botanical garden from a long-forgotten childhood, when my mother's warm presence still graced my days.

"Well, I guess I'm not in Detroit," I murmured to myself, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips as I took in the scene. On the bright side, this enchanted woodland was far superior to the dull, uninteresting plain I had last endured. But an unsettling question prickled at the back of my mind: where in all Hades was I?

I drew in a deep, rejuvenating breath of clean, fresh air that filled my lungs with its life-affirming coolness—a stark contrast to the suffocating stench of the city I had left behind. The harmonious twittering of birds, their calls clear and lilting in the crisp air, further confirmed that this was a realm far removed from the gritty, mechanical clamor of Detroit. As the sunlight began to dry my sodden body, a sense of cautious relief mingled with bewilderment at my apparent resurrection in this surreal afterlife. I couldn't reconcile how I'd survived the brutal kicking from that stoned, deranged gang—or how I'd managed that catastrophic fall onto the grey plain. The memory of every shattered bone and the excruciating pain that followed still pulsed through me, yet somehow, miraculously, I was whole. With trepidation, I peered at my exposed limbs through the ragged shreds of my clothing and was startled to see no obvious injuries—a mystery that deepened as I absorbed the idyllic surroundings.

Still marvelling at the surreal beauty of the woodland—a mystery waiting to be unraveled—I knew I needed to find some trace of civilization. I had never been adept at wilderness survival; my experiences had been confined to the concrete embrace of the city—a petting zoo here, a park there, the occasional nocturnal slumber beneath streetlights. This vibrant, unspoiled world was magnificent, yet alien, and the gnawing hunger in my belly reminded me that I had nothing to sustain me. "Right, where's the nearest hot dog stand?" I joked wryly, though the thought was as absurd as it was comforting.

As I cautiously ascended the small bank of the stream, the water squelched in my shoes, clinging to them like a stubborn memory. Once on the soft, dew-laden grass, I stooped to remove my soaked sneakers, the dampness seeping into the fabric as I fumbled with the laces. Suddenly, a rustling from nearby olive-green bushes snapped my attention to a small, sudden movement. The leaves trembled as though something unseen tugged at them, and then, mere feet away, a rabbit emerged into view. It had a plush, fluffy tail and a short, sleek coat, with floppy ears that seemed to droop in languid defiance. My eyes widened in disbelief when I noticed a singular, sharp white horn jutting straight from the crown of its head. I recalled my scant knowledge of nature from books like "How to Read Minds"—a curious read that had taught me to decode human signals but nothing of horned rabbits. Did rabbits even have horns?

The bizarre sight held my gaze, and then the rabbit moved again, its little horn glinting in the sunlight as it lowered its head and bounded toward me. In a split second, my mind, trained by years of self-preservation, registered the possibility of an attack. Shock rooted me to the spot; the very idea of a rabbit—usually a symbol of innocence—assailing me was utterly inconceivable. Yet before I could react, the horn collided with the side of my leg with the precision of a dagger, slicing through flesh and muscle. I watched in horrified slow motion as the white tip of the horn emerged on the other side of my calf, the wound blossoming into a dark, angry red with my spilled blood. A cry of agony tore from my throat as the reality of my situation sank in.

Instinct took over. With a desperate swing, I brought my hand down onto the rabbit's head. The impact stunned the creature, its tiny form wavering as the horn remained lodged in my injured leg, anchoring it to my flesh. Each subsequent, powerful blow caused the rabbit's fragile skull to cave in further until it lay motionless—a pitiful casualty of a surreal encounter. My leg throbbed fiercely with each pulse of pain, blood spurting in intermittent bursts from the wound. Memories of scrappy survival on the mean streets of a rough neighborhood flitted through my mind—lessons in first aid learned from necessity, not instruction. I knew instinctively that pulling the horn out would worsen the injury, yet I had no hospital, no paramedics to call on. I had to handle this myself.

Ripping the sleeve off my tattered hoodie—a garment that had seen countless misadventures—I pressed the fabric firmly against the wound to stem the bleeding. Summoning every ounce of grim determination, I gripped the dead rabbit by its head and yanked the cursed horn from my calf with a swift, agonizing pull. A final, violent gush of blood spurted forth, a macabre punctuation to the act. I hurriedly fashioned a makeshift bandage from the sleeve, tying it tightly around my leg. The cloth, soaked in scarlet, staunched the flow enough to grant me a moment of relief.

"Okay," I murmured to myself, exhaling shakily. With that crisis temporarily averted, I allowed myself a brief pause—a moment to rest and to ponder my next move.

