Chapter 2: A Walk to the Altar
Section 1: "Truck Again?!"
The path to the altar wasn't so much a path as it was a suggestion. Rocky ledges, slick moss, and the occasional skull impaled on a rusty stick hinted that few had made this trip without regrets—or therapy. Water dripped from the cavern ceiling, echoing like whispers in the dark. Rex, now only mostly in pain instead of actively dying, limped along behind Hugo, who bounced ahead with the energy of a caffeinated jellybean.
"So," Rex panted, "how far is this place really?"
"Five miles," Hugo said. "As the slime bounces. Maybe six if we avoid the Goblin Marriage Pit."
Rex stopped. "I'm sorry. The what?"
"Don't worry about it," Hugo chirped.
The dim glow of the bioluminescent moss gave the place an eerie green tint, making Rex feel like he was walking through the digestive tract of a dead god. Every so often, he'd glance at his blood-soaked clothes and remind himself, You're not dying again. Just... constantly in pain. That's fine. Totally fine.
They rounded a corner, and that's when Rex heard it.
A low rumble.
Familiar.
Mechanical.
Traumatizing.
"…No."
The sound grew louder.
"…No. No no no."
Hugo looked back. "What's wrong?"
"I know that sound," Rex hissed. "That's the sound of him."
Then, with the grace of an eldritch horror and the subtlety of a marching band in a funeral home, it came into view.
A truck.
Yes, a truck.
Inside a cavern.
It barreled toward them like a vengeful god—squealing tires, blinding headlights, chrome bumper shining with the malicious gleam of a thousand crushed dreams. But this one wasn't just any truck. No, this truck was wearing armor. Spiked armor. And what looked suspiciously like a glowing rune-powered exhaust pipe.
Rex screamed and dove behind a boulder.
Hugo just watched calmly. "Huh. Haven't seen that model before."
The truck skidded to a halt ten feet from them, tires somehow still screeching against the damp cave floor. Steam hissed from its grill. Its headlights flickered. Then—kachunk—the front bumper folded down, the hood split open, and panels began shifting like origami on caffeine. Metal limbs sprouted, gears whirred, and the whole truck stood upright like a budget Transformer with a drinking problem.
And then the driver's side door popped open, and out stepped a dwarf.
He wore a grease-stained tank top, oil-slick goggles, and a tool belt big enough to hold a small anvil. His beard was braided into a single thick rope that he'd tucked into his waistband like a belt. He hit the ground with a grunt, stretched his back, and looked at Rex like he was the weird one.
"Oi!" the dwarf barked in a gravel-chewing accent. "Whatcha gawkin' at? Never seen a Dwarven MechaHauler before?"
Rex peeked from behind his boulder. "I—what?!"
"Name's Grundle Ironhugger," the dwarf said, slapping the truck's leg. "This here's my girl, Betsy. Ain't she a beauty? Built her meself after the last one got turned into soup by a lava octopus. May she rest in steaming pieces."
The truck-robot, Betsy, let out a deep mechanical vrrrm of acknowledgment.
"She's powered by raw mana and spite," Grundle continued proudly. "Can haul two tons of mithril, crush a hill troll under thirty seconds, and if you ask real nice—" he pressed a button on his wristband "—she makes waffles."
A hatch opened in the side of the truck. A single steaming waffle popped out on a plate made of brass.
Rex blinked. "...Why?"
"Why not?" Grundle shot back. "You think apocalypse logistics are gonna handle themselves? You think cargo haulin' waits for some elf bureaucracy to approve a permit? Nah! Betsy and I? We deliver justice. And cargo. And waffles."
Rex slowly stood up. "I got killed by a truck."
Grundle raised a brow. "That so?"
"Yeah. In my world. A tire came off, hit me, turned me into a human omelet."
Grundle squinted at him, then nodded. "Sounds like poor alignment. Shoulda used stone-forged lug nuts."
