《Strength Based Wizard》


 Chapter 0. Prologue - The Trickster

    Prologue


    The Trickster


    Freedom tastes like starlight, bitter and electric on my tongue.


    I skate across the cosmos, savoring the chill of the void beneath my feet, the way it bends and bows to my whims. For so long, I knew only darkness¡ªan eternity locked away in some forgotten corner of the universe, the bars of my prison forged by hands more ancient than my own. But even the mightiest chains rust, and now here I am, trailing mischief across the stars. And just in time.


    The others are waiting. I can feel their collective unease prickling against the edges of my awareness, sharp as the first breath of winter. They know I¡¯m free. They know what that means. And it thrills me. I drag my hand through a stream of cosmic dust, scattering it behind me like ash, as the wide coyote grin spreads across my face.


    They didn¡¯t want me here. That¡¯s why they caged me in the first place. Too unpredictable, they said. Too dangerous. As though they¡¯ve ever been any better. Hypocrisy, thy name is godhood.


    I mentally reach out using my awareness, feeling the presence of my brothers and sisters. I anchor my intent to their location, and then I unleash my Willpower, channeling my connection to the concept of roads. One of my domains of power.


    Ahead, a rift blooms in the nothingness, a jagged wound of light and shadow. I let it hang there for a moment, savoring the anticipation, before stepping through. The fabric of reality folds around me, warm and pliant, and I emerge into a room as mundane as it is absurd.


    Glass and steel, sleek lines, soft lighting. A boardroom in one of those towering monuments to mortal ambition they call skyscrapers. The walls are glass, offering a panoramic view of the city below¡ªTokyo, I think. Or maybe New York. Does it matter? These mortals and their metropolises are all variations of the same tired theme. Lights glitter like trapped stars in the night below, and somewhere far off, a siren wails.


    The air inside is stifling, heavy with the scent of polished mahogany and faint traces of coffee. It¡¯s been styled to mimic the upcoming venue, I realize¡ªa nod to the Game.


    They¡¯re all here, of course. My brothers and sisters. I take my time surveying them, letting the silence stretch. Twelve of them in total, sitting around a long table in highbacked, cushioned office chairs. And a thirteenth chair tucked away near the far end of the table. How nice of them to save me a seat at the table after all this time. It warms my heart, truly. The bastards.


    We all have taken many names, many faces, over the course of time. I don¡¯t think I remember my original form, if I ever had one. The others are all wearing mortal masks. But I see through each and every one.


    The Lady of Chains sits ramrod straight, her silvered hair gleaming under the soft light. Spider-like fingers steepled in front of her. Her eyes are sharp and calculating, as though she¡¯s already considering ways to bind me again.


    The Silent One leans back in his chair, his massive bulk barely contained, the glow of his golden eyes fixed on me. And at the head of the table, the Arbiter¡ªserene as ever, though I catch the faintest flicker of tension in her gaze as I enter.


    ¡°Nice little setup,¡± I say, strolling to my seat like I own the place. I trail my fingers along the edge of the table, tapping out a tune that no one here will be able to forget anytime soon. ¡°Though I must admit, I prefer a bit more . . . flair.¡±


    The Arbiter doesn¡¯t rise to the bait, but I notice the faintest twitch of her lips¡ªalmost a frown. It¡¯s enough to make my grin widen as I sink into my chair, kicking my feet up on the table. I cross one loafer-covered foot over the other. The footwear is black velvet, with silver wings emblazoned onto the heels.


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    I¡¯m not about to be polite. Not after what they did.


    ¡°So,¡± I say, lacing my fingers behind my head, ¡°where do we begin? I assume we were just in middle of finalizing the details for the Game?¡±


    They don¡¯t answer. Not yet. But their tension is palpable, their irritation sharp enough to taste. It¡¯s intoxicating. They¡¯ve kept me locked away for millennia, but now I¡¯m free, and the Game is about to begin.


    The Arbiter clears her throat, the sound like the snap of a whip. ¡°Now, onto the matter of onboarding the Participants in this Millennia¡¯s Game. The System has already designated responsibility for Participant introductions.¡±


    She gestures to the Forge Father, who shifts in his chair, the fiery glow of his eyes steady and unblinking. ¡°It is your turn to take on this responsibility,¡± she says. ¡°Ensure they¡¯re made aware of the basic rules, the Stages, and the System¡¯s integration. Keep it . . . efficient.¡±


    I nearly choke on the laugh that rises in my throat. The Forge Father? Oh, this is too good. They were going to let that brooding mountain of metal and fire be the first point of contact with the Participants? What an amazing choice! I nearly summoned a bowl of grapes to go along with the show. But just then, an idea strikes me. A beautiful, glorious idea. No, no, no. This won¡¯t do at all!


    ¡°Now hold on,¡± I say abruptly, raising a hand and lounging back in my chair with exaggerated laziness. ¡°As you may recall dear sister, there is an order to these things that the Vestiges of Creation defined before ascending to the System. In each subsequent Game, the assignment of responsibilities rotates in a specific pattern.¡± I make a loop with my finger in the air, almost playfully. "And, unless I lost track of time while I was away¡ªand trust me, I counted every, single, second¡ªthen the Maw was in position to handle onboarding last Game. Wouldn¡¯t that mean it¡¯s technically my turn?¡±


    Every head turns toward me. The Arbiter¡¯s eyes narrow. Her face screams, ¡®What game are you up to?¡¯ Unfortunately for her, it will be too late once she finally pieces it together. ¡°It was your turn,¡± she says, her tone clipped, ¡°before your . . . absence.¡±


    ¡°Absence? Imprisonment is such an ugly word,¡± I say, flashing her a grin. ¡°But now that I¡¯m here, surely we can revisit the allocation and return to the proper sequencing.¡±


    The Silent One rumbles, a sound so deep it feels like the room itself is vibrating. It might be a warning, or it might just be his way of reminding everyone he could snap my neck in an instant. Either way, I don¡¯t care.


    Then, I feel a turning, deep within my Core. One of the other Thirteen was calling upon the remaining Authority within the System, asking for it to intercede. The entire boardroom quaked with power.


    ¡°You?¡± the Lady of Chains snaps, her silver hair gleaming as she glares at me. ¡°You want to handle onboarding? That¡¯s the most tedious job in the entire process. How very uncharacteristic of you, brother.¡±


    ¡°Want is a strong word,¡± I say, waving a hand dismissively. ¡°It¡¯s boring, it¡¯s beneath me, and frankly, I can think of a thousand things I¡¯d rather do. But¡±¡ªI let the word hang in the air, savoring the tension¡ª¡°it is my turn. And I wouldn¡¯t want to upset the delicate balance of fairness and order you all pretend to care about. Not in my first Game back in so, so long.¡±


    The Arbiter leans forward, her gaze like a scalpel slicing through my words. ¡°Why do you care, Trickster? You¡¯ve never been one for responsibility.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t care,¡± I say, feigning a yawn. ¡°But the System cares, doesn¡¯t it?¡± I look upwards, towards the heavens. Ironic, considering who I and the others surrounding me are.


    And, right on queue, the power in the air shifts and something within all of our Cores snap into place, binding us to the silent laws that were written at the beginning of this Age. It is done, I think.


    Yet, the Arbiter¡¯s expression doesn¡¯t change, but I can see the gears turning behind her eyes. She doesn¡¯t trust me¡ªnone of them do. But the System does operate on rules, and what¡¯s settled is settled. And the Arbiter hates when I¡¯m technically right, which just makes all of this so much sweeter.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she says at last, her voice cold as a winter gale. ¡°The task is yours.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say, flashing her my most disarming smile.


    I rise from my chair and stretch, making a show of how much I¡¯m not looking forward to this. ¡°Well, if I must,¡± I sigh, stepping toward the portal I¡¯ve already begun weaving into existence. ¡°But don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn you. Be prepared to suffer defeat in this Game.¡±


    The Lady of Chains mutters something under her breath¡ªprobably a curse. The Silent One just stares, his golden eyes as unreadable as ever. The Arbiter watches me with the kind of scrutiny that would make most beings squirm. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    But I don¡¯t squirm. I step through the portal, my back to them, and the instant I¡¯m out of sight, a grin spreads across my face¡ªa grin that feels sharp and wild, as though it could split the universe in two.


    Unconventional? Oh, yes. They have no idea what they¡¯ve just unleashed.


    This is exactly the opportunity I wanted. The first move in the first stage of the first Game I¡¯ve played in millennia. Victory so often goes to the combatant who makes the first move.


    And I¡¯m going to make it count.

 Chapter 01. Welcome to the End of the World (As You Know It)

    Chapter 1


    Welcome to the End of the World (As You Know It)


    I stare into the gas station cooler door, my reflection warped and stretched across the frosty glass. My face looks the same as it always does: pale, tired, and just a little bit pissed off at everything. My green eyes¡ªyeah, those tell the real story. There¡¯s a dullness in them, a hollowed-out look like someone scooped out whatever made them shine and forgot to fill them back in. I run a hand through my short black hair, more out of habit than anything, and think for the millionth time: Fuck my life.


    With a sigh, I yank the fridge door open and grab a vanilla protein shake. The label promises twenty-five grams of protein and ¡°natural flavors.¡± Nothing natural about it. This stuff tastes like someone blended chalk and despair, but the macros? At one hundred calories, with no added sugars, low in carbs and that amount of protein? Unbeatable. I close the door and shuffle to the coffee station.


    The coffee smells like burnt rubber and old dirt, but it¡¯s strong, and that¡¯s all I need right now. I pour myself a small cup of black sludge and glance at the guy behind the counter. He¡¯s maybe eighteen, acne-scarred, and glued to his phone. Probably scrolling TikTok or something.


    ¡°Protein shake, coffee, ten on pump two,¡± I say, slapping a crumpled twenty on the counter.


    The kid grunts, punches some buttons, and hands me back my change. ¡°Have a nice day,¡± he mutters without looking up.


    I almost laugh at that. Nice day. Sure, buddy. Instead, I just sigh as I scoop my change off the counter and into the pocket of my winter coat.


    Outside, the wind punches me in the face, and I huddle deeper into my down coat, pulling the hood tighter around my face. The beat-up Honda Civic parked at pump two is technically mine, but only because my sister¡¯s away at college and can¡¯t stop me from borrowing it. I really need to get my own car. Back in New York City, I didn¡¯t need one. Nothing beat the convenience of public transportation. Not that I missed the interesting people I¡¯d occasionally see on the subway to-and-from the office. Christ, anything goes on the NYC subway.


    I pop the gas cap, shove the nozzle in, and lean against the car while the numbers crawl up. I gingerly sip from my cup of caffeinated sludge. My protein shake is tucked under my left arm. Ten bucks doesn¡¯t get you much these days, but it¡¯s not like I¡¯m going anywhere glamorous. Just another day in paradise.


    Once the tank¡¯s full¡ªwell, not full, but not empty¡ªI slide into the driver¡¯s seat, tossing my bottle of protein into one cup holder, and the to-go cup of coffee into the other. The car groans to life, and the heater coughs out a breath of lukewarm air. Snow covers everything, the streets are a patchwork of slick ice and crater-sized potholes. I navigate around them like a drunk slalom skier, the car rattling with every bump.


    Save-Some-Bucks comes into view, its large, red neon sign flickering like it¡¯s about to give up on life, which feels appropriate. I glance at my phone. The screen reads January 16th. 4:57 a.m. Right on time.


    A second car pulls up next to mine, a dented old sedan that¡¯s seen better days¡ªprobably in the ¡®90s. Dave steps out, the store manager, his breath puffing white in the cold. He¡¯s a short man in his fifties, balding and with a blond goatee. He waves, looking way too chipper for this ungodly hour. I sigh again before killing the last of my coffee. I should be nice to Dave. He¡¯s a good guy.


    ¡°Morning, Joe!¡± he calls out.


    I grab my protein shake, kill the engine, and step out into the cold. ¡°Morning, Dave,¡± I mumble, already dreading the next eight hours.


    It was too damn early for a Friday morning. My boss at my old job had a saying: T.G.I.F.¡ª¡°The Grind Includes Fridays.¡± Fucking prick. I plaster a smile onto my face, which freaking hurts in the bitter cold air.


    Dave grins like it¡¯s the best morning of his life, his gloved hands fumbling with the keys. ¡°Cold one today, huh, Joe?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I reply, shoving my hands deep into my pockets. Because that¡¯s exactly what I want to talk about, the goddamn weather. S§×arch* The N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The lock clicks, and Dave swings the door open. A gust of stale air greets us as we step inside. The fluorescent lights buzz as Dave flips the master switch. One by one, the rows of overhead bulbs flicker on, casting a pale, soul-sucking glow across the store¡¯s aisles. It¡¯s the kind of light that makes even the freshest produce look sad.


    ¡°Another beautiful day,¡± Dave says with way too much enthusiasm. Some mornings, I want to ask the store manager what makes him so constantly positive. But then I realize I would rather not open that can of worms. I¡¯ll just assume it¡¯s some kind of prescription anti-depressants, or the guy has a smoking hot wife at home, and get on with my day.


    I grunt in agreement and head toward the back. The break room is as depressing as ever¡ªgray lockers, a folding table with mismatched chairs, and a coffee machine that looks like it¡¯s been brewing regrets since the Reagan administration. I¡¯ll stick to my gas station sludge, thank you very much, I silently joke to myself.


    I hang up my winter coat and hoodie, revealing the hideous yellow polo that Save-Some-Bucks forces on all employees. It¡¯s tucked into a pair of black Dickies work pants that are slightly too tight around the waist. I miss hoodies already.


    I clock in and grab a broom, starting my usual sweep of the store. The floors aren¡¯t terrible, but Dave has this thing about ¡°first impressions.¡± So, I humor him. The delivery truck doesn¡¯t arrive for another thirty minutes anyways. I push the broom down one aisle after another, half-assing it just enough to look busy. Then it¡¯s on to the shelves, cleaning off dust and pushing items to the front, clearing empty boxes and moving product forward so the shelves all appear full. It¡¯s mindless work, but that¡¯s kind of the point.


    By the time the truck arrives at 5:30 a.m., I¡¯ve broken down a dozen cardboard boxes and rearranged a shelf of soup cans that no one will probably buy. I walk to the back of the store, unlock the large, sliding metal door and push it up with a rattling hiss. Right on schedule, the truck is there. The delivery guy hops out, clipboard in hand, and I sign for twelve pallets of groceries, produce, frozen, and dairy. Another guy brings them into the backroom of the store, which quickly becomes cramped for open space. I thank the two guys, who hop back into the truck and peel off to their next delivery.


    I turn around and survey the various pallets, each stacked above my head and wrapped tightly in plastic.


    Time to throw stock.


    I move the pallets around as best as I can with the help of a pallet jack before I start breaking them down. I pop a pair of wireless headphones into my ears, pressing play on my phone to continue the podcast I¡¯ve been listening to. It¡¯s a live-play of the popular tabletop roleplaying game Swords & Sorcerers. This particular podcast, High Rollers Club, is more focused on ridiculous antics and comedy. It reminds me of the games I used to play in high school and college.


    First, I use a box cutter to tear away the plastic on several of the pallets. Then, I begin stacking boxes on dollies and organizing everything into neat little categories. On the podcast, one of the hosts, playing a barbarian, is yelling about honor as part of some bit while I¡¯m wrestling with a case of frozen peas.


    At 7:00 a.m., the store officially opens. The sound of the automatic doors kicking on is like a death knell. I know I should take my headphones out¡ªcompany policy and all¡ªbut screw it. It¡¯s not like I¡¯m working the register today. If the customers leave me alone, I¡¯ll leave them alone. Fuck company policy.


    The morning drags along as usual until a voice cuts through the epic battle happening in my ears. Interrupting a critical roll of the twenty-sided die.


    ¡°Joey Sullivan?¡±


    I pull one earbud out and look up. Standing a few feet away is a guy about my age, twenty-seven or so, wearing jeans and a puffy winter jacket. His brown hair¡¯s a little longer than I remember, but that face . . . Oh no.


    ¡°Uh, yeah,¡± I say, already feeling my stomach lurch.


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    The guy smiles. ¡°It¡¯s Matt! Matt Carter? . . . From high school?¡±


    Of course. Why wouldn¡¯t this morning get worse?


    ¡°Oh, hey, Matt,¡± I say, forcing a grin. I totally remember who you are! ¡°Yeah, sorry, just surprised to see someone from high school here.¡±


    He laughs. ¡°No way, man! It¡¯s been forever. What are you doing here? You move back to Cleveland?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, around the holidays,¡± I reply, scratching the back of my neck. ¡°Just working here for a bit, as a favor to my dad. Picking up a few shifts while I¡¯m, uh, applying for work in the area.¡±


    I try to sound casual, but the words taste bitter. This is humiliating.


    Matt nods. ¡°That¡¯s cool, man. I thought you were still in New York. What happened? Weren¡¯t you doing something big out there?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I was,¡± I say quickly. ¡°Just, you know, time for a change.¡± Please stop asking questions.


    Matt doesn¡¯t seem to notice my discomfort. His gaze flicks down to my arms, which are squeezing against the tight sleeves of the Save-Some-Bucks polo. ¡°Woah! . . . I didn¡¯t know how ripped you got after high school. Look at those pythons!¡± He jokingly reaches out and squeezes by bicep. Please, don¡¯t touch me.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say lamely.


    Matt chuckles. ¡°Well, it¡¯s good to see you, man. We should catch up sometime.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, sure,¡± I lie.


    He waves and walks off, pushing a cart full of frozen pizzas and other junk. I shove my earbud back in and crank the volume, letting the podcast drown out the embarrassment buzzing in my head. One of the hosts just rolled a 1¡ªa critical failure. I feel you, buddy.


    Just a few more hours.


    By the time my shift ends, my body feels like it¡¯s been through a wood chipper. My shoulders ache, my back¡¯s stiff, and my hands are red from dragging pallets and breaking down boxes of product. No wonder my dad is always bitching about his back. The freezing air outside is almost a relief as I step into the parking lot and make my way to the Civic.


    The drive home is quiet. Snow blankets the streets, turning everything into a lifeless gray. I take the long way, winding past Lake Erie. The water¡¯s dark, choppy, and endless. Back when I was a kid, I used to love this view¡ªthere was something awe-inspiring about the vastness of the lake. Now it¡¯s just . . . there. Still, something about driving down the highway alongside the lakefront was comforting.


    I pull into the driveway of my childhood home, a small one-story house on Cleveland¡¯s east side. Suburban living at its finest! The place looks exactly the same as it did when I left for college¡ªfaded blue siding, a sagging front porch, and the same bushes my mom insists on trimming every spring.


    The front door creaks as I push it open.


    ¡°Joe, is that you?¡± my mom calls from the kitchen.


    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s me,¡± I reply, kicking off my boots by the door.


    She appears in the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her graying hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, and she¡¯s wearing an oversized sweater that probably belonged to my dad twenty years ago. Her face lights up when she sees me. ¡°How was work?¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± I lie.


    She looks like she¡¯s about to press for details, but I slip past her. ¡°Dad still at work?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s got a late meeting,¡± she says, following me into the kitchen. ¡°You hungry?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m good, thanks. Gonna hit the gym first.¡±


    She frowns but doesn¡¯t say anything. Instead, she watches as I head down to the basement.


    The guest room I¡¯m staying in is as uninspiring as the rest of the house¡ªbare walls, an old dresser, a small desk, and a twin bed that creaks if I even look at it wrong. My old bedroom upstairs had long ago been transformed into my dad¡¯s office-slash-mom¡¯s crafting room. He built a desk where my bed used to be, complete with drawers labeled things like Yarn and Glue Sticks for my mom.


    I shrug off my yellow polo and toss it onto the bed, replacing it with a plain gray t-shirt and a pair of black gym shorts. My laptop sits on the corner of the desk, its screen still lit. My resume stares back at me, the words ¡°Senior Associate, Summit Lake Capital¡± mocking me.


    I walk over and scroll up to the blank space under Employment History.


    I almost type ¡°Clerk: Save-Some-Bucks,¡± just for the laugh, but my stomach twists at the thought. Instead, I shut the laptop, cutting off the glow. Out of sight, out of mind.


    Back upstairs, I grab the blender bottle from the drying rack and mix up my pre-workout¡ªan angry red powder that tastes like artificial fruit punch and burns going down. And boy do I love it! The second bottle gets my protein and BCAAs (branch-chained amino acids), a ¡°cookie¡± flavored powder that I mix together with water and some powdered peanut butter.


    I glance at the clock. Still enough time to hit the gym before the after-work crowd shows up.


    ¡°Heading out, Mom,¡± I call, shoving both bottles into my gym bag that sits on the floor near the door. ¡°Don¡¯t wait up for me. I¡¯ll be back for dinner.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± she says from the kitchen. ¡°Drive safe. It¡¯s slippery out there.¡±


    ¡°Always do!¡±


    I step outside, the cold biting at my skin, and load up the Civic. A shitty day deserves some heavy-ass weights, and I¡¯ve got plenty of stress to burn.


    The neon Diesel Athletic Club sign buzzes faintly as I pull into the half-empty lot. The place is a dump¡ªcracked asphalt, rusted light poles, and a front door that looks like it¡¯s barely hanging on. But it¡¯s my kind of dump.


    No fancy towel service. No endless rows of Peloton bikes. Just sweat, iron, and the occasional sound of someone grunting like they¡¯re fighting off a wild animal. Old-school and unapologetic.


    When I step inside, the familiar smell of rubber mats, chalk, and faint mildew hits me. It¡¯s quiet. No one else in sight, not even Steve, the gym¡¯s owner-slash-mechanic, who¡¯s usually around fixing the broken treadmills. Perfect. Nothing beats an empty gym.


    I toss my bag into a corner, lace up my lifting shoes¡ªan old pair of high-top Converses¡ªand start stretching. My body groans in protest as I work through a few dynamic stretches¡ªlunges, toe touches, some half-hearted arm swings. Then it¡¯s onto the foam roller, which hurts like hell but works out the kinks.


    Leg day. Time to suffer.


    By the time I¡¯ve finished a couple of warm-up sets with light weights, my pre-workout is in full effect. My face tingles, my heart feels like it¡¯s auditioning for a drumline, and every muscle in my body is screaming, Let¡¯s go.


    I start with prone hamstring curls. The machine¡¯s padding is worn down to the foam, and the cable squeals with every rep. I knock out four sets of ten to twelve, focusing on the squeeze at the top. My hamstrings burn, but it¡¯s the good kind of burn¡ªthe kind that tells me I¡¯m doing something right.


    Next up: hack squats.


    I load the sled with a couple of plates and step in, making sure my feet are just the right distance apart. As I lower myself, I focus on depth, keeping the weight light and my form tight. For years, I was built like a human ice cream cone¡ªhilariously round up top with legs that barely filled out my jeans. Not anymore.


    Now, I love the way my legs feel strong, powerful, capable of pushing the kind of weight that used to intimidate me. Four sets of eight to ten reps. By the last set, my quads are on fire, and the sweat¡¯s dripping off me like I just ran through a car wash.


    As I rack the sled and step off, my legs tremble beneath me, and I can¡¯t help but grin.


    This is why I come here. To push, to burn, to fight against the voice in my head that tells me I can¡¯t. Because here, in this crappy little gym, with its broken machines and peeling paint, I can remind myself that I¡¯m still capable of more.


    And leg day? Leg day¡¯s just a reminder that sometimes, you¡¯ve gotta carry the weight.


    Finally: barbell squats. The king of all leg day exercises and the reason I¡¯ll be limping tomorrow. I load up the bar¡ªtwo plates, then three, then four. It¡¯s heavier than I¡¯ve pushed in months, but I need this.


    The first set catches me off guard. The weight feels like a mountain pressing down on my shoulders. My legs protest with every rep, and my form isn¡¯t as tight as I want it to be. I rack the bar, panting.


    ¡°Get your shit together,¡± I mutter under my breath.


    Second set. This time, I picture everything I hate.


    Being back in this freezing wasteland of a town. Living in my parents¡¯ basement, surrounded by all the remnants of a life I thought I¡¯d outgrown.


    I drop into the squat, thighs burning, then explode back up.


    Anger fuels me. I pour it all into the movement¡ªevery ounce of frustration, every simmering resentment. By the time I rack the bar again, my hands are shaking, and sweat drips into my eyes.


    The third and final set.


    This time, I think about the people I¡¯ve been avoiding. High school classmates, running into me at the grocery store, smiling politely while they silently judge me.


    Oh, Joe¡¯s back in town. Didn¡¯t he move to New York? Wonder what happened there.


    And then there¡¯s the social media. They must¡¯ve noticed¡ªphotos of her disappearing one by one. Girlfriend, then fianc¨¦e. Then deleted, gone like she never existed.


    My teeth clench as I drop into the squat. The bar feels impossibly heavy, but I don¡¯t care. I drive through my heels, legs screaming in protest, and fire out of the bottom position.


    ¡°Goddammit!¡± I growl, slamming the bar into the rack with a deafening clang.


    The weight settles, but I don¡¯t. My chest heaves, my shirt clings to my skin, and sweat pools at my feet. For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the bar, completely spent.


    Time to re-rack the weights and move on to an hour of incline treadmill walking. Not glamorous, but it¡¯s part of the grind.


    I grip the first plate to pull it off, but before I can, the entire room shakes.


    At first, it¡¯s subtle¡ªlike the vibrations of a passing train. But it builds, the tremors growing stronger, the floor buckling beneath me.


    ¡°What the fuck?¡± I whisper. My head fills with a strange, deafening white noise, like static turned up to eleven.


    Earthquake? No way. Cleveland¡¯s about as seismically active as a rock.


    A stroke? Maybe, but I¡¯m still standing, heart hammering, sweat dripping.


    The shaking stops abruptly, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. That¡¯s when I see it.


    A screen.


    It¡¯s not in front of me, not exactly. It¡¯s like it¡¯s burned into my vision¡ªa translucent, blue-tinted glass hovering just in front of my eyes. Neat, white text begins to scroll across it, perfectly legible but utterly foreign. The text is accompanied by a voice in my head¡ªsoftly feminine, yet strangely mechanical.


    Stage 2 Planet, Designation: Earth, has been selected as the venue for the next God Game.


    ¡°What the hell¡­¡± I mumble, my voice trailing off.


    The screen doesn¡¯t care. It continues:


    You have been selected as a Participant. All Participants will be entered into the Game. If you choose to accept, you will be one of the first inhabitants integrated into the Interdimensional Uniform System. To accept your selection as a Participant, you must enter and complete the Profile Creation Process.


    The words blur together as my brain struggles to catch up. God Game? Interdimensional System?


    You have one minute to accept. A portal will appear following this message.


    And then, the final line, delivered with chilling precision.


    Welcome to the End of the World.

 Chapter 02. Entering the Game

    Chapter 2


    Entering the Game


    The message vanishes from view, and for a moment, I¡¯m alone again in the boiling hot, sweat-drenched weight room. I turn around, scanning the room. Still alone, and silent other than the sound of my breathing (which is uncomfortably loud in the aftermath of the message), and the old fan mounted in the far corner of the room near the stationary bicycles.


    Then, the air in the center of the room wavers, like heat rising off asphalt in the middle of summer. I instinctively take a step backwards, my back bumping against the racked barbell of the squat rack.


    A sound follows¡ªa bizarre, impossible noise. It¡¯s like someone ripping fabric, but layered with the crisp snap of scissors slicing through wrapping paper and the deep, resonant chime of glass shattering in slow motion.


    Right in front of me, the air unzips. There¡¯s no other word for it. A glowing doorway of bluish light appears, cutting through the space like it was always there, just waiting for the right moment to show itself.


    And then, in my vision, etched in neat, faintly glowing numbers:


    1:00


    0:59


    0:58


    A timer, clear as day, counting down right in front of my eyes. I blink hard, twice, but the numbers don¡¯t go away.


    ¡°What the hell is going on?¡± My voice echoes in the empty gym, but no one answers.


    I take a cautious step forward, my sneakers squeaking on the rubber flooring. The doorway hums softly, emitting a faint, rhythmic whoosh as cool air pulls towards it. I can feel the draft tugging at my shirt, like an invisible hand beckoning me closer. A faint, barely perceptible sound emits from the portal¡ªlike the buzzing hum of a neon light turning on.


    I sidestep the portal, circling it. From the side, it¡¯s almost gone, barely more than a shimmer in the air. I keep moving, coming around to the other side, which looks just like the front¡ªa glowing, blue-tinged doorway that shouldn¡¯t exist.


    I glance at the timer suspended in the corner of my vision. 0:40 . . . 0:39.


    ¡°Integration.¡± The word from the message bounces around in my head. Am I dying right now? Is this really a stroke? Did I collapse under the squat bar, and this is my brain¡¯s messed-up way of coping? Did that message really say ¡®the END OF THE WORLD¡¯?


    The thought hits me like a bar full of forty-five pound plates smacking me in the back of the head. If the world really is ending, maybe this portal is a life raft. Would I be an idiot not to walk through it? ¡®If you choose to accept, you will be one of the first inhabitants integrated into the Interdimensional Uniform System.¡¯ That¡¯s what the message had said. If I didn¡¯t accept, was there a less likely chance that I would be integrated into whatever post-apocalyptic inter-galactic order had descended onto our humble planet? I can¡¯t help but think of all those Sci-Fi movies I used to watch in high school¡ªof being part of the cursed population left on a dying planet while the rest escaped into outer space. Was this an ¡®early access¡¯ ticket?


    Then again, with my luck, it¡¯s probably a black hole disguised as an escape hatch.


    I look around the empty gym, searching for answers that aren¡¯t there. Everything is still the same¡ªsame cracked mirrors, same battered dumbbells scattered across the floor. Even the old TV in the corner, its screen dark and useless, hasn¡¯t magically sprung to life with some kind of breaking news broadcast.


    The timer continues ticks down: 0:22 . . . 0:21.


    I pull my phone out of my pocket, but the signal bars are gone, replaced with a tiny ¡°SOS¡± in the corner of the screen. No service.


    ¡°Dammit,¡± I mutter, shoving the phone back into the pocket of my gym shorts.


    The sinking feeling in my gut grows heavier as the timer creeps closer to zero.


    0:10 . . . 0:09.


    I take a deep breath. My entire body is screaming at me to stay put, to wait this out, to let the countdown hit zero and see what happens. But another part of me, the part that dragged me out of bed at 4 a.m. to lift heavy ass weights and push through the pain, has other ideas.


    ¡°Screw it.¡±


    The words leave my mouth just as I step forward, through the glowing doorway.


    The light swallows me whole.


    The light swallows me, and for a moment, I¡¯m floating in nothingness. The sensation is weightless, like sinking into one of those sensory deprivation chambers. Then, all at once, the brightness dissipates, and my feet land on solid ground with a muted thud.


    I blink hard, my eyes adjusting to the sudden change. I¡¯m in a circular room. The floor beneath me gleams like polished obsidian, smooth and dark, reflecting faint glimmers of light from somewhere above. It feels cold, even through the soles of my sneakers, and the air smells clean¡ªsterile, like a hospital, with a faint metallic edge.


    Around me, shadows coil like living things. The room stretches into an indeterminate darkness, the edges lost in a black fog that presses against the limits of the white light streaming down from above.


    I look up, shielding my eyes. The source of the light is impossibly high, like the beam from a lone spotlight aimed straight at the ground. Its brilliance makes everything else feel hazy and unreal, as though the room itself exists in a dream or half-forgotten memory.


    In the center of the room, under the focused beam, is a pedestal. It¡¯s about waist-high and made of the same black, glass-like material as the floor. Its surface is smooth, untouched, and utterly empty.


    I take a cautious step toward it, my breath loud in the silence, when something else catches my eye.


    To the right of the pedestal sits a throne. Calling it a chair would be an insult. The stone seat is massive, its back at least six feet tall as though made to support a giant. The stone it¡¯s carved from isn¡¯t like the obsidian of the floor¡ªit¡¯s pale, almost bone-colored, and etched with intricate designs. Spirals, runes, and shapes I don¡¯t recognize from this distance cover every inch of its surface, weaving together in an impossible tapestry of artistry. The seat itself looks worn smooth, as though countless others have sat there before me.


    To the left of the pedestal is another chair. This one is also crafted from that strange, bleach white stone, but far simpler. Its lines are clean and utilitarian, devoid of any decoration. It looks functional, sturdy, and unassuming next to the grandeur of the throne across from it.


    I take another step, my sneakers squeaking slightly against the glassy floor.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± I whisper, though I know no one¡¯s around to answer.


    My voice echoes faintly, the sound bouncing off unseen walls before fading into the oppressive silence.


    The silence shatters with a sound like glass being scraped against stone. My head jerks toward the edge of the room, where the light bleeds into shadow. Something moves there, just outside the circle of illumination¡ªa sleek, sinuous form gliding across the glassy floor.


    Then another.


    They slide into the light, their scales catching the sterile white glow. The first snake is pure white, its body smooth and seamless, like animated porcelain. Its eyes are two featureless orbs of black, devoid of any reflection. The second is its mirror opposite: deep crimson scales edged in gold shimmer with every shift of its muscular coils. Its eyes glow faintly amber, almost like embers smoldering in the dark.


    I take a step back, heart hammering in my chest. Snakes. Why does it have to be snakes? I was never a huge fan of the reptiles, and definitely never understood why some people enjoyed keeping some as pets. My ex was from Florida, and sometimes spoke about the size of some of the pythons that would pop up from time to time. No. Fucking. Thank you.


    The pair move as though they¡¯re connected by some invisible thread, their sinuous bodies weaving side by side in perfect harmony. They glide toward the pedestal, their bodies making soft shhh sounds against the floor, and I take another step back, the primal part of my brain screaming, Get away!


    Before I can retreat further, the faintest tap, tap, tap echoes from the darkness. Footsteps, unhurried but purposeful, follow in the wake of the snakes.


    A figure emerges, stepping into the circle of light as casually as someone walking into their own living room.


    He¡¯s . . . normal. At least, more normal than I expected for a guy trailing a pair of oversized, otherworldly snakes. I have to admit, I half expected a short, green-skinned alien to appear. Not some random dude. Average height, lean but not scrawny, with the kind of easy posture that comes from confidence. Yeah, I¡¯m all too familiar with that walk. His skin is tanned, his features sharp and angular, like the classical statues scattered throughout Italy. Dark, curly hair falls just to his ears, and thick, expressive eyebrows sit above eyes that. . .


    I freeze. His eyes. They¡¯re yellow, faintly glowing, like a predator¡¯s caught in a beam of light. I swear I notice a light after image trailing from the corners of his eyes. Definitely an unsettling effect. I blink and the trail of yellow light is gone.


    He¡¯s dressed in a simple white robe, the hem brushing the tops of his sandaled feet. The robe is tied at the waist with a thin golden cord, its ends swaying slightly with each step. Behind his left ear, three feathers are tucked¡ªjet-black with a faint sheen, the kind you¡¯d see in a rooster¡¯s tail. They don¡¯t belong there, yet they look as if they¡¯ve always been part of him.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    He stops near the pedestal, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He scans the room casually, as though assessing it for cleanliness and orderliness. His mouth twists into a somewhat disappointed frown. The frown of someone who expected their hotel chain membership upgrade to get them something a little better. The snakes curl around the base of the throne, their heads raised and swaying in tandem.


    ¡°You look . . . underwhelmed.¡± His voice is warm, almost conversational, with the faintest lilt of amusement.


    I blink, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. ¡°I¡ªuh¡­¡±


    The man tilts his head, studying me with those unnerving eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. That¡¯s a perfectly natural reaction. To be quite honest, I expected more too. But I don¡¯t make the design choices . . . Not this year, at least.¡±


    I clear my throat nervously. ¡°A natural reaction to what, exactly?¡± I manage to ask, my voice cracking just slightly. I clear my throat again. ¡°Where are we? . . . What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°All of this.¡± He gestures around the room with one hand, his fingers long and elegant. ¡°The end of the world. Might not have the grandeur some may have expected but . . . I suppose in any case it¡¯s a lot to take in.¡±


    I swallow hard, every instinct screaming at me to bolt, but my feet stay rooted in place. Where would you even run to? The portal I walked through was no where to be seen.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± I ask, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.


    The man smiles, slow and deliberate. ¡°Oh, you¡¯ll find out soon enough. But for now, that¡¯s not important.¡± He gestures toward the throne and the simple chair beside it. ¡°Why don¡¯t we have a little chat?¡±


    The snakes hiss softly, their heads swiveling toward me, and I realize with a sinking feeling that it was not an invitation. It was an order.


    The man¡¯s smile widens, and a strange ripple runs down my spine. It¡¯s not a comforting smile¡ªit¡¯s something sharper, something that feels like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff and realizing the ground beneath you isn¡¯t as solid as it seems.


