The First Raid

Ray opened his eyes to an architectural disaster. The room was, to put it mildly, a fixer-upper in the most liberal sense of the word. Dust bunnies the size of small children tumbled across the floor, carried by a breeze that seemed to be on a first-name basis with every poorly-fitted log in the walls. The "window" was just a hole with a new, bespoke spiderweb installed daily, only to be torn down by the night's wind.

Ray felt nothing. Not a hint of pain, not a single ache. This was either a miracle or a medical mystery, and since his body was not responding to his commands, he was leaning towards "medical mystery." His gaze, now a wandering candlelight from a brass chandelier, drifted around the single-room disaster zone. On the north wall was a door, looking like it had lost a fight with both time and a bucket of red paint. A rickety ladder led to a hayloft… or what had once been a hayloft before all the hay packed up and left. Ray, or the light, floated up, revealing a small lockbox. He zapped it open with a well-aimed beam of light, revealing a dagger and a small crystal pot of glowing blue liquid. Probably not Gatorade.

"Where am I?" Ray's inner monologue echoed through the room. He mentally willed the light back down and towards the door, which was ajar. And that is when he saw it. A puddle on the floor, reflecting not his face grizzled with age, but the entire cabin. He was the house. The realization hit him like a two-by-four to the face, and he let out a howl of pure terror.

The howl was a mistake. The cabin's door burst open in a fit of architectural angst, spewing a tornado of dust, cobwebs, and whatever else had been living in the walls. A mouse, looking just as terrified as Ray, shot out the doorway like a furry bullet. The chandelier's gentle glow flared into a raging bonfire, its light flashing through every crack and crevice of the shoddy shack. The door slammed shut with a definitive thunk, and the flames settled back into a polite flicker. Ray tried to leave, but he was stuck. The light would not cross the threshold. Turns out, he was a very clingy house. His domain began and ended between these wooden logs.

He rummaged through his memories, which felt like sifting through a dusty attic. His last one was about a water treatment plant blueprint, then a sudden, sharp pain. A steel beam. The memories stopped there. He looked around his new, wooden form. No blueprints, just splinters and regret. A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his soul, and the cabin shuddered in response. He was a sentient building. Ray shivered. What a way to start the afterlife!

Suddenly, a new sound, sharp and insistent, broke through the heavy silence. Boots thumped on worn cobblestone and indistinct chatter covered the quiet veil of the night. The thump was a heavy, rhythmic sound, and it was getting closer. The vibrations shook the cabin’s very foundations, shoddy as they were, rattling the loose logs and sending a fresh cascade of dust and cobwebs down from the rafters. A dozen spiders materialized and frantically went to work in a frenzy that could only be attributed to magic. It was not long before the shack was back to its cobweb infested state. The chandelier flickered in time with the thumping. It was the sound of footsteps. Not the light, fleeting footsteps of an animal, but the heavy, deliberate tread of a man.

The thumping stopped right outside the door. A low murmur of voices, gruff and indistinct, reached Ray’s ears. He strained to understand, but they were still beyond his realm. As so he waited for the visitor, as any house was bound to.

A new sound, a metallic scraping, echoed from the door. It was followed by a sharp crack and a loud creak as the door groaned on its hinges. He felt a splintering pain, a feeling of violation that transcended the physical. The hinges were being pried off. He tried to resist, to hold the door shut, but his efforts were pathetic. The door was just a door, and he was just a house. He had no strength to resist the raw, brute force being applied to him. He was a passive observer in his own defilement.

The door swung inward with a final, desperate moan, revealing three figures silhouetted against the bright sunlight. They were heavily muscled, their faces obscured by helmets that looked like they were made of dented iron pots. Their bodies were clad in mismatched pieces of leather and chainmail, and they carried a variety of rusty, dangerous-looking weapons. They were a sight straight out of a cheap fantasy novel, and the absurdity of it all almost made him laugh. But the dread was too potent. The reality of his situation, of being a sentient house about to be plundered was too overwhelming.