Then, as if reality itself had shifted into a digital overlay, words suddenly appeared at the bottom of my vision, crisp and unmistakable:New skill acquired

I blinked, rubbing my eyes with my bloody hands, but the text clung to my sight like a stubborn watermark, smearing my face with sticky, wet blood. I turned my head, and the mysterious words danced in unison with my gaze, eliciting a dizzying sense of disorientation. "What is this?" I wondered aloud, my voice echoing slightly in the still air. I reread the text several times—it remained the same. As I concentrated, a new possibility stirred within me: Had I somehow acquired a new ability? Then, to my astonishment, a brown leather-bound book materialized in midair right before my outstretched hands, its cover emblazoned with one golden word in elegant, bold cursive: my name, 'Chix.' With a hesitant but eager motion, I reached for the book. Expecting my hand to pass through as it had with those spectral forms before, I was surprised to feel the soft, supple leather yielding under my grip. Now firmly in possession of the strange book, I opened the front cover and flipped it to the first page. There, in ornate lettering, the title declared:The Life of Chrix

Along the side of the thick volume, several paper tabs protruded, each marked with additional cursive inscriptions:CharacterSkillsMagicInventoryMapJournal

To say I was confused would be an understatement, yet as my gaze fell upon the word 'Magic', my heart skipped a beat—a flutter reminiscent of the thrill of landing a big bet in a three-card trick or the unexpected allure of a beautiful stranger emerging from the fog of twilight. My childhood fascination with magical things had ignited an early passion for mentalism, and though I'd never truly pursued it as a career, I relished every moment of mystifying those around me for a bit of extra cash, the memory of every clink of coins and hushed gasp lingering like a sweet perfume.

With mounting anticipation, I eagerly opened the book at the Magic tab. The crisp rustle of its pages echoed softly in the quiet, only to reveal the disappointing sight of a blank sheet of rough paper. Its texture, rough as unpolished stone, reminded me of lost potential. "Maybe it will be filled in later," I hoped quietly, mustering a fragile enthusiasm despite the palpable letdown that filled the silent space around me.

Sighing deeply, I flipped back to the front and selected the Character tab with a resigned gesture that belied my inner turmoil. This page, at least, held something tangible: a meticulously drawn table accompanied by clinical precision.

  Name:   Chrix    Top Skill:

  Character Total Level:   0

  Major   Strength     Fortitude    Agility

    Number: 11      11     11

  Major   Intelligence    Charisma    Knowledge

    Number: 15      16     10

  Minor   Shield   Magical Power  Stamina    Carry Limit

    Number: N/A     85     65     32

   Regen Sec:  N/A     4     2.1     N/A

Now, perplexity and curiosity mingled in my mind—my thoughts whirled like autumn leaves caught in a brisk wind. What did all these precise numbers and measurements truly mean? The words on the screen were both clear and deliberate, yet they left me wondering how they related to the very essence of who I was. My eyes were then drawn to a diagram displayed beneath the table—a detailed rendering of my own body, as if sketched by a master cartographer of flesh and bone. There, a flashing point pulsed insistently on the bottom of my leg, each rhythmic throb echoing the relentless beat of my anxious heart. Drawing closer, I saw that the vibrant, oscillating red light corresponded exactly with the spot where my wound ached, an unyielding reminder of past encounters. Next to the blinking marker, bold digits and pristine text appeared, solemnly declaring:

  Time to heal: five minutes

I mused quietly as the throbbing pain in the gaping hole of my calf—a grim, almost surreal reminder of the vicious encounter with that strangely adorable, horned bunny—continued its relentless, pulsing rhythm. Strangely, there was no blood seeping from beneath my makeshift bandage, as if some mysterious, unseen force were staunchly keeping the wound curiously at bay.

"Well, I guess in five minutes I'll see what happens," I thought, a mixture of skepticism and cautious hope stirring within me like the first rays of dawn battling the night.

Satisfied with the insights gleaned from the Character tab, I swiped over to the Skills page. The screen revealed nothing more than a simple table, its contents patiently awaiting further revelation:

  Skill Table

  Name   Major   Level   XP to the next level   XP   Comment

  Unarmed combat  Strength/Agility  0    100    11   Any fighting without weapons

The mystery deepened, yet a pang of frustration struck me—my repertoire of abilities, honed over years of subtle practice and gritty determination, was far richer than this single entry in unarmed combat. Truth be told, unarmed combat had always been at the bottom of my list. I preferred the swift, graceful art of running—a seamless, wind-swept escape that often yielded a tidy profit. So, where were all the other skills I'd painstakingly built up over the years? I flicked through more pages in the book, but alas, nothing more materialized. The blankness was as disappointing as a magic trick gone awry, leaving me with a lingering sense of unfulfilled promise.