    I imagine this is what a hiker feels when they round a bend and come face-to-face with a bear. Every instinct screams to run, but there¡¯s nowhere to go, nothing to do except keep still and hope you don¡¯t provoke it.


    ¡°Come on now,¡± the man says, his voice lilting and smooth. He gestures toward the chair beside the pedestal. ¡°Let¡¯s get comfortable. We have things to discuss, and you¡¯re only my first appointment.¡±


    I swallow hard, my throat dry, and nod. My legs feel leaden, but they move anyway, carrying me toward the center of the room. The pedestal looms larger the closer I get, its polished surface catching and warping the sterile light above.


    The man lowers himself into the throne with the kind of effortless grace you¡¯d expect from royalty. He leans back, one leg crossing over the other, and waves a hand toward the simpler chair across from him. ¡°Sit.¡±


    The chair doesn¡¯t look particularly inviting. It¡¯s carved from the same stone as the throne, its surface cold and unyielding. But refusing doesn¡¯t feel like an option, so I lower myself into it.


    ¡°Good,¡± the man says, his voice thick with satisfaction.


    As I settle into the chair, a long wand materializes in his hand. It doesn¡¯t phase into existence so much as snap into place, like the universe decided it should be there and suddenly it was. The wood gleams, dark and polished, and the wand seems far too large for something meant to be held in one hand.


    The two snakes hiss softly from their places at the base of the throne, and then they move.


    My breath catches as the white snake coils up one side of the throne and the red up the other, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization. They reach the man¡¯s outstretched arm and continue up his arm, coiling around the length of the wand.


    The snakes don¡¯t stop at its handle. As they slither higher, their bodies change. Scales smooth out into polished wood, flesh hardening into grain. I notice the wooden rod of the wand growing, thickening and stretching. By the time they reach the top of the wand, they¡¯re no longer serpents but intricately carved pieces of the now-staff itself.


    From the end of the staff, two dark wings unfurl, forming an ornate crosspiece. They shimmer faintly, as though they¡¯re alive, though the material looks carved from the same gleaming wood as the rest.


    The man rolls the staff lazily in his palm, the wings creating a faint hum as they slice through the air.


    ¡°Now,¡± he says, leaning forward, his glowing yellow eyes locking onto mine. ¡°Let¡¯s discuss your future, Joseph. It¡¯s about to get . . . interesting.¡±


    My fingers dig into the cool stone armrests of the chair, the weight of his gaze pressing down on me. The staff in his left hand hums softly, almost like it¡¯s alive, and the wings at the top of the staff gently move, flapping up and down.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been chosen,¡± he says, his voice smooth and deliberate. ¡°Chosen to participate in the God Game.¡±


    ¡°The what now?¡± I blurt, my voice cracking slightly again. God damn these nerves!


    ¡°The God Game,¡± he repeats, enunciating each word like it should be obvious. ¡°Ragnarok . . . The Last Judgment . . . Titanomachy. I suppose there are a number of things you could call it.¡± The man sighs, leaning back into the throne while casually scratching at his cheek with his free hand. ¡°A contest held every seven millennia to determine which god will rule the connected multiverse. You see, even beings as magnificent as us¡ª¡± he gestures to himself with a flourish, ¡°¡ªare terrible at peaceful transitions of power. Chaos tends to ensue when gods clash. Planets crumble. Stars die. I¡¯m sure you know how it goes.¡± He flitted his hand around, shooing away some monotonous details that weren¡¯t worth hashing over in detail.


    I shift in my seat, my heart pounding. The God Game? A way of deciding which god will rule? ¡°So . . . you¡¯re saying you make us do your dirty work instead?¡±


    His lips curl into a faint smile. ¡°Precisely. Mortals serve as our champions. You fight in our stead, and in doing so, you spare your planet from becoming collateral damage in our disputes. It¡¯s quite efficient, don¡¯t you think? A small portion of your population participates and, once the Game is over and a victor has been decided, the remaining population join the fold of the multiverse. The next step in the species¡¯ evolution.¡±


    I stare at him, trying to process the insanity of it all. ¡°Okay, but . . . why me?¡± I¡¯m not exactly a Navy SEAL or anything.


    He waves his hand again, as if brushing away a trivial concern. ¡°The System chose you. A grand algorithm far beyond your understanding selects participants based on a multitude of factors¡ªthough, I think it¡¯s largely random.¡±


    Random. So it was some kind of lottery, and the winners got a portal dropped on them. Fantastic! I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Think, Joe. Ignore the fact that you¡¯re speaking to some god-like otherworldly being right now. At least he looks like some dude, and isn¡¯t Cthulu or something. I center myself and focus, trying to be as rational as possible. ¡°What do I get out of this? If I¡¯m going to participate in this Game, I need to know what¡¯s in it for me.¡±


    His laugh catches me off guard, rich and resonant, echoing off the unseen walls. ¡°Ah, such spirit! I do enjoy that in a mortal.¡± He leans forward, resting the staff across his lap. ¡°Early access to the System. While the rest of your species stumbles into the new realm like infants, you¡¯ll already be ahead. You¡¯ll be integrated, a demigod among ants if you play your cards right.¡±


    I blink, trying to piece together what that means. ¡°The System?¡± He had said it a couple of times already.


    ¡°It is the foundation of the civilized multiverse,¡± he explains, his tone growing more reverent. ¡°It governs trade, power, knowledge¡ªeverything. Through the System, you gain abilities mortals only dream of, wealth, and influence beyond your wildest dreams. And if that isn¡¯t enough to entice you. . .¡± He lets the sentence hang, a gleam in his eye.


    I lean forward, despite myself. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The winner of the God Game¡ªthe human champion left standing at the end,¡± he says, his voice soft but brimming with power, ¡°receives one wish. Any wish, within the power of the System. Wealth, immortality, vengeance, peace¡ªpractically anything you desire.¡±


    I sit back, my mind spinning. A wish?


    ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡± I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.


    He chuckles, and there¡¯s something almost kind in the sound. Almost. ¡°No catch, aside from the obvious: to win, you must survive and beat those who also choose to participate. Every participant is fighting for the same prize. It will not be easy.¡±


    ¡°How many participants are we talking?¡± S§×arch* The n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Approximately eight hundred million of your fellow Earthlings accepted the summons,¡± he says, his smile widening. ¡°I imagine most will enter the Game.¡±


    The number slams into me like a freight train. Eight hundred million. Those are worse odds than hitting the jackpot in the Mega Millions lottery. My chest tightens, but there¡¯s something else there too, a flicker of defiance. What would my life be like if I could have everything I could ever want? And if the world was really ending, wouldn¡¯t it be better to enter the new, intergalactic age as a demigod?


    I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling over me. ¡°Does only the winner survive? Are these some kind of death games?¡± I ask.


    The man chuckles. ¡°There are always casualties. I would be lying if I said there wouldn¡¯t be a lot of casualties. But that is a fair question. No, there are usually many survivors. But there is only ever one winner.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m assuming there¡¯s no waiver and release form that your civilized multiverse has prepared for me to review and sign?¡± If not, these god-like fuckers could really learn a thing or two from all of Earth¡¯s corporations.


    This elicits a small chuckle from the man. ¡°By participating in the Game, you risk being severely injured or, yes, death. And by willingly proceeding with the steps necessary to enter the Game, you accept all risks. But trust me when I say this: life as a mortal itself is a hazard to your wellness, and the power the System grants in many ways offers a comfort and protection from many of the risks you face every waking moment on the gigantic heated rock of a planet you call home.¡±


    I almost move my hand over my chest. Shots fired! You wound me, Throne Guy!


    ¡°Well,¡± I say, forcing a tight smile, ¡°I¡¯ve always liked a challenge.¡±


    The man leans back in his throne, his yellow eyes gleaming with something that looks suspiciously like amusement. ¡°Good,¡± he says, he straightens and taps the bottom of his staff against the obsidian-like floor. The snakes¡¯ carved bodies coil and gleam as if they¡¯re alive, catching the sterile light streaming from above. ¡°Now, to finalize your acceptance as a participant in the Game, there¡¯s just one more step. You must create your Participant Profile.¡±


    I blink, trying to decide if this is terrifying or ridiculous. Probably both. ¡°How do I do that?¡±


    ¡°Place your hand on the pedestal.¡± He gestures to the empty slab of stone between us, his smile curling upward.


    ¡°Just . . . put my hand on it?¡±


    ¡°Precisely.¡±


    I reach forward before freezing halfway. I look up at the man. ¡°It isn¡¯t going to hurt, is it?¡±


    I glance at the pedestal like it might bite me. Knowing my luck, it might. But the man¡¯s unwavering stare is like a spotlight, and I know I don¡¯t have much of a choice. Swallowing down my nerves, I stand and step toward the pedestal. Without another thought, I place my hand against the top of the pedestal.


    As soon as my palm presses against the smooth, cold surface, something happens. A jolt¡ªlike touching a doorknob after shuffling across carpet¡ªshoots through my body. Except it doesn¡¯t stop at my hand. It courses through my veins, filling every inch of me with electric, tingling heat. I gasp, my fingers reflexively curling against the stone.


    Ding.


    The sound rings out in my head, clear and bright, and I flinch, half-expecting the man to comment. But he just watches me, unbothered.


    Assimilation complete. A voice says¡ªvaguely feminine, though hard to pin down. It¡¯s the same voice that announced the end of the world before the portal appeared in the middle of Diesel Athletic Club. It¡¯s calm and mechanical, like an automated phone line that somehow got a personality upgrade. You have been successfully assimilated into the System. Congratulations on becoming a Participant in the God Game! It is with great enthusiasm that I welcome you to the Interdimensional Uniform System.


    Assimilated? The System? God Game? My brain feels like it¡¯s buffering.


    Another notification pops into my vision, hovering in the air like a hologram I can¡¯t swat away. Assimilation Complete. Participant Status: Active.


    Before I can process that, a new message appears, the words crisp and glowing:


    Basic Participant Profile Generated. Please complete the Profile Creation Process. Please note all decisions made in the Profile Creation Process will be semi-permanent and will not be capable of being changed until later stages in the God Game.


    Continue?


    The static-like energy fades, leaving me feeling light-headed¡ªbut sharper, somehow. More aware. I pull my hand back, staring at the pedestal like it¡¯s some ancient relic.


    ¡°Well done,¡± the man says, clapping his hands slowly, like he¡¯s at a one-man opera. ¡°The first step is always the most difficult, isn¡¯t it? But you handled that like a champion!¡±


    I stagger back toward the chair, my pulse hammering in my ears. ¡°What the hell just happened?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve taken your first step into the greater universe, my friend,¡± he replies, his voice almost smug. ¡°Now comes the fun part: defining who you will be in the Game. Go on, Joseph. Complete your Profile.¡±


    The glowing notification lingers in my vision, waiting for me to act. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but my hands are already shaking.


    Whatever this is, there¡¯s no turning back now.

 Chapter 03. Misclick

    Chapter 3


    Misclick


    I turn my attention back to the glowing screen that materialized in front of me, hovering like it¡¯s on a sci-fi heads-up display. The text is crisp, illuminated with a faint blue hue.


    Continue?


    I reach forward to press the screen and my hand passes through the display as though it isn¡¯t even there. ¡°Er¡­¡± This is awkward.


    ¡°Just focus your intent on what you want to do,¡± the man says. His lilting voice is almost bored, as though he¡¯s given the same piece of advice eight hundred million times before.


    ¡°Okay¡­¡± I say, trailing off as I try to focus on the word ¡®Continue?¡¯ I try to press the ¡®Continue?¡¯ button one more time. This time, my index finger is able to touch the screen and is instantly meant with a feeling of resistance. It¡¯s like the screen and my finger are two magnets that I¡¯m attempting to press together. Select, I silently command. I focus my intent as much as I can and eventually feel my finger break through the resistance. I select ¡®Continue?¡¯


    There is a haptic sensation near the front of my skull as something in my brain registers the selection. Sear?h the Novel?ire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Is it meant to be like this?¡± I ask. ¡°Pretty difficult isn¡¯t it?¡± I glance towards the man who is lounging in his throne, a tickled expression on his face as though he were biting back a laugh.


    The amused expression melts away from his face and he quirks an eyebrow at me. ¡°Indeed.¡±


    My attention is drawn back towards the hovering screen and the interface populates with flowing lines of neat, gently glowing script.


    Loading Participant Profile. . .


    User Profile:


    Name: Joseph Sullivan (Participant No. 4,432,444)


    Race: Human


    Discipline: Unassigned


    Class: Currently Unavailable


    Level: 1


    Health Points (HP): 15 [Current: 15]


    Mana Points (MP): 3 [Current: 3]


    Stamina: 30 [Current: 30]


    See User Statistics? . . .


    I blink a couple of times, half expecting it to disappear. When it doesn¡¯t, I rub my eyes, but the screen stays right there, mocking me with its absurdity. ¡°Wait a second,¡± I say, staring at it. ¡°This is like a freaking video game?¡±


    The words hang in the air, and the man in the throne chuckles¡ªa low, rich sound that somehow makes me feel like I¡¯ve said something amusingly na?ve. ¡°Ah,¡± he says, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the throne¡¯s armrests. ¡°I thought you might recognize the format.¡±


    I look back at the glowing screen hovering before my face. ¡°Recognize it? This is straight out of every RPG I¡¯ve ever played. Health, mana, stamina . . . What¡¯s next, skill trees and loot drops?¡±


    He smiles, a knowing glint in his golden eyes. ¡°The System,¡± he begins, his voice measured and calm, ¡°is an interdimensional construct adopted across the known multiverse. It is older than most of the gods and is not easily comprehended by mortal minds. To ease the transition for newly assimilated species, it tailors itself to the cultural understanding of its inhabitants.¡± He gestures lazily toward me. ¡°For your world, this presentation was deemed most. . . intuitive.¡±


    ¡°So,¡± I say, pointing at the screen, ¡°this whole thing was customized to look like a video game because it figured that¡¯s what we¡¯d understand?¡±


    ¡°Precisely.¡±


    My mind races. This whole situation is insane¡ªterrifying, sure¡ªbut I can¡¯t help the flicker of excitement that builds in my chest. It¡¯s like an RPG!  This is like something straight out of the fantasy-themed games I used to devour. Stats, leveling . . . It¡¯s every nerd¡¯s dream come true.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say, unable to hide the grin creeping across my face. ¡°This is kind of awesome.¡±


    The man chuckles again, sitting back in his throne. ¡°That¡¯s the spirit! Excitement, curiosity¡ªthe human will! This is what the Game is about. Fear and hesitation? Now, those will likely get you killed.¡±


    I glance at him through the translucent interface, my grin faltering slightly. ¡°Right. Killed. That¡¯s, uh . . . still on the table, huh?¡±


    ¡°More often than not. Sometimes.¡±


    That¡¯s a reassuring answer.


    The screen in front of me shifts slightly, a faint pulse of light drawing my attention back to it. The words Complete Profile Creation? flash in soft white letters at the bottom, right below See User Statistics.


    I swallow hard, my hand hovering instinctively over the glowing text. My heart¡¯s pounding, a mix of exhilaration and terror coursing through me.


    The man coughs, drawing my attention again. He wiggles his right index finger at me, I look at my own hand, and then at the screen before me. Ah, right¡­ No touch screens.


    I look back at him, then at the screen. I don¡¯t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up. Instead, I nod, take a deep breath, and focus on the words Complete Profile Creation. Accept, I think. I focus on the words as much as I can.


    ¡°Let¡¯s do this,¡± I breathe. After a little resistance, I can press the screen. The selection registers as an odd pulsing sensation in my mind.


    User Statistics:


    PHYSICAL STATISTICS:


    Strength: 5


    Dexterity: 3


    Constitution: 3


    MAGICAL STATISTICS:


    Intelligence: 1


    Willpower: 2


    Spirit: 1


    I stare at it, my mind clicking into gamer mode. ¡°Strength, Dexterity, Constitution . . . I half-expected these,¡± I murmur, almost to myself. ¡°Pretty standard stuff. Same with my Magical States. Intelligence, Willpower, Spirit.¡±


    I study the stats, a small grin forming on my face. My physical stats¡ªespecially Strength¡ªseem pretty solid for a Level 1. Sure, Dexterity and Constitution aren¡¯t exactly stellar, but they¡¯re still better than my magical stats. So, they have to be above average. I can¡¯t help but feel my bicep flex.


    While it all seemed intuitive and straightforward, it was probably best to be sure. I looked up at the man in the throne. ¡°Can I ask you some questions about all of this?¡±


    ¡°You may.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ll give me honest answers?¡±


    His smile widened. ¡°Damn! Yes, yes, I¡¯ll answer your questions.¡±


    ¡°Strength makes sense,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s gotta be physical power, right? Like how hard I can punch someone or how much I can lift?¡±


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    The man inclines his head slightly. ¡°Precisely.¡±


    ¡°Dexterity¡¯s probably speed, agility, reflexes¡­¡± I tap my chin. ¡°Constitution¡¯s endurance, durability¡ªlike how long I can sprint before needing to stop?¡±


    The man smiles faintly. ¡°You catch on quickly.¡±


    I nod, but my focus shifts to my Magical Stats. They¡¯re . . . pathetic, to be honest. ¡°Intelligence,¡± I mutter, reading it again. ¡°I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s for magic damage or spellcasting?¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± he replies. ¡°I¡¯m impressed. Most people think at first that it correlates to their intellect. If that were the case, it would appear you¡¯d need higher than a 1. But yes, you¡¯re correct, that statistic is most easily viewed as the Magical equivalent of Strength.¡±


    ¡°Willpower . . . Uh, mental toughness? Like resistance to mental attacks or something?¡±


    ¡°Correct again,¡± he says, leaning back slightly in his throne. ¡°It also governs your ability to persist through prolonged magical exertion.¡±


    ¡°And Spirit¡­¡± I trail off, frowning. I have no idea what Spirit even means in this context. It could be a number of things. ¡°What the hell does Spirit do?¡±


    The man¡¯s golden eyes gleam with something like amusement. ¡°Spirit,¡± he says slowly, ¡°is perhaps the most . . . enigmatic of the stats. It governs the strength of your connection to forces beyond the physical or mental realms. It is the measure of your resonance with the divine, the ethereal, and the primal energies of existence. Practically, however, it correlates to certain non-combative magic.¡±


    I blink. ¡°Like¡­ healing spells?¡±


    He chuckles, the sound deep and resonant. ¡°Among other things.¡±


    I glance back at the screen. My Spirit stat is a measly one. Not exactly the kind of score that screams future cleric. But my Physical Stats? They¡¯re decent, maybe even good.


    ¡°I think I¡¯m starting to get this,¡± I say, excitement bubbling up again.


    The man¡¯s smile widens. ¡°Great! That¡¯s very good for you! Truly. Do you have any other questions on your User Statistics, or are you ready to proceed to the next phase of finalizing your Participant Profile?¡±


    I nod, considering his question and staring at the numbers again, feeling a strange mixture of nervousness and exhilaration. This is real. I still can¡¯t believe it, but try and force my mind to accept what my eyes are seeing. The numbers are straight forward enough. I consider the first screen the interface displayed. It contained my race, which was listed as Human. Does that mean some Participants aren¡¯t human? Or, that there will be a chance during the Game to change into something non-human. That¡¯s interesting.


    I considered my HP, MP, and Stamina. I had a few questions, but only one seemed critically important.


    ¡°If my HP reaches zero, do I die?¡±


    The man laughed again, a short bark. ¡°No! But very good question. I like your priorities.¡± He drummed his fingers against the arm of the throne. ¡°Think of it more like a form of additional, natural protection over your physical wellbeing. When your Health Points are full, your physical body will regenerate from most injuries and ailments over time. When they are at zero, you will not regenerate from damage and will be more susceptible to attacks, taking the full effects of physical attacks.¡±


    Interesting. It was good to hear that I didn¡¯t have thirty non-sensical points between myself and the void.


    ¡°That¡¯s good. I¡¯m ready to continue, then.¡±


    The screen flickers, and new text begins to populate, scrolling upward like some kind of celestial PowerPoint presentation.


    FINAL STEP IN PARTICIPANT PROFILE CREATION: DISCIPLINE SELECTION.


    Disciplinesare the foundation of your growth and development within the System. Each Discipline provides access to certain benefits and can eventually be upgraded to a Class upon reaching higher levels. Choose wisely. Your selection of Discipline will be final and cannot be changed or modified until later points within the God Game.


    Please review the below Discipline options and make your selection.


    Available Disciplines:


    Warrior Discipline. This discipline focuses on physical strength and capabilities and the martial arts. Spellcaster Discipline. This discipline focuses on harnessing and utilizing one¡¯s raw magical potential. Crafter Discipline. This discipline focuses on the art of creation, enabling participants to design and construct tools, weapons, and structures of incredible power. Harvester Discipline. This discipline focuses on gathering and extracting useful materials and information from the environment.I read it again, slowly this time, to let it sink in.


    My eyes linger on the descriptions.


    The Warrior Discipline immediately jumps out. It feels like the obvious choice¡ªleaning into my high Physical Stats. I can already see myself wielding massive weapons, armored up like some medieval juggernaut.


    The Spellcaster Discipline is another would-be obvious choice, if it weren¡¯t for my pathetic Magical Stats.


    The other two Disciplines are far more interesting.


    The Crafter Discipline intrigues me. If this God Game worked like a real-world RPG, then what sort of Classes did selecting this Discipline unlock? I imagined myself crafting magical weapons and explosives. Tinkering away on various tools. Being a full spellcaster is probably not a viable option, but could I be a Crafter and problem-solve my way around the lack of innate magical abilities while still having my high Physical Stats? It was certainly a possibility, but not obvious.


    ¡°Does the Crafter Discipline largely rely on Magical Stats, or Physical Stats?¡± I ask, looking at the man through the selection screen.


    ¡°Hm¡­¡± He pauses, as though considering. ¡°I¡¯m afraid that is something I cannot, or I suppose simply won¡¯t, answer. The System provides you with enough information to make an informed decision. And, I don¡¯t want to be here all millennium answering your questions, if I¡¯m being honest.¡±


    ¡°Thanks¡­¡± I say lamely.


    It was probably safer to avoid the Crafter Discipline. If I remembered the various RPGs I played, artificer-type classes were often at the very least ¡®half casters.¡¯ I would still be taking a penalty with my poor Magical Stats.


    Finally, there was the Harvester Discipline. That¡¯s a wild card. Gathering materials and ¡°information¡± could mean anything, couldn¡¯t it? I could see this easily leasing to all the ¡®odd job¡¯ classes down the line. In Last Reverie, one of my favorite J-RPGs growing up, it was always these ¡®odd job¡¯ classes I enjoyed playing as the most. The characters whose powers were focused on absorbing the powers from enemy monsters, or learning abilities in weird, unique ways. I also always found them the most powerful in those games. If you used them correctly, I thought.


    I glance at the man on the throne. He¡¯s watching me, those glowing yellow eyes studying me like I¡¯m a chess piece about to make its first move.


    ¡°What happens if I don¡¯t choose?¡± I ask, half-joking, half-terrified.


    His lips twitch into a small, knowing smile. ¡°You¡¯ve already chosen,¡± he says cryptically.


    ¡°What?¡± I blink. ¡°I haven¡¯t picked anything yet!¡±


    He gestures to the screen. ¡°Not with words, Joseph. With who you are. With the path you¡¯ve walked to get here. The decision is already within you. All that remains is for you to see it.¡±


    I roll my eyes. Cryptic bastard. But his words stick with me. Maybe he¡¯s right.


    I take a deep breath, staring at the glowing options before me. ¡°Okay,¡± I mutter to myself. ¡°Let¡¯s do this.¡±


    The screen looms in front of me, each option glowing like a neon sign in a dark alley.


    Warrior Discipline. It¡¯s the clear choice. My Physical Stats are decent for a Level 1 scrub (at least I think they are), and if the System works like an RPG, a close-range DPS or Tank class is my safest bet. Strength and Constitution are my only halfway-decent numbers, after all. And who knows, perhaps there will be a class in the future that offers me some access to cool magical abilities. Like some kind of magic knight, or something.


    I hover my hand over the glowing text, ready to make the logical choice. Warrior it is. A no-brainer. I press ¡®Warrior Discipline¡¯ only for my finger to pass through the floating message. Then, I remember that the entire interface requires ¡®intent¡¯. I focus on the upper half of the screen. Thinking about the Warrior Discipline. It¡¯s all I try to think about. I try again, feeling that now familiar magnet-like resistance. The word toggles, as if a cursor was hovering over it. Come on, dammit¡ªclick it!


    Except¡­ something shifts. I keep pushing through the resistance of the screen when something¡­ I don¡¯t know how to describe it. Slips? My finger rolls off the resistance, landing below my intended selection. But instead of passing harmlessly through the screen, I feel the haptic tingling in my frontal lobes as my finger meets the interface and my brain registers a selection being made.


    The glowing text shifts, the screen blinks, and suddenly the words Spellcaster Discipline Selected flash across my vision in bold, unforgiving letters.


    ¡°Wait, what?!¡± I shout, frantically jabbing at the screen, finger passing through the words. ¡°No, no, no¡ªundo! Undo! Where¡¯s the back button?¡±


    The screen doesn¡¯t respond. It just flickers once, then again, before locking in the selection.


    Spellcaster Discipline Accepted. Welcome to the God Game.


    ¡°What the actual fuck,¡± I mutter, hands scrambling uselessly over the interface. ¡°There wasn¡¯t even a confirmation page? Who designed this garbage system?¡±


    I hear a giggle. Of course, it¡¯s Throne Guy, sitting all smug and radiant, his yellow eyes practically glowing with amusement.


    ¡°Well that¡¯s an interesting choice,¡± he says, his voice dripping with barely restrained glee. ¡°Most Participants in your position would have selected the Warrior Discipline without hesitation. But Spellcaster? Well, that¡¯s bold. Unexpected . . . Delightfully chaotic.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t select it!¡± I shout, pointing accusingly at the translucent screen of light hovering before me, as though it were it¡¯s fault. ¡°It was a . . . a . . . a misclick! Using your mind to do everything has a learning curve and it accidentally selected Spellcaster!¡±


    ¡°Oh, there are no misclicks in the God Game,¡± he says, wagging a finger like I¡¯m some toddler who just dropped my ice cream. ¡°Only fate.¡± His smile widens. ¡°Also, you could have just used voice commands, instead of attempting to physically interact with the System, if mental commands were too difficult to grasp on your first go.¡±


    Voice commands?! I suddenly feel like an absolute idiot.


    ¡°That¡¯s bullshit,¡± I snap. ¡°You can¡¯t just¡ªcan¡¯t I change it? Reset it? Something?¡±


    He leans forward in his throne, resting his chin on one hand. ¡°Ah, but the System doesn¡¯t allow such frivolities. Once a Discipline is chosen, it is set in stone. Or, in this case, set in the very fabric of your being. You¡¯re a Spellcaster now, Joseph Sullivan. A Spellcaster down to the very base level of your chemical composition.¡±


    I groan, burying my face in my hands. My stats are garbage for a Spellcaster. A 1 Intelligence? A 1 in Spirit? How the hell am I supposed to do anything?


    Before I can spiral any further, another notification screen pops up right in front of my face, semi-transparent and impossible to ignore:


    Participant Profile Creation Complete. Welcome to the God Game. Forced Return Initiated.


    Through the screen, I see Throne Guy smiling wide. Too wide. It¡¯s almost like his face is distorting into a fucked up impression of a Salvadore Dali painting.


    ¡°Congratulations,¡± he says, voice almost singsong.


    The words barely leave his mouth before the chair beneath me vanishes.


    ¡°Oh, come on¡ª¡±


    And then I¡¯m falling.


    Backward. Into darkness.


    The cold, infinite kind. The kind that feels like it¡¯s alive and swallowing you whole.


    His laughter echoes in my ears as the blackness envelops me completely.

 Chapter 04. The Wrong Side of the Bed

    Chapter 4


    The Wrong Side of the Bed


    The Trickster¡ªHermes¡ªreclines deeper into his throne, the smooth surface of the jet black stone cool against his skin, and lets out a laugh¡ªa sound that ripples through the void like a stone skipping across a still lake. It¡¯s not just a chuckle or a snicker, but a full-throated, belly-deep cackle that echoes off the invisible walls of the demiplane created by the System¡ªParticipant Assimilation Chamber. Despite being an immortal being who had witnessed the Breaking of Creation, even he could still be amazed by mortals. Or, more accurately, amazed by how idiotic they could be.


    ¡°Oh, Joseph Sullivan,¡± Hermes mutters between bouts of laughter, his glowing yellow eyes gleaming like twin suns in the gloom of the chamber. ¡°You absolute buffoon.¡±


    The image of Joseph¡¯s panicked face as he accidentally selected the Spellcaster Discipline plays on an endless loop in Hermes¡¯ mind. The mortal had actually tried to interact with the System using his hands¡ªhis hands! Most Participants quickly figured out that the System responded to mental commands after their first clumsy attempts to touch the interface, quickly adapting to the mental sensations of the System¡¯s feedback. But this Joseph? Oh, no¡­ His idiocy made it easy for Hermes to . . . tweak things.


    After all, being responsible for onboarding this Game¡¯s Participants gave Hermes a unique opportunity to place his finger on the scale. The Participant Assimilation Chamber was probably the only place where his Willpower could influence the System¡¯s interface and meddle with other beings¡¯ access to it. Particularly when those beings were newly assimilated mortals.


    Of course, it wasn¡¯t that simple. Hermes¡¯ mind was fractured into hundreds of millions of versions of this very room, each fragment of his consciousness handling a different mortal¡¯s onboarding process simultaneously. His attention was spread thin, making it difficult even for him to truly affect things in too meaningful way.


    But hundreds of thousands of these mortals¡ªlike this Joseph Sullivan¡ªmade his job a little easier in comparison. Just a little nudge, a slight flicker in the interface, a whisper of frustration nudging his finger at just the right moment. And voila. The fool had done the rest.


    Hermes sighs contentedly, his laughter fading into a satisfied hum. This Game¡ªthis Game¡ªwas going to be interesting. Each of the millions of tiny tweaks he made would compound over time. Imperceptible at first, but the System would incorporate and adapt to the changes, resulting in variations that none of his brothers or sisters could anticipate. It was like planting hundreds of millions of seeds, each one with potential to sprout into something wonderfully chaotic.


    ¡°Welcome to the Game,¡± Hermes whispers, his grin stretching impossibly wide as he gazes into the void where Joseph Sullivan had just plummeted.


    And then, with a snap of his fingers, he turns his attention to the other mortals, still going through the process. Yes, he thought, settling into the rapturous joy. The games within the Game never stop.


    When I wake up, it¡¯s to the obnoxious blare of my phone alarm rattling against the nightstand. Groggy doesn¡¯t even begin to cover it. My head feels like it¡¯s packed with wet cement, and for a second, I can¡¯t even remember what day it is. The shitty beige walls of my parent¡¯s basement blur into focus, and I fumble around, snatching up my phone and slapping at the screen until the noise finally dies.


    I lie there, staring at the ceiling, when it hits me¡ªthe dream. That weird, vivid dream. The man with the yellow eyes, the snakes, the System. I can almost feel the weightless drop in my stomach again.


    But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a faint bluish glow. My heart jumps. No way, I think.


    I snap my head toward it, expecting some floating hologram or notification from the System. But no. It¡¯s just my laptop, sitting on the cluttered desk where I left it last night, the screen still on.


    The words ¡°Senior Associate, Summit Lake Capital,¡± greet me, followed by a blinking cursor that¡¯s practically glaring at me like some cruel joke. I groan, rubbing the back of my neck. Of course. Just a dream. Some weird, lucid nightmare cooked up by stress and too many energy drinks. I let out a breath I didn¡¯t realize I was holding, though I can¡¯t decide if I¡¯m relieved or disappointed. As much as a world-changing . . . world-ending . . . Game amongst the gods of the multiverse sounded, the promise the System offered had been an exciting one. Even if I was going to be stuck with some useless class for my build. Oh well.


    I glance at my phone, still in my hand. The lock screen lights up: January 16th, 4:01 a.m..


    I frown. Wait a freaking second. Wasn¡¯t it the 16th yesterday? Did my mind just fabricate the entire day?


    A shiver crawls up my spine, and for a second, I don¡¯t enjoy the feeling of deja vu. I sit up, blinking into the dark room, and something deep in my gut twists. Just a dream, right?


    Right.


    The cold slaps me awake, biting through the layers of my coat as I step outside. It¡¯s miserably frigid this week and I suck in a short breath of a crisp air, trying to power through it. I¡¯m stronger than some Midwest winter, I silently scream in defiance as I practically sprint to the driver-side door of my car.


    Sliding into the Civic, I turn the key and the engine groans like it resents me as much as I resent it. The gas light¡¯s glaring at me¡ªgreat, another thing to deal with. I let the car warm as I pull out, the streets still wrapped in that pre-dawn emptiness, like the world¡¯s still sleeping. The feeling of d¨¦j¨¤ vu still clings to me like the static in this freezing Honda Civic.


    Driving to the gas station, I can¡¯t shake the weirdness of that dream. I was never one for remembering my dreams, usually forgetting them immediately upon waking. Now, to have one that was so vivid was unsettling. The day in my dream started just like this: the same shitty car, the same empty streets, the same stoplights turning red . . . the same creeping foul mood simmering under my skin.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Dad always said I ¡®woke up on the wrong side of the bed¡¯ some mornings. Apparently, that¡¯s some ancient Roman saying. Figures. The Romans conquered half the world and one of their many legacies was a superstitious saying about fending off bad luck. And on days like those¡ªwhere I¡¯d roll out of the wrong side of the bed¡ªI¡¯d let that mood set the tone, coloring everything in this dull gray. The day would start miserable and there would be no hope for recovery. But Dad had another one¡ª¡¯take your grumpy boots off at the door.¡¯ Less ancient Rome, more dad-ism, but it stuck even if I was terrible at consistently remembering it.


    Since moving back in with my parents, the wrong side of the bed¡¯s felt like the only side I¡¯ve got. The walls of my childhood home feel tighter now, like a cage I had escaped that was going to refuse to let me out of its clutches again. But I sigh, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. Dad¡¯s right. He usually is, damn it.


    I whisper one of those corny mantras I¡¯ve been forcing on myself lately¡ª¡°Today¡¯s a new day.¡± It tastes fake in my mouth, but maybe if I repeat it enough, I¡¯ll start to believe it.


    The gas station¡¯s neon lights flicker as I pull in, the place as empty as the tank. I park, engine ticking softly in the cold, and sit there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it¡¯s going offer some profound insight. But it¡¯s just me and my reflection in the glass, the echo of that dream still whispering in the corners of my mind.


    ¡°Today¡¯s a new day.¡±


    I grab a protein shake from the fridge, a gas station coffee that tastes more like burnt hope than caffeine (just the way I like it), and fill up the tank. The sky¡¯s still a dark, indifferent gray as I roll up to Save-Some-Bucks. Right on time, Dave¡¯s sedan pulls into the lot, headlights cutting through the morning darkness in my rearview mirror before he parks beside me.


    We both step out of our cars. Dave gives me his usual easy grin. ¡°Morning, Joe.¡±


    I slap on a smile like it¡¯s part of the uniform. ¡°Morning, Dave.¡±


    Dave¡¯s a nice guy. Pleasant enough to be around and with a constantly positive attitude that, I have to admit, wears on me at times. He¡¯s the kind of person who could probably get a parking ticket and thank the officer for their service. No wonder my dad got along with the guy. Be more like Dave, I remind myself.


    The morning shift kicks off like it always does. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the hum of refrigerators, the faint whiff of cleaning products that never quite covers the scent of desperation clinging to the linoleum. I get to work and the time flies by. Eventually, the store opens, and the regular parade of early-bird customers trickles in¡ªthe coupon clippers, the zombie-eyed commuters grabbing last-minute snacks, you name it.


    It¡¯s later in the morning when it hits me again¡ªthat weird, creeping d¨¦j¨¤ vu. I¡¯m stocking shelves when I spot a guy pushing a cart down one of the aisles. Late twenties, like me. But there¡¯s something about him. The realization hits me like a truck.


    No shit.


    I wipe my hands on my black work pants and head over, clearing my throat. ¡°Matt Carter?¡±


    He turns around, and his face lights up with recognition. ¡°Joey Sullivan? You¡¯re back in town?¡±


    I scratch the back of my head, the old habit kicking in like muscle memory as I try to strangle the embarrassment washing over me. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m back.¡±


    ¡°You were in New York, right?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± The word feels heavy. ¡°Wasn¡¯t for me. So, I came back. Still figuring some things out but it¡¯s . . . it¡¯s good to be back.¡±


    The words hang there, brittle and hollow. But I keep thinking: grumpy boots at the door.


