CRASH-BANG!
A flash of lightning bleached the room, momentarily turning it into a photographic negative. The old wardrobe in the corner creaked ominously; the curtains flared from a gust of wind tearing through the ajar window. Karina bolted upright in bed, clutching the quilt to her chest.
"Blimey!" she squeaked. "Is this the apocalypse? I haven't even hit a save point!"
Outside, it was pure hell. The sky was as black as the Assassin’s soul (the very one she had been daydreaming about all night). The rain lashed down with such ferocity it seemed the house might be washed away like a sandcastle. Karina reached for the bedside table to flip the lamp and check the time.
The lamp stayed dark.
"Oi!" she fumed. "Power’s out?"
Her smartphone showed fifteen percent battery and the treacherous icon of a crossed-out antenna.
"No..." Karina whispered, feeling a chill settle in her gut. "Not this. Anything but the internet!"
Forgetting the cold floor and the fact that her only attire was a pair of "Scarlet Temptress" knickers (the bra having vanished in the dark), she leapt out of bed.
"What about the stream?" she panicked, pacing the room. "What about my Assassin? He’s waiting! He’s probably sat in the bushes right now, whetting his knives and thinking: 'Where’s my princess? Why hasn't she logged in?'"
Karina pressed her nose against the cold glass. The entire cottage estate was drowning in torrents of water. The vegetable patches had turned into rice paddies; the apple tree her grandad loved to sit under was bending to the earth, shedding unripe fruit.
"Why is it always like this?!" she groaned, sliding down the windowsill. Her pose—knees apart, back arched—was worthy of a magazine cover; a shame no one was there to see it. "I’ve only just bought new gear! I haven't even tried on the Abyss Spider lingerie set!"
Downstairs, something crashed.
"Grandad!" Karina remembered. "He’s either terrified of the storm or he's the one summoning it!"
Quickly pulling on her "dacha" shorts (which were more like a belt) and a camisole, she slid her feet into her pink sliders and raced downstairs. The house was dark and damp, smelling of ozone and old newspapers.
"Grandad!" she called out. "Where are you? Are you alright?"
There was no answer, only the roar of the rain and the howl of the wind. The kitchen was empty. The lounge was empty.
she thought in horror.
She ran out onto the porch. The wind whipped wet hair across her face; her camisole instantly clung to her body, but Karina didn't care. She peered into the grey shroud of rain.
And then she saw him.
In the middle of the garden, ankle-deep in mud, an epic battle was unfolding. Grandad Ignat—in his habitual striped vest, anchor-print boxers, and a black rubber wellie on his head (this time worn peak-forward like a rapper)—was chasing a chicken. The very same speckled hen he had christened "Agent Speckles."
"Stand still, you traitor!" he bellowed, trying to reach the bird with a ladle. "Hand over the cipher! I know you’ve leaked the access codes to the cellar!"
The hen—wet, ruffled, and clearly disgruntled—was darting across the patches with surprising speed: weaving between tomato plants, hopping over puddles, and squawking something that sounded suspiciously like a string of profanities.
"Cluck-cluck-bloody-cluck!" she shrieked, dodging another swing.
"Grandad!" Karina shouted. "What are you doing? You’ll catch your death! Get inside!"
But Ignat was in his element.
"Element of Water, obey me!" he roared, slipping on the mud and performing a pirouette worthy of an Olympic skater. "I, the Great Archmage Ignat, command thee: stop this rabid bird!"
At that exact moment, lightning struck the nearby transformer box. There was a sharp crack and a shower of sparks. The hen, spooked by the thunder, screeched to a halt, spun 180 degrees, and... went on the offensive. A common garden layer, driven to the edge (or the ladle), decided that the best defence was a good offence. Puffing out her wet feathers until she resembled an enraged loo brush, she charged at the old man with a battle cry.
"Cluck-cluck-FOR THE PARAS!" (or something to that effect) she squawked, pecking her opponent right on the heel protruding from his woolly sock.
