From Righteous To Villain

I never believed in second chances—or rather, I never believed I deserved one. Or needed one. If you'd asked me ten years ago whether I was happy with the life I led, I might've smiled, certain that doing everything by the book and putting others first was the right way to live, expecting that they would think the same way and help me just the same when I was in a bad spot. But looking back, with the benefit of… well, hindsight is complicated when you're on death's doorstep. I see now just how deeply my own kindness set me up for disaster. How blind I was…

That last day, I woke up before the sun even thought about peeking over the horizon. I did so to the same battered alarm clock that had been one of my bitter enemies for years. I was nothing but a creature of habit. I followed the same routine: shower first, toast second, wash it down with coffee, and then I was straight out the door. My modest apartment was left behind as I walked briskly, catching the bus to work. It was a chilly November morning, and I remember the faint twinge in my chest I felt as I climbed onto the bus—nothing major, just a flutter of discomfort. It was troubling me for months, but… Who has time to go and visit a doctor when you work until late? I brushed it aside. It never hurt or made me lose my breath.

My workplace was in a drab, featureless office cubicle in a mid-tier company. I was never the star performer, but I always believed in working with the team and playing by the rules: do your job, get recognized with the group, and move up the ranks eventually. My manager, a man named Osborne, was always nice to my face, praising me for "dedicated service" and "my reliability." That day, while standing in his office, filled with the musty smell of burnt coffee, I discovered just how hollow those compliments really were. His speech went like this, bringing the tinge in my chest a level higher:

"Auriel, you've been a real asset, but… we're tightening up. Budget cuts. This is a tough decision. I'm sure you understand." Then he gave me a remorseful smile, the sort you might provide a stray dog before shooing it out of your yard.

At that moment, I felt actually lightheaded. The job was my only real anchor in a life that, in retrospect, was shaky at best. I'd been promised a raise the month before, right after finally becoming brave enough to start asking for it. So, once again, to finally be acknowledged, I asked Osborne about it again. He just shook his head, muttering about "reallocations" and "unforeseen circumstances." I wanted to fight back, to stand up for myself, but the way he looked at me—with that apologetic, gently dismissive gaze—made me shrink into my old patterns of acceptance. My heart pounded. That squeezing feeling was now stronger… I chalked it up to being furious at being humiliated this way. But I just nodded and collected my final paycheck.

Walking out of that building felt like stepping off a ledge. I'd lost my job just like that. I don't think I processed it that time. My savings were almost nonexistent, mainly because I'd lent a good chunk of it to a supposed friend who had never repaid me. He just skipped town after being my friend for ten years. That was me: a stand-up guy, the soft touch with a big heart. Which kept hurting even more…

Then, my phone buzzed just as I reached the sidewalk. It was another friend, Beck, calling in a panic. She'd missed rent—again—and needed my help. I stared at the phone, the anxiety mounting. Even then, I considered it. Even then, I thought that maybe I should help her. She needs me. I tried to answer, but my chest twinged again, making me fumble the device. It clattered to the ground, the screen shattering on impact as if mirroring my own imminent breakdown. Sorry Beck… I won't lend you anything now.

I ended up wandering for hours, avoiding going back to my apartment. The place was a reminder of every obligation and debt I'd accumulated and the fact I could not pay them off, not after today. Kindness had always been my guiding principle, but it felt like the world had found a way to punish me for it… Rain started to fall in cold sheets, and I couldn't afford a taxi or even an umbrella. I clutched my last paycheck, knowing that I had to live off it until I found a new job. But… how? It was barely enough to pay one month of rent… What about food? I had to do something… So I trudged on, soaking wet, until I finally made it to my building.

What happened next is a blur of shouting and regret. My landlord was waiting by the door, arms folded, lips pressed tight. He launched into a tirade about my previous late payment and about the noise complaints from my neighbors––which I suspected they exaggerated—or deflected onto me, the bastards. Now, he was going on about how he was done giving me any leeway. When did he ever do that? The tension in my chest coiled tighter with each word as I listened... I could barely breathe by now, but I tried to reason with him, to promise I'd pay as soon as I sorted things out. My manager had only just let me go that morning, after all. He wasn't having any of it. I felt trapped. 

Why is everyone turning on me? Why now? I wondered in desperation, even though a small voice inside my skull whispered it was my own fault for trusting people too much and never looking after myself first.

Seeing me zoning out, I watched as he stormed off, muttering threats of eviction, leaving me trembling in the lobby. That was when my phone, half-broken but still functioning enough to receive texts, buzzed again. Another message from Beck asked me—no, she was demanding—that I help her pay rent immediately. I wanted to scream at her, to throw the phone against the wall. My ears started to ring, my chest pounded really loud, and black spots floated in my vision. Then came another text.

"Help me, Auriel! You promised you wouldn't let me down!" she wrote. This time, a genuine wave of rage and despair crashed through me, so overwhelming it nearly caused me to black out.

Then, the final blow: a text from a coworker—someone I'd thought was a trusted colleague—gloating about a promotion he got using my research and suggestions. He was thanking me for paving the way. I don't know if he was genuinely thanking me… or he was doing it sarcastically. Whichever it was, something inside me broke.

Maybe it was my heart, literally, or perhaps it was a final thread of sanity snapping. I recall the phone slipping from my fingers and the world tilting sideways. My knees hit the tile floor. My breath wouldn't come properly. The searing pain in my chest felt like being set on fire. I collapsed, feeling my pulse hammer at the edges of my consciousness, threatening my skull to explode.