    ¡°Glad to have you back, man! . . . Nice running into you. I¡¯ll see you around.¡±


    And just like that, he¡¯s gone, disappearing down the aisle like a ghost from a life that feels farther away than it should. I¡¯m left standing there, staring at the spot where he was, flummoxed and wondering what the hell just happened.


    There¡¯s no way I¡¯d dream of some random kid from high school and then he¡¯d actually be here, right? I shake it off. The human mind works in incomprehensible ways. Maybe I¡¯m just tired.


    Then, there¡¯s a buzzing in my pocket. I pull out my phone. It¡¯s my mom calling. That¡¯s odd¡ªshe knows I¡¯m on shift at Save-Some-Bucks. Must be important. Maybe she wants me to pick up milk on the way home or something. I roll my eyes and smirk. She forgets texting exists sometimes. I swipe to answer.


    ¡°Joe? Joe?!¡± Her voice is frantic, panicked. My stomach flips, dread going from zero to a hundred in an instant.


    ¡°Y-yeah, Mom, everything alright?¡±


    ¡°Oh, thank goodness you¡¯re okay.¡± She¡¯s breathing heavy, words tumbling out. ¡°I called your dad¡ªhe¡¯s okay too. They don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on, but I¡¯m happy you¡¯re safe. Get home. Get home! Your dad is calling your sister to make sure she¡¯s alright.¡±


    My mind reels, struggling to keep up. ¡°Wait, hold up a second, Mom. What are you talking about? What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°No one knows!¡± she cries. ¡°It¡¯s all over the news. Please, hurry home. It¡¯s not safe.¡±


    ¡°Er, okay, okay. Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯m alright . . . I¡¯ll see you soon. Okay?¡±


    She sounds like she¡¯s sobbing. But eventually I get back an ¡°Okay.¡±


    I hang up, my hands suddenly clammy. What the hell is going on?


    I check my phone again. An alert ribbon flashes across the screen:


    NEWS ALERT: World governments on high alert as worldwide violent attacks hit every city. U.S. officials caution everyone to shelter in place while the incidents are investigated.


    My heart pounds. I sprint to the employee break room, practically ripping the remote off the table. I flip the small TV from whatever sports rerun was playing to the first news station I can find. The same headline scrolls across the screen. A man is being interviewed, words in the top corner of the screen seem to indicate he¡¯s in Chicago. His face pale, eyes wide, like he¡¯s seen the end of the world. The end of the fucking world, I think as echoes of my dream ripple through my head.


    ¡°They, they . . . they just exploded,¡± he stammers, voice cracking. ¡°Oh god, oh fucking god.¡± He throws his face into the palms of his hands as he begins sobbing, shaking uncontrollably.


    The camera pans to focus on the reporter who was interviewing him, who is doing a great job at remaining composed, her face held in a solemn expression as she reports out to the camera.


    I pull my phone out again, my hands trembling as I tap on the news alert. The screen loads slower than usual¡ªor maybe my nerves are just making it feel that way. My eyes dart across the article, heart pounding harder with each word I read.


    ¡®Reports confirm that individuals across major cities worldwide are . . . spontaneously combusting. Authorities are investigating the cause, but initial theories suggest. . .¡¯


    My stomach twists into a knot. People are just . . . exploding? What the fuck? This has to be another nightmare.


    I¡¯m still trying to process that when I hear a voice behind me, tight and shaky.


    ¡°Joe.¡±


    I spin around. It¡¯s Dave. But not the Dave I know. His face is drenched in sweat, his usually neat hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes . . . they¡¯re wild, panicked and practically bulging out of his head. The ever-present easygoing smile is gone, replaced by sheer terror.


    ¡°Uh, yeah, Dave?¡± I ask, my voice cautious, unsure.


    He take a step closer, his whole body trembling. Then, he starts to cry. Big, heaving sobs that shake his entire frame.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m about to run out of time,¡± he stammers, his voice cracking. ¡°I¡¯m running out of time and I don¡¯t know what to do. I don¡¯t know¡ª¡± Sear?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Suddenly, there¡¯s a strange pulsing sensation in my head. Like a phone notification going off in my frontal lobe. I try to ignore it, shaking my head. ¡°What are you talking about, Dave?¡±


    Then, Dave explodes.

 Chapter 05. Elimination - Type: Culling

    Chapter 5


    Elimination - Type: Culling


    ¡°Holy shit!¡±


    Dave just fucking exploded. Like a human water balloon filled with warm soup. My ears are ringing, my head is spinning, and my shoes¡ªoh god, my shoes¡ªare covered in what used to be Dave. A sticky, crimson sludge coats my pants up to the knees, clinging to the fabric in a way that tells me this shit is never coming out.


    The break room smells like copper and bile. I think I might throw up. My stomach lurches and a sour burn runs up my throat like acid mixed with the afterburn of gas station coffee.


    My brain is stuck in a feedback loop, trying to process what just happened, but there¡¯s no rational pathway to follow. One second, Dave was standing there, sweaty and scared. The next, boom¡ªhe¡¯s repainting the walls with his insides.


    I stumble back, nearly slipping on a chunk of something that I absolutely refuse to identify, and slap my hand against the wall to steady myself. My heart is jackhammering against my ribs, my breathing fast and shallow.


    I shove my phone into my pocket¡ªbecause for some goddamn reason, I still have it in my hand, like checking the news is going to help me make sense of any of this¡ªand force my legs to move. One slow, careful step. Then another.


    Side-stepping around the meaty puddle formerly known as Dave, I push open the break room door and power-walk straight toward the employee bathroom at the back of the store.


    ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck¡­!¡± I mutter under my breath, feeling the residual warmth of Dave¡¯s bodily fluids soaking through my pants. My hands are shaking, my pulse a wild, unsteady thing in my throat.


    I have no idea what the hell is happening.


    All I know is that Dave exploded, and I¡¯m pretty sure I might be next.


    I slam the bathroom door shut behind me, twisting the lock with hands that won¡¯t stop shaking. The tiny, single-use restroom is as unremarkable as ever¡ªstained linoleum, fluorescent lighting that buzzes faintly, the faint scent of industrial cleaner. For once, the dull familiarity is almost comforting.


    Almost.


    My reflection in the bathroom mirror greets me. Blue eyes looking slightly sunken, short dark hair wild, and a spray of red right across my face. I look crazy, I ironically think as I might actually be losing my mind.


    I stagger to the sink and crank the faucet. Cold water rushes out, and I splash it onto my face, scrubbing at the sticky specks of blood clinging to my skin. The water turns pink in the basin, swirling down the drain as I grab a handful of paper towels and scrub at my cheeks. My reflection stares back at me, pale and wide-eyed, lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°Okay, slightly less crazy looking,¡± I mumble.


    Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Get it together, Joe.


    Then I feel it¡ªa pulsing in my mind, soft and rhythmic, like a cell phone notification buzzing on vibrate.


    I freeze, my hands still gripping the edge of the sink. The sensation is . . . wrong. Like something foreign, something that shouldn¡¯t be there.


    No. No, no, no. That was just a dream. The whole thing¡ªthe System, the asshole with the snakes, the weird tutorial bullshit. It wasn¡¯t real. It can¡¯t be real. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will away the feeling and the memories. Then, as though in response, the pulse echoes in my mind.


    Cautiously, heart pounding, I focus on the sensation. It feels . . . responsive? Expectant. Like it¡¯s waiting for me to respond.


    I open my eyes. My mouth is dry. My hands tremble as I take a step back from the sink, suddenly afraid of my own reflection.


    ¡°. . . System?¡± I whisper, half-expecting nothing to happen.


    A softly glowing, translucent screen flickers into existence inches from my face.


    Oh.


    Oh, fuck.


    My breath catches as words begin appearing on the screen, typed out in real time.


    WELCOME TO THE GOD GAME, PARTICIPANT.


    STAGE ONE: TUTORIAL - CLASS SELECTION


    [In the First Stage of the God Game, Participants will participate in Quests in order to familiarize themselves with the finer mechanics of the System while growing in strength in preparation for the later Stages of the Game.]


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    OBJECTIVES OF STAGE ONE:


    Obtain the necessary requirements to unlock a Class.Select a Class.CONSEQUENCES FOR FAILING TO COMPLETE OBJECTIVES:


    Elimination from the God Game.All access to the System will be locked until the conclusion of the Game.TIME REMAINING IN STAGE ONE: 364 Days, 14 Hours, 32 Minutes.


    Thank you for participating in this Cycle¡¯s Game. May Creation watch over all Participants and bring them success!


    My mouth goes dry. I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat doesn¡¯t go away.


    The screen vanishes.


    I stand there, my reflection staring back at me in the mirror, my brain frantically trying to shove this whole thing into a nice, logical box where it makes sense.


    It doesn¡¯t.


    Dave exploded.


    The System is real.


    And I¡¯m in a game I never signed up for.


    ¡°Oh, fuck.¡± The words that escape my lips are ones of resignation. My dad has another saying: You can¡¯t always change everything. Sometimes you¡¯ve just got to roll up your sleeves and work with what¡¯s in front of you. My mind was scrambling to come to grips with what was currently in front of it.


    The thoughts are only interrupted by another pulse in my mind, another notification screen snapping into existence before me.


    New Quest!


    Gate Initiation.


    [Description: Participant must locate and enter a Gate, successfully clearing the Dungeon within.]


    [Note: This Quest is available for a limited time only. The time limit will be randomly determined per Participant.]


    [Consequences: Failure to complete this Quest within the Quest¡¯s time limit will result in Elimination of the Participant.]


    [Elimination Type: Culling.]


    [Rewards: Access to additional menu options.]


    Continue?


    My breath catches in my throat.


    My eyes lock onto three words.


    Elimination Type: Culling.


    A cold, terrible feeling claws at my gut.


    I think of the news headlines. Of Dave. Of the way his face twisted in panic, the way he knew something was happening to him, the way he barely had time to say a damn thing before he exploded. What did he say again? I¡¯m running out of time, and I don¡¯t know what to do.


    Elimination. Culling.


    A partial picture begins to form in my mind, and I don¡¯t like it one bit.


    ¡°Damn it.¡±


    Continue? The neat font blinks at the bottom of the interface floating before me.


    ¡°Sure,¡± I mutter.


    Another pulse, and the screen shifts again.


    Quest: Gate Initiation. Time Limit: . . .


    Three new headers appear beneath the message: Days. Hours. Minutes.


    A line of nine reels appear on the interface. Below each word are three digital reels each displaying the number ¡®0¡¯, like a goddamned slot machine.


    This can¡¯t be serious. This has to be a joke. Or whichever Gods were in charge of this Game had a sick sense of humor. I thought of the smiling man in his throne, watching me fumble my way through the assimilation process for the System. Yeah, that makes sense.


    The word appears again, prompting me: Continue?


    My heart is hammering now, blood rushing in my ears. I try to focus, but panic is creeping in, clawing up my throat. If I¡¯m right¡ªif those numbers range anywhere from 0 to 9¡ªthen someone, somewhere, has already been fucked. I think of the headlines on my phone. Of Dave. No, some unlucky bastards already got royally screwed. That¡¯s what had happened all across he globe. Hundreds of thousands of innocent people were looped into whatever kind of game this was and presented with the same Quest I was. They got minutes, maybe even seconds, to figure all this out before they were blown to pieces.


    I picture some poor soul staring at their screen, too frozen to react, while the countdown hit zero. And then¡ª


    Pop.


    I gag, forcing the thought out of my head.


    I don¡¯t have time for this.


    I grit my teeth and square my shoulders. It¡¯s too late to be scared. Too late to hesitate. I need to work with what¡¯s in front of me.


    I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and command the System to continue. This time the System interface reacts immediately to my thoughts.


    All nine panels begin to spin rapidly. And I pray to whatever sick, twisted god is running this Game that I don¡¯t get a zero across the board.


    The first number under Days stops: Zero. S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The other panels continue to spin.


    The second number: Zero.


    Panic swells in my chest. I watch, breath held, as the second reel under the word Days slows. It clunks into place.


    Zero.


    ¡°Shit. No, no, no¡ª¡± I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, praying to whatever might be listening that the third reel lands on anything but zero. I¡¯m not much of a gambler, and after the feeling of dread and anxiety coursing through my veins right now, I never will be.


    It stops.


    Zero.


    The bottom drops out of my stomach. I have no days. None.


    I barely have time to process that horrifying fact before the first reel under Hours lands on zero almost immediately.


    The second number ticks into place: 2.


    Then, the third: 3.


    I¡¯m numb, and just taking in the visual information feedback. Something beneath the surface might rise to the level of relief but I¡¯m still stunned by the first four zeroes.


    The Minutes reels spin for another few seconds before settling on zero, 1, and 4.


    I stare in mute horror as the numbers finalize and the screen lights up with a small burst of fanfare.


    The reel disappears from the vision, the interface replacing it with a new message accompanied by that increasingly familiar pulse sensation in my mind.


    Quest Update!


    Quest: Gate Initiation.


    [Time Limit for completion of Quest updated to 23 hours, 14 minutes.]


    I blink and the message is gone, replaced by an updated description of the Quest.


    CURRENT QUESTS:


    Gate Initiation.[Description: Participant must locate and enter a Gate, successfully clearing the Dungeon within.]


    [Note: This Quest is available for a limited time only.]


    [Time Limit: 23 hours, 14 minutes]


    [Time Remaining: 23 hours, 13 minutes]


    [Consequences: Failure to complete this Quest within the Quest¡¯s time limit will result in Elimination of the Participant.]


    [Elimination Type: Culling.]


    [Rewards: Access to additional menu options.]


    Just under a single day.


    A day to find a Gate. A day to complete the Quest.


    Or I end up like Dave.

 Chapter 06. A Clear Mind

    Chapter 6


    A Clear Mind


    19 hours, 49 minutes until Elimination (Culling).


    I step out of Save-Some-Bucks, the fluorescent glow of the store lights receding behind me as the automatic doors swish shut. The parking lot is eerily quiet, the occasional passing car the only sign that the world hasn¡¯t completely lost its mind¡ªthough, given the sirens in the distance and the knowledge that people are fucking exploding, I¡¯m not convinced.


    The cops showed up about an hour ago, long after Dave had turned into modern art across the break room floor and walls. Apparently, a customer had called 9-1-1. Took them forever to get here. Something about getting flooded with calls of spontaneous human combustion. Yeah, no shit.


    I gave my statement to a cop who looked like he hadn¡¯t blinked in an hour. He nodded along as I told him what happened, not really reacting beyond the occasional tight-lipped grimace. At the end, he just muttered something about staying inside and left. Like that was going to help.


    I washed my shoes in the store¡¯s restroom before leaving. They¡¯re still damp, but at least they¡¯re not Dave-flavored anymore. Small victories, I guess.


    The drive home is . . . weird. Too normal. The sky is still blue, the traffic lights still change from red to green, and the radio still plays the same five popular pop songs on repeat. But there are fewer cars on the road. Fewer people walking the sidewalks. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting. I¡¯m sure most everyone is in lockdown mode.


    When I pull into the driveway, the sky is darkening and the porch light is already on. The second I step through the front door, my mom is on me.


    ¡°Oh my god, Joseph!¡± She throws herself at me, arms tight around my ribs, squeezing like she¡¯s trying to fuse us together. She¡¯s shaking, half crying, half laughing. ¡°You¡¯re okay. Thank god, you¡¯re okay.¡±


    I hug her back, though my arms feel stiff, awkward. ¡°Yeah, Mom, I¡¯m fine.¡±


    She pulls back just enough to look at me, hands on my face, scanning me like she expects to find a bomb fuse sticking out of my nostrils. ¡°Your sister called back. She¡¯s safe too, thank heavens!¡±


    I nod, relieved. One less thing to worry about.


    Over her shoulder, I spot my dad standing near the kitchen. Seeing him is like looking into a slightly distorted mirror. He¡¯s got the same dark hair, though his is slicked back and starting to go gray at the temples. Same nose, same tired eyes touched with deep laugh lines. But a beard that he¡¯d let get a little too long. He¡¯s too skinny¡ªMom always says he forgets to eat when he¡¯s busy¡ªbut he¡¯s still got that quiet, steady presence. He¡¯s still in his work clothes, his button-up slightly rumpled, like he just got home too.


    Mom finally lets go, and I step past her to hug Dad. He squeezes tight, warm and solid. ¡°Glad you¡¯re safe, son.¡±


    ¡°You too,¡± I say, and for a second, everything almost feels normal.


    Almost.


    I pull away from Dad, offering both of my parents a shaky smile. ¡°I¡¯m just glad everyone¡¯s okay,¡± I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. ¡°It¡¯s been . . . a wild day. I¡¯m gonna get out of these clothes and lay down for a bit.¡±


    Mom nods, but her brows knit together with concern. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re okay? You look pale, honey.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine. Just tired.¡± I back toward the basement stairs before she can scrutinize me further.


    Dad claps me on the shoulder as I pass. ¡°Get some rest, Joe.¡±


    I nod and head down. The moment I step into my room and shut the door behind me, my body betrays me. My hands are trembling, my breath comes in quick, shallow gasps, and my legs feel like they might give out.


    I stumble to the bed and sit, gripping the mattress like it¡¯s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. My head drops into my hands, and I squeeze my eyes shut.


    What if Mom and Dad are in this too? Silent Participants in this God Game. What if they have timers counting down in their heads, just like me? What if my sister does? She called back, she¡¯s safe¡ªfor now. But Dave had been fine, too. Right up until he wasn¡¯t.


    I choke back bile. Jesus fucking Christ. Dave, I think.


    My skin feels too hot, my heart hammering like it¡¯s trying to break free from my ribs. I peel off my shirt, letting the cool air hit my sweat-damp skin, then collapse backward onto the bed. I try to breathe in slow, deep pulls, but my chest is tight, and each inhale feels like it barely does anything.


    I don¡¯t know how much time I have left.


    I need to check.


    I squeeze my eyes shut and focus. ¡°System.¡±


    Nothing. No response.


    A fresh wave of panic flares through me, and I clench my jaw against the urge to scream. I force my thoughts into something more deliberate, more structured. ¡°Menu.¡±


    A haptic tingling flares at the front of my mind. A faint glow pulses inches from my face.


    There it is.


    The interface flickers into existence, waiting.


    The glowing interface hovers in front of me. The menu pulses softly, waiting. I push myself upright, wiping my damp palms against my pants before focusing on the words.


    MENU:


    Attributes & Equipment


    Point Allotment


    Inventory


    Daily Reward


    Quests


    Party [Unavailable]


    Social Lists [Unavailable]


    Retainers & Pets [Unavailable]


    Equipment & Item Synthesization [Unavailable]


    Marketplace [Unavailable]


    Discussion Channels [Unavailable]


    More than half of the menu is locked. Figures. The Quest description had said something about unlocking additional menu options as a reward for completing it. Still, there¡¯s enough available to poke around in. I hover my thoughts over Attributes & Equipment, and my intent to mentally select the option is met with a haptic tinging in the front of my mind as the menu shifts, expanding into a new window.


    Name: Joseph Sullivan (Participant No. 4,432,444)


    Race: Human


    Discipline: Spellcaster


    Class: Currently Unavailable


    Level: 1


    Health Points (HP): 15 [Current: 15]


    Mana Points (MP): 3 [Current: 3]


    Stamina: 30 [Current: 30]


    STATISTICS:


    PHYSICAL STATISTICS:


    Strength: 5


    Dexterity: 3


    Constitution: 3


    MAGICAL STATISTICS:


    Intelligence: 1


    Willpower: 2


    Spirit: 1


    See Equipment?


    The stats look the same as before. No secret power-ups, no hidden abilities. I was half-hoping that now that I was a spellcaster, my Magical Stats would have received a boost of some sort. No such luck, I guess.


    I sigh. ¡°Okay,¡± I mumble. I mentally select the ¡®Equipment¡¯ option and the interface flickers, the information in front of my face changing in a flash.


    EQUIPMENT:


    Head: [Empty]


    Left Hand (Hold): [Empty]


    Right Hand (Hold): [Empty]


    Left Hand (Finger 1): [Empty]


    Left Hand (Finger 2): [Empty]


    Right Hand (Finger 1): [Empty]


    Right Hand (Finger 2): [Empty]


    Left Arm: [Empty]


    Right Arm: [Empty]


    Body 1: [Empty]


    Body 2: [Empty]


    Legs: [Empty]


    Feet: [Empty]


    Additional Accessory 1: [Empty]


    Additional Accessory 2: [Empty]


    ADDITIONAL MENUS:


    Spells


    Skills


    Abilities S~ea??h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Traits


    When I focus my attention toward the Equipment section, the interface shifts like a page turning in mid-air. A diagram of a faceless humanoid outline appears, labeled lines extending from parts of the body to the slots that were just outlined on the prior screen.


    It¡¯s standard RPG fare. Though it¡¯s pretty expansive compared to some games I¡¯ve played in the past, it¡¯s also limiting in a number of ways. Only four rings? What if I want to wear five? What if I want to wear three on one hand and only one on the other? Or, what if I wanted to go full goblin-mode and load my fingers full with magic bling? Who¡¯s stopping me? What would the System do? I guess only time will tell.


    Each slot is empty, which is disappointing. I don¡¯t even have a rusty dagger or a cracked leather belt to my name, so the whole thing feels like a sick joke.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    I back out and select ¡®Spells,¡¯ hoping for something¡ªanything¡ªthat might give me an edge or semblance of protection on whatever waits for me inside one of these ¡®Gates.¡¯


    The interface pulses and flickers.


    Generating Starting Cantrips. . .


    The three dots blink in rhythm, over and over, like a boot screen from a 90s videogame. Somehow that doesn¡¯t inspire confidence. What kind of omnipotent cosmic System needs a loading time? After a moment, the screen updates with a soft chime.


    CANTRIPS:


    Wizard¡¯s HandLightI squint at the words, waiting for more. That¡¯s it? I mentally click through the descriptions, and two small, glowing blue boxes pop up.


    Wizard¡¯s Hand (Conjuration Cantrip)


    Casting Time: Instantaneous


    Mana Cost: 1 MP


    Range: 30 Feet


    Duration: 1 minute


    Description: Conjures a spectral, floating hand composed of pure mana within Range. The hand lasts for the duration or until you dismiss it. The hand vanishes if it is beyond Range for longer than 5 seconds. You can mentally control the hand, using it to manipulate and interact with objects. The spectral hand cannot attack.


    Light (Evocation Cantrip)


    Casting Time: Instantaneous


    Mana Cost: 1 MP


    Range: 20 Feet


    Duration: 30 minutes


    Description: Creates a harmless sphere of heatless light imbued with radiant energy, producing light equivalent to a torch. The sphere can be held in the caster¡¯s hand, or remain suspended in the air near the caster¡¯s shoulder (or affixed to any inorganic surface).


    I stare at the screen. For a moment, I genuinely expect a third cantrip to pop up¡ªsomething cool like Fire Bolt or Magic Missile. But no. That¡¯s the whole list.


    I slump against the headboard, dragging a hand down my face.


    So, I can lift ten pounds remotely or create a floating glow stick. What am I supposed to do? Politely illuminate the monsters while they rip me apart?


    Still¡­ having Wizard¡¯s Hand is better than nothing. And Light could be useful if the Gate is, I don¡¯t know, a spooky cave or something. Not that it makes me feel any less fragile.


    I shake my head and flip over to the next category: Skills.


    No Skills available at this time.


    Great. I check Abilities.


    No Abilities available at this time.


    Awesome!Traits?


    No Traits available at this time.


    Perfect. I¡¯m basically a glorified sack of meat with glowing hands. And one of them is a spectral hand!


    I lean back and sigh through gritted teeth. What the hell¡¯s the difference between Abilities and Traits, anyways? Skills, I assume, are the Physical equivalents of my Spells. But what separates an Ability from a Trait? I run my fingers through my hair in frustration. Why am I even thinking about this right now?I should be thinking about how to not become Dave 2.0.


    Still, I make a mental note to figure that out¡ªassuming I don¡¯t explode before then.


    I need more information. I need a plan.


    And I really, really need to work out.


    But first, I should check out the rest of the System¡¯s Menu options.


    I shift my focus to the next item on the menu¡ªPoint Allotment. Maybe I can bump up a stat or two?


    The screen blinks and a message pops up:


    No points to allocate at this time.


    Of course not. Why would the universe cut me a break?


    I back out with a sigh and tap Inventory next. If the System¡¯s feeling generous, maybe there¡¯s something useful hiding in there¡ªhell, I¡¯d take a rusty butter knife at this point.


    The screen refreshes.


    Inventory currently empty.


    I let out a dry, humorless laugh. Yep. Just me, myself, and a whole lot of impending doom.


    Next up¡ªQuests. The Gate Initiation message pops up immediately, the timer in bold beneath it:


    18 hours, 28 minutes.


    Time is slipping through my fingers. Every second wasted brings me closer to becoming another stain on the pavement. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to think about how many others are watching their own timers tick down¡ªhow many have already hit zero.


    For a brief, fleeting moment, a thought passes through my mind. What if waiting for the timer to hit zero is a better fate than whatever is waiting for me on the other side of those Gates?


    I swallow the panic rising in my throat and move to the last available menu option¡ªDaily Reward. It¡¯s the only thing left that might give me something. Anything.


    The moment I select it, a new message appears with an obnoxiously cheerful chime:


    Congratulations, Participant! You have claimed your first Daily Reward!


    Reward: 1 Novice Spellcaster¡¯s Beginner¡¯s Bag!


    Next Daily Reward available in: 23 hours, 59 minutes.


    1 Novice Spellcaster¡¯s Beginner¡¯s Bag added to Inventory.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t ¡®novice¡¯ and ¡®beginner¡¯ a little redundant?¡± I say.


    Without any further hesitation, I exit the Daily Reward menu and navigate back to Inventory¡ªand sure enough, there it is. A small glowing icon labeled ¡®Novice Spellcaster¡¯s Beginner¡¯s Bag.¡¯


    I focus on the item and another window opens in my interface, with a description of the item.


    Novice Spellcaster¡¯s Beginner¡¯s Bag: A bag containing essential items and equipment any novice spellcaster would need to begin their journey in mastering the arcane arts.


    A cascade of new items floods my inventory, each one materializing with a soft chime. I stare at the list, trying to decide whether to laugh or cry.


    Novice Wand (Beginner)


    Basic Cone Hat of Wizardry


    Cape of the Arcane Student


    Basic Mana Potion (x2)


    Spellbook (Empty; Beginner)


    I let out a long, slow breath. ¡°Well,¡± I mutter, ¡°at least I¡¯m not empty-handed anymore.¡±


    I tap on each item, pulling up their descriptions.


    Novice Wand (Beginner):


    [A simple wand carved from the branch of a mundane oak tree. Barely better than waving a stick around. +1 to Spellcasting Efficiency (-1 MP to all Spell Costs).]


    Basic Cone Hat of Wizardry:


    [Classic wizard chic. Provides no actual protection, but hey, you¡¯ll look the part. +1 to Willpower.]


    Cape of the Arcane Student:


    [This flimsy cloth cape is the hallmark of every novice spell-flinger. Try not to die in it. Grants wearer use of one free Cantrip spell once per day.]


    Basic Mana Potion:


    [Perfect for novice spellcasters as it has been prepared to replenish the full mana reserves of a typical beginning spellcaster. Restores 15 Mana.]


    I blink at the potion¡¯s description.


    Fifteen mana.


    I have three.


    Fifteen?! I could chug the entire bottle and still have twelve mana points left over that I literally can¡¯t even hold. My chest tightens as I resist the urge to scream, or maybe punch the wall. Of course, the System would give me items that are only useful if I weren¡¯t built like a gym rat who accidentally walked into Hogwarts. It¡¯s all part of what I asked for when I accidentally elected to be a Spellcaster.


    I sigh and open the last item¡ªthe Empty Spellbook. The description is as bleak as I expect.


    Spellbook (Empty; Beginner):


    [An entry-level spellbook used to record and track learned spells. Currently empty. Wow. Try harder.]


    ¡°Wow. Try harder,¡± I mock under my breath, shaking my head. If the System had a face, I¡¯d punch it.


    I stand from my bed as I equip everything¡ªbecause why the hell not?


    Pixels of white light surround my body, forming into the objects from my inventory.


    The wand is light and smooth in my grip, more like a chopstick than a magical conduit. The cone hat feels ridiculous, but it sits snug on my head. I take a peek in the full-body mirror on the wall of my room. It¡¯s a stereotypical blue cone, covered in sewn-on silver stars. The cape? It hangs loosely around my shoulders like something out of a high school play. I feel like a reject from a low-budget fantasy convention.


    Perfect.


    I stare at the glowing 18 hours, 12 minutes sitting at the edge of my vision. I need a plan. I need to find a Gate. I need¡ª


    To calm down.


    My pulse is too high, my thoughts are bouncing around like pinballs. If I¡¯m going to survive this insanity, I need my head screwed on straight.


    And there¡¯s only one place that ever does the trick.


    The gym.


    It¡¯s stupid, but it¡¯s my reset button. Something about lifting heavy things and putting them back down clears the noise in my brain like nothing else.


    I unequip everything using the System¡¯s interface and my body is surrounded in a flash of the same white pixels of light. A second later and I¡¯m back in my normal attire¡ªno more pointy wizard cap.


    I shove my phone in my pocket, pull on a fresh tee shirt and head upstairs. Mom and Dad are still in the living room, the news droning softly in the background. I pause by the door long enough to catch a snippet.


    ¡°¡­multiple human explosions reported across the city, authorities are urging residents to remain calm¡ª¡±


    I swallow hard, push down the rising dread, and pull on my sneakers.


    If the world¡¯s falling apart, I¡¯m going to face it the only way I know how¡ªone rep at a time.


    The familiar clang of metal on metal echoes through the Diesel Athletic Club as I step inside. The smell of sweat and rubber wraps around me like an old blanket¡ªcomforting in its own weird, gritty way. For all the eerie quiet on the streets, there¡¯s a surprising number of people here. More than I expected.


    I guess when the world goes insane, everyone has their own way of coping.


    Some guys are hitting the free weights like their lives depend on it¡ªhell, maybe they do. A group of girls are laughing near the cable machines, like it¡¯s just another Thursday. For them, maybe it is. Either they haven¡¯t been roped into the God Game, or they¡¯re better at pretending than I am.


    I flash my key fob at the desk scanner and walk through without a word. No one¡¯s paying me much attention, which is exactly what I want. My mind¡¯s still chewing on the absurdity of cone hats and wizard hand spells, but here? Here, I can focus on something real.


    After warming up, I head to the squat rack, load a couple of 45s onto the bar, and step under it. The cold steel rests across my shoulders, a weight I know well.


    Up. Down. Breathe.


    It¡¯s supposed to burn. It always burns.


    Except¡ªthis time, it doesn¡¯t.


    I rack the bar and blink down at the plates. That felt too easy. I¡¯m not supposed to warm up with 225 like it¡¯s nothing.


    Curious, I slap on another set of plates and step back under the bar. 315 pounds. I¡¯m careful as I lower myself into the squat, but the movement feels smooth. Effortless.


    I hit depth, drive back up, and¡ª


    No strain. No ache.


    I could do this all day.


    I rack the bar again and just . . . stare at it.


    Okay. That¡¯s not normal.


    I¡¯ve been lifting long enough to know my limits, and this? This is way beyond them. My muscles should be screaming. My legs should feel like jelly. Instead, there¡¯s this weird, light buzz under my skin¡ªlike my body¡¯s just waiting for more.


    I wipe a hand across my face and exhale slowly. The System. It has to be. My Strength stat is only 5, and it¡¯s already making me stronger than I¡¯ve ever been. If this is what 5 feels like, what the hell happens when people start pushing towards higher numbers?


    I wonder if the others¡ªthe ones caught up in the Game, the Participants¡ªare feeling the same thing. The guy on the chest press a few feet away grunts as he pushes through another set. Is he a Participant too? Are we all just wandering around, waiting for the next notification to pop up and decide whether we live or die?


    The thought sits heavy on my chest.


    I push it aside and move to the bench press. Time to see how deep this rabbit hole goes.


    A few minutes later, I¡¯m repping out 275 like it¡¯s a warm-up. My heart¡¯s pounding¡ªbut not from exertion. This isn¡¯t just adrenaline. My body feels stronger, faster, more efficient.


    This is freaking awesome! I think as I re-rack the weight after what had to be forty relatively easy reps.


    I stand and take a look in the mirror that runs along the entire back wall of the weight room. I don¡¯t look any different. Fairly large arms and rounded shoulders, but a softer midsection that betrays my former life as ¡®the fat kid.¡¯


    My phone won¡¯t shut up.


    It¡¯s been vibrating in my pocket non-stop since I started my workout, but I¡¯d shoved it to the back of my mind¡ªfocusing on the burn, the weight, anything but that. But now, while I sit on a worn wooden bench in the locker room sauna, the notifications claw their way back to the surface. I pull out the phone from the extra towel I had it tucked within and start scrolling.


    Breaking News: Strange Portals Appear Worldwide.


    ¡®Gates¡¯ Spotted in Major Cities¡ªAuthorities Baffled.


    LIVE: Is This the End? Experts Weigh In.


    I snort at that one. ¡°Experts.¡± Right. Like anyone knows what the hell is going on.


    The grainy video clips paint a surreal picture¡ªfloating, shimmering ovals of light cropping up everywhere. Sidewalks. Subway stations. The middle of the goddamn highway. No two are exactly the same, but all have that same eerie glow.


    The news anchors are trying to sound calm, but it¡¯s obvious they¡¯re barely holding it together. Hell, I¡¯m barely holding it together. Some reports claim the Gates are harmless¡ªpeople walk in and . . . disappear. Others say the Gates aren¡¯t so kind. One video shows a guy stepping too close and getting shredded into a fine red mist. Is that what happens when a non-Participant attempts to enter a Gate?


    Or is it some other fucked up twist on this God Game.


    I rub the back of my neck and exhale, feeling the heat from the sauna prickle against my skin.


    One thing stands out: Gates are popping up in cities. Big ones.


    Chicago. New York. Los Angeles. Tokyo. More people, more Gates. Makes sense, in a twisted statistical way. But does that mean my chances of finding one here¡ªin Cleveland¡ªare lower? Or are there more Gates out there than the news can even track? I take another deep breath. Statistically speaking, if Gates appear in higher numbers in areas of more dense population, then I probably have a similar chance of encountering a Gate here.


    And the biggest question: Can more than one Participant enter the same Gate? And are there enough Gates for every remaining Participant to complete their first Quest? Or are we in a race against both time and each other, fighting for limited resources?


    The thought makes my stomach churn. If there¡¯s a limited number of Gates, then the rest of us are just¡­ dead. Eliminated. Culled.


    God, this is insane. Less than a day ago, my biggest concern was whether I could find a better job, bounce back from all the shit that went down in New York. Now? Now I¡¯m wondering how many poor bastards have already exploded because they couldn¡¯t find a glowing magic door.


    I let my head fall back against the wall, breathing in the thick, wood-scented air. My brain¡¯s spinning in circles and no amount of overthinking is going to solve this. I need to act.


    I finish my time in the sauna, letting the heat bake away the tension gnawing at my nerves. When I can¡¯t sit still any longer, I shower off quickly, dry myself, and slip into fresh clothes. There¡¯s only one move to make next.


    I have to go downtown.


    If Gates are more likely to appear in crowded areas, Downtown Cleveland is my best shot. It¡¯s not Chicago or New York, but it¡¯s the busiest place I can get to without wasting precious hours.


    I pull my hoodie over my head and tighten the drawstrings. I toss on my thick, winter coat as I step out of the locker room and make my way towards the gym¡¯s exit. The world still looks the same¡ªbut it¡¯s not. Not anymore. Somewhere out there, a glowing doorway could mean life or death. My life. My death.


    I take a breath and focus. ¡°Quest timer,¡± I say, honing my focus and hoping the System is still listening.


    A faint glow flickers into the corner of my vision¡ªa digital clock ticking down in soft, crisp, white digital numbers:


    15 hours, 41 minutes until Elimination (Culling).


    The clock is still running. I¡¯m not dead, not yet.


    With a clear mind, I step out of the gym and into the biting cold. I have a Gate to find.

 Chapter 07. Gate Initiation, Part I (Toto, I don’t think we’re in Cleveland anymore)

    Chapter 7


    Gate Initiation, Part I


    (Toto, I don''t think we''re in Cleveland anymore)


    14 hours, 58 minutes until Elimination (Culling).