"Ow!" the Archmage shrieked. "Perimeter breach! The enemy is using illegal manouevres!"
Dropping the ladle, Grandad turned tail and ran. The scene shifted: the old man in his boxers and boot led the way, followed by a chicken flapping its wings and spraying mud.
Karina stood on the porch, wet, shivering, and unsure whether to laugh or cry. The situation was surreal. She desperately wanted to be away from this damp reality—back in the cave, next to a fit Assassin in black leather.
"Why is this my life?" she sighed, watching her grandad do laps around the apple tree. "In the other world, I’m a star, the scourge of ogres, and every man's dream. But here... I’m watching my grandad lose a PVP match to a chicken."
She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. Her wet camisole slipped, exposing a shoulder. Karina instinctively struck a pose, even though the only spectator was the neighbour's cat, watching the chaos from the fence in absolute horror.
"Oh, Assassin..." she whispered. "If only you could see me now. Draggled, miserable... You’d definitely save me. Wrap me in your cloak. Keep me warm..."
Another roll of thunder shattered her daydream.
"Granddaughter! Open the portal!" Grandad yelled, racing toward the porch. "I’m retreating to pre-prepared positions!"
Karina sighed, pushed the door wide, and stepped aside to let her wet, muddy, but undefeated relative inside. The hen, with a triumphant cluck, remained outside, shaking herself off like a victor.
"No power, no internet," the girl summarised, closing the door. "And a grandad who thinks he’s Merlin. Brilliant start to the day. Just bloody marvellous."
She looked toward the cellar stairs. Down there, in the dark, sat her "portal." A useless hunk of junk without electricity.
"Never mind," Karina whispered. "The storm won't last forever. And you, my sweet Assassin, aren't going anywhere. I’ll find you even if I have to dig you up. And then... then we’ll see who loots who."
The rain poured as if the heavenly office had decided to finish a five-year quota for precipitation in a single day. Grey torrents hammered the roof and streaked the glass, turning the "Zarya" cottage estate into a dreary branch of Atlantis.
Karina settled on the windowsill, tucking her legs in. She was still wearing her short denim shorts and the soaked camisole, which was only half-dry and felt unpleasantly cold against her skin. She was too lazy to change. And for whom? For her grandad, who was downstairs building an ark out of sofa cushions and old skis?
“Booooored…” the girl drawled, tracing patterns on the fogged-up glass with her finger. “When is the power coming back? I’m going through proper withdrawal without my likes. My content is just rotting away!”
She pressed her forehead against the cold pane and sighed. Usually, in moments like these, her hand would instinctively reach for her phone—to get lost in social media, like some cat videos, hate-scroll past her rivals (especially that cow Lenka, who definitely bought bot-followers), or take a ‘Cozy Autumn’ selfie even though it was July. But now, the smartphone screen was a black void, reflecting only her own slightly miserable face.
She was forced to do her absolute least favourite thing: think.
Her thoughts, usually content to trot along the comfortable circuit of ‘clothes—makeup—food—boys,’ had gone off-piste today. They kept returning to the events of last night. To the stinking cave. To the horrific (but admittedly impressive) Ogre. And, of course, to Him
“Love…” Karina whispered, testing the word on her tongue. “What even is it? Is it like… when you find the perfect foundation that doesn't oxidize? Or when someone donates a year's salary in one go?”
Karina had never been in love. Honestly.
In school, boys had pulled her hair and then followed her around like lost puppies, carrying her bag and drooling. At uni, blokes wrote her essays for her, gifted her bouquets of a hundred roses, and took her to the cinema to see films where things just blew up. But to Karina, they were all just… well, like NPCs. Identical, boring, and running on basic scripts.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“They’re just children,” she huffed, remembering her last suitor, who had tried to impress her by downing a pint of lager and belching the alphabet. “Noisy, dim-witted children. I mean, I’m no Marie Curie myself, and I still struggle with my nine-times table, but at least I’m fit! But them? Socks with sandals and talking about crypto. Dead boring.”