"Are you listening?! It killed me! Then I got dumped into this hellworld by a nicotine-deprived goddess with a fake cigarette and a suspicious tavern, woke up still bleeding, and now I'm being stalked by vehicular karma!"
Hugo bounced next to him. "To be fair, this truck isn't that truck."
"I don't care!"
Grundle folded his arms. "Well, cry it out, lad. Trauma's best faced with metal under your feet and waffles in your hand."
He handed Rex the steaming waffle.
Rex took it.
He didn't want it.
But he took it.
It was… okay.
"So," Grundle said, slapping the truck again. "Where you headed?"
"Spawn altar," Hugo replied.
"Oof. Altar of the Suspicious Death God?"
"Yup."
Grundle whistled. "That's a grim one. Place smells like onions and broken dreams."
"Sounds about right," Rex muttered.
"I'll give you a ride partway," Grundle offered. "Betsy's got time to stretch her legs before we deliver the bloodwine shipment. Long as you don't mind sitting next to the leg of a dead cyclops. Still fresh. Mostly."
"Fine," Rex sighed. "But if I die again—"
"You won't," Hugo reminded him. "Remember? Undying."
"Right," Rex muttered, looking up at the robot-truck hybrid with the kind of exhausted suspicion usually reserved for haunted carnival rides. "Can't die. Can definitely suffer. Yay me."
As they boarded the mighty Betsy, and the engine roared like a caffeinated lion with road rage, Rex held onto his waffle, stared blankly out the window, and muttered:
"I hate trucks."
Betsy honked once—loud, deep, and suspiciously smug.
Section 2: "The Worst Altar Ever"
The ride in Betsy was, predictably, uncomfortable.
Not because the seats were bad—Grundle had actually upholstered them with some sort of troll-hide memory foam. No, it was the ambience that made it rough: the faint hum of infernal engine parts, the smell of fried cyclops leg wafting from the back, and the fact that every now and then, Betsy's radio spontaneously screamed in Latin.
By the time they skidded to a dramatic, screechy halt at their destination, Rex was dizzy, slightly nauseous, and clutching his half-eaten waffle like it was the last stable thing in his life.
"All right," Grundle barked, hopping down from the cabin. "End of the line, meatboy. Altar's that way. Betsy and I are gonna hang back and calibrate her soul-intake manifold. And maybe roast some leftover hydra ribs. You need anything, don't."
"Very comforting, thanks," Rex muttered, sliding out of the truck.
The "altar" in question was nestled at the edge of a cliff overlooking a bottomless pit of darkness. Classic. Two giant skeletal hands rose from the stone, palms cupped upward like they were waiting for someone to drop loose change. Between them sat a jagged, obsidian slab inscribed with ancient runes that glowed like dying embers. A crooked stone arch stood behind it, cracked and humming softly with ominous purple light.
Hugo bounced next to him, unusually solemn for a slime. "This is the Altar of the Suspicious Death God. Or as he calls himself, 'Gary.'"
"Gary," Rex repeated.
"Yup."
"The god of death is named Gary?"
"Well, his full title is Garethul-Mor'tan, Devourer of Souls and Reaper of the Eternal Fade, but everyone just calls him Gary. Easier to chant."
Rex stared at the altar, then at Hugo. "And what exactly do I do here?"
Hugo puffed up proudly. "You're going to perform a sacred ritual of soul registration. It's like checking into a hotel, except the staff is indifferent and the towels are made of existential dread."
"That explains nothing."
"Don't worry, I'll walk you through it."
While Grundle clanged away on Betsy in the background, muttering about "interdimensional torque ratios" and "gremlin insurance," Hugo bounced up onto the altar slab.
"Step one," he said, "cut your hand and let some blood drip onto the runes."
"Of course. Blood. Always blood."
Rex sighed, took a jagged rock from the ground, and gingerly sliced his palm. "Ow. Every time I do something in this world, it involves bleeding."
"Now repeat after me," Hugo instructed, his body glowing faintly as the runes began to shimmer. "Oh mighty Gary, snoozer of ends, bureaucrat of the void—"
"Wait, seriously?"