Next, I tapped on the Inventory tab. The page revealed a neat grid of thirty-two boxes, each one void of any item—a barren showcase when I had hoped for useful tools to help me navigate this wild, enchanted wilderness. With a heavy sigh, I lowered my hand, only to have it collide with something unexpected. The soft, downy fur of the horned rabbit I'd encountered earlier brushed against my skin, its touch as fleeting as a whisper in the dense forest air. In that electrifying moment, the physical creature vanished from my grasp, replaced by a crisp image tucked neatly into the first inventory box. Next to the picture, bold text proclaimed:

  1 x Horned Rabbit (Carry: 1)

The creature had disappeared from my hand, and though my heart nearly leapt in shock, I quickly recalled the searing, pulsating pain in my leg. I scanned the mossy forest floor, rich with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, but the rabbit was nowhere to be seen. Leaning in, I scrutinized the inventory page; there was a detailed picture of its broken, delicate body, rendered with such care that every tuft of fur and fragile limb was vividly apparent. On a capricious impulse, I touched the illustration with my finger—and in an instant, as if time itself had reversed its flow, the rabbit materialized back in my hand.

"What?!" I bellowed into the surrounding forest, my voice reverberating among ancient trees and stirring the nearby birds into a clamor of twittering protest, their notes a chaotic symphony against the quiet hum of nature.

Curious and a bit amused, I repeated the experiment. Each time I picked up the rabbit, it would vanish, only to reappear as a meticulously rendered picture in the book. With each cycle, it felt as though I were pulling the creature from a magician's hat—a trick that sparked wild imaginings of future performances. "Wow!" I marveled silently. With this extraordinary trick, I could produce anything on command—a wondrous boon for any magic show. My mind raced through scenarios: no more losing valuables to stealthy thugs or fumbling during tense police searches. This unexpected development was not only exciting but also addressed a lifelong concern of mine—keeping hold of my precious possessions.

I wondered where exactly the rabbit went when it was safely stored in my inventory, for it wasn't tucked away in any of my pockets. I double-checked, yet it was undeniably absent from my person. Satisfied for now, I left the rabbit in my digital inventory and swiped to the Map tab. This page was a delight—a colorful, cartoon-style map reminiscent of those on a modern smartphone, yet imbued with a charming hand-drawn quality. I spent a few moments admiring the artwork: an aerial view of the sprawling forest, complete with the winding, shimmering stream upon which I now sat, the surrounding groves whispering secrets of ancient lore, and clear markings pinpointing my current locale. The rest of the map pages lay blank, promising to fill in with vibrant detail as I ventured further into this mysterious world.

"OK, maybe it fills in as I explore more of this world," I mused, my voice barely audible over the gentle murmur of the flowing stream.

Next, I opened the Journal section, which was initially empty, a pristine canvas awaiting my thoughts. As if by magic, a quill feather pen materialized in my hand, its slender tip stained with glistening black ink that caught the light with every subtle movement. Experimentally, I scribbled a note: "Killed a rabbit." Nothing else happened—yet at least now I had a place to record my fleeting thoughts and daring deeds, a silent testament to my journey.

Humming softly to myself, I rechecked all the pages of the book. They remained unchanged—a static ledger of my current status—so I closed the book. In an instant, it vanished from view, causing my heart to momentarily skip a beat in the quiet solitude of the forest. Desperate for reassurance, I wished for it to return, and, as if summoned by my longing, it reappeared exactly where it had before. "Well, that's definitely magical," I thought, a smile tugging at my lips as I marveled at the artifact's potential. With a bit more experimentation, I discovered that I could summon it on demand—a comforting thought, especially regarding the inventory that now promised to be a lifesaver. My hope for genuine magic soared, and for the first time since this unfathomable adventure began, my mood lightened, like a dark sky parting for a glimpse of starlight.

Then, I turned my attention to my wound. With deliberate care, I began to unwind the sleeve of my hoodie that had been serving as an improvised bandage, the fabric soft against my skin yet stained with the memory of pain. The first encouraging sign was that no blood trickled out—a stark contrast to the earlier, terrifying cascade that had haunted my thoughts. Tentatively, I pulled back my pant leg, and to my amazement, only dried blood was visible, clinging stubbornly like remnants of a long-forgotten battle. Rubbing my calf, I watched as the dried blood flaked away, revealing skin that bore no visible hole or scar, as if time and magic had conspired to mend the breach. A surge of exhilaration coursed through me as I stood up, liberated from the crippling pain that had dogged my every step throughout the day. I was now ready to explore this vibrant forest, unburdened by the injuries that once threatened to confine me.