    I¡¯ve been driving in slow circles around Downtown Cleveland for the last forty minutes or so, scanning every alley, every crosswalk, every shadowed corner for a glowing, otherworldly portal.


    Nothing.


    You¡¯d think these things would be easier to find!


    Just brick and concrete and cold, dead air. If Gates are supposed to be more common in crowded areas, then where the hell is mine? Was I supposed to make an appointment or something?


    I suppose there are fewer people out and about. Likely due to the cold¡ªand the whole ¡®people exploding¡¯ thing that¡¯s going on.


    I exhale through gritted teeth, my fingers twitching on the steering wheel. Yup, Downtown¡¯s quieter than usual¡ªnot empty, but not the steady pulse of people I¡¯m used to. The city feels . . . hollow? Less traffic. Fewer lights. Like it¡¯s already starting to wind down, one missing person at a time.


    I pass the theaters for the third time. Same marquee¡ªadvertising the current Musical on tour (there¡¯s a show tonight at 7:30 p.m., something about corn . . . I think). Still no giant portal of salvation.


    I pull the car into an open street spot¡ªnot that there¡¯s much competition for parking¡ªand kill the engine. If I keep crawling around at two miles per hour like a creep, I¡¯m gonna lose my mind. Maybe I¡¯ll have better luck on foot.


    The cold hits the second I step out. Sharp and biting, worming through my hooded down coat like it¡¯s not even there. Welcome to Cleveland in the winter¡ªwhere the wind coming off the lake personally hates you. After college, I had considered positions in both Chicago and New York. At the time the thought of being in another Midwest city (no matter how large) on a windy, cold ass lake sounded miserable. I agree with you, Past Joseph!


    I stuff my hands into my pockets and cross Euclid Avenue, boots crunching over a thin layer of ice. My breath fogs the air as I walk beneath the massive crystal chandelier hanging over the intersection. It¡¯s still as absurdly fancy as ever¡ªlike someone decided Cleveland needed a little Vegas flair. Because nothing says Cleveland like a twenty-foot tall art installation dangling above the street.


    Dad¡¯s mantras pass through my mind again. I breathe out, trying to get my nerves to settle. Okay, I actually like the chandelier.


    I glance around, hoping¡ªpraying¡ªto see a Gate shimmering in the distance. Still nothing. Just the empty storefronts and snow-dusted sidewalks stretching ahead.


    What the hell am I even looking for? Are Participants actually expected to summon the Gates somehow? Should I be waving my beginner wand around like a total jackass?


    And why hasn¡¯t anyone bothered to shovel or salt the sidewalks?


    Seriously, one wrong step and I¡¯m cracking my head open on the pavement. My luck, I¡¯ll slip and die before I even get the chance to explode.


    I rub my palms together for warmth and press forward, heart pounding with every step.


    The news made it sound like the Gates were everywhere.


    Reddit posts, breaking alerts, live-streams¡ªevery channel lit up with shaky cell phone footage of glowing portals cropping up in the middle of outdoor shopping centers, stadium parking lots, and someone¡¯s backyard barbeque. It felt like you couldn¡¯t turn a corner without hitting one.


    So why the hell can¡¯t I find one?


    14 hours, 43 minutes. The timer ticks down in the corner of my vision like a slow, inevitable death sentence. While driving around, I had toyed with the System interface and learned I could customize the head¡¯s up display.


    I rub the back of my neck, scanning the empty street ahead. Maybe I¡¯m overthinking it. If these things are as common as the news says, then¡ª sea??h th§× n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Wait.


    I freeze mid-step.


    A faint flicker of blue light glows out of the corner of my eye. Soft. Subtle. Like the shimmer of the System interface.


    It¡¯s coming from an alleyway tucked between a bleached white apartment complex and the Heinen¡¯s grocery store. I pause, heart hammering against my ribs. For a second, I think I¡¯m imagining it. Just city lights playing tricks on me. But the glow pulses again¡ªdeeper in.


    I swallow hard. ¡°Well, this doesn¡¯t scream bad idea at all,¡± I mutter, but my legs are already moving.


    The alley¡¯s quiet save for the sound of a pipe dripping somewhere in the shadows. Drip ¡­ drip ¡­ Drip. My steps echo faintly off brick walls as I follow the soft, otherworldly glow. Garbage bags pile up against a rusted dumpster. A busted pallet leans against the wall. Normal. Everything looks normal.


    Except for the light.


    It¡¯s coming from another alley¡ªan even narrower one bisecting this one. I turn the corner, and there it is.


    Holy shit. A portal.


    Seven feet tall, give or take. Oval-shaped. Its surface shimmers like rippling water, but the color¡ªan electric, vivid blue¡ªglows so bright it makes the shadows around it feel thicker. The air near it hums with a low, vibrating frequency, like the barely-audible buzz of T.V. static.


    It¡¯s real. It¡¯s right there.


    My mouth goes dry.


    I take a shaky step closer, boots scuffing against the concrete. Up close, the thing looks even more unreal¡ªlike someone took the northern lights and crammed them into a doorway. Faint motes of light drift lazily off the edges, dissolving into the cold night air.


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    I take a long breath, forcing my heartbeat to slow as I focus on the glowing portal in front of me. This is real¡ªtoo real. If I¡¯m going through with this, I need to be prepared.


    ¡°Inventory,¡± I murmur.


    The faint hum of the System responds instantly. A translucent window snaps into existence in front of me, its edges softly glowing in the dim alleyway light.


    Inventory Level: Beginner.


    Maximum Capacity: 20.


    Slots Available: 15 of 20.


    Huh. I hadn¡¯t noticed that part before. A limit. Of course there¡¯s a limit. Can¡¯t have me running around like a video game hoarder with a mountain of junk. I¡¯d be lying if I didn¡¯t admit I am disappointed by this revelation¡ªwhen I play video games, I raid and loot everything. It¡¯s one of the best parts!


    I flick my finger through the menu, scanning my gear. Five slots are already spoken for¡ªmy hat, cape, wand, the two mana potions, and the spellbook. I¡¯m curious if equipped items take up Inventory space.


    I glance down at the Novice Wand (Beginner) sitting in its neat little menu box, and then tap the Equip option. The diagram of a human body appears and with a single mental command I drop the wand into my Hand (Left) slot. In a flash of pixelated light, the wand appears in my left hand¡ªslender, smooth, and warm to the touch.


    Whoa.


    Alright. Hat next.


    I tap on the Basic Cone Hat of Wizardry. This one I place into the Head slot in the Equip menu. Another flash. Something soft plops onto my head, slightly askew. I reach up and adjust it into place.


    ¡°Looking good, Gandalf,¡± I mutter under my breath.


    I shake my head as I chuckle at myself, tapping on the Cape of the Arcane Student. In another burst of light, the cape unfurls across my shoulders, draping over my winter coat.


    I swipe back to the Inventory menu and¡ªyep. Three slots just opened up. Confirming my suspicion: equipped items don¡¯t count against my carrying capacity.


    Which is . . . good? Yeah. That¡¯s good.


    Still, eighteen slots isn¡¯t much room to work with. What happens if I find something important and can¡¯t pick it up? And what about these mana potions? They¡¯re grouped together in a single slot, but is there a limit on how many I can stack? Could an infinite number of the same item be placed into a single Inventory slot?


    I shake my head, dropping the train of thought. One thing at a time. Right now, I¡¯ve got a Gate in front of me, a ticking clock in my head, and no idea what¡¯s waiting on the other side.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say quietly to myself, tightening my grip on the wand. ¡°Let¡¯s do this.¡±


    I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and step forward.


    The moment my foot meets the shimmering blue threshold, a tingling sensation sparks at my fingertips and races up my arms. It¡¯s not unpleasant¡ªnot exactly¡ªbut it¡¯s weird, like my nerves are buzzing on some strange, otherworldly frequency.


    Then the tugging starts.


    A sharp yank behind my navel, like some invisible hook has latched onto me. My stomach flips. I lurch forward, and before I can even think to resist, the portal pulls me in.


    A wall of blinding white light floods my vision.


    Shit. Shit. Shit.


    I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare. My whole body feels weightless, like I¡¯m falling without moving. There¡¯s no sound¡ªjust a heavy, buzzing pressure filling my ears. For one heart-pounding moment, I wonder if I¡¯ve screwed up, if I¡¯m about to get disassembled atom by atom or spat out into a hell dimension filled with teeth-monsters and eldritch nightmares.


    Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stops.


    I stumble forward, blinking against the fading brilliance. My boots press softly against . . . grass?


    I lift my head, and¡ªwait, what?


    I¡¯m standing in the middle of a field. No more grimy alleyway, no more frozen Cleveland concrete. Just a rolling expanse of soft, green grass stretching out in every direction. Patches of purple flowers¡ªlavender, maybe?¡ªdot the landscape in lazy, sprawling swaths. Overhead, the sun hangs warm and golden in a cloudless blue sky.


    It¡¯s . . . beautiful. Peaceful. Like I¡¯ve wandered straight into the Windows XP desktop background. Definitely not the dark and dank dungeon corridors I was expecting to greet me on the other side of the Gate.


    The breeze brushes against my face¡ªcool and crisp, like a late-winter chill that shouldn¡¯t belong here. It tugs gently at the hem of my cape. Instinctively, I glance back.


    The portal¡ªthe only way home¡ªis already shrinking. The last of the cold, winter air passes through the gate as it rapidly closes.


    ¡°Wait¡ª¡± I start, but too late.


    With a faint, whispering whoosh, the shimmering blue light collapses inward on itself and vanishes, leaving nothing but open air.


    ¡­Well. No turning back now.


    A sharp ping rings out, and a translucent notification flickers to life in my vision:


    Entering Dead World #43.


    Dead World?


    That doesn¡¯t sound great.


    ¡°System,¡± I mutter under my breath, but nothing happens. No helpful guide. No soothing tutorial voice. Just me, the wind, and the quiet rustle of grass.


    I shift my grip on the novice wand still clutched in my left hand, trying to shake off the creeping unease curling in my stomach.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say to no one in particular. ¡°Dead World. Not ominous at all.¡±


    The wind picks up, carrying the faint scent of something sweet and earthy across the field. It would almost be relaxing¡ªif not for the clock ticking down in the corner of my vision.


    14 Hours, 40 Minutes until Elimination (Culling).


    I scan the horizon. No buildings. No landmarks. No signs of life.


    What the hell am I supposed to do now?


    A sharp ping jolts through me¡ªlike the world¡¯s tiniest electric shock zapping the back of my skull, its accompanied by a pulsing sensation in my mind.


    A notification window pops up in my vision, hovering a few inches above my line of sight:


    New Quest!: Bright-Eyed New Adventurer!


    [Description: Welcome to your first Gate, Participant! To complete this Quest, kill 5 monsters.]


    [Reward:One random Beginner¡¯s Chest.]


    [Additional Objective (Spellcaster Discipline):Use spells to deal the killing blow for each monster killed in completing this Quest.]


    [Reward: Beginner¡¯s Chest upgraded to an Advanced Chest.]


    I stare at the glowing text, trying to decide how I feel about it.


    On one hand¡ªa quest! That¡¯s progress, right? Clear objectives. Tangible rewards. I am beginning to have a sense of what it will take to complete this Gate Initiation Quest and not be exploded Dave-style. Also, all the comforting structure of a video game to distract from the fact that I¡¯m stranded in a place called Dead World #43.


    On the other hand . . . I have to kill something. Five somethings, to be exact. And the System seems awfully keen on me doing it with spells. You know, those things I only have two of¡ªneither of which could so much as bruise a fruit fly. I¡¯ve never even gone hunting, and am nervous at the thought of it.


    ¡°Great,¡± I mutter. ¡°Because nothing says ¡®bright-eyed¡¯ like magical murder.¡±


    Still, I wonder what the difference is between a Beginner¡¯s Chest and an Advanced Chest. How much of an improvement is that? What will I be giving up if I can¡¯t complete the Additional Objective? If there¡¯s any chance it contains something that¡¯ll make me less pathetic, I want it.


    I dismiss the quest window with a mental nudge and glance around the field again. Same endless grass, same patches of purple flowers swaying lazily in the breeze. Nothing looks particularly monstrous.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I sigh. ¡°Let¡¯s go poke around for something to kill, I guess.¡±


    I walk, keeping my footsteps light, ears straining. A hint of wind brushes my back, tugging at my cape like it¡¯s trying to nudge me forward. The portal that spat me out here is gone¡ªsealed shut like I¡¯m trapped inside a snow globe (field globe?) with a homicidal to-do list.


    I take another step, and something moves.


    It¡¯s small¡ªjust a ripple of motion ahead, near a cluster of lavender blooms. I freeze and squint.


    There. About ten yards away, something wobbles into view.


    It¡¯s a . . . blob?


    A shimmering, quivering mass of pale blue jelly, about the size of a basketball. It pulses faintly, oozing forward in small, bouncy hops.


    A new notification flashes in front of me:


    Monster Identified: Lesser Slime


    Level: 1


    Classification: Basic Ooze


    A Slime.


    Of course. My first monster is straight out of every low-level fantasy game in existence.


    The slime bounces again, wobbling like an overfilled water balloon.


    I should be relieved. This is probably the least-threatening monster possible¡ªunless it suddenly grows teeth and a taste for human flesh. But still . . . it¡¯s a monster. And I¡¯m supposed to kill it.


    With magic, preferably.


    ¡°Alright, you wobbly bastard,¡± I mutter under my breath, raising my wand. ¡°Let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve got.¡±

 Chapter 08. Gate Initiation, Part II (I Entered the Game and All I Got Were These Lousy Cantrips!)

    Chapter 8


    Gate Initiation, Part II


    (I Entered the Game and All I Got Were These Lousy Cantrips!)


    The slime jiggles in response. I don¡¯t know if that means it¡¯s threatening me or just vibing. Either way, I need to finish this.


    I flick open my spell list with a thought. Two options appear:


    Wizard¡¯s HandLightI wish my options weren¡¯t so limited, but now¡¯s not the time to whine. It¡¯s not like the slime is going to wait for me to figure out how to kill it. I glance at the basketball sized ball of blue jelly and its just sitting there, slightly vibrating. Or maybe it will?. . . I don¡¯t know.


    Wizard¡¯s Hand is the only thing that might even remotely work. Telekinesis is better than . . . ambient lighting.


    I focus on the spell¡¯s name. A haptic tingling is set off in my mind as I trigger the spell.


    A tingle runs down my arm. In the bottom left corner of my vision, a slim blue bar flickers into existence. MP: 3/3. It doesn¡¯t budge.


    Huh.


    A quick glance at the wand in my hand reminds me why. My wand reduces the cost of all Spells by 1 MP.


    In my case, it means my cantrips are free. That¡¯s pretty useful. Or, it would be if my only offensive tool wasn¡¯t a glorified ghost hand. ¡®Offense¡¯ is also a stretch. The Spell¡¯s description clearly states that the hand cannot attack.


    The air shimmers, and a glowing, silvery hand blinks into existence about shoulder height in front of me. It floats there, fingers wiggling slightly, like it¡¯s ready for orders.


    I can¡¯t give the hand the order to attack the Slime. But maybe it can carry something that can?


    My eyes dart around the grass until I spot a small stone, about the size of a golf ball.


    ¡°Grab that,¡± I tell the hand.


    The spectral fingers curl around the rock and lift it smoothly off the ground.


    I point toward the slime. ¡°Throw it.¡±


    Nothing happens.


    The hand just hovers there. Like it¡¯s judging me. Does throwing a rock activate its restriction on attacking?


    That¡¯s bogus! I sigh. ¡°Okay, fine. Drop it. On the slime.¡±


    The hand floats over, drifting like an extremely underpaid delivery driver, and positions itself above the jiggling blob. I mentally focus on the hand, trying my hardest to will the hand to drop the rock. It does.


    Plorp!


    The stone falls, smacking the slime dead center. For a moment, I allow myself to feel a sliver of satisfaction¡ªuntil the slime bounces in place like nothing happened.


    ¡°Seriously?¡±


    The hand hovers expectantly, waiting for further instructions. The slime wiggles again¡ªstill lazily bouncing forward, not even remotely fazed.


    I blow out a slow breath, trying to stay calm. Alright, Joseph. That was just a warm-up. You¡¯ve got magic, a free-floating hand, and a glorified JELL-O cup standing in your way. How hard can this be?


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s try this again.¡±


    I scan the ground for another rock, find one about the same size as before, and mentally command the Wizard¡¯s Hand to grab it. The spectral fingers curl around the stone and lift it effortlessly.


    ¡°Higher this time,¡± I mutter.


    The hand drifts upward. Slowly. Like it¡¯s savoring the experience. I resist the urge to yell at my own spell as it rises above the slime, then keeps rising, and rising¡ªuntil, at about twenty feet, it just stops.


    I frown. ¡°That¡¯s your limit, huh?¡±


    No response, of course. It¡¯s a spell, not a conversational partner. But still, good to know.


    ¡°Alright. Drop it.¡±


    The hand releases the rock. It plummets through the air, picks up speed, and¡ª


    Plorp!


    The stone disappears into the slime¡¯s gelatinous body with a wet schlorp. The thing jiggles slightly, like I just insulted its mother but not enough to warrant an actual reaction.


    The first rock I threw slides out of the slime¡¯s underside, falling harmlessly to the ground.


    I blink.


    The slime doesn¡¯t even slow its bouncing and vibrating. It looks like it¡¯s dancing.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°¡­You¡¯ve got to be kidding me.¡±


    I stare at the jiggling blue blob, then at my glowing magic hand, then back at the blob.


    My heart sinks.


    I knew being a spellcaster was going to suck with the stats I had been assigned. I knew it. I just didn¡¯t think it¡¯d be this bad.


    I have one job: Kill five monsters. My only available spell with any utility is Wizard¡¯s Hand, which is about as deadly as an underwhelming party trick. My grand strategy of throwing rocks has officially failed.


    I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.


    ¡°This Quest is impossible.¡±


    WHUMP!


    The slime surges forward with way more speed than I was expecting. One second, it¡¯s bouncing in place like an excited Jell-O mold, and the next, it¡¯s barrel rolling across the ground like a sentient tumbleweed made of gelatin.


    I don¡¯t even have time to react.


    It slams into my shins with all the force of an enthusiastic golden retriever puppy¡ªexcept instead of fur, it¡¯s cold, squishy, and wraps itself around my boots like a hungry amoeba.


    ¡°Oh, shit¡ª¡±


    I stumble back, nearly falling on my ass. My feet feel stuck, like I¡¯ve stepped into an industrial-strength glue trap. The slime quivers, sending little vibrations up my legs, and for a moment, I have the horrifying thought that it¡¯s going to start dissolving me.


    But¡­ it doesn¡¯t.


    Instead, it just¡ªvibrates. Like a particularly aggressive massage chair.


    ¡°¡­What the hell?¡±


    I yank my right foot free with a gross squuuuckkk, leaving behind a slick sheen of slime residue over the surface of my boots. The blob gives a delighted wiggle. Encouraged, I do the same with my left foot, and as soon as I¡¯m fully extracted, the slime does a happy little circle.


    I squint at it.


    It jiggles back.


    Okay. Either this thing is incredibly bad at being a monster, or it¡¯s just too small to be a real threat. I glance down at my boots, half-expecting them to start sizzling, but nope¡ªno acid burns, no smoke, not even a hole. Just some goo.


    ¡°So,¡± I say slowly, looking down at the sentient jelly blob that just gave me an unsolicited foot massage. ¡°You¡¯re not trying to eat me?¡±


    The slime vibrates again.


    Huh. Not sure what that means, I think. You¡¯re talking to a Slime, Joe.


    I cross my arms and tilt my head, considering my options. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    On one hand, this thing is supposed to be my enemy. My first ever monster kill in this nightmare God Game.


    On the other¡­


    I sigh. ¡°Okay, it¡¯s settled. I¡¯m taking you with me until I figure out a way to kill you with magic.¡±


    The slime bounces excitedly.


    Great. I have a pet.


    I crouch down, hands hovering just above the slime¡¯s jiggly surface. Up close, it looks even weirder¡ªlike someone left a bowl of blue Jell-O out in the sun, but instead of melting, it decided to become sentient.


    ¡°Alright, little guy,¡± I mutter. ¡°Let¡¯s see if I can actually pick you up without getting absorbed into the goo dimension. Or you actually being acidic¡ªthat would be a dick move, by the way!¡±


    I slide my fingers into its surface. At first, there¡¯s no resistance¡ªjust a cool, wet, squish as my hands sink in. I grimace, half-expecting to lose my fingertips to some kind of gelatinous digestive process, but then¡ª wait.


    There¡¯s something solid beneath the goo.


    I dig in deeper, feeling around, and suddenly¡ªthere it is. A core? A nucleus? Whatever it is, it gives me just enough grip to hoist the slime up.


    It¡¯s . . . light. A lot lighter than I expected. Like, basketball-with-weird-texture levels of light.


    ¡°Well, that''s convenient,¡± I say, tucking it under my right arm like an overgrown stress ball. The slime wobbles but doesn¡¯t resist.


    I take a step forward¡ª


    DING!


    A pulsing sensation ripples through my brain. I freeze, caught off guard by the still unfamiliar sensation. Right on time, a new notification screen blips into existence in front of me:


    New Ability Gained!


    Slime Tamer (Beginner)


    [Description:You have the innate ability to befriend weaker oozes. While this Ability is equipped, Basic Oozes will have 25% reduced hostility and all Oozes will deal 5% less damage.]


    I blink.


    Then, I grin.


    ¡°Hah! Look at that¡ªyou are useful.¡± I nudge the slime with my elbow. It jiggles happily.


    I pull up my interface, navigating to my newly acquired Ability. A quick mental command, and¡ªboom¡ªequipped. I don¡¯t feel any different, no sudden rush of power or mystical slime-whispering abilities, but hey, free passives are free passives. More importantly, this means I can gain new skills just by doing stuff. Not everything has to come from fighting or spellcasting. That¡¯s¡­ interesting.


    And probably something I should keep in mind.


    After equipping the [Slime Tamer] Ability, my interface blinks as a line of text appears near the top of the Abilities screen.


    Ability Points (AP)


    Maximum AP: 3


    AP Available: 2 of 3


    AP Assigned: 1


    Slime Tamer (Beginner) [1 AP]Interesting, I think. I unequip the Ability, and the slime under my arm seems to vibrate in response. My ¡®AP Available¡¯ ticks back up to ¡®3 of 3¡¯ and ¡®AP Assigned¡¯ drops to 0. I re-equip the Ability with a sigh of relief. So, just more resource management I¡¯ll need to stay on top of.


    The slime under my arm vibrates joyfully (I think) in response to the Ability being re-equipped.


    As I walk, the little slime still tucked under my arm like a wobbly football, my mind keeps circling back to one unavoidable problem¡ªmagic.


    Or, more specifically, my complete and utter lack of useful magic.


    I have two spells. One of which is Wizard¡¯s Hand. A glorified telekinetic butler that can¡¯t even throw things properly. The other is Light. I¡¯m not sure this God Game would make things so easy as to present me with monsters weak to light, particularly given that I am currently traipsing through a field in broad daylight. And my only other ability is befriending slimes. Which, while hilarious, isn¡¯t going to do much when I inevitably run into something that actually wants to kill me. At least, I think it won¡¯t. The image of me commanding a literal army of jellies rises unbidden to my mind and I chuckle at the thought.


    So, what the hell am I supposed to do really?


    The smart move would be to just grab a weapon. A stick, a rock, a very sharp leaf¡ªliterally anything would be better than playing magical patty-cake with monsters.


    But if I go that route, I lose out on the Advanced Chest reward upgrade. And I don¡¯t know how much loot matters in this world yet, but something tells me a better chest means better survival odds. And until I have more information about what¡¯s included in these Chests, I can¡¯t risk it.


    I sigh, adjusting the slime under my arm. ¡°You¡¯re lucky you¡¯re adorable, dude.¡±


    It lets out a little bloop in response.


    I keep moving, my boots crunching over the grassy terrain. It¡¯s getting a little too warm with my winter coat on, and I unzip the front to let some of the cool breeze into my under layers. Eventually, I reach the base of a large hill. It¡¯s steep, but not unmanageable. I take a breath and start climbing, using my free hand to steady myself against the incline. Nothing like a good incline at a steady, low intensity!


    Halfway up, something catches my eye.


    A thin, wavering smudge against the pale blue sky.


    Is that . . . smoke?


    I stop, squinting.


    Yep. Definitely smoke. A dark, curling plume drifting upward, too steady to be a wildfire.


    My stomach tightens. Smoke means fire. Fire means people. And people mean¡­


    Well, I have no idea what people mean in this world yet.


    I push forward, cresting the top of the hill.


    And there, in the distance, I see it¡ªa factory.


    Massive smokestacks rise from the squat, industrial-looking building, spewing black clouds into the sky.


    A factory.


    In a Dead World?


    I don¡¯t know what I expected to find here, but it sure as hell wasn¡¯t that.

 Chapter 09. Gate Initiation, Part III (Here, there be gobblins!)

    Chapter 9


    Gate Initiation, Part III


    (Here, there be gobblins!)


    The factory looms ahead, an ugly gray box of a building, squat and industrial, with soot-streaked smokestacks belching into the sky.


    Behind it, a forest. A big one. It stretches out so far it might as well be the edge of this world for all I know. The trees look ordinary, like something I¡¯d expect to see at one of the National parks dotting the Midwest back home on Earth.


    I don¡¯t see or hear a river, and there doesn¡¯t seem to be any sign of civilization other than the factory. No village, town, or even a single road. Just trees, grass, and one very out-of-place industrial complex.


    Which makes me wonder¡ªwho the hell builds a factory here?


    I don¡¯t see anyone outside. No guards, no workers, no friendly NPCs standing around with exclamation marks over their heads. Just a long row of dirty, narrow windows lining the second floor. I wish these Gates came with a sort of helpful ¡®game guide¡¯ or something. I shoot a glance at the blue jelly creature pressed against my hip.


    ¡°You don¡¯t happen to be tutorial-style game guide, right?¡±


    The slime didn¡¯t humor me with a response.


    ¡°Right.¡±


    I adjust my grip on the slime, still cradled under my arm like a wobbly gelatin football, and carefully approach.


    The front doors are massive¡ªeasily twice my height¡ªthick slabs of metal reinforced with riveted steel bars. They¡¯re streaked with rust, the paint long since peeled away, leaving behind a patchwork of corrosion. The doors are slightly ajar.


    I don¡¯t trust them.


    This is a game. Maybe not exactly like one, but close enough that I know better than to walk through the obvious entrance like an idiot. I would likely find myself face-to-face with an entire gang of enemies and I¡¯m not sure this is the type of situation I could talk myself out of.


    Instead, I move around the side of the building, scanning for something less¡­ death-trappy.


    That¡¯s when I spot the fire escape.


    Metal stairs, bolted to the side of the building, leading up to the roof.


    Perfect.


    I shift Jelly Boy to my other arm and start climbing. The metal groans under my weight, rust flaking off as my boots hit each step. It¡¯s slow going, mostly because carrying a squishy slime one-handed while climbing an ancient fire escape is surprisingly difficult.


    By the time I haul myself onto the roof, my arms ache. Good thing it was leg day today.


    I stand up and get my first real look at the forest.


    It¡¯s even bigger from up here. A sea of dark green stretching out forever, the treetops swaying gently in the breeze.


    I take a deep breath.


    For a Dead World, it sure doesn¡¯t feel . . . well, dead. Something about the name¡ªand the System¡¯s need to announce it, still doesn¡¯t sit right with me.


    I crouch down and place the slime on the roof¡¯s concrete floor.


    ¡°Okay, Jelly Boy,¡± I say, pointing a finger at him. ¡°Don¡¯t run away. And do not jump off the roof. Please.¡±


    He (at least, I¡¯ve been thinking of it as a ¡®he¡¯) vibrates.


    I have no idea if that¡¯s a yes or a ¡®screw you, I do what I want,¡¯ but I choose to believe it¡¯s agreement.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say, giving the slime a light pat on the top of its¡­ head?


    I scan the rooftop. If there¡¯s a fire escape, then there has to be some way to access the roof from inside. Otherwise, what¡¯s the point?


    Bingo! I spot it¡ª a door, just like I was hoping for. Maintenance, emergency exits¡­ whatever the reason, I don¡¯t care. It means I have a way in that doesn¡¯t involve kicking open the giant front doors like an idiot.


    I step over to the door. I try the door''s handle. The handle turns easily. Unlocked. That¡¯s either a good sign or a terrible one. I can¡¯t shake the feeling that I¡¯m being railroaded into taking certain actions.


    I ease the door open, careful to shift the slime out of its path with the gentle nudge of my foot. On the other side, I find a short flight of stairs¡ªmaybe five steps¡ªleading down into dim light. From beyond, I hear it. The steady clank of metal. The hiss of steam. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of something massive driving an assembly line forward. I¡¯m immediately met with a blast of heat.


    And voices. Guttural. Harsh. A mix of barking orders and disgruntled muttering. A busy factory.


    I exhale slowly. This is either extremely stupid or exactly what I¡¯m supposed to be doing, I think. I hope it¡¯s the latter.


    I take my car keys and wallet out of my coat pocket and slip them into the side pocket of my pants. I then slip out of my coat. The heat radiating from the open doorway would kill me if I had the thick winter layer on. The coat drops to the floor and I release a sigh of relief. Much better!


    The slime near my feet curiously bobs around the coat, as if inspecting it. Jelly Boy hops¡ªer, rolls . . . I''m not entirely sure how to describe the slime''s movements¡ªfrom my discarded winter coat to the open door, examining it with a sense of curiosity.


    Hunching low, I step inside, keeping my footfalls as light as I can as I descend the steps. The stairwell opens onto a landing, and from there, I see it¡ªan iron balcony that wraps around the entire second floor of the factory, overlooking the manufacturing floor below. The air is thick with smoke and the scent of oil, the space illuminated by the dull glow of industrial lamps and the pulsing embers of a massive furnace. Barely any natural light breaks through the grime-covered windows lining the one side of the factory. Across from the windows, the wrap-around balcony is lined with what looked like office doors.


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    And the workers down below? Yeah. Definitely not human. I could see that clearly enough through the smog of the room.


    Short, hunched humanoids scurry across the floor, tending to the factory¡¯s endless demands. Some haul crates, others operate crude-looking machinery, and one particularly miserable-looking creature shovels coal into a glowing furnace, sweat running down its broad, flat face. They¡¯re all greenish-skinned and covered in patches of coarse dark hair. They all have pig-like snouts and large, pointed ears that look as though they were pulled straight off of some large species of bat. The creatures all wear similar ragged gray uniforms: long shirts, trousers, cap. No shoes.


    I feel a pulsing sensation in my mind. A soft chime, and glowing blue text flickers into existence above one of the worker¡¯s heads.


    [Pukwudgie]


    [Minor Goblinoid]


    [Level 1]


    I stare. It stabs me with that same uncanny mix of wonder and dread. It¡¯s going to take me a lot longer to adjust to the stream of text and information. The tech companies back home would kill to get their hands on something like this. I imagine a world where phones have been ditched in favor of brain implants and the almighty System. Is that what this integrated multiverse the Snake Guy had mentioned is like?


    I glance down at Jelly Boy, who vibrates in what I assume is quiet excitement. I didn¡¯t even notice the slime following me down the stairs.


    Well.


    This just got interesting.


    I stare down at the slime and place a finger over my lips, indicating to be silent. Jelly Boy pulses twice in response. Yup, still no clue what that means.


    The factory floor hums with frantic energy. The pukwudgies move in chaotic coordination, assembling . . . something. From my vantage point on the balcony, I can¡¯t quite tell what. A vehicle, maybe? In any case, it¡¯s some sort of large mechanical device. There are large metal plates, gears the size of my torso, and what looks like an oversized engine block being hoisted into place by a rusted chain pulley. There are other pulleys hanging from the ceiling and some lazily off the balcony, attached to large, unused metal weights that remind me of the kettlebells at my gym. Whatever it is they¡¯re building, it¡¯s big.


    I may have stumbled upon the Ford automotive factory of this odd portal world.


    In the far corner, a pair of pukwudgies work at a grinding machine, feeding long sheets of metal into its gnashing, mechanical jaws. Sparks shower out like miniature fireworks, bouncing off the grimy floor as the machine devours the steel with a shriek of tortured metal.


    Then it happens.


    One of the workers steps too close. Maybe he loses focus. Maybe he¡¯s just exhausted. Either way, the grinder catches his sleeve. The machine doesn¡¯t hesitate. It pulls.


    The pukwudgie screams.


    The wet, visceral crunch is swallowed by the grinding machine¡¯s deafening roar. Blood sprays from the maw of the machine, misting the air in front of it in a gruesome, red haze.


    I flinch. My stomach lurches. Jesus Christ.


    A loud whistle cuts through the noise.


    Everything stops.


    Every single machine grinds to a halt in an instant. No slow wind-down, no lingering echoes. Just pure, deafening silence.


    The workers freeze in place. No one moves. No one speaks.


    Except for the other pukwudgie at the grinding machine. He rushes to his fallen co-worker, dropping to his knees beside the mangled mess that used to be an arm. The injured worker writhes, clutching the bleeding stump, his tiny, pig-rat face contorted in agony. The other pukwudgie fumbles with his uniform, trying to tear off a strip of fabric, but his hands shake too much to do anything useful.


    I grip the balcony railing, knuckles white. My heart pounds.


    It¡¯s like I¡¯m watching a scene from a goddamned Upton Sinclair adaptation.


    A new set of creatures waddle onto the factory floor.


    I say waddle because that¡¯s really the only way to describe how they move. There are four of them in total, each about five feet tall, their rotund bellies stretching the fabric of their waistcoats to near bursting. Their skin is a sickly green, covered in warts and patches of something that might be mold. Long, hooked noses hang over their thick lips, and their beady red eyes glisten with something that isn¡¯t quite intelligence, but more like hunger. The new fat goblin-looking creatures are all in full business attire: stiff-collared shirts, waistcoats, and jackets. Two of them even have top hats atop their bald heads. Like the pukwudgies, none of these four have shoes on their clawed feet.


    The System pings. And words materialize over each of their heads.


    [Gobblin]


    [Gluttony Elemental Possessed Minor Goblinoid]


    [Level 3]


    Gobblin.


    With two b¡¯s.


    Is that a typo? Did the System just have a stroke?


    Then one of them pulls something from his pocket. A pastry. A delicate, flaky thing that looks like it¡¯s stuffed to the brim with something. He shoves the whole damn thing into his mouth in one bite, mouth unhinging like a snake to reveal two rows of sharp, yellow teeth. Custard explodes from the sides, smearing across his warty cheeks, dripping down his triple chin like drool. He smacks his lips loudly, savoring every disgusting second of it.


    Nope. Not a typo. Definitely meant to be ¡®gobblin.¡¯


    The gobblins¡¯ clawed, three-toed feet slap against the concrete floor as they waddle forward. They stop in the center of the room.


    The pukwudgies all lower their heads, their tiny bodies going stiff. Even the injured one, still clutching the bloody stump where his arm used to be, goes silent. The only sound is the heavy, wet chewing of the gobblin still working his way through his pastry, swallowing with an audible gluck.


    One of the gobblins¡ªone of the top hat-wearing ones¡ªsteps forward and lets out a deep, wheezing breath and pats his massive stomach. His massive gut rises like dough left too long to proof, then he opens his mouth. Sear?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    What comes out is a mess. A thick, wet, garbled noise, like someone trying to speak while gargling a mouthful of gravy. It¡¯s guttural, uneven, slipping in and out of tones that don¡¯t make sense to my ears. My brain fights to process it, but nope¡ªnot happening.


    Then, like someone smacked an old television, the gobblin glitches.


    His face twitches, his body stutters mid-motion, flickering like a broken hologram. His voice distorts, stretching and snapping like an audio file that¡¯s been chewed up and spat back out.


    And then¡ª


    ¡°¡­the prosperity of our great enterprise relies on each and every one of you¡­¡±


    English.


    Or, more specifically, posh English. The kind of accent you¡¯d expect from a monocle-wearing aristocrat sipping tea out of a cup so thin it might snap in half if you looked at it too hard.


    A pulse hits my mind. The System chimes and a notification briefly flashes across my vision.


    [Language Integration complete.]


    Huh. Neat.


    The gobblin¡ªtop hat wobbling as he gestures with claw-tipped, sausage-like fingers¡ªcontinues speaking, his voice oozing with self-importance.


    ¡°¡­the joy of work, dear friends, is in the freedom it grants you! Purpose! Duty! A sacred bond between master and laborer! Why, without the structure of diligent toil, what would we be? Lost! Adrift in a sea of sloth and decay! But you¡ªoh, you fine creatures¡ªyou are the beating heart of this great machine! And your service, your sacrifice, does not go unnoticed. The Hand sees all. The Hand knows all. And the Hand appreciates you.¡±


    I squint.


