I couldn't the megathread for stats and promos... if someone can point me in the right direction...
Anyway, I feel really proud of myself! I had a shitty day, started late... Honestly thought about not even streaming tonight. But I did!
“Welcome to Mel’s!” she called, her voice as warm as the scents emanating from the kitchen. “Can I interest you in our special this morning?”
Willis shook his head as he approached. “No, thank you. Ellen wanted to know if you’ve got any honey butter made up.”
Mel snorted. “That Elvish nose of hers, I swear. I just finished a batch.” She tilted her head. “How much are you gettin’?”
“I'm still trying to figure out the currency… but if I'm right, all of it, plus profits.”
Mel took the coins as a light smile spread across her face. "So, how's Angharra treating you?"
Willis blinked. “Hmm?”
Her smile held as she continued, "It took me a second, but I remember you now. You came in about a month ago lookin’ like you’d gone through a famine.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
Mel chuckled, cutting him off with a raised hand.
“Don’t worry. It ain’t that rare, you know. Folks come back different all the time.”
She leaned on the counter, studying him.
“So? Where were you from, your past life? New York? Jersey? No... definitely New York."
Willis stood there, stunned.
Mel simply bit her bottom lip and swayed gently, side to side, her straight dark‑brown and auburn hair falling in small tendrils from the bun at the back of her head. Once again, Willis found himself at a loss for words. She may just have knowledge of Earth second-hand, I mean Aztar never said I had to keep it a secret. He thought as he cleared his throat
“I’m from New York, originally. I was a local martial arts champion. But then… you know. Died. Wound up here.”
Mel shifted her weight forward, absently playing with her hair, her chest brushing against the edge of the counter. “That’s… really cool,” she said with a smile. “I’m from Philly myself. I've been here for... ten years I think? I came to Angharra as a 5 year old." She paused for a minute before continuing. “Let me grab that butter. Tear’s Crown is a long trip, sooner you get moving, the sooner you can get back.”
Just how many people from Earth were reincarnated here? Willis thought as he watched her leave.
A few minutes later, she returned with a full basket in one hand and a large steel box in the other. In the basket were bread loaves fresh from the oven, blueberry muffins, ground coffee beans, a steel French press, and a tall mug of hot java. “This is for the butter,” she said, patting the container. “Double‑walled steel, insulated, like one of those thermoses we used back home just, obviously larger and the lid has a one way pressure valve. Packed with dry ice it will keep the butter cold for days without any runes."
Thank you guys for reading, I would appreciate actual advice because I'm stumped at what feels off about this.
Brian hit the mat hard on his back. His sensei had thrown him down with such force that, for a moment, he couldn’t tell whether he’d landed on the cushioned mat or the concrete beneath it. His breath fled his lungs in a painful rush.
As he lay there gasping, his teacher — Krymov Talishkov — stood over him, yelling and ridiculing him. Krymov wasn’t taking it easy on him for losing the State Championship last week.
Brian had only been training for a year. He’d entered the tournament because he’d finally gained enough confidence to try. For once in his life, he wasn’t the shy, quiet kid who ran from confrontation. He’d fought his way through the brackets, surprising everyone — including himself.
Until Willis stepped into the ring.
They were the same height, same weight, same build… but Willis was simply better. More experienced. More composed. Brian knew it. That’s why he’d ended the fight early.
But Krymov didn’t care.
The man was a retired MMA world champion — fifty‑four years old, six‑foot‑three, two‑hundred‑forty pounds of hardened muscle. Russian‑born, brutal, and merciless.
“…did you know that, boy?!” Krymov barked as Brian regained his senses. “I never lost a match. Not one. I got hit, sure. I got beaten up plenty. But I never — NEVER — lost a fight as badly as you did. You’re pathetic!”
Brian’s face flushed hot with anger. He pushed himself up.
“I did my best! Willis was more experienced — a better fighter!”
He raised his fists, breath shaking.
“Let me show you what I’ve got. I’m tired of you beating on me and insulting me. This ends now!”
Krymov stared at him, amused.
“I hope you’re ready to explain to your family how you ended up in the hospital from a sparring match,” he said calmly, tightening his gloves. “Accidents happen.”