She had always reckoned love was like a brand collaboration. You’re pretty, he’s rich. Or you’re famous, and he’s… well, very famous. A mutually beneficial exchange of resources and reach.
But last night, something had glitched in that perfect system.
“Maybe I’m just frigid?” she thought with a tinge of sadness, drawing a heart on the glass and then crossing it out. “Or too picky? My mates say I’m waiting for a prince. But why would I want a prince? Princes usually have skinny trousers, rubbish haircuts, and a load of posh relatives who’ll judge me for using the wrong fork for oysters. Hard pass.”
No, she didn’t need a prince. She needed…
At the thought of being rescued, her heart skipped a beat, then started thumping in her throat. The image of the Assassin rose before her eyes again.
Black, matte armour that looked like the night itself, hugging his body like a second skin. No stupid capes or shiny plate-mail. Just pure, predatory functionality. And the definition. Good lord, the definition! Karina was certain you could do laundry on his abs and crack walnuts on his biceps.
And his silence? That was practically a work of art.
“He didn't even ask for my number,” Karina whispered, biting her lip and feeling a flush creep over her cheeks. “He didn't tell me how brilliant I was. He didn't ask for a selfie. He just… did the job and left. Like a proper man. He took the loot, of course… but that’s actually quite fit. It means he’s a provider. Everything for the home, everything for the family.”
Her imagination, raised on cheap romance novels and NC-17 fanfics, immediately began painting a picture of their future.
There they are, walking through a dark forest. She’s in a new dress with a neckline down to her navel, and he’s in his black leather. Dragons attack. He lazily slaughters them with one hand without even letting go of her waist.
“I wonder what he looks like under the mask?” she mused. “Probably a brunette. With a jawline so sharp you could cut yourself on it. And a bit of stubble that would tickle… everywhere. And his eyes would be grey and cold… but when he looks at me, they’ll turn hot as lava! And he’ll say: 'Kary, you’re so dim, but you’re so sweet. Come here, I’ll protect you from the taxman and the haters.'”
She remembered the moment of impact. How her palms had touched his chest. Firm. Hot. Dangerous. It wasn't like with normal blokes, who felt like either jelly or a clothes-rack. There was power there. A hidden threat.
Her legs, dangling from the windowsill, began to tremble. A thick, sweet feeling pooled in her gut—the kind she usually only felt when seeing a ninety-percent-off sale on Jimmy Choos. But this was stronger. Deeper. And it definitely wasn't about shoes.
“Oh…” she exhaled, hugging her own shoulders and squeezing her eyes shut with pleasure. “I want to see him again. To have him save me again. Maybe I should find a dragon? Or a Kraken? Just to be sure? So he comes, sweeps me up, and carries me to his castle… or his cave, fine. If we air it out and bin the hides, I could make it cozy. I’ll put up some fairy lights, get some scented candles…”
She giggled, imagining the broody Assassin sitting in a cave surrounded by pink pillows, sipping a latte.
“No, we’ll reform him,” she decided. “Just a bit. We’ll get him an Instagram. @Assassin_Official. I’ll be his manager. We’ll be the most popular couple in the multiverse! Brad and Angelina would be shaking in their boots!”
Something crashed downstairs with a thunderous roar, shattering her daydreams of global fame and hardcore cave-romance.
“Abandon ship!” her grandad bellowed, his voice full of panicked delight. “The hold is breached! The rats are fleeing! Barnaby, batten down the hatches! Hard to port! We’re ramming the greenhouse!”
Karina rolled her eyes. The romantic vibe was ruthlessly crushed by the grim reality of cottage life, where instead of fit assassins, there was only a grandad in a rubber boot.
“Brilliant,” she muttered huffily. “Grandad’s at war with the furniture again. Completely ruined the mood. And I’m stuck here, damp, without internet, dreaming about a bloke who might not even exist. What if he’s just an admin? Or an advanced NPC? Or… a woman with a deep voice?”