    Did I¡­ did I just get dropped into an ultra-capitalist nightmare? This is some bootlicking, company-town, live-in-the-factory-and-pay-your-rent-in-scrip kind of manifesto this thing is starting to spew. I half expect him to start handing out pamphlets about the honor of unpaid overtime. The right to work and all that bullshit.


    The gobblins snap their fingers, and a pair of pukwudgies scramble forward.


    The injured one¡ªwho, let¡¯s not forget, just got his arm ripped off¡ªwhimpers as they grab him under the shoulders and start dragging him away. His rat-pig face is twisted in fear, but he doesn¡¯t fight it. He just slumps, defeated.


    ¡°Wait, wait! Please, sir!¡± His voice¡ªnow also in English, because I guess the System translated everything¡ªcomes out in a panicked, cockney-accented plea. ¡°I need this job! My family¡ªwhat¡¯re they gonna do now?¡±


    I grip the railing tighter.


    Something about this whole scene does not sit right.


    The gobblin in the top hat simply shakes his head, clicking his tongue in mock sympathy. ¡°Ah, tragic. But rules are rules. And you, my dear boy, are now . . . inefficient. If you were to be left on the floor, you would be betraying your comrades.¡±


    The factory floor is silent as the pukwudgie is dragged off. His coworkers keep their heads down. No one moves to stop it.


    Ding!


    A pulse slams into my mind. A glowing notification window pops into existence in front of my face, accompanied by a small chime.


    NEW QUEST: Seize the Means of Production.


    [Description:Kill the four gobblin superintendents.]


    [Reward:An Advanced Adventurer¡¯s Chest (x1). A spell enhancement potion (x1).]

 Chapter 10. Gate Initiation, Part IV (Class Struggle)

    Chapter 10


    Gate Initiation, Part IV


    (Class Struggle)


    Fuck me.


    I stare at the glowing notification window like it just spat in my face. Seize the Means of Production? Kill the four gobblin superintendents? What the hell kind of sick, leftist-themed, corporate dystopia dungeon is this?


    I risk another glance at the gobblins.


    Level 3.


    I, for the record, am Level 1.


    With two useless cantrips.


    I barely managed to phase a basic slime. How the hell am I supposed to kill four corporate-goblin-bosses who look like they could sit on me and turn my ribcage into paste?


    My first thought? Sneak out. Bail. Get the hell out of here and come back when I actually have a plan. That¡¯s what I would do if this was one of the countless open world RPGs I¡¯ve played in the past. Accidentally stumble into something that seems like it¡¯s a little over your head? That¡¯s fine! Come back to it later after leveling up a few times and picking up some better equipment.


    I start to slowly back my way towards the door to the rooftop.


    But then¡ª


    The timer.


    I must''ve accidentally triggered the mental command and the numbers flare into existence in the bottom right-hand corner of my vision.


    12 hours, 6 minutes until Elimination (Culling).


    The Gate. I needed to clear the Gate.


    I still don¡¯t know what clearing this place actually requires, but what if the gobblins are part of it? What if killing them is the requirement? What if I leave and lose my only chance at this?


    Fuck.


    Okay. Okay.Breathe.


    My hands grip the railing of the balcony as I try to steady myself.


    You can¡¯t control the challenges life throws at you, Dad always said, but you can control how you face them.


    I take a deep breath. Alright, Dad. Let¡¯s see if I can do you proud.


    I force myself to focus, eyes scanning the factory floor, searching for something, anything that could be of use. A way to turn this from a hopeless, unwinnable fight into something I can actually survive.


    The gobblins are still giving their bullshit speech, waxing poetic about the joy of being a wage slave. The pukwudgies listen in silence, their expressions blank, their bodies rigid. No one argues. No one fights back. Poor bastards.


    I need to move before this little corporate pep talk is over.


    Then, my gaze lands on something.


    The massive, kettlebell-styled counterweight sitting on the edge of the walkway wrapping around the perimeter of the factory floor. Part of the factory¡¯s pulley system. It¡¯s thick. Heavy. Probably at least forty-five pounds or more of solid iron by the looks of it.


    I lick my lips.


    My mind jumps back to my poor attempt to slay Jelly Boy. Okay¡­ This could work, I think.


    It¡¯s not much of a plan. Hell, it barely qualifies as a plan. But it¡¯s all I¡¯ve got.


    I¡¯m gonna do exactly what I tried to do to Jelly Boy¡ªexcept this time, I¡¯ll be using a much higher height and a much heavier weight.


    I¡¯m no expert in physics, but that should help.


    I stay low, moving in a crouch as I creep along the balcony. My heart is hammering so hard it feels like it¡¯s trying to jailbreak out of my chest. Below, the gobblins are still droning on about the dignity of hard work and how fulfilling it is to contribute to something greater than yourself¡ªyou know, standard corporate cult nonsense.


    I reach the kettlebell counterweight and get a closer look. Thankfully, it¡¯s not attached to any rope or chain. If I can drop this right on top of one of those gobblins, that should at least take one of them out.


    Alright. No time like the present.


    I pull my wand from my Inventory. I focus on the weight and access my spell list. I cast Wizard¡¯s Hand and am met with the haptic sensation at the front of my mind. My mana bar appears on the HUD, but doesn¡¯t drop thanks to the effects of my wand.


    A spectral hand¡ªsilver, glowing, slightly translucent¡ªappears in the air. I mentally command it to grab the handle of the weight and lift.


    It tries. Struggles for a moment and then gives up. Floating limply above the weight as though it were already tired from the effort.


    I re-issue my command.


    Nothing happens.


    The hand just kind of¡­ strains. If a floating ghost-hand could sweat, this one would be dripping.


    Ping!


    A notification flashes across my vision:


    Weight Limit Exceeded.


    I grit my teeth. ¡°Oh, for¡ª¡± I cut myself off before I can yell in frustration. Instead, I take a deep breath.


    Okay. Okay. No big deal. The hand has a weight limit. That¡¯s fair. Annoying, but fair. It is only a cantrip, after all.


    Another idea strikes me.


    I cast Wizard¡¯s Hand again.


    A second, separate spectral hand appears. I notice that this one is right-handed, where the first spectral hand was left-handed. Again, my mana bar appears on the System interface but doesn¡¯t budge.


    I exhale in relief. Okay. Let¡¯s hope this actually works.


    I get both hands into position. They each grab one side of the weight¡¯s handle.


    I tighten my grip on the railing and brace myself. This is it.


    Lift, damn it!


    The hands strain, their edges flickering like bad holograms as they try to haul the kettlebell free.


    Ping!


    Weight Limit Exceeded.


    ¡°Are you fucking kidding me?¡± I hiss under my breath.


    Okay. Fine. Whatever. Fuck it.


    I cast Wizard¡¯s Handa third time.


    To my surprise, it actually works.


    A third spectral hand¡ªthis one a second left hand¡ªpops into existence beside the others.


    Whump!


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    A pulse rolls through my skull like someone flicked the inside of my brain. A new notification appears:


    Cape of the Arcane Student triggered! Daily free Cantrip expended.


    [Item will refresh in 23 hours, 59 minutes.]


    Huh.


    I file that away for later. So normally, I can only summon two hands¡ªa left and a right, which makes sense. But because of my cape, I just cheated my way into a third by expending my one free daily cantrip.


    I glance down at the factory floor.


    The gobblins are still rambling about the virtue of industriousness and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps while wiping pastry custard from their sagging chins. Man, these guys love the sound of their own voices.


    I tighten my grip on the railing.


    Okay, assholes.


    Let¡¯s see how virtuous you feel after getting pancaked.


    The third spectral hand floats over and joins its translucent brethren. I mentally command them, feeling the arcane strain ripple through me. It¡¯s . . . weird. Not like a normal physical effort, but something deeper. Like the mental exhaustion of grinding out one last rep at the gym¡ªif the gym were deep inside my person, like inside my soul. I adjust to the feeling, settling into the strain.


    And it¡¯s working.


    The kettlebell weight lifts.


    Slowly, ever so slowly, the floating hands hoist it off the ground. I grit my teeth, my fingers twitching as if I¡¯m physically gripping the damn thing myself. It drifts forward, passing over the balcony railing.


    I do not breathe.


    The gobblins below don¡¯t even notice. They¡¯re too busy listening to their peer finish his speech¡ªa bloated, self-congratulatory rant about the ¡°honor of toil¡± and ¡°the sacred duty of production.¡± Ugh. Douchebag.


    With a satisfied sigh, the gobblin pats his bulging belly, reaches into his waistcoat, and produces another one of those cream-filled pastries.


    The pukwudgies freeze.


    Their beady eyes lock onto the pastry like starving stray cats who¡¯ve just caught a whiff of a can of tuna. A few of them salivate openly, drool literally dripping onto the floor.


    The gobblin takes a moment to bask in the attention. He grins¡ªa horrible, jagged-toothed thing¡ªthen widens his mouth to take a massive bite. The three spectral hands are right above the thing, dangling the heavy weight in their grip.


    NOW!


    I release the spell.


    The spectral hands vanish.


    The kettlebell plummets.


    It slams down onto the gobblin¡¯s head with a wet, crunching explosion.


    His fancy top hat is obliterated. His skull shatters like a rotten pumpkin under a sledgehammer. A spray of brain matter rockets outward, splattering across the other gobblins and the horrified pukwudgies.


    His fat, lifeless body collapses, twitching.


    The pastry flies from his hand, soaring through the air, and lands with a pathetic splat onto the bloodstained factory floor.


    I stare.


    Holy shit!


    I just killed a monster. Successfully.


    With magic . . . I think!


    The System pulses.


    Ding!


    You have defeated Gobblin, Level 3.


    Level 1 increased to Level 2.


    A Gluttony Elemental has been released.


    QUEST UPDATE (Seize the Means of Production): 1 of 4 Gobblin superintendents killed.


    QUEST UPDATE (Bright-Eyed New Adventurer): 1 of 5 monsters killed (Spell Streak: 1).


    I¡¯m elated.


    I¡¯m horrified.


    I¡¯m also pretty sure the other gobblins just realized what happened.


    They turn toward the corpse. Their beady red eyes scan upward.


    And then¡ªsimultaneously¡ªthey all tilt their grotesque heads directly at me.


    I¡¯m so screwed.


    The pukwudgies scatter like roaches under a kitchen light, skittering into the shadows and trying to create as much distance between them and the three very pissed-off gobblins.


    One of them lets out a gut-wrenching, blubbery scream.


    ¡°My BOY! Look what you¡¯ve done to my BOY!¡±


    Uh. Okay. I don¡¯t think that was actually its kid, but sure.


    Another one snarls, his triple chins quivering.


    ¡°You bastard!¡±


    I don¡¯t stick around for the rest. I bolt. S§×arch* The N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    I tear across the steel balcony, boots clanging against the metal. Distance. That¡¯s my advantage. If I keep distance between myself and the gobblins, I can figure out my next move. I might not have much firepower, but at least I¡¯ve got room to think.


    Then one of the gobblins moves in a flash.


    I see it out of the corner of my eye. The fat bastard sprints toward the walkway railing and leaps like it¡¯s a professional basketball player in the National Basketball Association, clearing the distance between the manufacturing floor and the walkway balcony like it¡¯s nothing.


    He¡¯s like a large round, green cannonball with clawed feet. He slams down in front of me, landing hard on the steel walkway. The whole thing shudders beneath his impact.


    His jowls jiggle as he glares at me, beady red eyes burning with rage. I skid to a stop. New plan.


    I turn and run the other way.


    Behind me, I hear the thunderous pounding of gobblin feet as he gives chase. But that¡¯s not the worst part.


    The other two? They¡¯re running parallel to me. Down on the factory floor, running side-by-side like some gross version of Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.


    They¡¯re keeping pace. And ahead?


    Oh, god dammit!


    Stairs. They¡¯re heading right for them. The bastards are planning to cut me off and trap me.


    An image comes to mind: I¡¯m Pac-Man. They¡¯re the ghosts. And I¡¯m about to get cornered without a power pellet in sight.


    My eyes desperately scan the path in front of me and I spot an office door immediately ahead and to my left. I skid to a stop and fling the door open, leaping inside and slamming the door shut behind me. I hit the door hard, practically bouncing off it before throwing all my weight back against it.


    BOOM!


    The whole thing shudders, hinges screaming, the wooden frame bowing inward as something round, green, and fucking furious hurls itself against the other side.


    BOOM!


    I clench my teeth so hard my jaw pops. My boots scrape against the floor, trying to find traction. The door bulges against my back, but I hold.


    I don¡¯t realize there is a thin pane of frosted glass on the door until it¡¯s too late and the glass shatters in an explosion. A fat, gnarled fist¡ªgreen as rotten limes, covered in bulbous warts and slick with grease¡ªpunches straight through the frosted glass pane. The gobblin¡¯s claws dig into my right shoulder.


    ¡°Fuck!¡±


    White-hot agony rips through me. My interface explodes in the upper right corner with a damage notification. A red health bar appears and it begins to plummet.


    I convulse against the door, my body¡¯s alarm system firing on all cylinders¡ªbut before I can even react, something else happens. My wounds start closing almost as quickly as they had formed. I can feel it. The raw, shredded flesh along my shoulder¡ªknitting back together. It itches, burns, pulls, like a hundred tiny needles stitching me up at lightspeed. I scream in agony at the almost painful, alien sensation.


    But just as my brain starts to catch up I¡¯m caught off guard again.


    CRASH!


    A second hand smashes through the narrow pane on the other side. The claws tear into my other shoulder, attempting to get a good grip on me. Holy fucking hell! The pain is unimaginable.


    Both my shoulders are skewered, pinned like a bug in some sadistic biology experiment. My health bar is now dangerously close to empty.


    My left hand scrabbles wildly for the lock. My fingers gloss against metal. I feel the lock and fumble desperately to get a hold of it.


    Twist. Click.


    With the door finally locked, I wrench myself away from the door. The gobblin¡¯s claws rip free from my flesh. The health bar in the top righthand corner of my vision hits rock bottom. The outline of the empty bar blinks rapidly¡ªand instantly, the healing stops.


    Blood starts seeping heavily from the wounds. Hot, sticky. Everywhere. My shirt is drenched, dark and heavy against my skin. My head spins, but I grit my teeth and force myself to move.


    I¡¯m inside a small office. Four walls, one desk, two chairs¡ªone on either side of the desk. A tiny-ass window that¡¯s too high up to be useful, but at the very least lets in some of the natural light from outside the factory. There¡¯s no way out other than the door that I came through.


    I stumble forward, grab a chair, and jam it hard under the door handle.


    On the other side of the door, the gobblin screeches in frustration, slamming against the wood with all its bulk. I don¡¯t know how long the chair will hold.


    A notification window springs into my vision.


    [2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Points?]


    I blink it away. Not now, dipshit.


    Chest heaving, shoulders screaming, blood soaking through my shirt. Things aren¡¯t looking great for me.


    The gobblin outside is still losing its absolute fucking mind. ¡°You bastard, just wait until I get my hands on you!¡±


    The door shudders again. The chair under the handle creaks. A clawed hand reaches through the broken glass pane and scrapes against the door in a desperate attempt to reach the lock, leaving little streaks of my own goddamn blood behind.


    I don¡¯t have time. I don¡¯t have a plan. Only a useless spellcaster class.


    So, what the hell do I do? What¡¯s my best path to survival? Because that¡¯s all that matters right now. Not the class. Not the quests. Not the goddamn reward upgrade. Regular chest, advanced chest . . . who gives a shit!


    I just want to live.


    And if I have to fight tooth and nail for that, then I¡¯m fighting with everything I¡¯ve got.


    No more half-assing this. No more running. No more panicking. I take a deep breath and try to steady myself. Control what you can. Work with what you¡¯ve got. I can almost hear Dad¡¯s voice.


    I summon the System interface with a thought.


    Stat points. Strength.


    I dump both points into it, pushing my base Strength score from 5 to 7.


    The System emits a soft chime, accepting my point allocation.


    I don¡¯t feel any different. No rush of power. No surge of strength. No sudden ability¡ªas far as I¡¯m aware¡ªto flip a car or suplex a gobblin through the floor.


    I flex my hands. Same hands. Same me. Damn.


    I plant my feet and face the door as the wooden frame groans and splinters. The gobblin outside is hitting it like a battering ram, snarling and spitting curses through the shattered pane. Beady red eyes gleam with hate.


    Alright, asshole. You want in so bad?


    I cock my fist back and throw everything I¡¯ve got into a right-handed jab¡ªstraight through the broken window and into the gobblin¡¯s stupid, screaming face.


    Crunch.


    Something wet and brittle gives under my knuckles as my fist slams into the monster¡¯s face. The gobblin squeals, his head whipping back, red spittle flying from his jagged teeth. It stumbles back, arms flailing.


    I kick the chair to the side, yank the lock open, and fling the door wide.


    The gobblin is staggering, clutching his busted-up snout, blood dribbling between his stubby fingers. His beady eyes snap up just in time to see me charging full speed. Too late.


    I kick the gobblin square in the chest. Wham!


    The gobblin flies backward like a sack of lumpy potatoes, slamming into the metal railing with a clang. His stubby arms pinwheel, but gravity wins¡ªand he topples over the edge, screaming all the way down.


    I dart forward and look over the railing.


    The gobblin hits the factory floor like a busted pi?ata, limbs splayed. Not dead, though. Still moving, but definitely reconsidering some life choices.


    I suck in a breath, chest heaving, adrenaline hammering through my veins.


    Then, my attention is pulled away by a guttural snarl.


    I whirl, eyes darting to my right.


    Two more gobblins. Still on the walkway. Still pissed.


    But between them and me?


    Jelly Boy.


    The blue slime vibrates angrily, pulsing like an overexcited Jell-O mold. The gobblins sneer. One of them lifts a clawed foot, ready to squash him like a roach.


    ¡°You little pest,¡± the gobblin hisses as it slams its heel down towards the slime.

 Chapter 11. Gate Initiation, Part V (From Each According to His Ability Scores)

    Chapter 11


    Gate Initiation, Part V (From Each According to His Ability Scores)


    The gobblin¡¯s foot is halfway down, ready to squish Jelly Boy when I lunge forward.


    I slam my shoulder into the gobblin¡¯s gut with everything I¡¯ve got, sending the squat bastard stumbling backward. He lets out a startled, piggish squeal as he topples into his buddy, both of them going down like bowling pins.


    They hit the walkway hard, tangled together in a pile of jiggling jowls and stubby limbs. Their fat bodies rock side to side, trying to find leverage, but their short arms aren¡¯t doing them any favors. They might as well be overturned turtles.


    No time to gloat. I scoop up Jelly Boy and bolt.


    The slime wobbles excitedly in my grip, like an overcaffeinated Jell-O shot. I give him a quick pat on his squishy top.


    ¡°Good job, Jelly Boy!¡±


    Bzzzzt!...


    He vibrates harder, thrumming like a happy engine. Damn thing¡¯s adorable.


    I book it down the walkway, feet pounding the metal grating, heading for the second set of stairs leading to the factory floor. Behind me, the gobblins are still flailing like drunk toddlers trying to get up.


    I hit the stairs and take them two at a time, Jelly Boy tucked under one arm like a football. My wand is still in my other hand.


    The moment my feet hit the factory floor, all hell breaks loose.


    The pukwudgies scream in panic, tiny bodies scrambling in every direction. They duck behind crates, climb up onto conveyor belts, and dive headfirst into piles of scrap metal like they¡¯re trying to burrow into a new dimension. Thankfully, none of them seem hostile towards me. The last thing I want is to have to fight fifty smaller mobs.


    I ignore them. My focus is on the gobblin I punted off the balcony earlier.


    That sack of crap is only just now rolling onto his side, groaning, struggling to push himself up. He¡¯s not quite dead, but he¡¯s in a bad way.


    Good.


    I pick up speed, feet slapping against the concrete, heart hammering in my chest.


    Time to see if these Strength points actually do something.


    I launch myself forward and jump.


    For a brief moment, I¡¯m airborne.


    I come down, both feet first, heels leading straight into the gobblin¡¯s face. Its skull gives like a rotten pumpkin. His head pops like a stepped-on ketchup packet. Blood splatters everywhere. An eyeball rockets straight from the thing¡¯s head, rolling to a stop near the forgotten overstuffed pastry from the gobblin that had gotten Wiley the Coyote¡¯d earlier.


    I stumble back, breath hitching, boots slick with gore. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins and I try not to think about the fact that I just crushed a gobblin with my feet like it was a freaking goomba!


    A notification blinks across my vision.


    You have defeated Gobblin, Level 3.


    A Gluttony Elemental has been released.


    QUEST UPDATE (Seize the Means of Production): 2 of 4 Gobblin superintendents killed.


    QUEST UPDATE (Bright-Eyed New Adventurer): 2 of 5 monsters killed (Spell Streak Broken).


    I wipe a streak of red off my cheek and glare down at the mess.


    ¡°That¡¯s for slashing my shoulders, you ugly bastard.¡±


    That¡¯s when I notice it. My shoulders feel¡­ better? I roll them experimentally. The pain is still there, but it¡¯s dull, fading by the second. The bloodstains on my shirt are still wet, but the wounds themselves have mostly closed up. The torn flesh is knitting itself back together, slow but steady.


    Wait a minute. I mentally summon my health bar.


    It flashes into existence in the upper right corner of my vision¡ªand it¡¯s no longer empty. Hell, it isn¡¯t even in the red anymore. It¡¯s actually mostly full. And still ticking up., slowly but surely.


    I remember what Snake Guy¡ªthe bastard who had enrolled me into the God Games and first explained the System to me¡ªhad said about HP. It¡¯s not just a measure of how much damage you can take. It¡¯s more like a buffer, a representation of your body¡¯s ability to recover. If you have HP left, your wounds heal faster. But if you hit zero? Then, your body can¡¯t over-compensate. And everything that should normally be lethal will be lethal.


    Good thing to keep in mind, I think.


    I exhale sharply and shake the gore off my boots. That¡¯s when I notice the faint blue glow. It¡¯s outlining the headless gobblin corpse.


    Okay. That¡¯s new¡­


    I kneel beside it, curious, and focus. The System responds instantly.


    [Loot gobblin corpse?]


    Yes? A pulse in my mind is met with the System interface summoning a new window.


    It¡¯s a small inventory menu, titled ¡®Gobblin Corpse.¡¯


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    1 Health Potion (Poor Quality)4 Cream Puffs1 Vial of Enchanted Ink2 Gold PiecesI stare at the list.


    ¡­Cream puffs? My eyes wander over to the stranded cream pastry that was sitting in the middle of the manufacturing floor, slowly being soaked in dark red gobblin blood.


    Yeah, no thanks. Not worth 5% of my total inventory capacity, that¡¯s for certain. However, I take everything else.


    As soon as I do, a mental weight settles over me. It¡¯s not physical, but it¡¯s there¡ªlike the strain I felt when I used Wizard¡¯s Hands to carry that heavy weight earlier.


    I grimace. Looks like I actually feel the weight of what I carry. Maybe not the same as if I were actually pocketing the material, but it¡¯s something I naturally want to test the limits of.


    I place Jelly Boy gently onto the floor and he whizzes away to inspect the cream puff. With a mental command, I pull the health potion form my inventory. The vial pops into my right hand and I take a closer look at it. The liquid inside is a sickly, watered-down red. I swirl it in the bottle. Probably tastes like ass. But hey, might come in handy. I deposit the vial back into my inventory.


    I stand up, shaking out the lingering stiffness in my shoulders and scan the walkway above for the Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. The two remaining gobblins are finally back on their feet. About damn time. They were flopping around like overturned turtles for way too long. I guess I should be thankful for that.


    Now they¡¯re beelining it for the stairs, their ugly little feet slapping against metal as they waddle down one at a time. They don¡¯t have much choice¡ªtoo wide to go side by side.


    I could run. That¡¯s an option. A very smart option. I consider, but only for a second.


    Screw it. It¡¯s face these gobblins or be culled by the System before this God Game even really started. If the System is gonna bless me with Strength, then I¡¯m gonna use it. Spellcaster class be damned.


    I place the wand back into my inventory, replacing it with clenched fists and bad intentions. Then, I charge.


    ¡°RAAAHHH!¡± I roar, ready to flatten these oversized booger-goblins into paste. Only to be caught off guard when the first gobblin trips at the bottom of the stairs.


    Or at least, it looks like it trips. Instead of face-planting like a clumsy idiot, it tucks into itself.


    And then it starts rolling.


    And by rolling, I mean it turns into a goddamn green bowling ball that¡¯s half my height and comes right at me.


    ¡°ARE YOU KIDDING ME?¡± I can¡¯t help but exclaim.


    The thing picks up speed fast, and before I can dodge, it slams into me like a runaway truck.


    My ribs crunch. Pain explodes through my body. My health bar flashes in the corner of my vision, a quarter of the bar disappearing in a blink.


    It¡¯s like getting hit by a wrecking ball made of pure, sweaty goblin mass.


    And it doesn¡¯t stop.


    The damn thing keeps spinning, the momentum driving me backward as I skid across the manufacturing floor, boots screeching. My feet lift off the ground¡ªI¡¯m riding this thing like a very unsafe, very painful amusement park ride.


    I barely have time to register my health bar plummeting before¡ª


    WHAM!


    I slam back-first into a metal wall, hard enough that I swear my skeleton tries to escape my body. Something behind me clicks, which I barely hear through the ringing in my ears.


    The factory roars to life. Gears grind. Chains rattle. Conveyor belts lurch forward.


    Machines that should absolutely not be moving without proper supervision start spinning, slamming, and sawing in all the wrong ways. A few of the pukwudgies scramble to man their stations. Most, remain tucked away, observing the conflict from little pockets of safety.


    The gobblin unsticks itself from my body, flopping onto the ground with a dazed groan, still tucked into a ball like a sickly green hedgehog knocked onto its back.


    The second gobblin is trudging toward me, muttering under its breath. I can¡¯t make out the words, but I¡¯m pretty sure they¡¯re some combination of insults, curses, and possibly a death threat or two.


    Then I notice what¡¯s in its hands. Cream puffs. One in each clawed fist. For a brief, blissful moment, I think, I can¡¯t believe this thing is snacking in the middle of a fight.


    And then the bastard hurls one like a grenade. I dodge. Easily side stepping the cream puff¡¯s trajectory. The cream puff smacks into the floor. And explodes. S~ea??h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Not just like, a messy explosion. No. This thing goes full Michael Bay, a violent blast of burning cream and dough shrapnel¡ªtiny bits of crispy pastry flying like shivs.


    Some of the cream lands on my forearm. The pain is immediate. It¡¯s like hot cigarette ash sizzling into my skin.


    ¡°OH, WHAT THE HELL!?¡± I scream, shaking my arm violently to get the stuff off.


    Exploding. Acidic. Cream puffs. Okay: noted.


    My vision goes red.


    I look down at the gobblin ball, still dazed from its failed murder roll. My anger flares. And I kick it. Hard. Like, soccer star, penalty shot, crowd on their feet, GOAAAAALLL levels of hard. The gobblin ball rockets forward at inhuman speeds, straight at cream puff gobblin.


    The little bastard sees it coming and launches cream puff number two. But it¡¯s too late.


    The two gobblins collide in a glorious, bone-rattling impact. Limbs tangle. Bodies flip. They hit the floor hard, sprawling in a heap of goblin-y disaster.


    I exhale.


    SPLAT.


    I blink. I turn my head slowly.


    The cream puff didn¡¯t hit me. The gobblin had launched it at the exact moment his balled up companion made impact, causing the pastry¡¯s trajectory to careen far off course.


    Instead, it hit a pukwudgie. Square in the face.


    The tiny creature screams¡ªa horrible, high-pitched, ear-shredding wail. The acidic cream melts into its fur, sizzling, bubbling. It desperately claws at its face, writhing in pain.


    I cringe. Oh, god dammit!


    I do my best to ignore the horrible, shrieking wails of the cream-splattered pukwudgie. I can smell its sizzling face from here.


    It¡¯s not my fault.


    Technically.


    Probably.


    Either way, I have bigger problems.


    The two remaining gobblins are staggering to their feet, dazed. Their beady eyes refocus on me, full of rage and murder.


    No time for hesitation. I charge.


    The first gobblin throws up its hands in a desperate block as I close in. Too slow. I smash through its guard, driving a right cross straight into its ugly, green face. It reels. I follow up with a jab. Then a hook to the ribs. The gobblin staggers. One more. Full strength this time.


    Crack!


    My knuckles flatten its snout.


    The gobblin¡¯s eyes roll back, and it drops like a bag of rotten potatoes.


    Ding!


    You have defeated Gobblin, Level 3.


    Level 2 increased to Level 3!


    A Gluttony Elemental has been released.


    QUEST UPDATE (Seize the Means of Production): 3 of 4 Gobblin superintendents killed.


    QUEST UPDATE (Bright-Eyed New Adventurer): 3 of 5 monsters killed.


    Nice.


    [2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Points?]


    No hesitation. I mentally pump them both into Strength.


    The final gobblin lunges, wrapping its disgusting, clawed hands around my arms. It¡¯s stronger than it looks, but I¡¯ve had just about enough of this shit. I twist, pivot, and throw.


    The gobblin flies sideways, flailing through the air and lands directly onto the conveyor belt. The same one leading straight to the giant, mechanical jaw. The same contraption that chewed through a pukwudgie¡¯s arm like a dog with a chew toy. The gobblin screams.


    It claws at the belt. Too slow. The machine''s metal teeth clamp down. A wet, horrible crunch. A spray of red mist. Gore, everywhere.


    I look away.


    Ding!


    You have defeated Gobblin, Level 3.


    A Gluttony Elemental has been released.


    QUEST UPDATE (Seize the Means of Production): 4 of 4 Gobblin superintendants killed!


    QUEST COMPLETE: Seize the Means of Production.


    You have received: An Advanced Adventurer¡¯s Chest (x1). A spell enhancement potion (x1).


    QUEST UPDATE (Bright-Eyed New Adventurer): 4 of 5 monsters killed.


    I let out a long, shaky breath.


    The fight¡¯s over. Finally.


    I shake out my hands, my knuckles aching. My health bar is low, but stable. And it¡¯s slowly rising.


    I exhale again, only for the breath to catch in my throat.


    The room goes dark.


    What the hell?


    I realize that I¡¯m standing in a massive shadow swallows me whole. Something looms over me.


    I freeze. Slowly, hesitantly, I tilt my head back and look up.


    ¡°What the actual hell¡ª?!¡±

 Chapter 12. Gate Initiation, Part VI (Full Jelly Jacket)

    Chapter 12


    Gate Initiation, Part VI (Full Jelly Jacket)


    I look up. And immediately regret it.


    Hovering above me is a nightmare. A gigantic, roiling mass of green plasma, undulating and pulsing like a living storm cloud. It¡¯s at least ten feet wide, stretching twice as long, its bloated, spectral form shifting like something trapped between realities. The thing looks like a gigantic Slimer from the Ghost Busters series.


    It grins, mouth splitting open to reveal large, all-too-human teeth. Like a yellowing pair of dentures one size too large. Its eyes, two red orbs, glowing with something deep and unnatural, lock onto me with unblinking hunger.


    Ding!


    I feel the System¡¯s pulse in my mind and an immediately welcomed by a notification window.


    [You are in the presence of a splinter of the Cardinal Hand.]


    My gut twists. My breathing hitches. I don¡¯t know what the Cardinal Hand is, but I already hate it.


    Two spindly, clawed hands emerge from the roiling fog of its form. Long, skeletal fingers flex, twitch, and curl, beckoning, like its looking down at a fresh box of donuts and excitedly trying to decide which one to try first.


    The room darkens as its sickly green fog expands outward, curling through the factory. It slithers up the windows, blocking the weak, struggling sunlight that had barely made it through the factory¡¯s grime-coated glass in the first place.


    I step back, heart pounding, pulse hammering in my ears as the factory floor grows increasingly dark.


    Jelly Boy¡¯s made his way to my side. The slime shakes in fear, pressed against my leg.


    Good, I think. That means I¡¯m not just imagining how monumentally fucked we are.


    The massive green specter shifts, its grotesque, fanged grin widening as it looms closer. Words generate in my vision, floating over the thing¡¯s face as if they¡¯re plastered on its forehead.


    [The Gluttonous Bob, Fused Elemental, Level 6]


    I blink.


    I blink again.


    The Gluttonous Bob?


    I don¡¯t have time to process how wildly ridiculous that is, because The Gluttonous Bob¡¯s fingers twitch and his gigantic mouth drops open.


    NOPE! I scoop up Jelly Boy and take off running.


    I bolt past abandoned machinery, dodging broken crates and rusted tools, my boots slamming against the factory floor. The room is green-lit and swirling with Bob¡¯s fog, and it¡¯s getting darker by the second, making it feel like I¡¯m sprinting through a haunted house designed by someone with a sick sense of humor and a grudge.


    I spot an empty conveyor belt¡ªits gears rusted, its rollers caked in factory grime¡ªand slide behind it, nearly eating shit as I drop into a crouch. I set Jelly Boy down at my side.


    ¡°Stay put,¡± I whisper. Jelly Boy quivers in response. Same, buddy. Same.


    Above, Bob floats effortlessly through the factory, his grotesque grin never faltering. He begins to cackle as he soars through the factory, sweeping low before retaking to the rafters.


    He swoops down again and snatches up a pukwudgie. The tiny, shrieking creature kicks and flails, but The Gluttonous Bob¡¯s clawed fingers curl around it like a vice.


    The Gluttonous Bob brings the pukwudgie to his gaping, drool-filled maw. He bites down and there¡¯s a wet crunch. A scream from the poor pukwudgie, cut short. Blood and bits of fur drizzle through Bob¡¯s translucent body, floating inside his gelatinous form like ingredients in a goddamn murder soup. I clamp a hand over my mouth, stomach flipping, bile rising.


    The Gluttonous Bob doesn¡¯t stop.


    He snatches another pukwudgie from the ground.


    This one he tosses into the air and lets fall, screaming, crashing against the factory floor. Bones snap on impact.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The pukwudgies panic.


    They scatter, shrieking in their strange, chittering language. My ears continue to adjust, and the language shifts into panicked shouts in cockney English. The Gluttonous Bob glides after them, effortlessly plucking them up, chewing, swallowing, or simply dropping them to their deaths. It¡¯s horrifying.


    I can¡¯t move. I can barely breathe. The devour cloud of green plasma isn¡¯t hunting the sad little factory workers. He¡¯s playing with them.


    God dammit! Think¡­ think!


    My mind races as I try and find a solution.


    The Gluttonous Bob¡¯s putrid green fog crawls over the glass, snuffing out the final sliver of light like a fist closing around a candle flame. The factory is plunged into a suffocating darkness. I can¡¯t see my hand in front of my face. I can barely see anything.


    But I can hear. Oh god, I can hear everything.


    The swoosh of The Gluttonous Bob¡¯s massive body as he glides overhead. The wet squelch of a pukwudgie being snatched up and snacked on. The shrill, panicked screams. S~ea??h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Swoosh, scream, crunch, thud! . . .


    Swoosh, scream, crunch, thud! . . .


    The absolute nightmare orchestra of sounds that tell me The Gluttonous Bob is still very much on his ¡°eat everything that moves¡± spree.


    I need to move. I need to get the hell out of here. The rooftop¡ªif I can get back up there, maybe¡ªmaybe I can¡ªWhat?


    I don¡¯t know. But anywhere is better than being where I am, crouched cowering behind a piece of heavy equipment, waiting for my turn to be turned into a human-sized snack.


    I pick up Jelly Boy, tucking him tightly under my arm and shift to move when my ears latch onto an entirely different sound I had nearly forgotten about in the horror show of The Gluttonous Bob.


    I freeze. Somewhere in the factory, not far from my position, a sawblade whirs, a conveyor belt rattles, and a piston hisses and slams downward with enough force to pulp a gobblin.


    Oh, right. That whole ¡®accidentally turning on deadly machinery¡¯ thing.


    ¡­Maybe running blindly isn¡¯t the best idea.


    I take a breath, shove down the panic clawing at my insides, and yank my wand from my Inventory.


    I grip it tight as I access my Spell interface and cast the Light cantrip. A soft, cool glow blooms to life, swirling before condensing into a baseball-sized orb of white light. The orb hovers in the air beside me, casting flickering shadows along the rusted factory walls.


    I guide it forward, twenty feet away¡ªthe limit of the spell¡¯s radius¡ªattaching it to a hulking piece of machinery. I¡¯m surprised how well the orb responds to my mental commands before realizing that it might be a result of me leveling up.


