Death was a disappointment. There was no tunnel of light. There was no judgment. There was only a sudden, jarring shift in temperature.
I opened my eyes.
I wasn't in my hospital bed anymore. The sterile smell of antiseptic was gone, replaced by the heavy stench of mold, wet earth, and old, coppery blood.
I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn't move. Thick hemp ropes dug into my wrists and ankles, binding me tight to a slab of freezing stone.
Restrained.
I scanned my environment. It was a cellar. Small, damp, and claustrophobic. Three tallow candles sputtered on a wooden crate to my right, casting long, dancing shadows against the water-stained walls.
"He is awake," a voice hissed.
I looked up. A man in a ragged black robe stood over me. His hood was thrown back, revealing a gaunt, dirty face. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated with a mix of fanaticism and terror. In his trembling hands, he held a dagger. The blade was jagged and spotted with dark orange rust.
"The offering sees us! Quick, before the Gloom settles!" another voice whispered from the corner of the room.
I recognized this scene.
The damp cellar. The two nervous, incompetent cultists. The sacrifice waking up moments before the execution.
This was the prologue of Eulogy of the Weeping God.
I had read this chapter yesterday while my heart monitor slowed to a stop. I was currently inhabiting the body of an unnamed extra—a sacrificial lamb destined to die on page three to summon a low-level ghoul.
The cultist above me raised the dagger high with both hands. His breathing was loud and wet.
"Offer blood to the Shadows! May the weeping begin!"
He began to bring the knife down toward my chest.
I didn't panic. Panic burns oxygen and clouds judgment. Instead, I analyzed the trajectory.
Fact 1: My new body is a malnourished teenager. I lack the muscle mass to break these ropes.
Fact 2: The cultist is leaning too far forward. His footing is poor.
Fact 3: If that blade hits my heart, my second life ends immediately. This is an unacceptable outcome.
I needed to trade a resource to secure the objective.
As the knife plunged down, I didn't pull away. I jerked my torso upward, twisting my left shoulder directly into the path of the falling blade.
Thunk.
The sound was wet and dull. The rusty dagger missed my heart and buried itself deep into the meat of my left shoulder. I felt the jagged metal scrape against my collarbone.
Pain exploded in my nervous system. It was a blinding, searing heat.
I noted the pain, categorized it as 'severe,' and then ignored it. It was just data.
The cultist gasped. He hadn't expected me to move into the knife. For a split second, he was frozen, his hands still gripping the hilt that was now anchored in my flesh.
He was trapped.
Because I had twisted my body up, the rope binding my right wrist had a few inches of slack.
I moved.
My right hand shot out and grabbed a heavy bronze ritual bowl sitting on the table next to my head. It was thick, cold, and smelled of iron.
I gripped the rim. Using the leverage of my tied wrist, I swung the heavy bowl upward in a vicious arc.
CRACK.
The bronze rim connected with the cultist's temple.
He didn't make a sound. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed forward. His dead weight landed directly on my chest, driving the dagger deeper into my shoulder.
I grunted as the air left my lungs.
"Brother Garret?" The voice from the corner shook. "What happened? Did... did the shadows take you?"
I ignored the second man. I needed to free myself.
I pushed the unconscious body off me with my right hand. He rolled onto the floor with a heavy thud.
I looked at my shoulder. The dagger was still there, quivering slightly. Blood was soaking the thin, grey tunic of this body.
I gripped the handle with my right hand. I didn't hesitate. I didn't count to three. I just pulled.
The blade slid out with a sickening squelch. Fresh blood sprayed, warm and sticky. The pain spiked, making my vision swim with black spots, but my face remained impassive.
I tested the edge of the knife with my thumb. It was dull, essentially a serrated saw because of the rust. Perfect for rope.
I leaned over and began to saw at the bindings on my left wrist. It took thirty seconds of sawing to snap the thick hemp.
Once my left hand was free, I untied my ankles and my right wrist.
I sat up on the altar and swung my legs over the edge. My bare feet hit the cold stone floor. I stood up, swaying slightly from the blood loss.
The second cultist was pressed against the far wall, clutching a wooden holy symbol. He was staring at me with horror.
"You... you aren't the sacrifice," he stammered, his eyes darting from the blood on my tunic to the dead man on the floor. "What are you?"
I looked at him. I felt no anger toward him for trying to kill me. I felt no pity for his fear. I only calculated his value. He was weak, cowardly, and useless as a subordinate. But he likely had keys to the exit.
I tightened my grip on the rusty dagger.
"I am the rewrite," I said softly.
I took a step forward.