But the shiver in her body and the heat in her gut told a different story. Bots don't smell like leather, steel, and danger. Bots don't make you feel so… small, so silly, and so incredibly wanted.
The power was still out. The rain continued to wash away the garden and any hope of a stream. Sitting by the window, staring into the grey mist, Karina felt for the first time in her life that she didn't need Wi-Fi to connect to something important. She didn't need likes from strangers. She needed the entrance to that world. To the dusty cellar. To the old, humming computer.
“Wait for me, my hero,” she whispered to the glass, where her breath had left a foggy patch. She drew a smiley face on it with hearts for eyes. “I’m coming soon. I’ll find you, even if you’ve got level-one-hundred stealth. And this time, I’m not letting you go without… a reward.”
The rain that had tormented the roof all day finally gave up by nightfall, replaced by a hollow, damp silence. Karina had drifted off right there on the windowsill, her nose pressed against the frame. She dreamed of the Assassin feeding her strawberries by hand, but for some reason, the berries were square and smelled of pixels, and the man suddenly started speaking with her grandad's voice.
CLICK!
A sharp flash hit her eyes. The desk lamp, which Karina had tried in vain to turn on that morning, sprang to life. Simultaneously, the loud blare of the television drifted up from downstairs—someone was advertising haemorrhoid cream with incredible theatricality.
“Aah!” the girl jerked, nearly falling off the windowsill. “The lights! The power’s back!”
She rubbed her eyes and gave a long, luxurious stretch, arching her back so much her camisole rode up nearly to her chest.
“Finally!” she purred. “Civilisation has returned! My subscribers, I am coming for you!”
But first, she had to check the situation.
Karina headed down the creaky stairs into the lounge. The old telly—the pride and curse of the house—was screaming at full volume. In an old armchair, head back and mouth open, slept Grandad Ignat. A plate of congealed, cold buckwheat (the signature kind, with lumps of fat) was balanced precariously on his lap. His boot-hat had slipped to the side, covering one ear, and his hand was frantically clutching the remote like a grenade.
“Oh, Grandad…” she whispered fondly. “Great Archmage, and you sleep just like any other pensioner. Didn't even beat the chicken.”
She tiptoed to the television and hit the off button. Silence covered the room like a soft blanket. Then, Karina carefully—trying not to wake the ‘perimeter guard’—took the plate.
Ignat gave a snort, smacked his lips, and muttered in his sleep:
“Mana’s… gone… need a regen…”
“Sleep well, regenerator,” the girl smiled.
She found an old, moth-eaten tartan rug on the sofa and tucked it around him. He immediately buried his nose in the scratchy wool, snoring cozily.
“Right then, civic duty done,” she said to herself, placing the plate on the table. “Now—to glory!”
Her heart beat faster. Somewhere in that other world, he was waiting. The silent hero. And thousands of viewers, starving for content. Karina descended into the cellar. The smell of damp and wet earth hit her nose.
“Oh boy…” she commented, freezing on the bottom step.
The floor had turned into a lake. The water was ankle-deep, and in some places reached her knees, black and gleaming in the light of the single bulb. Plastic bottles, old gardening magazines, and a lonely rubber galosh drifted across this mini-sea like ghost ships.
“Venice on a budget,” the streamer smirked. “I hope the gondoliers don't turn up.”
She eyed the desk in the corner with a look of trepidation. It sat upon a small makeshift podium, rising out of the water like a treasure island. The floodwater lapped at the legs of the desk but hadn’t yet reached the tabletop. The ancient computer tower was humming like a power station, and the monitor glowed invitingly with a blue welcome screen.
"Phew, close one," Karina exhaled. "My precious is still in the land of the living!"
Kicking off her pink sliders, she took a brave step into the water.
The cold sludge sent a sharp chill through her bare feet.
