I woke up inside my friend's video game

Blinking away the oppressive darkness, Nikolai and I emerged atop a small hill, greeted by Skyrim's biting night air. Once a harbinger of unseen dangers, the cold now felt invigorating, carrying with it a promise of freedom.

Beside me, Nikolai sputtered and coughed, spitting dust and muttering curses, his disorientation mirroring my own. The moonlight revealed his disheveled hair and the dirt smudges streaking his face, remnants of our turbulent journey.

Malik, our gruff savior, stood motionless under the moon's silver glow, his weathered armor catching the light like a beacon of resilience. His piercing gaze held a mix of exhaustion and resolve.

"Tsk." Malik grunted, unsheathing a sword from his waist, the metallic rasp slicing through the night. With practiced ease, he pulled a dagger from the sheath on his left side, its silver edge gleaming in the moonlight.

"You two will need these," he rumbled, offering the weapons—a worn sword for me and a dagger for Nikolai. The cold metal in my hands grounded me, a stark reminder of Skyrim's unforgiving nature. "Survival demands more than wit and quick thinking."

I accepted the sword, its hilt worn yet sturdy, the weight reassuring. Nikolai hesitated before taking the dagger, his expression shifting from reluctance to determination.

Ever the jokester, Nikolai quipped, "Speak for yourself, Malik. Our strategies saved our asses back in that Saint Bandit's camp."

Malik snorted, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. "Brain alone won't mend a wound or block a bandit's axe. Tonight, we turn strategies into survival." He shifted his stance, boots crunching against the gravel. "You must learn to fight and heal on your own. I won't always be there to save you."

The weight of his words settled over us. Nikolai exchanged a glance with me, the gravity of our situation sinking in. We were no longer players in a game—we were warriors in a world that demanded our full presence. The tension in the air thickened, laced with uncertainty and determination.

"Now, let's see what you're made of." Malik's eyes gleamed with anticipation as he signaled the start of our training.

The following hours blurred into a whirlwind of clangs and sweat, a relentless dance of steel beneath Skyrim's cold embrace. Malik, patient yet firm, orchestrated our movements with the precision of a seasoned mentor—basic swordplay for me, intricate dagger work for Nikolai.

Each swing and parry ignited something familiar in me, an echo of my high school arnis training resurfacing from dormancy. My muscles adapted, moving with an instinctual rhythm. Nikolai, by contrast, struggled against his own unbridled energy, his erratic movements favoring chaos over control.

"Defense first, Nikolai!" Malik barked, deflecting a reckless slash with ease. The clash of steel rang through the night. "Flashy moves won't save you from a wolf's bite."

The lesson unfolded beneath Skyrim's moon, the crisp night air thick with exertion. Each deflection, each thrust, each misstep embedded itself in muscle memory, the reality of our circumstances carving itself into our bones.

As the first golden rays of dawn crested the horizon, we collapsed onto the dewy grass, limbs burning, chests heaving. The scent of damp earth mingled with the metallic tang of sweat, our exhaustion a testament to our struggle.

Between ragged breaths, Nikolai chuckled weakly. "Jayson, you always wanted control over your character's destiny. Looks like you got your wish, my friend."

I let out a weary laugh, the realization settling over me like a gentle breeze. "Yeah... but who knew it'd be so... physical?" I wiped the sweat from my brow. "No respawn points, no health potions. Just us and the consequences of every swing and parry."

Malik, observing us from a short distance, offered a faint smile. "I don't fully understand your words, but the fundamentals remain. Your body, your skills—those will keep you alive."

A sense of accomplishment blossomed within me. I had learned to parry, to strike, to fight—not as an avatar, but as myself, in flesh and bone.

As we lay there, the sun warming our exhausted bodies, the line between game and reality blurred. What remained was tangible proof of our effort, carved into aching muscles and sweat-drenched clothes.

"Good job," Malik conceded, handing us waterskins. The cool leather pressed against my palm, a soothing contrast to the fire in my limbs. "But remember, strength is not just of the body—it lies in the mind and soul."

Then, without warning, his hands glowed with an ethereal light. The warmth of healing magic spread through my body, easing the aches, mending the weariness. But as the enchantment faded, I realized one thing: our worn-out party clothes from El Nido remained unchanged, still torn and dirtied from our journey.

Tsk. Just thinking about El Nido made my chest tighten. My beloved Erica... where was she now? Was she safe?

"Wherever you are," I murmured under my breath, "please be okay."