The leader, a hulking figure with a scruffy beard peeking out from under his helmet, grunted something to his companions. They fanned out, their heavy boots thudding against his floorboards. He felt every footstep, every pressure point. It was a strange, unsettling sensation, like a series of small, localized earthquakes happening within his own body. They were exploring his form, their boots tracking mud and grime across his once-clean floor. The thought of it made him want to retch, but he was a house, and houses do not retch.

One of the raiders, a smaller, wirier man, noticed the chandelier. He pointed a grimy finger at it and said something in that guttural language. The leader grunted in response. The wiry man pulled out a short, curved knife and started climbing the ladder to the hayloft, his movements surprisingly agile for a man in so much clunky armor.

The ladder. The rickety ladder that led to his attic, to his treasure, to the very reason he was even in this mess. A wave of alarm, of panic, washed over him. He had to stop him. He had to do something. But what? He was a house. A big, dumb, wooden house. All he could do was watch as the man ascended the ladder, his hand reaching for the top rung.

A new thought, a frantic, desperate thought, sparked in his mind. He had made a howl. A howl that had caused a tornado of dust and cobwebs. What else could he do? What other functions did he, as a house, possess? He focused all his energy, all his fear, all his frustration, on the chandelier, on his gaze. He willed it to do something. He howled again.

The chandelier responded but didn't turn into a raging bonfire again. Instead, a small, bright spark leaped from one of the candles, landing on the floor below. It was a pathetic little effort, a firefly's dying gasp. The raiders didn't even notice. The wiry man was now at the top of the ladder, his hand brushing against the floorboards of the hayloft.

Ray, in his desperation, tried again. He focused on the rickety ladder itself, on its old, worn wood. He imagined the ladder collapsing, splintering into a thousand pieces. He willed it to fail. The ladder groaned, a loud, protesting sound that made the wiry man hesitate. He looked down, his helmet obscuring his face. "What was that?" he grunted to his companions.

The leader shrugged. "Old house. Probably just settling."

The wiry man, satisfied with this non-answer, continued his ascent. He reached the hayloft and his gaze, Ray's gaze, followed him up. He saw the small lockbox, the one that he had zapped open earlier. It was sitting there, a small, unassuming treasure waiting to be plundered.

"Jackpot!" the wiry man yelled, his voice laced with triumph.

Ray felt a profound sense of failure. He had tried, but he had failed. He was a house, and his powers were, for lack of a better term, useless. The man knelt down, his armored hands reaching for the lockbox.

He had one last chance. One last, desperate, pathetic chance. The lockbox. He focused his will on the lockbox itself. He imagined it being so hot the man couldn't touch it. He willed it to burn. A faint, red glow emanated from the lockbox, a heat so subtle it was barely noticeable. The man paused, his hand inches away from the box.

"That's odd," he muttered. "The box feels warm."

The leader, growing impatient, yelled something from below. "Stop messing around and open the damn thing!"

The wiry man ignored him. He reached out and touched the lockbox. A soft sizzle, like a drop of water on a hot pan, emanated from the contact point. The man recoiled his hand, a look of surprise on his face. "It burns!" he yelled, shaking his hand.

The leader, clearly not amused, climbed halfway up the ladder. "You're joking, right?" he grunted. "Let me see." He reached out, his hand also touching the lockbox. Another sizzle, another recoil.” The man jerked back his hand in surprise.

The third raider, who had been rummaging through a pile of rags in the corner, looked up. He clambered up the ladder, curiosity getting the better of him. He touched the lockbox with a single finger, and another sizzle, louder this time, filled the air. The raider pulled his hand back, staring at his slightly reddened fingertip.

The three of them stared at the lockbox, a silent standoff between man and sentient object. Ray, meanwhile, felt a strange sensation. The heat he was generating, the little spark of power he was able to muster, felt… good. It felt like a tiny, nascent victory. He was a house, but he was a house with a purpose. He had a treasure to protect, and he had a sliver of power to protect it with. He pushed more energy into the lockbox, making it glow a brighter red, making the air around it shimmer with heat.