"Brrr!" the girl shivered, lifting her knees high and bunching up her shorts to keep them dry—though they were already as short as humanly possible. "Is this some real-life survival quest? 'Cross the River Styx without catching trench foot'?"
Reaching the chair, which was thankfully perched on a stack of bricks, she plopped into it and tucked her wet feet up under her.
"Right then," she said, rubbing her palms together. "Login!"
Her fingers danced across the familiar keys:
Login: Kary_Streamer
Password
She hit Enter
The world around her flickered. The reality of the cellar began to dissolve, giving way to pixels and sorcery. But Karina didn't see what happened in the real world at that very second. Somewhere beneath the desk, submerged in the black water, an old extension lead—wrapped in electrical tape dating back to the Soviet era—began to hiss quietly. The water had found its way to the exposed wires.
BZZZT!
A short, angry spark raced through the wiring. The system unit jolted, the fans gave one final, dying howl, and the monitor went pitch black. The sharp tang of burnt plastic filled the air. But Karina was already gone.
"...and we’re back on air!" she cried out joyfully, opening her eyes.
The familiar scent of the forest hit her—along with the lingering pong of that stinking cave. Karina was standing in the exact spot where she had logged out: right at the entrance to the Ogre’s Lair. It was night, but the moon was bright, drenching the clearing in silver light.
"Hello, my lovelies!" she waved at the empty air, knowing Dronny was close by.
Sure enough, her faithful drone emerged from the bushes with a happy bleep and immediately took up its favourite position—low and behind—capturing a close-up of its mistress’s legs in their white stockings and the lace knickers peeking out from under her red skirt.
[Chat_Bot]: Stream is LIVE! Viewers: 5,432.
[Simp_King]: Kary! You’re back! We thought your grandad had bricked you up in the cellar!
[Tactician]
"Oh, you lot won't believe it," Karina chirped, adjusting her corset, which after yesterday’s escapades felt like a second skin, pushing her chest up even further. "I’ve had a proper detox! Thunderstorms, candlelight... well, nearly. Grandad was chasing a chicken round the garden! It was pure cringe; I’m gutted I didn't get a Story of it."
She turned toward the cave.
"Anyway, back to our sheep... or rather, our ogres."
A translucent lock and a timer hung over the entrance:
[Bone-Cruncher’s Lair]
[Status: Cleared]
[Time until Boss Respawn: 5 days 23 hours 58 minutes]
Karina pouted.
"Oh, brilliant," she drawled, disappointed. "A week! A whole bloody week until he respawns! And I wanted to go back in and get my own back. Show him who’s the boss... er... milkmaid."
[Hater_123]
"Bog off, you!" Karina snapped, sticking her tongue out at the camera. "He and I have a... a mental connection. He’ll be back. I know it. He’s just shy about his fame."
She spun on her heels, and her skirt—obeying the laws of physics and fan-service—flared out like a scarlet bell, giving her viewers a perfect view of her white lace and little bow.
"Actually, stuff that ogre," the girl decided with a wave of her hand. "I wasn't exactly dying to smell his socks again anyway. Let’s head back to the village! There’s the notice board, the tavern... maybe someone’s lost a cat? Or needs a fit prince saving from a wicked witch?"
She slung her gargantuan sword over her shoulder, struck a catwalk pose, and started down the path.
"Dronny, put on some music for an epic entrance! Something... heroic, but with a bit of bass!"
The drone bleeped and began playing a sort of lute-based dubstep.
"Onward to new adventures!" Karina proclaimed, swaying her hips to the beat. "And by the way, if we run into that Assassin again... remind me to ask what his star sign is. It’s important!"
She vanished into the moonlit forest, glistening and gorgeous in her own dim-witted way, completely unaware that her path back to the real world had just been severed by burnt wiring and the black water of the cellar. But that was a problem for future Karina. For now, she had a stream, five thousand viewers, and a whole world full of unsuspecting monsters and, hopefully, some fit blokes.