I took in the surroundings—the joyful chorus of birds singing harmoniously, the vivid blooms splashing cheerful hues amid the lush, emerald foliage, and the playful dance of sunlight and shadow that frolicked across the forest floor like liquid gold. Yet, amid the sensory symphony, a nagging thought persisted: if the horned rabbit was any indication, the denizens of this forest were anything but gentle. I'd need a weapon. The simplest, most reliable tool for self-defense, I decided, was a big, heavy stick, as steadfast as an old friend in times of peril.

I began a careful search near the sprawling, knotted roots of towering trees whose bark whispered tales of ancient storms. The air was rich with the scent of moss and earth, the ground damp and soft beneath my feet as I rifled through a scattered pile of fallen branches. Finally, I discovered a promising candidate: a sturdy stick a little over a meter long, its end thickly knotted and weighted like a natural sledgehammer forged by the forest itself. I tapped it against the ground, and the resounding thud reverberated like a rallying drum, bolstering my confidence.

However, the sharp, echoing smash of the stick against the earth stirred something unexpected. From beneath the gnarled roots, several small, fluffy heads emerged—a brigade of horned rabbits, their eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint that bordered on the feral. Their diminutive forms, accentuated by the odd, menacing horns that crowned them like twisted ornaments, presented a surreal yet formidable sight. I recalled the unsettling encounter with the first horned rabbit, and while a natural aversion to combat bubbled within me, practicality quickly softened my resolve. The odds, I thought, were clearly in my favor. These bunnies, though armed with sharp horns and an uncanny persistence, would have to contend with my heavy stick.

My first challenger burst from a nearby hole, its tiny head lowered in a determined snarl, horn pointed with an intent as lethal as a sharpened blade. As it lunged at my legs, aiming to impale me with desperate ferocity, I deftly sidestepped, my body moving with a fluid, instinctual grace. With a swift, powerful swing of the stick, I sent the rabbit crashing into a rugged tree trunk, where it collapsed in a heap of motionless fur and broken resolve. No sooner had I dispatched one than another charged, a blur of fury and determination. In a whirlwind of action, I beat its head into the ground with the same relentless force, flattening it like a fragile pancake beneath the weight of reality. For the next few minutes, I danced around the clearing as a manic assault of horned bunnies swarmed me—a surreal melee punctuated by the sounds of frantic thumps, the crack of breaking branches, and the soft whimpers of defeat. Despite receiving several deep, stinging cuts that sent shivers up my spine, I pressed on until the once-pristine forest floor became stained with the gore of fallen rabbits, a macabre testament to the chaos of enchanted combat.

Breathing heavily, my chest heaving with the weight of adrenaline and exertion, I knelt and gathered the bodies of my defeated foes, their forms a silent tribute to the battle just fought. I then placed them into my inventory, each addition a morbid trophy. The screen now displayed an updated tally:

  21 x Horned Rabbit (Carry: 21)

As I surveyed my progress, a new skill appeared in my skill table—a glimmer of promise amidst the chaos of this enchanted, perilous realm:

  Skill Table

  Name   Major   Level   XP to the next level   XP   Comment

  Unarmed combat  Strength/Agility  0    100    11   Any fighting without weapons

  Blunt weapon use  Strength/Agility  1    200    120   Use of a blunt weapon in combat

The character tab began to flash with an almost ethereal glow. Excitedly, I opened it and saw the following comment emblazoned in bold digital letters:

  Level 1 achieved: five skill points to add

The character sheet now showed:

  Name:   Chris    Top Skill: Blunt weapon use

  Character Total Level:   1

  Major   Strength     Fortitude    Agility

    Number: 11      11     11

  Major   Intelligence    Charisma    Knowledge

    Number: 15      16     10

  Minor   Shield   Magical Power  Stamina    Carry Limit

    Number: N/A     85     65     32

  Regen Sec:  N/A     4     2.1     N/A

If I was going to work the system, I would have to better understand it before I started to allocate those precious points. Anyway, the pressing need of the hour was to find a safe haven for the night. Uncertain of the time, I decided to move on. With my trusty stick in hand—its rough surface a constant reminder of the forest's embrace—I thought it best to follow the river downstream. I had heard somewhere that most towns were built on the side of rivers, so I hoped that by walking downstream, I would come across one.