The leader, a pragmatic man at heart, made a decision. "Forget the chest," he grunted. "It's probably cursed. Let's just take the other stuff."

Ray felt a wave of relief so intense it almost made him shiver. He had won. He had successfully defended his treasure. The raiders, grumbling to themselves, started to descend the ladder. They grabbed a few of the more valuable-looking rags from the corner and a stray bucket from the floor, then they left, slamming the door shut behind them with a final, echoing thud.

The silence that followed was deafening. The red glow from the lockbox faded, the heat dissipating into the cool air of the hayloft. Ray, or his chandelier, flickered a few times before settling into a steady, triumphant glow. He had done it. He had protected his treasure. He felt a new sensation, a feeling of power, of accomplishment.

But the victory was short-lived. The silence was soon broken by a new sound, a sound of wood being splintered, of metal groaning under strain. The raiders were back, and this time, they were not interested in the door. They were interested in the window. The hole with the spiderweb.

He watched in horror as one of the raiders, a stout man with a sledgehammer, began to smash at the logs around the window. The logs splintered, giving way under the force of the blows. He felt every crack, every shudder, every agonizing groan of his wooden form. It was a violation far worse than the door, a direct assault on his very being. The sledgehammer came down again and again, each blow sending a shockwave of pain through him.

"This is not going to work," he thought frantically. He could not just heat up the window without risking it catching fire and the whole cabin with it. He had to do something else. But what? His mind raced, sifting through his architectural knowledge, looking for a solution. He was an architect, not a fighter. He was designed to create, not to defend.

Suddenly, a new sound, a different sound, broke through the cacophony of destruction. A high-pitched, whirring noise, like a thousand angry hornets, filled the air. He felt a new sensation, a vibration that was not from the sledgehammer. It was coming from his walls, from the logs themselves. He focused on it, on the source of the sound. The whirring grew louder, more insistent.

Then, from a small crack in the wall, a stream of something black and buzzing poured out. It was a swarm of carpenter bees, roused from their slumber by the vibrations of the sledgehammer. The bees, confused and angry, swarmed towards the raiders. The raiders, who had been so focused on their task, were caught completely off guard.

"Bees!" one of them yelled, dropping his sledgehammer and flailing his arms.

The other two, who had been providing cover and encouragement, were also attacked. The bees, enraged, swarmed over their exposed skin, their faces, their necks. The raiders screamed, a high-pitched, terrified sound that was music to Ray's ears. They dropped their weapons and ran, their screams fading into the distance.

The bees, their mission accomplished, returned to their nests within the logs, the whirring sound fading back into silence. The silence this time was truly triumphant. He had won. He had defended himself, his treasure, and his very being. He felt a new sensation, a feeling of power, of self-sufficiency. He was a house, but he was a house that could fight back.

He looked around his interior, at the splintered wood around the window, at the mud and grime on the floor. The damage was done, but he had survived. He had learned a valuable lesson. He was not just a house. He was a fortress. And he was not going to be a victim ever again. His thoughts were interrupted by a new sensation, a tingling that started in his attic and spread throughout his entire form. It felt like a current of warm water, a gentle, soothing energy that settled into his very core. He looked up at the lockbox, intact. He felt a surge of new power, a sense of growth. The tingling subsided, replaced by a feeling of… solidness. He was no longer just a rickety cabin. He was something more. He was a level 1 sentient cabin.

His gaze returned to the chandelier, and he saw, reflected in its brass surface, a single, glowing number. "1". He had gained a level. He had a long way to go, but he was on his way. He had a purpose, a goal, a future. He was going to become a children's hospital.

But before he could celebrate, a new, more sinister sound, a sound he had not heard before, reached his ears. A low, rhythmic chant, accompanied by the beating of a drum. It was coming from the woods. This time, there were more of them. Many more. A whole horde. Ray, the sentient cabin, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. He was a level 1 cabin, and he was about to face a level 2 raid.

This was not going to be easy.