I Stopped Simping and the Heroines Lost Their Minds

Arthur crossed the crystalline bridge, his boots echoing over the dark abyss. At the other side, a heavy stone door waited. It slid open smoothly as he approached.

He stepped inside.

It was a perfectly square, completely empty stone room. No statues. No creeping monsters. Just a single stone pedestal in the exact center, holding a polished, unadorned silver medallion.

A loot room? Already? Arthur thought, his eyes narrowing. Yeah, right.

He kept his daggers drawn and walked slowly to the center. Nothing attacked him. The room was dead silent. He reached out and grabbed the medallion.

CLANG.

The stone doors slammed shut behind him, sealing instantly.

The silver metal flared with a blinding, cold light that pierced straight through his pupils and directly into his brain.

The dungeon vanished.

Smog. Car exhaust. Damp asphalt.

Arthur hit the ground hard. The air was thick, heavy, and polluted. He gasped for breath, but his lungs instantly seized. The familiar, terrifying, rattling wheeze of his old asthma returned with a vengeance.

His muscular arms were gone. He was scrawny. Frail. Pathetic.

Whack!

A heavy boot slammed into his ribs. Arthur curled into a tight ball, coughing up spit.

”Stay down, trash.”

He looked up through blurred, bruised eyes. Standing over him were faces he hadn’t seen since his past life on Earth. The neighborhood thugs who used to terrorize him before he learned to lock himself in his room and play games all day.

But right behind them, leaning against a rusted, graffiti-covered dumpster, were faces from Lornfell Academy.

Alicia Valentine crossed her arms, her green eyes full of disgust. ”Look at him. A pathological weakling. I told you he was taking illegal drugs.”

Leon Braveheart stood next to her, laughing loudly. ”What a joke! He actually thought he could be a hunter!”

Professor Elena Moon stood beside them, looking down at him with absolute, freezing contempt.

In the real world, the simple stone room was silent.

Arthur lay sprawled on the cold floor, his physical body violently convulsing. His heart rate had skyrocketed to lethal levels. He wasn’t breathing. The dungeon’s mental trap was completely overriding his nervous system, convincing his brain that he was being beaten to death.

The pain in the alley was suffocating. Every kick shattered a rib. Every insult stripped away his sanity.

Arthur’s vision faded. He lost consciousness in the dream, falling into a deep, crushing void of absolute darkness.

Hours passed in the real world. Arthur lay motionless on the stone floor, his body a hair’s breadth away from total cardiac arrest.

But inside the pitch-black void of his subconscious, a tiny, cynical thought flickered to life.

Wait.

Earth thugs... and Lornfell Academy nobles... in the same alleyway?

The ruthless, stat-grinding gamer snapped awake in the dark.

What kind of lazy, low-effort crossover event is this? Arthur’s inner voice sneered. Leon Braveheart standing next to a dumpster in Chicago? Sylas, your illusion magic has massive plot holes.

The alleyway materialized again. The Earth thug pulled his heavy boot back for another kick to Arthur’s face.

Arthur didn’t cower. His stats were gone, but his mindset wasn’t. He didn’t need 26 Strength to be a lethal threat.

He lunged forward like a rabid dog, sinking his teeth directly into the thug’s exposed ankle, tearing completely through the flesh.

The illusion shrieked in agony.

Arthur grabbed a loose, heavy brick from the alley floor and stood up. His frail body shook, but his eyes burned with cold, murderous intent.

”My turn, NPCs,” Arthur snarled.

He smashed the brick directly into the thug’s face. He didn’t stop. He turned his bleeding, bruised face toward the academy students, raising the bloody brick.

The illusion instantly shattered like broken glass.

Arthur’s real eyes snapped open.

He violently rolled onto his side, coughing up a massive mouthful of dark blood onto the stone floor. His chest burned like he had inhaled boiling water. His heart was hammering so hard it felt like it was going to crack his ribs.

He lay there, wheezing, pulling up his pocket watch with trembling, bloodstained fingers.

Time: 2:45 PM.

He had been lying unconscious on the floor for over four hours.

The Caustic Poison on his left arm had spread, turning the veins around the claw marks a sickly purple, though the illusion’s stasis seemed to have prevented it from killing him outright.

Arthur wiped the blood from his chin and dragged himself up to the pedestal using his good arm.

The silver medallion was gone. It had completely melted down into a puddle of liquid metal and solidified into the shape of a heavy, intricate silver key.

”Screw you... Sylas,” Arthur rasped, his voice completely raw.

He grabbed the key. He was exhausted, poisoned, and bleeding, but he was still alive.