Fanfiction : Notes of an Outsider in Wraeclast

Distorted Reflection: Notes of an Outsider in Wraeclast

Genre: Surreal / Dark Comedy / Emotional Chaos

Author's note for PoE community readers:
This is a Path of Exile fanfiction with an alternate-timeline / isekai setup. Some character appearances and events are intentionally rearranged for the story.
Prompt by QDLEHUNTER#6950
Compiled by Gemini
Image by Image 2.0



[Episode 1: The Rift on the Blood-Stained Shore]

The waves hit the shore hard enough to make it sound like the world was breaking apart.

I lay half-buried in wet sand, salt mud, and the scattered ribs of a wrecked ship. The sea wind dragged salt across my skin until every scrape burned. Each time I tried to breathe, the stink of rotting seaweed, old blood, and soaked timber slid down my throat like someone had stuffed a dirty rag into my lungs.

I still remembered the glow of my monitor.

My cramped room. Cold coffee. The low whir of my PC fans. Seven-digit damage numbers bursting across the screen in a game I had poured my time, my life, and most of my patience into until there was almost nothing left for the real world.

But there was no screen now.

No keyboard.

No hotkeys.

No logout.

Only cold biting down to the bone, and a heavy set of footsteps dragging closer through the sand.

I tried to move my fingers.

Nothing.

They felt numb, as if they belonged to someone else. Beside my hand, a small purple gem lay in the sand, glowing faintly like a tiny heart still beating in the corpse of this insane world.

A Skill Gem.

I knew exactly what it was. Too well, maybe. If this had been the game, I would have clicked it, socketed it, and started calculating damage per second before the first monster even reached me.

But in the real world, even reaching for it felt like trying to lift a mountain.

A shadow fell over me.

Hillock.

His huge grey body swayed in front of me, dead flesh stretched over a brute's frame. A rusted greatsword was still buried through his chest. Black blood had dried around the wound in thick, oily streaks. His eyes, almost empty of life, looked down at me without recognition.

He was not the first boss of a game anymore.

He was death, standing over me and breathing.

I closed my eyes.

The "hardcore" life I had been so proud of behind a computer screen felt stupid now. Completely stupid. It meant nothing in front of a real blade.

Clang.

Metal crashed against metal above my head.

My eyes snapped open.

A man's back stood between me and Hillock.

He wore heavy black armor trimmed in dull gold, scarred from real battle. A torn red cloak snapped behind his shoulders. For a moment, a red star on his breastplate caught the weak sunlight before Hillock's shadow swallowed it again.

Commander Kirac.

Or, if I wanted to survive here, Kirac.

He did not look back at me. His longsword caught Hillock's swing with enough force to sink his boots into the sand. Chains rattled. Steel groaned. Kirac shifted his weight by the width of a breath, letting Hillock's rusted blade tear past his shoulder, then answered with a clean cut into the rotten seam between flesh and armor at the brute's side.

Black blood sprayed out.

Hillock roared. It was rage, hunger, and emptiness all mixed into one ugly sound. He raised one massive arm again, but Kirac stepped in instead of retreating. He slammed his shoulder into the brute's body, knocked him off balance, and cut again at the throat.

Chhk.

Hillock hit the beach like a sack of wet meat. Black blood splashed across my cheek. The smell punched up my nose so hard I nearly vomited.

Kirac stood over the corpse for a moment, breathing hard. The tip of his sword rested in the sand. Every part of him stayed tense, as if he would kill the thing a second time if it twitched.

Then he turned to me.

The one eye beneath his heavy brow was sharp enough to put a price on my life in less than a second.

"If you're not dead, get up," he said. His voice was low, rough, and clipped. "This beach has no room for people who lie down and wait for death."

He held out a hand.

I took it. His grip was coarse, hard, and cold with metal and blood. I tried to pull myself up. My legs, back, and ribs all complained at once.

"Thank you... Commander."

Kirac paused.

"You know my rank?" His eye narrowed. "Or do I just look like the sort of man everyone expects to give orders?"

I swallowed.

The word NPC almost slipped out.

Almost.

"I... guessed," I said, my voice dry. "You look more like someone who gives orders than someone who takes them."

The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile, but enough to tell me he had not decided to cut me down on the spot.

"At least your eyes work."

He glanced at the purple gem near my foot.

"Pick that up if you want to live long enough to see sunset."

I bent down and took the Skill Gem into my hand. I gripped it until my palm stung. A faint warmth seeped into my skin, like it was greeting me. Or warning me that my life, from this moment on, would never return to whatever it had been before.

Kirac turned toward the wooden and stone walls of Lioneye's Watch, standing against the wind in the distance.

"Follow me. Stay where I can see you," he said without looking back. "If you fall behind by even one step, I won't waste time dragging you a second time."

I wanted to say something cool.

Something sharp.

Something that sounded like the kind of protagonist who deserved to survive.

What came out instead was a cough and a broken breath.

I followed Kirac across the blood-soaked sand, clutching the purple gem like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood.

Back in my old world, I used to think I understood Path of Exile.

Bosses. Patterns. Crafting recipes. What to avoid. When to take a risk.

But I had just learned one thing.

None of that knowledge mattered if this body died before I could cast its first skill.

And my life pool right now...

It was probably close to zero.