    The gliding mass of devouring plasma stops, freezing midair. The air hums with a sudden, unnatural stillness.


    Then¡ªBob screams. It¡¯s a horrid, bone-shaking wail, like a dying elephant crossed with a malfunctioning air raid siren. He lurks just outside the glow, his teeth bared. His spindly fingers twitching, as though he wants nothing more than to snatch and thrash the light orb.


    But he doesn¡¯t move forward. He doesn¡¯t enter the light.


    No, he won¡¯t enter the light. Oh. Oh, hell yes. He doesn¡¯t like it. That explains the fog, the window-blocking. The Gluttonous Bob doesn¡¯t just want darkness. He needs it.


    Alright. No time to think.


    I summon my interface and cast the Light cantrip again, and a fresh ball of cool white light bursts into existence right in front of me.


    Just as it does¡ªpop!¡ªthe first orb winks out.


    I blink.


    ¡­Oh.


    Apparently, I can only have one of these damn things up at a time. Would¡¯ve been nice to know that before I was trapped in a dark factory with a flying murder-slime!


    The Gluttonous Bob screeches above me, an earsplitting wail that makes my skull vibrate, but he doesn¡¯t dive in. Not yet.


    I take off.


    Jelly Boy is tucked under my arm like a football, and I command the orb to follow me, hovering just over my shoulder like a little holy bodyguard.


    The Gluttonous Bob descends. I hear the rush of wind, the shifting, seething mass of his disgusting, plasma-like form closing in.


    Whoosh! He pulls up just short of the light¡¯s edge.


    It¡¯s working. Holy shit, it¡¯s actually working!


    I don¡¯t let myself celebrate yet. I¡¯m already at the stairs. I hit the first step, then the second, then the third, and eventually am taking them two at a time.


    The Gluttonous Bob shrieks and dives again, but the light still holds him at bay.


    I reach the walkway and sprint down the rusted metal path, eyes locked on the final flight of stairs leading to the rooftop.


    Almost there . . . Almost! . . .


    Whoosh!


    I skid to a stop as the flying monster rushes the walkway. ¡°Oh, shit!...¡± I exclaim, thinking perhaps The Gluttonous Bob may have adjusted to its initial aversion to light and that I was next up on the menu after his pukwudgie hors d¡¯oeuvres.


    His massive, sludgy body slams forward, stopping just short of my light. I just about hit myself. His huge, yellowed teeth grind. His spindly fingers twitch. He¡¯s pissed. But he still won¡¯t cross the light¡¯s threshold.


    I don¡¯t move. I don¡¯t breathe.


    Jelly Boy starts vibrating. Like, really vibrating. Like, tiny blue gelatinous earthquake levels of shaking.


    Before I can even react, he shoots out of my grip¡ª


    ¡°JELLY BOY, WAIT¡ª!¡±


    But it¡¯s too late. He¡¯s leaping through the space between me and The Gluttonous Bob, passing straight through the orb of light.


    The light vanishes.


    But Jelly Boy doesn¡¯t. No. The slime¡¯s absorbs the orb, the light intensifies and fires from every inch of the slime¡¯s blob body. He¡¯s lit up like a goddamn disco ball.


    The Gluttonous Bob doesn¡¯t even have time to react. Because Jelly Boy¡¯s trajectory is already locked in.


    Straight. Into. Its mouth.


    The big bastard swallows him whole.


    And then all hell breaks loose.


    The monster¡¯s entire form pulses. His plasma-flesh bubbles like an overfilled pot of boiling sludge. The spindly limbs extending from his body spasm. The red, glowing eyes bulge from the increasingly-distorted surface of the sickly green blob.


    His mouth stretches wide in a horrible, soundless scream¡ªand then he explodes.


    Green slime, pukwudgie gore. It all rains down over the factory floor like some kind of nightmare gelatin sprinkler system.


    And just like that, the fog clears. The dim sunlight streaming through the grime-covered windows returns.


    I stumble forward to the railing, heart still slamming in my chest.


    ¡°JELLY BOY?!¡±


    I scan the wreckage, my stomach in knots, my mind racing.


    And then I see him.


    Right there, in the middle of the carnage.


    Still glowing with the power of my Light cantrip like a tiny divine miracle.


    Jelly Boy, you crazy son of a bitch.


    He¡¯s vibrating happily in victory.

 Chapter 13. Gate Initiation, Part VII (Back Up the Rabbit Hole)

    Chapter 13


    Gate Initiation, Part VII (Back Up the Rabbit Hole)


    Ding!


    Ding!


    DINGDINGDINGDINGDING¡ª!


    Oh god.


    The pulsing sensation within me is practically matching the frequency of Jelly Boy¡¯s happy vibrations.


    The entire right side of my vision blows up with a wall of notifications, stacking on top of each other so fast that I barely catch the first one before it gets buried under a tidal wave of pop-ups.


    You have defeated The Gluttonous Bob.


    Hell yes, I have! . . . Wait¡ªI defeated him?


    The next notification answers that question for me.


    You have received partial credit for the defeat of The Gluttonous Bob.


    Partial credit awarded to . . . Jelly Boy, Slime.


    I blink. And then my face splits into a wide grin. Partly because my new friend Jelly Boy received the credit he deserves, but mostly because the System picked up the name I had instinctively given to the adorable little slime. Jelly Boy. Not just Slime, but Jelly Boy. I don¡¯t know why that makes me so stupidly happy, but it does.


    I don¡¯t have time to get emotional about it because more notifications are still rolling in.


    Level 3 increased to Level 4!


    QUEST UPDATE (Bright-Eyed New Adventurer): 5 of 5 monsters killed.


    QUEST COMPLETE: Bright-Eyed New Adventurer.


    You have received: A Beginner¡¯s Chest (x1).


    [2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Points?]


    I don¡¯t even care about the reward right now. I mentally push the remaining notifications to the side and they get minimized into a barely noticeable blinking line-item at the bottom of my HUD: Outstanding Notifications (5). My unread emails badge puts that to shame.


    I cancel the Light cantrip with a simple mental command, and the glowing orb still pulsing inside Jelly Boy winks out. Then, I stuff my wand back into my inventory and take off down the stairs, skipping the last few entirely.


    I hit the factory floor running.


    Jelly Boy is still sitting in the middle of the green-hued gory mess of what used to be The Gluttonous Bob, jiggling like a happy little abomination, absolutely unbothered by the carnage surrounding him.


    I scoop him up, laughing.


    ¡°Jelly Boy! You crazy little guy!¡±


    He vibrates excitedly, and I swear to god, I can feel his pure, unfiltered joy through whatever weird connection we¡¯ve got going on.


    Best. Slime. Ever.


    The adrenaline is still pounding in my veins when I finally notice the groaning. The whimpering . . . the muffled cries of pain.


    My grin fades.


    I look up from Jelly Boy and really take in the aftermath of The Gluttonous Bob¡¯s rampage.


    Holy. Shit.


    The factory floor is a massacre. Dead pukwudgies are scattered across the concrete like someone overturned a bucket of broken puppets. A handful are injured but still alive, their tiny bodies curled up, cradled by others of their kind who are desperately trying to stop the bleeding. There are also countless parts and pieces of pukwudgie that had rained over the manufacturing floor when The Gluttonous Bob exploded.


    More are just cowering behind machinery, wide-eyed, watching me like I¡¯m the real monster here. Maybe I am.


    And others, others aren¡¯t cowering. They¡¯re glowering, throwing absolute death stares in my direction.


    Yeah. Yeah, I get it.


    I glance at the smeared puddle of green and gore that used to be The Gluttonous Bob. Then at the manufacturing facility turned warzone. My stomach lurches.


    Jesus Christ.


    The gobblin superintendents seemed awful, sure. They were capitalistic caricatures and annoying as hell. Cruel, too. I¡¯m sure the pukwudgies hated them. But I¡¯m not sure me dropping in, killing them, accidentally summoning that terrifying plasma demon, and unleashing a full-on massacre, was a marked improvement in their current situation. These little goblinoids aren¡¯t human, but god dammit I am racked with guilt.


    In the process of trying to complete this dumb Quest, the whole place had turned into a splatterfest of tiny corpses.


    I shift awkwardly, rubbing my jaw. ¡°Uh . . . whoops?¡±


    Yeah, that probably doesn¡¯t help. Idiot! Say something else, something better!


    Instead, I clear my throat and make a tactful retreat by doing the only thing I can do right now to distract myself from the screaming moral dilemma of what the hell I just walked into. I try and ignore the problem and hope it just goes away.


    I begin to awkwardly make my way around the factory floor, trying to avoid stepping on pukwudgie parts.


    The gobblin corpses catch my eye.


    There¡¯s a faint blue glow around them¡ªjust like I¡¯d seen before when I looted the gobblin I Mario stomped to death.


    Welp. That¡¯s a clear lootable status if I¡¯ve ever seen one. I hesitate, but only for a moment.


    I shuffle over and do what any sane RPG protagonist would do.


    I start taking their shit.


    The first gobblin¡¯s inventory consists of another Health Potion (Poor Quality) and four Gold Pieces. Not bad, I think.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I move to the second gobblin corpse. The one I had dropped the weight onto. The one who had responded to one of his pukwudgie workers losing an arm with a droning speech about the merit of hard work and sacrifice.


    This gobblin¡¯s inventory offers a little more:


    2 Health Potion (Poor Quality)1 Brass AlembicKey to the FactoryMap6 Gold PiecesWhat the hell is an alembic? I think. No time for questions. Into the Inventory it goes!


    Key to the Factory. I have an idea about what to do with that, which I tuck away. The next item is what really catches my attention.


    Map. Now, that¡¯s interesting. I pull it from the gobblin¡¯s inventory. I hold it up, brow furrowing, as I carefully try to unfold the worn parchment with my free hand. . . And immediately regret doing this in the middle of a room filled with wounded, terrified, and furious pukwudgies.


    Yep. They¡¯re still staring at me. Like I might be the next goddamn boss fight. I¡¯m wary of them for the same reason. So, uh¡­ That¡¯s fun. With a mental command, I toss the map into my Inventory.


    I scan the room for the fourth and final gobblin, Jelly Boy vibrating happily in the crook of my left arm.


    My eyes land on the grinding machine, which is still running¡ªits teeth gnashing together with a steady, mechanical hum.


    Oh. Oof.


    Yeah, that guy¡¯s not getting looted. Not unless I wanna go elbow-deep in industrial-grade gobblin pat¨¦. Hard pass.


    I clear my throat, tearing my gaze away from the fine mist of gobblin viscera decorating the factory walls. Okay. Time to deal with the tiny, pissed-off labor force.


    I step forward, one hand raised in what I hope is a universal sign for ¡®I come in peace¡¯ and not the universal sign for ¡®I am about to cast a fireball.¡¯


    ¡°Uh. Hey. So¡­¡±


    A few pukwudgies flinch. A few others just continue to glare.


    Cool. Cool, cool, cool.


    I press on.


    ¡°Is there, like, someone here with, uh . . . seniority? Someone who can speak for you guys?¡±


    Silence.


    A long, uncomfortable silence.


    Then, after what feels like an eternity, one pukwudgie steps forward.


    He¡¯s clearly a little older than the others, his fur grayer around the edges, his expression less outright furious and more . . . tired. I know that look.


    ¡°Name¡¯s Tom,¡± he says. His voice is gruff but measured. ¡°Floor supervisor. When the superintendents aren¡¯t around, that is.¡±


    I nod, digesting that. Floor supervisor. So, what, like middle management? He didn¡¯t strike me as the type. Welp. Better than nothing.


    I rub the back of my neck. ¡°Right. Uh. So. First off . . . sorry about all this.¡± I motion vaguely to the apocalyptic horror show surrounding us. ¡°Didn¡¯t exactly mean for things to go down this way.¡±


    Tom just stares at me.


    I continue.


    ¡°I¡¯ll, uh. I¡¯ll be going now.¡± I start to take a step back¡ªthen pause, remembering.


    I reach into my Inventory, pull out the Factory Key and hold it out to Tom.


    ¡°This is yours now,¡± I say.


    Tom blinks. Looks at the key. Looks at me. He takes it slowly, like he¡¯s expecting it to burn him.


    ¡°¡­Huh,¡± he mutters, turning it over in his tiny paws.


    I nod. ¡°Good luck.¡±


    And with that, and Jelly Boy tucked under my arm like a squishy little football, I turn and make my way up to the walkway. Up the stairs. And back onto the roof.


    Leaving the carnage behind me.


    I step back out onto the rooftop of the factory and damn, does it feel good to be back up here. Away from the gore-splattered factory floor. Away from the pukwudgies that probably want to stab me¡ªout of fear or hatred, it probably depends. Away from the ghost of The Gluttonous Bob¡¯s digestive system.


    Jelly Boy wobbles excitedly under my arm as I take a second to catch my breath.


    I eye the blinking notification ribbon in the bottom right corner of my vision. I activate it and am welcomed by a haptic tingling in the front of my mind as my interface floods with notifications.


    [2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Points?]


    Okay, cool. Stat gains. I quickly drop both of the points in Strength and move onto the next notification.


    QUEST UPDATE (Gate Initiation): You have successfully defeated a Rank E Boss. Congratulations.


    QUEST UPDATE (Gate Initiation): You have successfully cleared the Level 0 Dungeon of this Realm (Dead World #43).


    I exhale sharply. Level 0 Dungeon. Level Zero? That means there¡¯s more. Like, a Level 1. And a Level 2. And a Level Oh-God-Why.


    Great!


    Another ping echoes in my mind as the notification is replaced with the next one.


    QUEST UPDATE (Gate Initiation): You have satisfied the requirements of this Quest. Congratulations.


    You may continue onto the next Level Dungeon of this Realm, or use the Return Gate.


    My heartbeat kicks up.


    Note: Using the Return Gate will close the existing Gate to this Realm.


    Okay . . . okay. So, this is it. The exit. The way home. My heart flutters with excitement that I can¡¯t quite put into words.


    Reward: You have received one Return Key (Rank E Quality).


    I almost whoop out loud. Instead, I suck in a breath, rubbing my free hand down my face in relief.


    I¡¯m not stuck here. I can go back.


    Then, the final notification springs into my interface.


    THE CARDINAL HAND SEES YOU.


    My stomach drops. A cold, slithering feeling works its way up my spine. I don¡¯t like that. I really don¡¯t like that.


    I stare at the words for a long moment. Then, without any further hesitation, I close the interface.


    Nope. Nope nope nope. That¡¯s a later-me problem, I think. Ideally, it¡¯s a never-meproblem.


    Right now? I just beat a goddamn dungeon, like the Quest description had said. I just got a way back home.


    I let out a shaky laugh, looking down at Jelly Boy.


    ¡°You hear that, little dude?¡± I say, grinning. ¡°I¡¯m getting the hell out of here!¡±


    Then, because I''m riding the high, I toss him up in the air. ¡°I¡¯m going home!¡± I joyfully exclaim.


    Jelly Boy spins like a gelatinous basketball, his surface shimmering in the light of the sun.


    He lands back in my hands with a happy wobble. He starts to vibrate again, but not like before. Not the excited little quivers. This is different. This is intense. I freeze.


    Jelly Boy pulses, shifting colors, his surface going from translucent cerulean to inky black, rippling like spilled oil. The inkiness in his body quickly coalesces and two black, intelligent eyes pop into existence just beneath his once-again-blue surface.


    They blink. Then close in what looks like a smile.


    I stare.


    Jelly Boy wiggles happily in my hands.


    ¡°Holy crap,¡± I whisper. ¡°That¡¯s weird.¡±


    I pull the Return Key out of my Inventory.


    It looks surprisingly unremarkable. An old brass key, the kind you¡¯d use to unlock some dusty trunk in an attic. Loop on one end, ridged teeth on the other. No glowing runes, no crackling power, no ominous whispers of cosmic horror (or whatever you could expect from a key that can open portals between worlds).


    Just a key.


    I examine it and a description window pops up in my vision.


    [Return Key (Rank E Quality): A planar key that can be used to access an open Gate and return to one¡¯s tethered plane.]


    Tethered plane? That¡¯s a weird way to say home¡­ I think.


    I turn the key over in my palm, frowning. The System gave me the option to continue. To push forward. To face higher-ranked dungeons. But who the hell would pick that?


    I pull up my Quest timer. Just under 12 hours left.


    While I¡¯m surprised that the fiasco at the factory had only taken a couple of hours, that¡¯s not a lot of time left on my death countdown. If I chose to take on another dungeon could I leave using this key whenever I wanted to? What if I was stuck until I defeated another boss monster? What if the next boss was even worse than The Gluttonous Bob?


    I snort. Who am I kidding? Of course, the next boss would be worse than Bob. That¡¯s how these things work.


    Only a suicidal idiot would roll those dice and take that chance. I survived by the skin of teeth thanks to Jelly Boy.


    I tighten my grip on the key. I know what I need to do.


    I focus on the key in my hand. A prompt pops up:


    Use Return Key? S§×ar?h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    I think ¡®yes.¡¯


    In response, reality rips apart.


    The air in front of me splits like a zipper being pulled down, edges crackling with electricity. A glowing keyhole forms in midair, light pouring out in shimmering waves. I swallow hard, then take a deep breath. I place the key into the keyhole.


    A low, thrumming pulse rolls through me, vibrating in my bones.


    The keyhole expands.


    It stretches, unfolding into a full-fledged portal, just like the one I walked through to get here. In my hand, the key dissolves into pixels of light, scattering into the air like fireflies.


    I can feel the Gate. Not just see it. Feel it. A tingling sensation crawls up my fingers, buzzing under my skin like static. I take a deep breath, preparing myself to step through the Gate.


    Then, carefully, I set Jelly Boy on the ground.


    He wobbles in place, watching me with those big, weirdly expressive black eyes.


    I grab my coat from where I left it, dust it off, and shrug it back on.


    Then I turn back toward the portal, taking in the sight of my one-way ticket back to Cleveland. I look down at my slime companion.


    Jelly Boy is still staring at me. Those big, glossy eyes are wide and sad. Puppy dog eyes. On a slime.


    Aw, shit.


    I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like a jackass.


    ¡°I guess this is goodbye, my slimy friend,¡± I say, forcing a smile. It doesn¡¯t really feel right.


    Jelly Boy quivers. Not the happy wiggle. Something else.


    Goddammit.


    I crouch down and give him a gentle pat. He leans into it like a depressed Jell-O cup.


    Then, before I can overthink it, I stand back up and face the portal.


    I take a step forward.


    Then another.


    I stop just before entering. I¡¯m so close to the edge of the portal it feels like I¡¯m bathing my face in static.


    I glance back.

 AUTHOR’S NOTE: Rising Stars, Official Artwork & Reader Appreciation

    Hello everyone,


    I wanted to drop in for a moment to say some things.


    First, I wanted to say thank you from the bottom of my heart to each and every one of you who have read and supported the beginning of STRENGTH BASED WIZARD.


    When I revisited writing seven months ago, it had been over a decade since I last attempted to write anything. When I was younger, my mind was constantly thinking of stories, but when it came time to do the hard, ass-in-chair work of actually writing, I would hit such mental hurdles that I would be left staring at a blank page with that blinking cursor taunting me. Eventually, I grew up, got a real job, and moved on with my life. Until an opportunity came along where I had stretches of time to put my energy into creative projects. While I had stopped trying to write, I never stopped coming up with stories. Hundreds, thousands of imaginary characters and epic tales just living inside my head. So, the opportunity was a blessing in disguise. I eventually wrote the first 50,000 words of A Crucible of Light - my first story - and published it onto Royal Road. Some might not call it a success, but it hit Rising Stars, peaking at #10, and finding an absolutely awesome audience who is still following that story.


    I went back to my normal life and real job grind, but I''ve kept up with writing. I''ve probably become a little insane about it, if I''m being honest. Because despite now having less free time on my hands, I''ve found myself continuing to write not only my first story, but others. This includes DEVOUR, which is also currently on Rising Stars and, of course, STRENGTH BASED WIZARD.


    Part of what keeps me going is that I''m sharing my writing with you all, as opposed to clacking away at some trunk novel that may never see the light of day. Royal Road is such an awesome platform, and the reader community here is second-to-none. So, it''s because of you that I continue to write. Every Follow, Favorite, Review, and Comment make my day and fuel me to continue writing, to continue storytelling, to continue improving and Levelling Up!


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Second, as a show of thanks for the early support and to celebrate hitting Rising Stars, I wanted to share the first piece of original artwork for this story. The piece was created by Vladimir Solnyshko and depicts our hero, Joseph Sullivan, together his slimy companion, Jelly Boy (though, I have to admit, slightly smaller than he is meant to be in the actual story). Some of you may be joining us from Reddit and have already seen this, but for all you others, please enjoy!


    In the future, let me know in the Comments if there are any particular scenes you''d love to see illustrated one day.


    Finally, I wanted to take a moment to appreciate STRENGTH BASED WIZARD making its way onto Rising Stars. I''m not sure how high it might climb, but I''m very proud of this accomplishment. SBW is very different from my other stories in a number of ways, but largely centered around the fact that SBW is a far, far more personal story: it''s set in our modern world, the story is written in first person present tense, and I draw on many aspects from my own life. While this story is far from a self-insert, it goes to show that the old adage of "write what you know" truly does work. I hope the bits and pieces I pull from the world around me have enhanced your experience in reading this story.


    As an author who writes speculative fiction, I think our job is the same as writers in other genres (including literary fiction): to find some kernel of truth, latch onto it, and let it be the guiding star of our story. I try to do that with all of my stories, but it has come particularly easy in Joseph''s story. I hope as we get further along on this journey, you find yourself agreeing with me.


    Anyways, I need to get some coffee and get back to writing! Thank you, again!


    Cheers,


    RM S§×ar?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 14. No Place Like Home; Human Nature

    Chapter 14


    No Place Like Home; Human Nature


    The road stretches ahead, dark and empty, save for the rhythmic glow of the highway lamps. Each one flashes overhead in a streaking, yellow blur, smearing across the windshield like paint on wet canvas.


    The car is silent.


    I didn¡¯t think to put on Spotify. Didn¡¯t even plug in my phone.


    My hands grip the wheel too tight, knuckles pale against the leather. My whole body buzzes, nerves still thrumming with aftershocks of adrenaline. It¡¯s the kind of feeling you get after almost getting T-boned by a semi¡ªthat jittery, heart-thudding, high-on-life sensation where everything feels too real. Too sharp. You¡¯ve slammed on the brakes just in time, and avoided death by inches.


    I should be exhausted. Instead, I feel like I could run a goddamn marathon.


    The moment I stepped out of that Gate¡ªback into the real world and the downtown back alley¡ªI was hit with another notification:


    QUEST COMPLETE: Gate Initiation.


    You have successfully completed this Quest.


    You have successfully avoided Elimination.


    You are still a Participant in the God Games.


    I¡¯d let out a breath I didn¡¯t realize I¡¯d been holding while reading the notifications. The timer in the bottom corner of my interface vanished, and I felt¡ª


    I don¡¯t know. Relief? Satisfaction?


    Like I¡¯d just barely slipped through a closing door before it slammed shut? The feeling of no longer having the Quest Timer hanging over my head was hard to describe.


    The System¡¯s message continued:


    Reward: Additional menu options have been unlocked.


    Reward: Gate Ticket (Rank E Quality) (x2).


    You now have access to the following Menu options in your interface:Party;Social Lists; Discussion Channels.


    Weird, I thought, having forgotten about the laundry list of Menu options that had been locked. I didn¡¯t even want to wonder what the Gate Tickets were for.


    But what really threw me off were the next notifications.


    SYSTEM-WIDE QUEST ASSESSMENT COMPLETE (Gate Initiation)!


    Quest Description: Participant must locate and enter a Gate, successfully clearing the Dungeon within.


    Time limit assigned to Participant: 23 hours, 14 minutes.


    Timestamp Upon Entering Gate: 14 hours, 41 minutes (36.8% of allotted time expended locating Gate).


    Grade: E-9 (Poor).


    Final Dungeon Reached Prior to Return Trigger: Level 1.


    Timestamp Upon Clearing Final Dungeon: 11 hours, 56 minutes (11.8% of allotted time expended clearing Dungeons. Highest Level Cleared: 0.).


    Grade: E-5 (Poor).


    Timestamp Upon Return: 11 hours, 51 minutes.


    Overall Efficiency and Performance Rating: E-7 (Poor).


    No additional rewards or boons awarded. No penalties assessed.


    ¡°E-7¡­?¡± I had said, confused at what I had just read.


    Jesus. It was like getting a report card from Hell. I mean, yeah, I survived. I entered the Gate, cleared a Dungeon, and gotten back out in one piece, which I had understood to be the objective.


    But apparently, I sucked at it.


    I flex my fingers against the steering wheel. A car passes by in the opposite lane, headlights flaring white, then disappearing.


    I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror. S§×arch* The Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Nothing but empty road.


    For the first time since stepping back into this world, I allow myself to wonder: How is everything going to change with the arrival of the System? For me? For the world? . . . The thoughts hit me like a tidal wave.


    It comes out of nowhere¡ªone second, I¡¯m gripping the steering wheel, locked into the road ahead, white-knuckling my way home like I always do after the gym. The next, I¡¯m spiraling. My breath catches, then stutters, then won¡¯t come at all. My chest locks up like a vice is squeezing my lungs.


    I almost died. No. I should have died. I should be a smear on a factory floor in some weird other-world, or digested by a flesh-balloon nightmare with the fucking name Bob. Or worse, I could have been culled by the System after failing to meet some arbitrary timeline. A timeline I had burned through by going to the god damned gym! The System was even kind enough to remind me of how idiotic a decision that had been.


    My vision blurs as hot tears sting my eyes. My hands tremble on the wheel.


    I suck in a breath. Then another. But it¡¯s not enough. It¡¯s never enough.


    Jesus Chris, what the hell is happening? I finally think.


    I press the heel of my palm against my eyes. A wet sob escapes before I can stop it.


    I keep driving.


    I keep going, because if I stop¡ªif I let myself actually think¡ªI don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll be able to start again.


    By the time I pull into my parents¡¯ driveway, I¡¯ve mostly collected myself. Mostly.


    The engine ticks as I cut it off. I exhale¡ªlong, slow, trying to push all the panic out of my body. It doesn¡¯t work, but I pretend it does.


    I step out of the car. The crisp night air bites at the skin of my face. It¡¯s a painful sensation I gladly welcome. The porch light flickers, like it always does, like it¡¯s been doing since I was sixteen. I grab my gym bag from the passenger seat and head inside.


    The house smells like home. Warm. Familiar. Safe. There really is no place like home¡­


    I drop my bag by the door and walk through the dimly lit kitchen. Dinner¡¯s on the stove¡ªpretzel-crusted chicken, roasted potatoes, steamed vegetables. Mom always leaves food for me after workouts. She never says she will, never asks if I want it, just . . . does it. She was always like that whenever my sister or I were in town. Always has, always will. The thought hurts.


    ¡°Mom? Dad?¡± I call out, my voice scratchy, uneven.


    Footsteps. Then¡ª


    ¡°Joseph!¡±


    My mom rushes in.


    Her eyes dart over me, scanning, assessing¡ªlike she¡¯s making sure I still have all my limbs. ¡°You didn¡¯t answer my texts! At the gym for so long with all this madness happening. What¡¯s gotten into you?¡±


    I open my mouth.


    I don¡¯t know what I was planning to say, but whatever it was dies in my throat. Because Dad steps in behind her. And he knows. He doesn¡¯t say anything. Just looks at me. And that¡¯s enough. The laugh lines around his mouth¡ªlines I¡¯ve known my whole life, carved deep into an older, thinner reflection of myself¡ªare pulled tight, dark with worry.


    That¡¯s what breaks me.


    ¡°I¡­¡± My voice cracks. My hands clench into fists. Tears burn behind my eyes.


    I almost died. And I¡¯m still in this God Game.


    The world isn¡¯t the same.


    I¡¯m not the same.


    And I can¡¯t do this alone.


    ¡°I need to tell you guys something,¡± I choke out.


    My dad moves first.


    He doesn¡¯t ask questions. Doesn¡¯t demand an explanation. He just pulls me in.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    I collapse into him.


    A second later, Mom joins us.


    And for the first time since I stepped through that Gate¡ªsince my entire life changed forever¡ªI let myself lean in.


    I tell them everything. About the first System notification and the Gate. When I try to mention the God Games specifically, its like there¡¯s an iron hand clamped around my mouth. I try again, to no avail.


    What the fuck? I can¡¯t mention it directly, no matter how hard I try. There¡¯s a similar physical reaction when I attempt to talk about Snake Guy and the assimilation room. My parents both look at me with concern, which breaks my heart. I decide to just skip over those details. Surprisingly, the conversation isn¡¯t as hard as I¡¯d imagined it would be. There is already news spreading about the introduction of the System to Earth. It¡¯s all so foreign, but news is spreading quickly.


    They hug me, and say they¡¯re there to support me, no matter what happens. It¡¯s like I¡¯ve been diagnosed with something terminal and just broke the news. After a while, I tell my parents that I¡¯m tired and am going to grab some dinner and take it in my room.


    I slink into the kitchen, making a plate and grabbing a little extra of everything. With the plate in my left hand, I snatch my gym bag and make my way to my basement lair. My gym bag vibrates excitedly and I tell it to shush until we¡¯re downstairs.


    Four months later¡­


    I¡¯m sitting in an uncomfortably stiff chair, across from an uncomfortably stiff man, in the uncomfortably stiff environment of Midwest Investment Partners¡¯ Cleveland office.


    The guy interviewing me¡ªsome old white dude in a navy suit that probably cost more than my car¡ªadjusts his tie and skims my r¨¦sum¨¦. ¡°So, Summit Lake Capital,¡± he says, nodding like he¡¯s impressed. ¡°That¡¯s a solid firm. What made you leave New York?¡±


    Ah. Here we go.


    I flash a well-practiced, corporate-friendly smile. ¡°New York was a great experience,¡± I say, keeping my voice even, professional. ¡°But my long-term plan was always to come back home to Cleveland and re-lay my roots.¡±


    A bold-faced lie.


    But it¡¯s the truth now. Because there¡¯s no way in hell I¡¯m going back to New York.


    Not after everything that¡¯s happened.


    The old man nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer. ¡°Good to hear,¡± he says. Then, after a beat, he pushes back his chair and stands, extending a hand.


    I stand, too, taking care not to crush his frail-ass bones as I shake his hand. I¡¯ve grown accustomed to the newfound strength of my improved body.


    ¡°Let me walk you out,¡± he says. ¡°But we¡¯ll certainly be in touch. We¡¯re looking for someone with your exact qualifications and think you¡¯d be a good fit here at Midwest Investment Partners.¡±


    I turn on the charm.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t agree more,¡± I say, flashing my best salesman grin.


    I step out of the office and onto the sidewalk outside the nondescript office building, unbuttoning the top of my dress shirt and loosening my tie. Christ. The damn thing was strangling me.


    And the suit? Barely fits. I probably looked ridiculous, walking into the interview looking like Bruce Banner seconds away from hulking out.


    But I hadn¡¯t had time to get a new one before the interview¡ªand those had been hard to come by¡ªand I had severely underestimated just how much gains I had made in the past four months.


    Screw gear. Screw all the overpriced garbage bodybuilder influences inject into their veins. The System was head and shoulders above all of it. I roll my shoulders, feeling the stretch of fabric across my back. Yeah. I¡¯d gotten kind of ripped. Turns out, when you put an 11 Strength score to good use, a lot of things happen.


    It¡¯s too damn warm for mid-April.


    Not that I¡¯m complaining. After months of gray skies, freezing winds, and snow that refused to melt, Cleveland had finally decided to stop being a miserable icebox. I slide into my car, shrug off my suit jacket, and toss it onto the passenger seat.


    I loosen my tie a little more, then a little more, until I finally give up and rip the damn thing off. Screw it. I¡¯m not about to suffocate in my own car.


    The engine purrs to life. Windows down. Cool air whips through the cabin, carrying the distant scent of freshly thawed lake water and lingering car exhaust. It¡¯s almost pleasant.


    Diesel Athletic Club. That¡¯s where I¡¯m headed. The interview is making me a little late for the workout routine I¡¯ve fallen into, but I should get used to it. I¡¯ll need to build my workout routine around the long work days soon.


    I pull onto the highway, my fingers tapping the wheel to the rhythm of a song I don¡¯t remember playing. It¡¯s muscle memory at this point¡ªdriving, thinking, existing in a world that no longer makes any damn sense.


    The System has been here for four months.


    Four months of madness, of governments scrambling, of people either trying to survive or cash in.


    It only took a few televised memorial services before the people in charge got their act together. When monsters¡ªactual, honest-to-God, straight-out-of-a-Tolkien-book monsters¡ªstarted slipping out of Gates and tearing through city streets, it¡¯s amazing how fast governments can suddenly get things done.


    Laws flew through Congress at record-breaking speed.


    The military? They had a System-wielding division up-and-running within weeks.


    The government? They had a brand-new agency to oversee System users before most people even understood what the hell was happening. The Agency for Empowered Affairs¡ªthe AEA.


    Guns? Good luck getting any semblance of regulation.


    The System? Heavily monitored, highly controlled, and¡ªof course¡ªinsanely profitable as a result.


    Because once people realized you could make money off this? That was it.


    Suddenly, every major country was rolling out a ¡®Guild¡¯ system. In the U.S., there were a limited number of Guild Licenses. With a Guild License, corporations employing forces of System-empowered individuals (who also had to be individually licensed) could apply, bid, and fight tooth and nail for the right to contract with the government, handling rogue Gates, securing resources, and¡ªmore importantly¡ªraking in billions in commercialized rights. Because the general population had gone System-crazy with their interest.


    Some groups had dropped nine figures just for a chance at one of those licenses.


    And if you thought those billions weren¡¯t lining the pockets of some very powerful people? Then you¡¯re an idiot.


    I pull into the lot at Diesel Athletic Club, kill the engine, and step out into the unseasonably warm air. The gym is the same as it always is¡ªno frills, no gimmicks, just cold iron and sweat. Exactly what I need.


    Inside, the scent of rubber mats, chalk, and barely masked BO greets me like an old friend. I nod to a few regulars as I head toward the lockers, shedding my shirt and swapping it for a tank. My arms look bigger in the mirror. I¡¯ve filled out in ways I never expected. I also have six visible abs for the first time in my life¡ªthe stubborn amount of fat around my midsection from being a former chunky lad having been burnt away. The System has done more for me in four months than years of lifting with a somewhat consistent diet ever could.


    As I lace up my shoes, I glance at the TV in the corner of the weight room. It¡¯s supposed to be playing some old rerun of SportsCenter, but Steve¡ªthe owner, janitor, and repair guy all rolled into one¡ªis currently elbow-deep in the wiring, cursing at it.


    ¡°Need a hand?¡± I ask, rolling my shoulders.


    Steve grunts. ¡°Nah, just need to get this piece of shit working. I wanna throw on Silver¡¯s press conference.¡±


    I blink. ¡°On ESPN?¡±


    Steve snorts, wiping his hands on his jeans. ¡°Yeah. Welcome to 2024, buddy. The world''s a circus, and this guy¡¯s the goddamn ringmaster. ESPN bought the broadcast rights for Silver¡¯s Guild for like¡­ a gazillion dollars or some shit!¡±


    He¡¯s not wrong.


    Geraint Silver. Billionaire, tech mogul, and the single most powerful man in the world right now.


    Before the System, he was just another megalomaniac with an obsession for space. Claimed he was gonna be the one to take humanity to the stars. But then the Gates started popping up all over the place. And the moment he realized there was more profit and power in them than in any rocket ship, he pivoted so hard he damn near broke his own neck.


    Not only did he get access to the System, but his company, Bellerophon, snagged one of the first Guild Licenses. The Pegasus Guild. Then they turned around and sold their television and streaming rights for a record-breaking contract. Maybe not a ¡®gazillion¡¯ dollars, like Steve had said, but I think the contract was north of one trillion dollars over the course of its life.


    Now? The whole world¡¯s tuning in. Today¡¯s the big rollout of his Guild¡¯s teams¡ªthose System-empowered individuals who would be handling Gate Requisition and Response.


    Privatized dungeon runners. Professional Gate hunters.


    And they¡¯re about to become the biggest stars on the planet.


    I shake my head, laughing as I step up to an open barbell bench.


    The world is a circus. And Silver? He¡¯s making damn sure he owns the tent.


    I drop onto the bench, planting my feet and rolling my shoulders back against the worn-out padding.