Brian charged, sweeping for Krymov’s legs. He was faster than he’d ever been — fast enough to almost catch his teacher off‑guard. Krymov hopped back, avoiding the sweep, then countered with a sharp kick to Brian’s shoulder.
Brian tried to slip the blow, but it still sent him stumbling.
Krymov pressed forward, striking at Brian’s face. Brian blocked one, stepped inside, and managed to grapple him. For a moment, he had leverage — he stepped behind Krymov’s leg and threw him off‑balance.
Both men crashed to the ground.
Brian landed on top and threw several desperate strikes before Krymov forced a hand through his guard, gripping Brian by the neck and pushing upward with frightening strength.
“You feel that?” Krymov growled as Brian struggled for breath.
He struck Brian again — a hard, disorienting blow that sent him reeling. Brian tried to stand, but his legs wobbled beneath him. His vision blurred.
Krymov looked at him with disgust.
Then he stepped in and delivered a single, heavy strike to the side of Brian’s head.
Brian collapsed.
His body twitched once… then went still.
Krymov stood over him, breathing hard. “Like I said. Pathetic.”
He spat beside him and walked off to grab a water bottle.
When he returned, Brian hadn’t moved.
“Cut the act and get up,” Krymov said, nudging his leg with his foot.
No response.
He poured cold water over Brian’s face.
Still nothing.
A chill crept up Krymov’s spine. He knelt and checked for a pulse.
Nothing.
“Well…” he muttered, standing slowly. “That’s unfortunate. But like I said…”
“Mistakes happen,” a woman’s voice purred.
Krymov froze.
“Oh…” she practically moaned, “you have so much hatred.”
“Who’s there?!” Krymov snapped, spinning around. The gym was empty — he’d locked it hours ago.
“I’m over here,” she whispered, her voice now drifting from the mirrored wall.
He approached cautiously.
“Yes… closer,” she coaxed. “Come to me.”
A dark cloud spread across the mirror, swallowing his reflection. The glass rippled like water. Thick, armored tentacles emerged from the cloud, clawing against the surface, scraping with a shrill, unnatural sound.
The mirror shattered.
Risara stepped through the void — pale skin, dark green eyes, black hair flowing like smoke. The air around her twisted with malice.
Krymov stumbled back. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Risara,” she said, rolling the last syllable like silk. “Goddess of Hatred. And I — or rather, we — have a proposition for you.”
She gestured to a man sitting casually on a nearby weight bench.
He looked about forty, thin, pale, with salt‑and‑pepper hair and sharp emerald eyes. He wore simple jean shorts and sandals, as if he’d wandered in from a beach.
“What’s the proposal?” Krymov asked.
The man smiled. “We want you to join us. Become a god. Recruit or eliminate the other gods and goddesses of this world. Then we move on to the next world. Rinse and repeat.”
He gave a small wave. “Name’s Flimmick. God of Greed.”
Krymov considered it. Immortality. Power. Worship.
“What do I have to do?” he asked.
“Well,” Flimmick said lightly, “that’s the part most people don’t like. To share my power with you… you have to die first. By your own hand. Then you’ll meet this realm’s God of Life and Death. He’ll give you the basics. After that, I’ll show him our contract, and you’ll ascend.”
Krymov nodded slowly. “Do you have the contract?”
Flimmick grinned. “I do.”
He produced a parchment and, with a flick of his wrist, summoned a ceremonial dagger — ornate, double‑edged, decorated with sapphire and bronze.
“Just a thumbprint in blood,” Flimmick said.
Krymov took the dagger and parchment.
“What kind of god will you be?” Flimmick asked.
Krymov smirked. “A God of War.”
He cut his finger, pressed the bloody thumb to the parchment, and sealed the contract.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now,” Risara said softly, “you must die. By your own hand.”
Krymov looked down at the dagger. He hesitated only a moment — then made his choice.
He acted quickly, decisively.
Risara and Flimmick watched in silence as he fell to his knees, then to his side, breath fading.
Flimmick exhaled. “Seppuku. It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone choose that method. Especially in this day and age.” He let out a slight sigh. "I wonder why he didn't choose a quicker method."
Risara stepped over Krymov’s body, eyes gleaming.
“It doesn’t matter. We have our God of War.”
She opened a swirling portal of darkness.
“Let’s go to war.”