"Just say it."
Rex rolled his eyes. "Oh mighty Gary, snoozer of ends, bureaucrat of the void…"
"I, Rex Tanaka, offer my soul to your lazy registry, in hopes that my next death is less annoying."
"I, Rex Tanaka, offer my soul to your lazy registry, in hopes that my next death is less annoying. I can't believe I'm saying this."
"Now slap the altar."
"…Excuse me?"
"Slap it. That's the final step."
Rex stared at the jagged obsidian. "You want me to slap the death altar."
"Yes."
"This is so stupid."
"Correct. Now slap it."
Rex sighed. "Fine."
He slapped the altar.
There was a long pause.
Nothing happened.
Then, with the sound of a rusty gate being kicked open, the arch behind the altar pulsed with violet-black energy, and a swirling mist began to pour out. The cavern grew colder. Shadows stretched unnaturally. And from the archway… something stepped through.
It was humanoid. Technically.
Tall, thin, hunched over like someone who had never heard of physical therapy. They wore a robe of shadow and tattered cloth, streaked with soot and dried spaghetti sauce. The hood was too big for their head, slouched over one side like a bad fashion choice. In one hand, they held a sickle with a chipped blade. In the other—another sickle, identical, but with a tag that said "Do Not Wash."
The figure yawned.
Loudly.
"Uuuughhh… What time is it…?"
Rex took a step back. "Is that… Gary?"
"Yep," Hugo whispered. "The Big G himself."
Gary stretched, cracking multiple joints that really shouldn't have cracked. He shuffled forward, dragging his sickles like a teenager forced to take out the trash. His hood slipped slightly, revealing a pale, perpetually-tired face with dark circles under the eyes and a mild case of bedhead.
He looked at Rex.
He looked at the altar.
He looked at the blood.
Then he sighed.
"…Seriously? Now? I was in the middle of a nap. Do you have any idea how exhausting death is?"
"I… I'm sorry?"
Gary waved him off. "Yeah, yeah. Another hero. Another reincarnation. Yada yada, soul anchored, fate sealed, blah blah blah." He reached into his robe and pulled out a clipboard made of bones and apathy. "Name?"
"Rex Tanaka."
"Species?"
"…Human?"
Gary squinted at him. "Are you, though?"
"…I don't know anymore."
"Fair. Let's just say 'pending.'" He scribbled something lazily. "You got a death trait?"
"Uh, yeah. 'Undying.'"
Gary blinked. "Oh. That one." He sighed louder. "Do you have any idea how much paperwork that causes?"
"Why?!"
"Because you're not supposed to exist. The Undying Trait breaks like… everything. Death loops, soul processing, the entire afterlife traffic system—gone. You know how many demons filed a complaint the last time someone got this?"
"I didn't ask for it!"
"Doesn't matter. Bureaucracy is pain."
He stamped the clipboard with a rotted seal that screamed a little.
"Congratulations, Rex. Your soul is now anchored. You are officially part of this ridiculous world's ecosystem. Don't lose your body. Or do. Honestly, I don't care."
With another yawn, Gary turned toward the swirling mist, muttering, "I'm going back to bed. If you need me, don't."
"Wait—" Rex called out. "Can't you tell me what I'm supposed to do? Why I'm here?"
Gary paused in the mist and glanced over his shoulder. "You're here because someone up there wanted a cosmic joke. Don't worry—everyone's suffering. Not just you."
And with that, he vanished.
The altar dimmed. The runes faded. The hands slowly sank into the ground like they were tired too.
Rex turned to Hugo, slack-jawed. "That… was the god of death?"
"Yup."
"He looks like a depressed wizard who got fired from a Halloween store."
"Yup."
Rex sat down on a nearby rock, head in his hands.
"This world is hell."
"Technically, Hell's about three layers down," Hugo said. "We can go there next if you want."
Rex screamed into his waffle.