They say your life flashes before your eyes in the moment of death. In that haze, I saw a move about betrayals and humiliations. My father told me to be a good person. My mother's hand was on my cheek when she said to always be kind. While right behind them, Beck took cash from my wallet and told me a sob story. My landlord was looking over their shoulders, sneering that I dare die on his turf because of how much it would cost him. Osborne was somewhere close by because I heard him repeat the word "unfortunately." It was a parade of heartbreak threaded with a single poisonous truth: none of this would have happened if I'd been selfish enough to put myself before others a little more.

My entire body vibrated with panic. I saw flickers of white light, and then everything faded. I remember thinking—the last thought in my consciousness: never again. That was the last coherent idea I had in that world.

…

….

…..

Suddenly, I was awake—awake, but… somewhere else. My eyes snapped open, and for a moment, I thought my vision was still spotted with black splotches. Only, these weren't illusions. They were silhouettes of thick, ancient trees, dozens of meters tall, leaning over me like curious aliens. My body felt stiff and heavy, lying on something damp and cold. Then it hit me: the smell of smoke, blood, and wet Earth rushing into my nostrils. My head pounded just the same… but my chest wasn't squeezing as before.

I exhaled, coughed hard, and propped myself up on an elbow. That's when I noticed them: bodies were thrown across a clearing—human bodies, not animals. Some of them were wearing battered leather armor; others were clothed in what looked like merchants' attire from a movie. There were a few wagons, ransacked, half-smashed, wheels shattered, and crates overturned, thrown about around them. The metallic stench of blood made my stomach twist. The entire scene looked like a warzone or the site of a brutal robbery.

My heart raced again, a wild panic rising in my throat. Where… Where was I? Instinctively, my hand went to my pocket for my phone, but of course, it wasn't there. Instead, my fingers grazed over something foreign—a bracelet with a small metal plate attached to it. Squinting in the dim light, I made out letters etched in it. "Auriel." Well… that was my name, but it was crafted in an old-fashioned script. Wait? This wasn't the alphabet I was used to… Huh? Looking closer, beneath it, a smaller engraving was readable: "Bronze-Tier Adventurer." Adventurer? Tier?

I felt a twinge of confusion while I gathered my strength and stood up, my legs still shaking. My clothes were strange, too: a coarse tunic stained with what might have been blood and mud. Was it… my blood? As I ran a hand through my hair, trying to steady my breathing, a wave of unfamiliar memories crashed into me. Images of sword drills, a wooden training yard, the muffled ring of steel on steel. Faces I couldn't place—gruff men, stern trainers, a tattered sign reading… A Guild Hall. They fluttered through my mind like half-forgotten dreams. At that moment, I wondered if I was still dying on the cold tiles of my apartment building's lobby, hallucinating a bizarre fantasy from the last show I watched or what…? Or if I had truly passed on and this was some twisted afterlife. Was I sent to hell? Weird. I expected more fire.

Whichever it was, the smell and touch of the place felt very real. The breeze going past my cheeks, the ground clinging to my boots, and the dull ache radiating through every muscle of my body were all happening. So I had to be here…

I took a step toward the nearest wagon and almost tripped on a corpse. I froze, staring into the vacant eyes of a man around my age—about forty. There was a crossbow bolt deep in his chest. Blood, looking black in the moonlight, had soaked into his tunic. My insides churned. I almost vomited when another wave of memories rushed in: a group of bandits in the darkness, screams, the clashing screams of weapons—a frantic battle in the midst of a forest trail. I remembered… One of them lunged at me—no, lunged at… at the Auriel I seemed to have become. The recollection vanished as quickly as it had arrived, leaving me trembling and queasy.

I needed to make sense of this. Or I will go crazy! Maybe I already had. I tried focusing on it, but my thoughts were a disjointed scramble. One thing was clear, though: whoever I was in the last moment of my life—timid, overworked, and exploited—I was no longer that man. I won't be. I can't be. Not in the same sense. This body, these fragmented memories, this… place. If it was real, then I somehow had obtained a second chance. And as horrifying as the thought of it was, something about it thrilled me. I could sense a raw potential in my clenched fists. In that instant, I remembered the final resolution that had blazed in my mind just as everything went black: never again.

"Yes…" I whispered to myself, focusing on that feeling, "Never again."

I knelt by one of the overturned crates, rummaging through the scattered belongings for anything useful. My hands found a chipped short sword, a quiver with only two bolts left, and a small pouch containing a handful of copper and silver coins. My breath was still ragged, probably from how my adrenaline spiked as I surveyed the carnage and how I was surrounded by death. The bandits who had done this might return, or maybe they'd moved on to some other unlucky travelers. Either way, I couldn't stay here. Staring at that short sword, I felt an odd familiarity. Gripping its hilt, I realized I knew its weight and how it should move in my hand—memories from that other version of Auriel, who had met his end here, swirling in my mind.

"I don't know what happened…. But thanks, other me." I muttered, looking at the weapon.

My old life had ended in heartbreak. My new one began in blood. Ironic.

I stepped away from the bodies after I collected all the scraps from the broken wagons, from the ghosts of my past companions. And form both of my past selves, in a way. There was no time for tears or reflection. If I wanted to survive in this… wherever this place was, be it the afterlife or not, I couldn't hesitate. While leaving, heading in a random direction, I was telling myself the same thing over and over.

I couldn't let pity or indecision slow me down. I'd wasted enough years living by other people's rules.

The moon glinted through the thick canopy as I took one last look at the ravaged caravan. Then I started walking into the forest, sword in hand, heart beating like a war drum. I felt alive—more alive, strangely, than I ever had before. This time, no one would exploit me without consequences.