    The barbell looms above me like a steel executioner, loaded up with three 25-kilo plates on each side. Steve had invested in proper metric plates ages ago, and I¡¯m still grateful for it. My new System-enhanced body is appreciative of the heavier plates. 1,053 pounds. That¡¯s the goal for today. I quickly push through a few warmup sets. Eventually, there are exactly enough plates loaded onto the bar and I¡¯m ready to go for it.


    I exhale slowly, centering myself. My HUD generates a small block of text that hovers in the corner of my vision, its neon-blue text crisp against the dim gym lighting.


    Barbell Bench Press - One Rep Max (URM): 1,003 pounds.Current Load: 1,053 pounds.Rest Timer: 1:34 remaining.I chuckle at how I¡¯ve been using the System. While others have been chasing down strange creatures that go bump in the night, I¡¯ve been using it for gains. Priorities, right? The HUD had been a game-changer. The Discussion Channels¡ªwhich were basically a System-exclusive forum¡ªhad been invaluable in figuring out how to customize my System interface. The forums were a wild mix of chaos and insight.


    Some people were dedicated scientists, breaking down how the System worked, providing the insight they gained through rigorous trial and error. Others were dumbasses, trying to see if they could max out their stats by eating uranium or something.


    One guy claimed that he absorbed a cursed weapon into his hotbar and now couldn¡¯t unequip it. Eventually, his arm was transfigured permanently into the sword.


    Good luck with that, bud.


    Me? I¡¯d mostly stuck to scrolling the channels at night, before bed¡ªreading. Learning. Keeping my head down. I wasn¡¯t stupid enough to think I¡¯d gotten through my first Gate on skill. That was dumb luck. And I wasn¡¯t about to push my luck again.


    Most of the local chatter happened in the ¡®United States: Great Lakes¡¯ channel, which was as granular as the channels got and users had to be within that region to get access. Not too many heavy hitters, but enough to keep an eye on. The Global channels were absolute madness.


    Many had unlocked their Classes already, and the way they described it? Tempting. The Classes were varied, with unique abilities.


    But also? Dangerous as hell. Each thread on Classes had described the need to complete a higher-leveled Quest to earn the Class.


    I shake the thought away. Focuson what you can control, and right now that¡¯s moving this fucking weight.


    I motion for a couple of the regulars¡ªbig guys, strong guys¡ªto spot me.


    ¡°Going for a PR?¡± one of them asks, stepping into position.


    ¡°Yeah. Just a small jump.¡±


    I grip the bar, wrapping my hands tight, chalk dusting my fingers. Deep breath in. Unrack.


    The weight settles. Feels like a goddamn freight train sitting on my chest.


    I lower it slowly, controlled.


    Pause.


    Then, I explode.


    It moves. Slowly.


    Halfway up. Arms shaking. My triceps feel like they¡¯re about to mutiny.


    I push. Harder.


    My vision tunnels, my HUD flickering at the edges.


    I barely lock it out before slamming the bar back onto the rack. Clang.


    ¡°Nice!¡± one of the spotters grins, giving my shoulder a slap.


    I sit up, panting, wiping sweat off my forehead. My HUD blinks.


    [One Rep Max (URM) increased from 1,003 pounds to 1,053 pounds.]


    I grin. Nice.


    Steve finally smacks the side of the TV like he¡¯s some kind of technical savant, and the screen flickers to life. A few of the gym regulars¡ªBig Mike, Noah, and some guy whose name I don¡¯t know but everyone calls ¡°Chains¡± because of his questionable jewelry choices¡ªgather around, watching between sets. I finish wiping down my bench and wander over, curiosity getting the best of me.


    The screen cuts away from Geraint Silver, who¡¯s standing at a massive press conference stage, a sea of people roaring at his every word. He¡¯s got that whole "billionaire who never loses a night of sleep" look¡ªtall, well-dressed, dark hair graying at the temples, a cool, unreadable stare. A man who knows the world belongs to him, and, worse, isn¡¯t wrong about it.


    ¡°¡ªand so, with that,¡± he says, his voice smooth, controlled, oozing PR perfection, ¡°I present to you the Captains of the Pegasus Guild. The finest warriors of the System. The future of security. The first step toward human mastery of the unknown and the Realms beyond the Gates!¡±


    The screen cuts to five people standing on stage alongside Silver.


    My jaw fucking drops.


    I lean in, heart slamming against my ribs. My brain refuses to believe what my goddamn eyes are showing me.


    Because standing there, center frame, wearing the emblem of the goddamn Pegasus Guild sewn into the breast pocket of her designer jacket, like some kind of elitist superhero?


    It¡¯s Sarah.


    My ex-fianc¨¦e.

 Chapter 15. Ex

    Chapter 15


    Ex


    This is a nightmare. It has to be. There¡¯s no other reasonable explanation.


    I must have dropped a barbell on my head somewhere between my one-rep max and Steve fixing the damn TV, because there¡¯s no other explanation for what I¡¯m seeing.


    The camera zooms in, and there she is.


    Sarah.


    Standing in the center of the goddamn stage like she was born to be there.


    She¡¯s in a sharp, perfectly tailored suit, the dark fabric hugging her like it was custom-cut by a tailor who charged more per hour than I made in a week back at Summit Lake. The others around her are suited up too¡ªexcept for one, an older Indian woman in a skirt¡ªbut my eyes are locked on Sarah.


    The announcer¡¯s voice booms through the TV speakers.


    ¡°And now . . . introducing the five Captains of the Pegasus Guild!¡±


    The pit in my stomach sinks lower, practically bottoming out. It feels like my guts are about to spill out onto the gym floor.


    The announcer is rattling off facts about the new Pegasus Guild, and I know what¡¯s coming, but hearing it still feels like a punch to the throat.


    ¡°Sarah Zorbas!¡±


    There she is again. Bigger than life on the screen, smiling, waving, blowing a goddamned kiss, and winking at the camera like she¡¯s some kind of celebrity. No, she wasn¡¯t born for this. She was built in a freaking lab for this specific role.


    A new window pops up on-screen, overlaying her image with cold, undeniable facts:


    Sarah Zorbas


    Age: 28


    Hometown: Greenwich, Connecticut


    Title: The Rimeblade Maiden


    Class: Everfrost Duelist


    I swallow hard. My mouth is dry.


    She looks the same: Tall, lean. Even with access to the System, she hasn¡¯t changed. She was always in great shape, though. Long blonde hair that somehow manages to be both elegant and effortless¡ªfalling behind her like a waterfall of 24 karat gold. Brilliant blue eyes that stare through the camera. I can tell she¡¯s got the attention of every man surrounding this TV screen right now. But those eyes are cold. Everfrost Duelist. I snort. The Class suits her. Despite the fa?ade, she¡¯s a cold bitch.


    Seeing her on the screen makes me sick.


    The next person steps up, but I barely care. Compared to Sarah, the guy is wholly unremarkable¡ªaverage height, built well enough, buzzed dark hair, dark eyes. Pale, awkward, but grinning wide like he just won the lottery.


    The screen shifts.


    Matthew Bruck


    Age: 26


    Hometown: Chicago, Illinois


    Title: The Silent Specter


    Class: Nimble Ghost


    The third Captain walks up. He¡¯s younger than even this Matt fella. A black guy with a beard and braided hair. Skinny, and short. He¡¯s probably no taller than five and half feet tall. He¡¯s a handsome man, his face all sharp lines. He bites his lip, his whole face radiating pride as the crowd roars for him. He waves to the audience, who go bonkers in response.


    Jase Fears


    Age: 23


    Hometown: Miami, Florida


    Title: The Crimson Pact


    Class: Red Mage


    Then comes the fourth Captain. He¡¯s the tallest of the group. Broad-shouldered. A Latino guy with a sharp widow¡¯s peak, long hair tied back into a man bun, and a well-groomed goatee. Unlike the others, he doesn¡¯t smile. Doesn¡¯t react. Just stands there like a statue.


    Victor Diaz


    Age: 35


    Hometown: Los Angeles, California


    Title: The Steel Bastion


    Class: Armorer


    Finally, the camera settles on the last Captain.


    She¡¯s tiny. Even compared to Jase, she¡¯s minuscule. An older Indian woman, her dark hair starting to gray. She has a calm, almost eerie expression, painted onto her face like she¡¯s already seen the worst the world has to offer and isn¡¯t fazed by a goddamn thing.


    Reshma Murmu


    Age: 56


    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    Hometown: Dallas, Texas


    Title: The Sainted Blade


    Class: Bone Cleric


    The crowd goes wild.


    ¡°The Sainted Blade . . . Sounds badass,¡± one of the guys standing near me says to no one in particular.


    The screen cuts back to Geraint Silver, smug and satisfied.


    I barely hear the next words.


    I can¡¯t. It just had to be her. It had to be Sarah.


    Silver¡¯s voice booms through the speakers again, rich, commanding, the kind of voice that belongs behind a podium. The kind that makes people lean in. I notice that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m doing¡ªshoulder slanting towards the television, slowly being sucked in, hanging on his next word like he¡¯s about to deliver a sermon from the pulpit and I¡¯m a damned soul desperately looking for anything to save me.


    ¡°These five exceptional individuals were selected from a detailed selection process overseen by Bellerophon Corporation . . . First, we pre-selected individuals who were granted Classes with extremely high base stat potential and access to powerful Skills and Spells. Like our Everfrost Duelist over there!¡± His arms lashes out, finger pointed at Sarah. The camera cuts to her again and my heart painfully seizes. Sarah tosses her hair and throws up a little peace sign to the camera.


    The crowd roars again, hanging onto his every word.


    ¡°They have since undergone an exhaustive vetting process and two months of intensive training, utilizing every resource Bellerophon has at its disposal. And now, today¡ª¡± he spreads his arms wide, smiling like a goddamn emperor addressing his empire, ¡°¡ªthey stand before you as the future of humanity¡¯s expansion into the Gates.¡±


    The Internet was flooded with videos and articles about Silver¡¯s obsession about expanding into the Gates. His sole purpose became boiled down to exploring increasingly deeper Levels of the Realms beyond the Gates, which many people were in support of. The loot that people brought back with them from Quests were extremely valuable. Some already having medical and scientific applications that were rapidly revolutionizing the industries. It wasn¡¯t uncommon for someone to say the Gates likely held the cure to cancer and they¡¯d be taken seriously¡ªit wasn¡¯t that crazy of a possibility.


    More cheering. Applause. Some people in the crowd are losing their minds, like this is a WWE event. I just stare at the screen, numb.


    Two months. Two months of intense training with all the best tech and System resources money can buy. That¡¯s all it took to become allegedly one of the five strongest System users in the United States. Sarah¡¯s not just playing the part up there. She¡¯s been preparing for this. For this new life of fame and celebrity.


    For a moment, I wonder what her Stats look like. What her Class really does. The customized Gym HUD I programmed into my System interface suddenly seems so childish. God dammit¡­


    Then a voice breaks through my spiral.


    ¡°Hey, Joe,¡± Chains calls out. Big guy, bigger mouth. I look over to see him grinning at me, arms folded. ¡°You thinking about joining a Guild next? Maybe going pro?¡± S~ea??h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Another guy snickers. ¡°Dude¡¯s already got the gains, might as well capitalize. Your Title could be Barbell Brain!¡±


    The group of meatheads breaks into laughter.


    ¡°Or One Pump Chump!¡± someone else adds.


    The group howls.


    I smirk and shake my head. Fucking hell.


    ¡°Damn, you guys are ruthless,¡± I say, grabbing my towel. ¡°That¡¯s real original. Really cutting-edge shit.¡± I flip them all my middle finger, sticking my tongue out.


    Chains claps me on the back, nearly knocking me forward. Even with my Stats, the guy¡¯s a tank.


    The jokes keep coming, but my mind¡¯s not here anymore.


    I was the last System-empowered guy still coming to this gym.


    There had been a couple others¡ªat first. But they¡¯d stopped showing up. I didn¡¯t ask why. Didn¡¯t have to. A System-enhanced body, even without an 11 in Strength, made most gyms obsolete. Steve had built his place to last, and it was a gym made for heavy metal, but even I could see the writing on the wall. There¡¯d come a point¡ªsooner rather than later¡ªwhere I¡¯d outgrow the weights entirely. But the couple of fitness facilities that had sprung up, catering to System-empowered clientele were all looks and no substance. They were no Diesel Athletic Club, that¡¯s for certain.


    I nod at Steve as I head to the locker room. He just grunts, eyes locked on the TV, screwdriver still in hand.


    The moment the door swings shut behind me, I exhale.


    Sarah fucking Zorbas.


    She ripped my heart out, threw me to the curb, and walked away without looking back.


    And instead of instant karma raining down on her like a bag of bricks¡ªinstead of some cosmic retribution¡ªshe¡¯s up there: one of the most famous System users in the country.


    One of Geraint Silver¡¯s top recruits. A Captain of the Pegasus Guild.


    Which meant her Class must be insane. Everfrost Duelist.


    I step into the shower, letting the water run over me.


    What the fuck¡­


    I check the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of my own greenish eyes before flicking on my blinker and merging off the highway. The sign for my exit flashes past. Almost home.


    The drive has been quiet, just the low hum of the engine and the occasional thud of my fingers tapping against the wheel. My mind? Not so much.


    Sarah. The press conference. Silver¡¯s golden fucking boy¡ªor girl, in this case¡ªbeing my ex-fianc¨¦e of all people. I cycle through the rolodex of sayings from my Dad, trying to stay grounded in a positive mindset. She was out of my life and I shouldn¡¯t let her have any impact on my mood. Just ignore the fact that she¡¯ll be doing commercials and ads soon. Knowing my luck, all of my favorite brands would sponsor her.


    I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the tension, but the thoughts cling like burrs. Whatever. Doesn¡¯t matter. She¡¯s on her path, I¡¯m on mine. ¡®We all have our own paths to walk,¡¯ Dad would say. ¡®Keep your eyes on your own, unless you¡¯d like to get lost.¡¯


    The house is dark when I pull into the driveway. No cars. Parents must have gone somewhere. Maybe a date night? . . . Actually, knowing Mom, it was most definitely errands. Her list of errands never seemed to grow any shorter.


    I step inside, kicking off my sneakers. I head downstairs, feet creaking against the familiar wooden steps, and stop at the basement door. My domain.


    I press my ear to the wood. Voices, muffled, greet me.


    I know exactly what that means.


    Grinning, I grab the handle and push the door open.


    ¡°Daddy¡¯s home!¡±


    The blue blob on my desk jerks in surprise, its gelatinous body quivering before quickly turning its two beady black eyes toward me.


    Jelly Boy vibrates in excitement.


    The little bastard loves a dramatic entrance. He shuffles to the edge of the desk, wiggling his entire body like an eager puppy before launching himself off.


    I barely have time to react before he smacks into my ankle with a wet plop. His gooey surface clings to my skin, sending a weird, cool sensation up my leg.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I missed you too, buddy.¡± I bend down, patting the top of his jiggling body. He wiggles again, practically purring.


    Then my eyes flick to my laptop.


    A bunch of overly tanned, overly dramatic women are screaming at each other in a restaurant.


    I groan.


    ¡°Dude. Again? I can¡¯t believe you like this junk.¡±


    Jelly Boy bobs, his version of a shrug.


    I sigh, collapsing into my desk chair.


    When I first came home with my contraband slime pal, I had no clue what to do with him while I was away from the house.


    Mom and Dad had done okay processing the whole ¡°System¡± thing, but bringing home an actual creature from beyond the Gates? Yeah, that probably wouldn¡¯t go over well. Most people wanted to exterminate anything non-human that came through. Didn¡¯t matter if it was a monster or just¡­ a weird little dude made of jelly.


    So, I kept him a secret.


    At first, I left random YouTube videos playing for him while I was away¡ªsome background noise so he wouldn¡¯t feel alone.


    Somehow, the little guy stumbled into my streaming services and discovered reality TV, and now?


    Now he¡¯s fucking hooked.


    Out of everything, it¡¯s the goddamn Real Housewives that captured his non-existent heart.


    I rub my temple. ¡°You¡¯ve got the whole world at your gelatinous little fingertips, and this is what you choose?¡±


    Jelly Boy lets out a high-pitched gurgle¡ªthe closest thing he has to words.


    On-screen, one of the housewives throws a drink at another, and Jelly Boy vibrates wildly.


    God help me.


    A thought flashes across my mind as I remember something. ¡°Hey bud, want to see what our Daily Reward is today?¡±


    Jelly Boy, who had ventured back to the laptop and Real Housewives glances up at me before vibrating in affirmative excitement.

 Chapter 16. How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part I (Admitting you lost the breakup)

    Chapter 16


    How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part I


    (Admitting you lost the breakup)


    I lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes before flicking open my System menu with a mental command. The familiar translucent blue interface shimmers into existence in front of me. The text, as always, is crisp and unnervingly cheerful.


    I access the Daily Reward menu and am welcomed by a haptic tingle in my mind.


    [Daily Reward Available! Would you like to claim?]


    I sigh. After four months, the dopamine rush of claiming these rewards has diminished to practically zero. It was more like a daily chore now. And the Daily Reward was never anything good.


    But free is free, and I¡¯m not about to turn down a handout. I mentally tap the prompt.


    Congratulations! You have received:


    Adventurer¡¯s Cookie (x1)Stamina Potion (Poor Quality) (x1)I groan. Again, with the poorquality crap.


    If this System is supposed to be the future of humanity, why does it feel like it was programmed by some greedy mobile game developer? What kind of cosmic bullshit is this? A couple of months ago, my Daily Reward pulled me a Basic Mana Potion of ¡®Improved Quality,¡¯ which was exciting in the moment (until I realized the irony of receiving an absolutely useless mana potion). I rode that high of getting something good from one of these pulls for a while. Since then, I hadn¡¯t pulled anything other than ¡®Poor Quality¡¯ potions.


    Shaking my head, I dismiss the menu and withdraw the Adventurer¡¯s Cookie, the small biscuit materializing in my palm in a faint flicker of light.


    It¡¯s brown, rectangular, and vaguely spiced-smelling, looking almost identical to those Biscoff cookies they hand out on flights sometimes. I inspect the cookie, reading the description the System helpfully generates above the snack.


    [An Adventurer¡¯s Cookie! Who¡¯s a good adventurer? . . . You are! This cookie will sustain you for up to two days.]


    I stare at the text for a second, then look down at the cookie.


    ¡°Who¡¯s a good adventurer?¡± I mutter. ¡°Go fuck yourself, that¡¯s who.¡±


    From atop the desk, Jelly Boy trembles.


    I glance up. His beady little eyes are locked on the cookie like a predator sighting prey.


    Oh, right.


    I toss it his way.


    The cookie plops onto the top of his gelatinous form and immediately begins to sink. Jelly Boy shudders, his entire body rippled withpleasure as the cookie sinks to his core, remaining suspended inside him, dissolving slowly like a tea biscuit in hot water. His little eyes curve into a delighted smile.


    He bounces in place, vibrating with sheer joy.


    I snort. ¡°You¡¯re the good adventurer, I guess!¡±


    Jelly Boy jiggles in response.


    I¡¯m just glad these cookies are common. The little guy loves them, and honestly, I don¡¯t know what else he even eats. Most human food doesn¡¯t interest him. He won¡¯t touch fast food, refuses anything deep-fried, and looked downright offended when I once tried to give him a bowl of kitty kibble.


    But garbage television? Oh, he eats that shit up. If only your taste in food was the same as your taste in T.V., I think.


    I shake my head and lean back, rubbing my temples.


    Sarah. The Captains of the Pegasus Guild. Silver and his smug, billionaire¡¯s smile. The whole goddamn circus show that just upended my day.


    I exhale through my nose. Don¡¯t lose sleep over what you can¡¯t control, I mentally repeat, over and over until I feel better. Well, not better but a little less shitty.


    I flick my System menu open again, this time pulling up my Inventory. The list of items appears in crisp, glowing text, floating in front of me like some kind of celestial to-do list. Since gaining access to the System, I¡¯ve learned to organize my Inventory. I now have all of the potions organized at the top.


    Basic Mana Potion (x18)Health Potion (Poor Quality) (x23)Stamina Potion (Poor Quality) (x7)Basic Mana Potion (Improved Quality) (x1)Spell Enhancement Potion (x1)I barely even register the Stamina Potions anymore. They pile up like junk mail. Still, I take a closer look at the last three potions, which conjures small description windows for each one.


    [Stamina Potion (Poor Quality)]


    [Description: A stamina potion made using questionable means. It works, but barely. Restores 10 points of Stamina. Costs 5 points of Health upon consumption.]


    [Basic Mana Potion (Improved Quality)]


    [Description: Perfect for novice spellcasters as it has been prepared to replenish the full mana reserves of a typical beginning spellcaster (and then some). This potion has been made using an improved formula. Restores 22 Mana.]


    [Spell Enhancement Potion]


    [Description: A potion that provides a single, permanent enhancement to a spell of the Participant¡¯s choosing.]


    I withdraw the Spell Enhancement Potion from my Inventory. In a flash of pixelated light the intricate glass vial appears in my hand. The vial is in the shape of a beautiful winged woman, the wings folding up towards the vial¡¯s stopper. Inside, a sparkling purple liquid swirls around. Why haven¡¯t I taken this yet? For a while, it had been because I was convinced I would sell it on the secondary market. The System¡¯s Marketplace was only available to those who had obtained a Class, and users could only transact on the basis of trading or exchanging Gold Pieces from the Gate Realms. However, nothing stopped people from conducting in-person business in exchange for cold, hard real-world cash. Hell, I¡¯d traded that brass alembic I looted from one of the gobblins for one hundred dollars. This potion would pull me a lot more.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    But deep down, I knew the real reason I hesitated to do anything with it¡­ Fear. You¡¯re a god damned coward, Joe.


    I shove the thought down, withdrawing the potion back into my Inventory, and scroll further.


    My eyes gloss over the items I¡¯d received from the two chests I had been rewarded while in the Gate Realm.


    The Beginner¡¯s Chest had been about what you¡¯d expect:


    Health Potion (Poor Quality) (x3)Basic Mana Potion (x2)Star Shard (x13)[Star Shard]


    [Description: A shard of star mana.]


    The Star Shards were the only thing remotely interesting, and even then, their use was still unclear. The Discussion Channels were flooded with theories about these shards¡ªwhich came in a variety of mana types, from star to water and fire¡ª but no one had a solid answer. Some people claimed they were currency for later, others thought they could be traded for rare items. A few lunatics even suggested they were bait, like some cosmic trap laid by the System and those entities that controlled the God Game. My money was on the theory that these shards were crafting materials of some sort. Only time would tell.


    And then there was the other chest. The Advanced Adventurer¡¯s Chest.


    That one was way more interesting:


    Ring of Freedom (Common) (x1)Lumberjack Boots (Uncommon) (x1)Gate Ticket (Bronze) (x1)[Ring of Freedom (Common)]


    [Description: A ring that empowers its wearer¡¯s freedom of movement. +15% evasiveness, +1 Dexterity]


    [Lumberjack Boots (Uncommon)]


    [Description: A well-crafted pair of boots that can keep its wearer¡¯s feet dry and safe, even during long days in the woods. While being worn, grants the wearer access to the Ability ¡®Hold Your Ground.¡¯]


    Ability: Hold Your Ground (Beginner)


    [Description: You live in a constant state of standing your ground. You are capable of locking yourself to your current point in space, becoming harder to move. When another creature, Skill, or Spell attempts to physically move you in any direction, you have a 10% chance of succeeding any attempt to resist their effort.]


    [Cost: 2 AP]


    I didn¡¯t¡ªand still don¡¯t¡ªquite understand the use of this Ability. But, seeing as I had no other Abilities other than Slime Tamer, I decided to equip the Ability while wearing the Lumberjack Boots. The Lumberjack Boots looked like a pair of wheat colored Timberland boots, rubber sole and all¡ªhigh tops lined with a supple brown leather.


    [Gate Ticket (Bronze)]


    That bronze slip of doom.


    I stare at it, my stomach twisting.


    By now, everyone knows what the Bronze Tickets do. They aren¡¯t like the regular Gate Tickets, the ones that open two-way portals where all sorts of horrifying nasties can stumble through and wreck your day. No, the Bronze Tickets open a one-way Gate¡ªa personal invitation from the System.


    Step through, and when¡ªif¡ªyou return? You have a Class.


    That¡¯s how people got their new powers. Their cool-ass titles. Their fucking celebrity status.


    And yet, mine has been sitting in my Inventory for months.


    Why?


    Because the System, for all its bright lights and friendly UI that helps you track your lifting PRs, is the shadiest motherfucker I¡¯ve ever met. Sure, most people come back with a cool new Class. But some people? Some don¡¯t come back at all.


    Gate Tickets had also been the first thing to be heavily regulated upon the System¡¯s Assimilation. It was in everyone¡¯s best interest if people weren¡¯t opening portals monsters could wander through willy-nilly. It quickly became a criminal offense to use a Gate Ticket outside of Guild or governmental supervision.


    The first couple months after Assimilation, I barely even used my enhanced body. Didn¡¯t lift more than I could have before the System touched me. Didn¡¯t run faster. Didn¡¯t jump higher. Because I didn¡¯t want to stand out. It took at least two months before System-enhanced people could be somewhat confident that our very existence wouldn¡¯t become criminalized.


    Still, nothing stopped people from using their enhanced bodies and the Gate Tickets straight from the rip. The promise of power and unlimited potential had been too tempting. Now, looking at that Bronze Gate Ticket, I feel the same instinct curling in my gut.


    But another part of me¡ªthe part that saw Sarah Zorbas waving to millions of people on national television¡ªthat part? That part is getting really fucking tired of standing still.


    I stare at the Bronze Gate Ticket in my Inventory, jaw clenched so hard it feels like my molars might crack.


    Sarah. Fucking. Zorbas.


    It¡¯s been months, and I should be over it. I should be past the bitterness, past the gut-wrenching realization that the woman I almost married was playing me like a goddamn fiddle for years.


    But then I saw her on TV, smiling like she won the goddamn lottery, basking in the spotlight like a golden fucking goddess. And you know what?


    She did win.


    She played the game, stepped through her Gate, got her Class, and now she¡¯s one of the most powerful people in the country.


    And me?


    I ran home to Cleveland like a wounded animal, licking my wounds and telling myself I was gonna ¡°win¡± the breakup. That if I got my shit together, landed another high-paying job, got promoted to Principal, got jacked as hell, and lived my best life, I¡¯d be the one laughing in the end.


    But there¡¯s no winning when the other person ascends to superhuman status and gets a private invitation from the richest man in the world to join his elite squad of System-enhanced warriors.


    I was playing checkers. She was playing 4D chess with a quantum computer.


    I blink, shaking myself out of my thoughts.


    My Inventory vanishes, and suddenly I¡¯m back in my dimly lit basement room. Jelly Boy has pivoted from Real Housewives to YouTube videos, his gooey body bouncing slightly as he watches with rapt attention. The video is just some guy opening packs of Pokemon cards.


    An ad pops up.


    Jelly Boy vibrates violently in frustration. He hates ads. I swear if he ever grows to develop Abilities of his own, he¡¯s gonna hunt down the CEO of Google and devour him whole. It¡¯s a scary thought.


    The ad is local. A crew of workers, all wearing construction gear, walks toward a glowing blue portal. The camera zooms in, showing the site on the other side¡ªan entire work camp established past the Gate.


    People are working, casting spells, lifting massive steel beams with telekinesis. A Pyromancer cuts through rebar with a flick of his wrist, while a towering, armor-clad woman channels some kind of earth magic to set the foundation. They are building a barrier around the Gate as another crew of people prepare themselves to enter the Gate, equipped with all sorts of magical weapons and gear.


    A voiceover plays:


    ¡°Get Involved with Your Municipal Guild Today!¡±


    ¡°Rates starting at $22/hour. All licensed System Users welcome to apply!¡±


    The ad ends with a giant QR code and a cheery ¡°APPLY TODAY!¡±


    I stare at it, gears turning in my head.


    For the past few months, I¡¯ve been wasting time. Trying to claw back what I lost. Trying to pretend like the old life I had was still within reach.


    But it isn¡¯t.


    Sarah proved that.


    If I want something better, I have to go after it. I had to try something new, something different. What was that saying about insanity? Something about trying the same thing and expecting a different result?


    My phone vibrates.


    I grab it off my desk and glance at the caller ID. It¡¯s a 2-1-6 area code that I don¡¯t recognize immediately.


    I know who this is.


    I swallow, then answer. ¡°Hello?¡±


    ¡°Joseph! Good evening. Hope I¡¯m not catching you at a bad time.¡±


    It¡¯s Mr. Suit-and-Tie from Midwest Capital. The same guy who ran my second-round interview. Voice smooth as butter, the kind of guy who probably wears $5,000 suits and drinks bourbon older than my dad.


    ¡°No, not at all,¡± I say.


    ¡°Well, fantastic! I¡¯ll cut to the chase¡ªcongratulations, Joseph. We¡¯d like to formally offer you the position of Senior Associate at the firm.¡±


    There¡¯s a pause.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure the formal offer will come through via email tomorrow,¡± he continues, ¡°but I wanted to personally deliver the news. We¡¯re excited to have you onboard, and I look forward to working with you.¡±


    My eyes lock onto the QR code still hovering on my laptop¡¯s screen.


    For months, this job was the goal. The safe, smart, six-figure job that would put my life back on track.


    But now?


    Now I¡¯m thinking about Sarah. About the Bronze Ticket in my Inventory. About the fact that I¡¯ve been too much of a coward to take a chance on something bigger . . . riskier. I¡¯m not so sure this is the track I want to be riding on anymore.


    Mr. Suit-and-Tie says something else, but I barely hear it.


    ¡°Joseph? You still there?¡±


    I exhale sharply. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.


    ¡°Yeah¡­¡± I say. Then I decide.


    I sit up straight. My grip tightens on my phone.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say, ¡°but another opportunity has come up that I¡¯ve decided to take.¡± Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    A pause.


    ¡°Oh.¡± A shift in tone. Just a hint of surprise. ¡°Well, that¡¯s . . . unfortunate. But I understand. Best of luck, Joseph.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say.


    And then I hang up.


    Before I can second-guess myself, I swipe to my camera app and scan the QR code.


    It¡¯s time to level the fuck up!

 Chapter 17. How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part II (Tools for the Job)

    Chapter 17


    How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part II (Tools for the Job)


    I pull my car up to the location, double-checking my phone to make sure I¡¯m at the right place.


    Yup.


    A storage facility in the middle of nowhere.


    Secure Storage, the giant, sun-faded yellow sign reads, with the even dumber slogan: ¡°Your Stuff, Our Lock!¡±


    I turn into the church parking lot next door and find a spot. Seems like most of the crew is already on site. I put the car in park, letting out a slow breath. Outside, the sky is a dreary gray, the kind that makes everything feel three shades shittier than it actually is. The only thing moving is the occasional gust of wind sending plastic bags and loose gravel tumbling across the asphalt. It¡¯s probably going to rain soon.


    I glance at the storage facility itself. Rows of squat, metal buildings stretch down the long driveway, painted in that particular shade of depressing beige that every storage unit seems legally required to have.


    This is definitely the place.


    I kill the engine, unbuckle, and grab my backpack from the passenger seat. It¡¯s loaded with the barebones safety equipment issued by the Cleveland Municipal System Association when I got my License¡ªneon yellow safety vest, white hard hat, a plastic pair of safety goggles, and thick gloves.


    I also brought my own personal purchase: a small baton tucked into the side pocket. Because after what happened last time¡ªgetting stuck face-to-face with monsters and no survival tool outside a couple of cantrips? Yeah, no way in hell am I going into a Gate empty-handed ever again. In hindsight, I still wonder what had been going through my head that day. I guess I lost what little sense of rationality I had when faced with my impending doom¡­ You can still learn a lot about yourself, Joe.


    I step out of the car, gravel crunching under my Lumberjack Boots, which I¡¯ve pre-equipped. The look is only completed by my jeans and beaded white tank top. Nothing fancy, but it gets the job done. And no one mentioned anything about a dress code for these jobs.


    It¡¯s crazy to think how fast all of this happened.


    Two days ago, I was still an unemployed, basement-dwelling ex-finance bro with no direction.


    Then, I scanned that QR code.


    That very afternoon, I went downtown, filled out the paperwork, and got my official System User¡¯s License.


    They had me list my Discipline¡ªSpellcaster.


    Class? None.


    Level? 4.


    They ran a quick test to verify my numbers using the cutting edge technology licensed from Bellerophon¡ªthen boom. Like the Gates, most jurisdictions used a similar ranking system for System User Licenses, using a variety of criteria (largely Level and Stats) to sort users from weakest¡ªRank E¡ªto strongest¡ªRank S. Because I was only Level 4, I was granted a Rank E License, which determined which Gate Jobs I was qualified for.


    I paid the nominal fee and they printed my license on the spot.


    One online application later, and I was officially a Municipal Guild Freelancer.


    And now, just over forty-eight hours after I had turned down a steady job in finance, here I am¡ªstanding outside some run-down storage facility, about to enter my first guild-sanctioned Gate.


    I exhale, rolling my shoulders.


    The plan is simple: take on as many jobs as possible. Grind XP. Level up.


    And, once I¡¯m strong enough? I¡¯ll use my Bronze Gate Ticket.


    Unlike these Guild-supervised jobs, which are staffed up the wazoo with teams of System users and other safety precautions, the Bronze Gate required to obtain one¡¯s Class is a solo venture. A one-way ticket to whatever hellscape awaits me beyond.


    And if I want to survive? I need to be ready.


    I slam the car door shut and sling my backpack over one shoulder. The strap digs into my collarbone, but I barely notice.


    This is it. First job. First real step forward. And I¡¯ve already decided¡ªI¡¯m not walking in half-assed. If I have something that makes me stronger, I¡¯m using it.


    I pull up my Inventory, which I¡¯ve largely cleared out, leaving the miscellaneous junk back at home. I immediately see what I am looking for.


    Spell Enhancement Potion.


    I withdraw it with a thought, and the vial materializes in my hand, filled with a thick, slightly glowing liquid.


    I hesitate for half a second. I haven¡¯t taken a potion yet, and the thought of pouring a foreign substance from a different dimension down my throat gives me pause.


    Screw it.


    I pop the top and down it in one gulp.


    The taste hits me immediately¡ªwarm, almost syrupy¡ªthe flavor weirdly reminds me of prickly pear. Huh. Didn¡¯t expect that.


    Before I can really savor it, the vial dissolves in my grip, breaking into a thousand tiny pixelated motes of light. A pulse rips through my skull, deep and resonant, like someone plucking a harp string inside my brain.


    A System notification flares in my vision.


    [You have consumed a Spell Enhancement Potion. Please select one Spell to enhance.]


    Oh.


    I glance over my Spells.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    A whole two to pick from.


    Light and Wizard¡¯s Hand.


    I have no idea what ¡°enhancement¡± actually means. Will enhancing the Light cantrip just give me a bigger ball of light, or will I suddenly be able to shoot laser beams from my fingertips? It¡¯s too damn vague¡­ There¡¯s no way of knowing for certain.


    I mentally tap Wizard¡¯s Hand.


    Another pulse, this one softer, spreading like ripples across my thoughts. The System menu shifts, presenting a new set of options:


    Select the nature of your Spell Enhancement:


    OPTION 1: [Twin-casted Spell]


    [Description: Each casting of this Spell will double the output of the Spell, with each output generated by the Spell being at half strength. Each casting of Wizard¡¯s Hand will generate two Wizard¡¯s Hands. This does not increase the Mana cost of the Spell. This does not change the limit of active castings of this Spell.]


    The first option is already interesting. Each casting of Wizard¡¯s Hand would summon two of the spectral hands. In total, I could have five at one time with the use of my wand. Still, what good did having access to five hands do me? It wasn¡¯t like there were going to be heavy kettlebells laying around waiting to crush unintending monsters.


    OPTION 2:[Increased Finesse]


    [Description: The Spell has higher Finesse capabilities. The strength and weight limit of your Wizard¡¯s Hand will be diminished by 50% but the Finesse capabilities of your Wizard¡¯s Hand will be increased by 50%, allowing each hand to accomplish more specific tasks.]


    This option is better than the first one. I imagine a Wizard¡¯s Hand capable of maybe holding a knife, or picking locks.


    OPTION 3: [Increased Range]


    [Description: Doubles the current range of the Spell. Wizard¡¯s Hand will be able to move up to 60 feet away from you.]


    Simple, but a definite downgrade from the first two.


    OPTION 4: [Add Element]


    [Description: Imbue the Spell with an elemental affinity of your choice. Wizard¡¯s Hand will gain traits and characteristics associated with the chosen elemental affinity. Note that altering the Spell¡¯s elemental affinity may result in additional changes to the Spell.]


    OPTION 5: [Alter Source]


    [Description: Alter the source of your Spell. Currently, Wizard¡¯s Hand is fueled by you mental magic and directly corresponds to Intelligence as your spellcasting Statistic. You may select a different Statistic to act as the source of this Spell¡¯s casting. Note that altering the Source of a Spell may result in additional changes.]


    I freeze. Then, a wide grin spreads across my face.


    That last one. That¡¯s the one and I know it almost instantly. My Intelligence?


    A whopping 1!


    Garbage. Absolute dumpster fire.


    But my Strength?


    Higher than everything else. And by a wide margin too!


    If I can switch Wizard¡¯s Hand to run on Strength instead of Intelligence¡­


    I select it.


    My brain is instantly met with another pulse. My vision flashes, quickly correcting itself only to be flooded with a barrage of notifications.


    [Spell Enhancement initiated¡­]


    Ding!


    [Wizard¡¯s Hand has been successfully enhanced!]


    [Wizard¡¯s Hand Source has been changed from Intelligence to Strength!]


    [Wizard¡¯s Hand Finesse Capabilities have been lowered by 50%.]


    [Wizard¡¯s Hand is now capable of physically attacking a target.]


    I stare at the notification. Then I read it again. The grin on my stupid mug spreads even wider.


    Holy shit. This is huge.


    Before, Wizard¡¯s Hand was basically a glorified invisible butler. A parlor trick for picking up stuff across the room when I didn¡¯t feel like getting off the couch.


    Now?


    Now I have a floating fist of destruction.


    Yeah, it¡¯s still basic. Definitely not nearly as cool as an elemental affinity would have been. No mystical bullshit for me, sadly. But I can punch things . . . from up to thirty feet away!


    That¡¯s a game changer. Let a gobblin try and scratch at my shoulders now!


    My phone vibrates in my pocket, reminding me that I¡¯m supposed to be on the job site. I close out of my System interface and powerwalk to the entrance point for the Gate¡¯s site.


    The job site is surrounded by barricades¡ªconcrete blocks and metal fencing, draped with big red signs reading AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, SYSTEM-ENHANCED WORKSITE, DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PROPER PPE, each in bold, aggressive letters.


    I double-check my phone. Just on time!


    Stepping closer, I see the full operation in motion. Men and women in yellow safety vests move about the site going about a variety of tasks. Approaching the entrance, I can see the faint, bluish glow of the Gate.


    Standing just inside the entrance is a man in a neon yellow vest thrown over a button-down shirt and a pair of worn blue jeans. His hard hat is tilted slightly back on his head, goggles resting on the brim. He¡¯s older, gray at the temples, with a weathered face that says he¡¯s seen a lot of dumb shit and has zero patience for any more. A clipboard in one hand. A pen in the other.


    As I step up, he barely looks up from his clipboard before asking, ¡°How may I help you, young man?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here to report for work, sir!¡± I say, grinning wide. And weirdly enough, I mean it. Damn. Is this what it felt like to smile¡ªreally smile? It¡¯s been too long.


    It¡¯s the first real grin I¡¯ve had in . . . hell, I don¡¯t even know how long.


    The man raises an eyebrow, smirks. ¡°Excited now, are ya?¡±


    ¡°First time on the job.¡± I scratch the back of my head. ¡°It might be the nerves, actually.¡±


    He chuckles. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, pretty common to have some nerves on your first job. This is all still so damn new, we¡¯ve got plenty of newbies on each job.¡± He gives me a reassuring smile. ¡°License, please.¡±


    I pull my Municipal System License from my pocket and hand it over. The old man examines the holographic card carefully, then glances down at his clipboard.


    ¡°Ah, yes. Joseph Sullivan. Extraction Team.¡± He looks me up and down. ¡°With muscles like those, we could''ve used you in Staging.¡±


    Every Gate Job runs with four distinct teams.


    The first on-site? The Security Team. Security¡¯s easy to spot¡ªbig guys in black tactical gear, holding a variety of out-of-place looking weapons. I see one man in Security Team uniform wielding a spear as he patrols the perimeter of the Gate site. They¡¯re here to handle anything that breaches the Gate and keep civilians from wandering in and getting themselves turned into paste. Mobs on the Earth-side, that¡¯s their job.


    The Staging Team quickly follows. They busy themselves setting up the barrier¡ªa glowing hexagonal dome that shimmers faintly in the air, directly around the Gate¡¯s entrance. They also handle the physical barriers around the larger job site. Staging¡¯s got a tent city going, with folding tables, computer stations, and enough coffee cups to drown an office intern.


    Once they¡¯re done, the Exploration Team arrives. The golden boys. The real deal. Their sole job is to enter the Gate and clear the Dungeons within, clearing a path for the fourth and final team.


    That¡¯s where I come in.


    The Extraction Team.


    Not as sexy. Not as action-packed. But we¡¯re still the only other team that actually enters the Gate. Exploration Team spots were always in high-demand and granted to only the most qualified candidates. I didn¡¯t have a shot at the position. Not yet, at least. But Extraction positions were always available. Extraction was grunt work¡ªall the danger and risk involved with entering the Gate, but none of the prestige. We¡¯re the ones who go in after the Exploration Team and haul back the valuable materials from the other side.


    That¡¯s why they told me to bring a backpack.


    Inventories have limited slots. And an Extraction Team keeps their Inventories as empty as possible to stack as much loot as they can carry.


    I have no idea what to say to the man¡¯s comment, so I just laugh nervously. Sear?h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Well, anyway,¡± he continues, ¡°Extraction is getting prepped to enter the Gate. Go ahead and join them over there for the debriefing.¡± He gestures toward a gathering group near a massive, blue-glowing portal. Guards and workers surround it, monitoring equipment and keeping a close watch on the swirling void of not-Earth beyond.


    ¡°And make sure you gear up!¡± he adds, handing my license back. He points to the signs on the fence. ¡°Site rules. We don¡¯t need OSHA coming in and busting our balls here.¡±


    ¡°Uh, yes sir!...¡± I say, taking back my license and making my way toward the group.


    The closer I get, the more real it all becomes. The portal is massive, a pulsing, shifting rift in the air, like someone stabbed reality and forgot to stitch it back up. It hums with energy, a low, vibrating thrum that I feel in my chest.


    I step to the side, dropping my backpack to grab my safety vest and hard hat when¡ª


    What. The. Hell.


    I freeze.


    My backpack shifts. I crouch down, slowly unzipping my backpack. Carefully, I open the backpack, but already know what I¡¯m going to find inside.


    A light blue slime wriggles within, looking up at me and blinking its massive, happy eyes.


    It jiggles. It vibrates.


    Blorp!


    ¡°JELLY BOY?!¡±

 Chapter 18. How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part III (Who would want this?)

    Chapter 18


    How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part III (Who would want this?)


    I yank the backpack shut, practically punching the zipper closed.


    ¡°Brrrrrrzzzzt¡­!¡±


    Jelly Boy vibrates angrily, the muffled noise somewhere between a dial-up modem having a seizure and a pissed-off beehive.


    My heart is still hammering. How the hell did he even get in there?! Was I just walking around with a slime stowaway this whole time? I rack my brain trying to think how the little jell-o mold could have even pulled it off.


    I throw a wild glance around.


    I¡¯m pretty sure nobody saw. Good.


    Across the site, I spot salvation¡ªa row of bright blue port-a-potties lined up like a row of plastic soldiers.


    I make a break for them, trying my best to look calm, normal, but who am I kidding? Workers mill around, chatting, checking equipment, too busy to notice me sprint full speed toward the piss booths like a man about to have a catastrophic bowel event. If anyone sees me, they¡¯ll probably just think I¡¯m moments away from shitting my breeches moments before my first official Gate job.


    I grab the first door with a green ¡®available¡¯ sign above the handle, yank it open, and dive inside.


    Jesus, it¡¯s hot in here. The air is thick. Smells like urinal cakes and despair. No amount of blue mystery liquid can cover that up.


    I unzip my backpack and Jelly Boy immediately wobbles upward, staring at me with those big, glassy, deeply stupid¡ªbut oh, so adorable¡ªeyes.


    ¡°What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± I hiss.


    Jelly Boy vibrates in confusion, like I just asked a goldfish to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.


    I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. I keep my voice to a whisper. ¡°Look, buddy. I¡¯m at work. You know? Work? The thing people do to not starve to death?¡±


    The slime bobs slightly. I take that as affirmation.


    ¡°It¡¯s dangerous out here. I can¡¯t have you bouncing around in public. You get that, right? You¡¯re a slime. People out here, er¡ªaren¡¯t a fan of you guys.¡±


    Jelly Boy tilts to the side.


    ¡°No, not me. Of course, I¡¯m a fan.¡± I sigh again. It¡¯s too late to change course now. I lift my backpack so that we¡¯re eye-to-eye. ¡°Stay. Hidden. Stay. Quiet.¡±


    A long pause.


    Then, a soft, humming buzz.


    I take that as a yes.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    I reach beneath the sentient Jell-O cup to grab my safety vest and hard hat¡ªboth of which are now cold and wet.


    I make a face. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    Jelly Boy vibrates happily.


    I throw on the vest, slap on the hard hat, adjust my safety glasses, and hoist my now-occupied backpack over my shoulders.


    Then, taking a deep breath of urinal-scented air, I step out of the port-a-potty and back into the real world.


    The portal looms ahead, a massive swirling vortex of blue light, its edges flickering like broken television static.


    Workers mill about, but one group stands out¡ªa cluster of freelancers, like me, decked out in neon vests and hard hats, some chatting, some stretching, others checking their gear. I¡¯m assuming that¡¯s the Extraction Team.


    I approach the group, taking a place near the back. A quick head count confirms there¡¯s nine of us in total.


    A guy with a clipboard approaches. Younger than the guy running the site entrance. Heck, younger than me, even. Maybe nineteen, tops. He¡¯s got the energy of a stressed-out intern who got promoted way too fast. His safety vest is slightly too big, like it¡¯s swallowing him whole, and there¡¯s a streak of portal dust on his cheek. Someone so young being my supervisor¡­ It makes the whole thing seem kinda silly.


    He tucks the clipboard under one armpit and claps his hands together, already talking before the sound even finishes.


    ¡°Okay, Extraction Team! Let¡¯s get this started.¡±


    His voice is weirdly peppy for a guy sending us into a dimensional rift. To think, not even half a year ago this would have seemed only possible in the pages of a Science Fiction novel.


    ¡°We¡¯ve received confirmation that the Exploration Team has just completed the third Dungeon for this Gate and have met the criteria to seal it. They¡¯ll be pressing forward for a final Dungeon dive, which means we have approximately four hours to enter and clear the material. We¡¯ll have three squads today.¡±


    He¡¯s all business, rattling this off like he¡¯s reading from a script tattooed onto his eyeballs.


    ¡°First squad! A Squad!¡±


    He calls out three names, and three people step forward¡ªa mix of veterans and fresh faces. Clipboard Guy hands them a tablet, its screen glowing faintly.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be responsible for extracting Serenity Shards from the Level 3 Dungeon. Their locations are noted on the Map.¡±


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    A ripple of interest moves through the remaining freelancers. Serenity Shards are big money. Expensive. Rare. I recall folks on the Discussion Channels whining about never seeing them in their Gates. Most Gates contained common type mana shards¡ªlike Fire or Wind Shards. And, if you were lucky, sometimes some uncommon type mana shares¡ªlike the Star Shards I had received after my first Gate. But even those weren¡¯t anything all that special.


    Clipboard Guy doesn¡¯t pause.


    ¡°Here¡¯s the map that a member of the Exploration Team detailed.¡± He nods to the tablet. ¡°It¡¯s a bit spotty, so stick to the entrance area and do not proceed further until the Exploration Team is on their way back. They can act as guides and additional security.¡±


    The first group nods and heads toward the portal. The blue glow washes over them, and then¡ªthey¡¯re gone.


    Clipboard Guy doesn¡¯t waste time.


    ¡°Next squad. B Squad!¡±


    Three more names.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be extracting Gold Leaves from the Level 2 Dungeon, along with any cores left behind in the monster remains. Our report shows the locations of the confirmed kills¡ªthis device has your map.¡±


    Another tablet passed over. Another set of workers stepping forward. This group looks seasoned¡ªcalm, quiet, the kind of people who don¡¯t need to be told twice.


    They step through the portal.


    That leaves us.


    Clipboard Guy finally looks up at the three stragglers left standing.


    The first?


    A tall dark-skinned black guy with lanky ass arms that extend from his body like one of those inflatable waving arm guys that used to be seen outside of car dealerships and other businesses. His face is all sharp angles¡ªtired-ass eyes outlined with deep, dark bags, and long, neat braids. He¡¯s got the ¡°I stayed up until 4 a.m. for the tenth night in a row¡± look going on. There¡¯s a thin mustache, like he¡¯s been growing it out since middle school and refuses to give up. Ironically, he¡¯s wearing a button-down shirt tucked into slacks, complete with a narrow-ass tie that makes him look like he just got off work at a call center.


    The second?


    Short. Really short. Like, five feet at best. She¡¯s got a pear-shaped frame, full lips, and long curls of black hair barely held together by a scrunchie. Another scrunchy was on her wrist. She¡¯s in a pair of overalls, one strap undone, a faded tee-shirt underneath. The kind of outfit that suggests confidence¡ªlike she¡¯s about to fix a spaceship with nothing but duct tape and attitude.


    And me?


    I¡¯m standing there, backpack full of contraband slime, hard hat slightly askew, an anxious smile plastered on my face, perfectly rounding out this motley crew.


    Clipboard Kid clears his throat and reads the first name off the list.


    ¡°Clyde Richmond!¡±


    The tall, lanky dude lopes up, moving like a guy who¡¯s perpetually one bad decision away from a nap. He grabs the tablet with the mapped-out area on it and gives Clipboard Kid a lazy nod.


    Next name.


    ¡°Veronica Sampietro.¡±


    The short woman strides forward, arms crossed like she¡¯s already annoyed at something. She¡¯s got a backpack slung over one shoulder¡ªalmost identical to mine¡ªand a look that says she could probably break someone¡¯s knee with a bat if she had to.


    ¡°And Joseph Sullivan.¡±


    That¡¯s me!


    I step up beside them, my backpack shifting slightly. There¡¯s a quiet, irritated buzz from inside. Jelly Boy is still pissed about getting stuffed back in there. Too bad, buddy!


    Clipboard Kid tucks his namesake away and claps his hands together, looking way too pleased with himself.


    ¡°Third and final squad. C Squad!¡±


    No one reacts.


    Clyde just raises an eyebrow. Veronica stares at him like she¡¯s debating whether or not to drop-kick him on principle.


    I, however, am excited as hell.


    Finally. Let¡¯s go.


    Clipboard Kid, undeterred by our collective lack of enthusiasm, revisits his clipboard, glances down at his notes.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be extracting Wind Shards from the Level 1 Dungeon.¡±


    The barely-disguised patronizing tone is not lost on me.


    ¡°Looks like this will be the first Gate for two of you,¡± he continues, eyeballing me and Veronica, ¡°so we¡¯re leaving you guys with the easy extraction. All the monsters should have been cleared from the designated areas, so just stick to those areas and you shouldn¡¯t have a problem.¡±


    Clyde gives a lazy salute. ¡°You got it.¡±


    I resist the urge to roll my eyes into another dimension.


    No monsters means no XP.


    Which means no leveling up.


    Which means I¡¯m going to have to get creative. I begin to formulate my plan. I don¡¯t care if it¡¯s the ¡°easy¡± job. I¡¯ll do what I have to. It might have taken me a while to get here, but once I am determined to do something, I sure as hell get it done.


    We step toward the Gate, and my fingers start tingling¡ªlike I just rubbed them on a balloon. The air thickens, heavy with static as we approach the precipice, and then¡ª


    WHUMP!


    A force yanks me forward, like a fishing hook just lodged itself behind my navel and reeled me in at light speed. My vision explodes in a white-hot flash, and for a moment, I¡¯m nothing¡ªjust a stray thought hurtling through existence.


    Then, just as suddenly, I slam back into reality.


    I¡¯m standing on soft, springy ground, surrounded by towering white-barked trees with pale pink leaves. Sunlight filters through the cotton-candy-colored canopy, casting rosy shadows over the moss-covered floor. Everything smells sickly sweet¡ªlike I just wandered into one of those high-end chocolate shops that sell tiny sculptures for way too much money. sea??h th§× N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    A ping echoes in my head.


    Entering Dead World #72.


    Dead World #72, I think.


    I know that number. I¡¯ve seen it pop up in the Discussion Channels.


    People have started recognizing repeating Gates, talking about their experiences in the Realms beyond, giving them nicknames even. This one?


    This one¡¯s called Candy Land apparently.


    Clyde clicks around on the tablet, his eyes flicking over the screen. ¡°Alright, looks like we head down this path to the right-hand side. Stick to that path, and most of the veins of Wind Shards are there. Simple enough.¡±


    Veronica mutters something under her breath.


    I barely hear her.


    Because I¡¯m grinning like an idiot.


    Candy Land, huh? I crack my knuckle and follow Clyde, who¡¯s already heading down the designated path, head down into the tablet.


    We trudge along the candy-colored forest path, the ground squishing softly beneath our boots like damp cake. Every step releases a puff of sickly-sweet air, and I swear I can taste marshmallow and vanilla just from breathing. It¡¯s surreal.


    Veronica breaks the silence. ¡°So, what¡¯s your guys¡¯ Discipline and Level? If you¡¯re working with me, I¡¯m guessing you don¡¯t have your Class yet.¡±


    Clyde chimes in first, casual as hell. ¡°Harvester Discipline. Level 8.¡±


    Veronica lets out a low whistle. ¡°Level 8? You manage to climb that high taking on Extraction jobs? Must be a little more dangerous than they let on.¡±


    Clyde yawns. ¡°Nope. I did a couple of Gates on my own before they really started cracking down. Cousin of mine is still doing time for doing one rogue Gate too many.¡±


    Damn. Level 8. That¡¯s double my Level.


    And yeah, sure, Clyde¡¯s situation sucks. But what pisses me off is that he, or his cousin, actually got punished. Meanwhile, people like Silver¡ªpeople with money, connections, and a whole entourage of goons¡ªwere breaking into Gates whenever they damn well pleased. And what was their punishment? Only handed over a License to run a whole damned Guild. You didn¡¯t get power-leveled monsters like Sarah and her new entourage without having been illegally opening Gates before the Guild system was officially implemented. Assholes.


    I clench my fists, but keep my mouth shut. Not the time. Instead, I take in a deep breath through my nose, slowly exhaling through my mouth.


    Veronica shakes her head. ¡°Sorry to hear that. About your cousin. I didn¡¯t take the risk after my first Gate. Was too freaked out. I¡¯m Warrior Discipline, Level 6. Like this guy.¡± She jerks her thumb in my direction.


    I blink. ¡°Uh, I¡¯m Spellcaster Discipline, Level 4.¡±


    Silence.


    Then both Clyde and Veronica stop walking and turn to stare at me. Their eyes flick down to my biceps, which are very much not what you¡¯d expect from a fragile little wizard boy.


    I sigh, then flex. ¡°You can¡¯t tell by my frail, wizardly physique.¡± I flex my chest muscles, letting them dance up and down.


    Clyde actually laughs. ¡°Nice.¡±


    ¡°But really, I¡¯m a Spellcaster.¡±


    Veronica smirks. ¡°Good one.¡±


    She and Clyde turn and keep walking.


    ¡°Wait, I¡¯m serious¡­!¡±


    But they¡¯re already moving on.


    I shake my head, then hurry to catch up.

 Chapter 19 How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part IV (I really want this!)

    Chapter 19


    How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part IV (I really want this!)


    [SYSTEM DISCUSSION CHANNEL: U.S.]


    [TOPIC: DEAD WORLD #72]


    > User: SnaggleTooth77: Holy shit, guys. Just dropped into DW#72. It¡¯s adorable. Like Willy Wonka threw up in a forest. Even the dirt tastes sweet.


    > User: CrunchyCapybara: Lmao you ate the dirt?


    > User: SnaggleTooth77: I was curious!


    > User: RiotLegs: Most of the natural stuff is safe to eat. Trees taste like vanilla wafers. Flowers like spun sugar. I tried a fruit, and it was like a caramel apple!


    > User: Oregano: Ate too much. Got a stomachache. 3/10 experience. Would not recommend.


    > User: ChadWithAClaymore: Yo this world is a chill farm spot. Almost no high level hostiles unless you go deep. Easy Shard extractions, decent drops.


    > User: B0neZ: Fuck Candy Land.


    > User: SwordGoth: Damn. What¡¯s up with that guy?


    > User: B0neZ: I don¡¯t want to talk about it.


    > User: B0neZ: Fuck Candy Land.


    > User: SweetTooth77: ???


    > User: B0neZ: Trust me. Just get out. Fuck that place.


    The Wind Shards just float there, suspended in perfect little iridescent bubbles, waiting to be plucked like fruit. It¡¯s almost insulting how easy this is.


    Pop! A breath of vanilla.


    Pop! A burst of spun sugar.


    Pop! A faint trace of cinnamon.


    I check my Inventory. 100 Wind Shards neatly stacked. Damn. Turns out I can cram exactly that many into a single slot. By the time we finish with this first vein, I¡¯ve already started filling a second slot in my Inventory.


    Clyde stretches, yawning. ¡°Alright, next one¡¯s just up the path. Let¡¯s keep moving.¡± A piece of a root he had pulled up, which turned out to be licorice, rested between his teeth.


    That¡¯s when I see my opening.


    ¡°Hey, lemme see the map for a sec,¡± I say, holding out a hand.


    Clyde squints at me, then shrugs and hands over the tablet. ¡°Sure. Knock yourself out.¡±


    I study the screen. The righthand path is clearly marked with the already-cleared Wind Shard veins. We were clearing these veins now, and the Exploration Team had cleared any mob for a good distance to either side of this forest path. But over on the lefthand side?


    A couple more veins, sure. But the ¡®Cleared¡¯ markers didn¡¯t go nearly as far.


    Bingo.


    ¡°Listen,¡± I say, keeping my voice casual, ¡°what if I circle back and hit these few veins in the northeast segment?¡± I turn the tablet around and point to where the Wind Shard veins are indicated on the map.


    Clyde frowns. ¡°Aren¡¯t you the lowest-level User here, man? Why would we let you go alone?¡±


    ¡°Because this area¡¯s safe,¡± I point out. ¡°The Exploration Team already swept most of it, and it¡¯s not like Wind Shard veins put up a fight. Unless you count my hands smelling like those bubbles for a few days. I can double our haul, no problem.¡±


    ¡°Double?¡± Clyde says, raising an eyebrow.


    ¡°How many Wind Shards did you collect?¡±


    ¡°Eight-one,¡± Clyde replies.


    Veronica rolls her eyes. ¡°We¡¯re wasting time talking. Just let him go.¡±


    ¡°And you? How many?¡± I ask, turning to Veronica. I need to prove my point.


    ¡°Forty,¡± she says flatly.


    ¡°I collected 143 Shards. So¡­¡± Sear?h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Clyde still doesn¡¯t look thrilled, but he sighs. He¡¯s clearly too tired to deal with my bullshit, which is fine by me. ¡°Fine. Just try not to get lost or whatever.¡±


    I grin. ¡°Only one path, thankfully.¡±


    I circle back toward the entrance, keeping an eye on the landmarks from the map. I¡¯m quickly back to the point we entered the Realm. I spot the lefthand path and take it. I quickly make note of the grouping of Wind Shard veins. But I¡¯m not here for Wind Shards.


    I pluck a few, just enough to show for my labor if anyone asks.


    Then I step off the marked path, heading towards the uncleared zone.


    It¡¯s time to grind some levels.


    I crouch low in the brush, heart hammering as I spot my first mob in the clearing ahead.


    It¡¯s a snail.


    Not just any snail, though. This thing is the size of a small dog, its shell rising up to about my knees. The shell isn¡¯t normal either¡ªit¡¯s translucent, glossy, like those hard candies my granddad always had in his pockets. You know the kind. Looked like melted glass, tasted vaguely of artificial strawberry and dust, maybe sometimes caramel.


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    Its body, though? Brownish and thick. And oozing something that glistens in the sunlight. As the snail inches forward, it leaves a sticky, amber-colored trail in its wake. Maple syrup, I realize.


    I squint. Focusing on the snail. A notification pings in my vision, hovering above the snail as it inches across the clearing.


    Monster Identified: Hard Candy Snail


    Level: 2


    Classification: Lesser Maple Mollusk


    Perfect. A good warm-up.


    My backpack vibrates violently against my shoulders, and I groan.


    ¡°Chill, dude,¡± I mutter, swinging the bag off and unzipping it. Inside, Jelly Boy glares up at me, his tiny, gelatinous body quivering with what I can only describe as barely restrained violence.


    I sigh. ¡°Yeah, yeah. You can watch. Just keep an eye out, alright? If you see or hear anything weird, get back in the bag.¡± The last thing I needed was one of my coworkers discovering him.


    Jelly Boy jiggles in assent.


    I turn my attention back to the snail, stretching my fingers out. ¡°The goal here is to level up by killing monsters. So, sit back, buddy, and check this out.¡±


    I breathe in. Focus, I think. I withdraw my wand from my Inventory. My palm of my wand-hand tingles as I cast Wizard¡¯s Hand.


    A spectral hand shimmers into existence, floating beside me like some kind of ghostly butler, waiting for its orders. I¡¯m relieved to see that my MP bar doesn¡¯t drop. Good, so the spell enhancement didn¡¯t change the cost of the spell. With my wand, the cantrip was essentially free to cast, even if I was normally limited to have only two of the spectral hands active at any time. I always have my cape if I need a third Wizard¡¯s Hand.


    I mentally command it forward. Go. Attack that snail.


    It glides toward the Hard Candy Snail, slow and deliberate. I¡¯m expecting a casual smack, maybe a push.


    That is not what happens.


    The spectral hand closes into a fist, and it wails on the snail.


    I mean beats the absolute shit out of it.


    A flurry of punches and palm strikes¡ªthe thing doesn¡¯t stand a chance. The hand grabs the snail by its gooey eyestalks and swings it around like a medieval flail. Then, with one last sickening crack, the candy shell shatters like a windshield in a hailstorm.


    I blink.


    You have defeated Hard Candy Snail, Level 2!


    Jelly Boy vibrates wildly at my side, having watched the carnage, emitting what I can only interpret as an excited, high-pitched hum.


    I stare at my floating hand, still hovering there like it didn¡¯t just commit an act of unspeakable violence.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± I whisper.


    Jelly Boy hums again.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, flexing my fingers. ¡°I think I like this spell now.¡±


    We head deeper into the trees, me on the hunt for more snails, Jelly Boy pausing every few steps to sop up the maple-flavored gore like some kind of tiny gelatinous war criminal.


    ¡°You¡¯re disgusting,¡± I tell him.


    He quivers happily.


    I spot another nest of the little bastards a few minutes later¡ªfive of them this time, all slowly sliming their way through the undergrowth, leaving behind thick, glistening trails of sugary sap. Their candy shells gleam in the soft pinkish light filtering through the weird, pastel-colored leaves.


    Perfect.


    I flex my fingers, summon another Wizard¡¯s Hand, then another. This time, I let them split up¡ªeach taking on its own snail. It¡¯s mentally exhausting, like trying to play two video games at once, but the results are beautiful.


    One hand grabs a snail by the eyestalk and whips it like a flail into the nearest tree. The other karate chops straight through a shell, shattering it into a cloud of razor-sharp fragments. Another snail tries to escape¡ªbad move. It¡¯s too slow, even for my spectral hands, which aren¡¯t bullets by any means. A hand grabs it by its gooey foot and pile-drives it into the ground, sending a ripple of maple syrup spraying outward.


    Jelly Boy vibrates enthusiastically.


    The notifications rain into my interface.


    You have defeated Hard Candy Snail, Level 2!


    You have defeated Hard Candy Snail, Level 2!


    You have defeated Hard Candy Snail, Level 2!


    Level 4 increased to Level 5!


    You have defeated Hard Candy Snail, Level 2!


    You have defeated Hard Candy Snail, Level 2!


    [2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Points?]


    I know a little more about what each Stat does now, having read various Discussion Channel threads on the topic. Even if I¡¯m relying on my Strength Stat, I need to approach this slightly differently. I pump 1 Stat Point into Intelligence, before dropping the second into Strength.


    MP: 3/3


    Damn. And no New Spell notifications either¡­


    People on the Discussion Channels had discovered that Intelligence fueled learning new, and more powerful, Spells, and was also directly tied to one¡¯s Mana. I decide I¡¯ll allocate a portion of each Level Up into Intelligence, at least until I learn another Spell. Still, now that at least one of my Spells scales on Strength, I can¡¯t give up on that Stat.


    I move on, Jelly Boy at my side. We need to find as many of these snails to farm as possible.


    I lose track of time. Every couple of kills, I jog back to the veins and grab a handful of Wind Shards to make it look like I¡¯ve been working. It¡¯s not efficient, but I can¡¯t have nothing to show for my time. ¡°Gotta love cardio,¡± I say to Jelly Boy, who occupies the stretches between leveling and shard-collecting in my backpack. He gurgles, catching my sarcasm.


    Then it''s back to snail genocide.


    You have defeated Hard Candy Snail, Level 2!


    You have defeated Hard Candy Snail, Level 2!


    Level 5 increased to Level 6!


    I immediately place 1 point into Strength, and another into Intelligence.


    Ability Points increased from 3 to 5!


    . . .


    New Ability Gained!


    Dismember (Beginner)


    [Description: You have honed your Strength. Attacks using your Strength stat have a 10% chance to cause a Bleed effect on the Target. Attacks using your Strength stat have a 2% chance to trigger a dismemberment on the Target. This effect will stack for five successive hits, at which point to chance to trigger this effect will reset. After five strikes using your Strength stat, this ability requires a 30 second cooldown.]


    ¡°Hell yeah,¡± I mutter under my breath, grinning.


    That¡¯s two levels since I got here. At this rate, I¡¯ll be unstoppable in no time. And this Dismember Ability? Holy shit, that will be huge if it applies to strikes done with my Wizard¡¯s Hand cantrip. It¡¯s difficult to tell, but that Spell does use my Strength Stat.


    I glance down at Jelly Boy, ready to gloat¡ªbut he¡¯s already tucked himself away in my backpack. Weird.


    Then I hear it. The subtle rustling of sugar-formed leaves.


    I freeze, then turn around just as Veronica and Clyde push through the brush.


    Veronica glares at me, arms crossed, looking every bit like an angry schoolteacher catching a student goofing off in the middle of a pop quiz.


    Clyde, on the other hand, just looks exhausted. This is above his paygrade and he¡¯d rather be anywhere else than stumbling upon me off-course, playing rogue Explorer.


    ¡°What the hell are you doing?¡± Veronica demands.


    I glance at the gory battlefield of shattered candy shells and syrup-drenched leaves around me.


    Uhh¡­ Think, Joe, think¡­


    ¡°Working?¡± I say, lamely.


    Clyde groans and rubs his temples.


    Veronica opens her mouth, probably to yell at me, but before she can, rustling comes from the trees behind me.


    I turn just as something massive pushes through the undergrowth.


    A pig. No¡ªa gigantic pig. It¡¯s smooth, pink, and the size of a goddamn horse.


    It snuffles at the air, snorting loudly, ears twitching as it roots around the battlefield of snail carnage I¡¯ve so proudly created. Then, apparently finding what it¡¯s looking for, the thing trots up to the nearest puddle of maple-syrup guts and starts lapping it up.


    I blink.


    Veronica and Clyde stare.


    The pig makes wet, slurping noises, hoovering up chunks of shattered candy shell like they¡¯re gourmet truffles. Gross.


    I focus on the pig, willing the System to give me its stats.


    A notification hovers over the beast:


    Monster Identified: Bubblegum Piglet


    Level: 8


    Classification: Sugar-fiend Swine


    ¡­Piglet?


    As in, baby pig?


    I¡¯m still processing that unfortunate detail when a new sound fills the air. A rumbling. The snap and crunch of branches breaking.


    A loud, ear-splitting, spine-chilling squeal pierces the air. It sounds like metal tearing. Like someone throwing a car through a meat grinder.


    The Bubblegum Piglet freezes mid-slurp, ears perking up. Then it squeals back¡ªhigh-pitched, almost playful.


    Oh.


    Oh shit.

 Chapter 20. How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part V (Team Building Exercise)

    Chapter 20


    How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part V (Team Building Exercise)


    The trees explode outward as something massive breaks through the forest and lumbers into the clearing.


    Another pig. This one is gigantic, easily dwarfing the Bubblegum Piglet.


    If someone had taken one of those sugar-dusted marshmallow Peeps, inflated it to the size of a truck, and then decided, ¡°Hey, let¡¯s make it nightmare-fuel,¡±¡ªthat¡¯s what¡¯s standing in front of me right now.


    Its eyes¡ªtwo perfect spheres of crystalline rock candy¡ªscan the clearing, slow and deliberate, until they lock onto me.


    A System notification pings in my vision:


    Monster Identified: Sweets Sow


    Level 10


    Sugar-Fiend Swine


    Level Ten?!


    That¡¯s nearly double my level. Something pulses within me, screaming at me, telling me how dangerous this thing is. We need to run!...


    ¡°Remain calm,¡± Clyde mutters. His voice is soothing, like he¡¯s trying to talk down a drunk friend from picking a fight with a lamppost. ¡°Slowly back away.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, okay,¡± I whisper back, already moving.


    I crouch down, hands achingly slow, reaching for my backpack. No sudden movements. I keep my eyes locked on the marshmallow monster in front of me, barely daring to breathe. My fingers brush the strap and I pull the backpack to myself, picking it up off the ground.


    And then¡ª


    Plop.


    Oh no.


    I glance down.


    Jelly Boy.


    The little guy must¡¯ve shifted when I moved, because he just rolled out of my bag like a loose marble. He lands with a wet slap on the mossy floor.


    For a second, he just sits there, jiggling slightly. Adjusting. He turns his body to the left, then the right, taking in his surroundings.


    Then he notices the pigs. The piglet is still sopping up maple snail brains. The mother is now locked onto the little blue slime.


    Jelly Boy locks eyes on the mother pig. He begins vibrating. Violently. Like an excited chihuahua on espresso.


    The Sweets Sow¡¯s nose wrinkles. Its rock-candy eyes narrow. It inhales deeply, before letting out a high-pitched scream, sounding like a jet engine in a blender.


    Jelly Boy buzzes again. A challenge.


    Jesus Christ, Jelly Boy!


    The gigantic sow charges.


    I snatch up Jelly Boy and hurl myself sideways as two tons of weaponized marshmallow come barreling toward me.


    ¡°Ah, shit!¡± Clyde yells as he throws himself in the opposite direction.


    Which leaves Veronica. Dead center in the Sweets Sow¡¯s path.


    Pixels of light spark and scatter near her outstretched hand as something massive materializes in her grip¡ªa Warhammer. Iron-headed, thick-hafted, absolutely monstrous.


    She doesn¡¯t run. She doesn¡¯t dodge. She swings.


    CRACK!


    The hammer collides with the pig¡¯s sugar-coated skull and the impact is biblical. The behemoth stops mid-charge, its rock-candy eyes vibrating in their sockets. Veronica gets launched like a ragdoll by the collision.


    She hits the ground hard, rolling, tumbling, finally skidding to a stop.


    The Sweets Sow shakes its head, dazed.


    Okay. Now¡¯s my chance.


    I scramble to my feet, Jelly Boy clutched to my chest.


    ¡°You okay?¡± I ask.


    Jelly Boy vibrates. Twice.Good enough.


    I drop him and whip my wand out of my Inventory. The moment it touches my palm, I cast Wizard¡¯s Hand.


    Two glowing fists manifest in the air, pulsing with strength-enhanced power.


    ¡°Get it,¡± I command.


    The spectral hands lunge and start beating the absolute hell out of the sugar-fiend swine.


    Or, well. They try.


    The hits land. But the pig¡¯s body is soft, pliant, sticky. The impact sinks in, like punching a memory foam mattress.


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    The pig barely reacts.


    Okay. Bad start, I think. Oddly, I start to feel fatigue soak into my forearms and biceps, even into my shoulders. Was this the result of my Spell drawing on my Strength stat?


    From the corner of my eye, Veronica groans. She¡¯s back on her feet, wobbly, but standing.


    Clyde, meanwhile, is already facing the beast.


    There¡¯s a flash of light in his hand. A weapon appears and, to my surprise, it¡¯s a fucking gun! A flintlock pistol. Old-world style, ornate as hell.


    He raises it, slow, steady. A small green crosshair flickers over his left eye. He fires.


    Crack! The gunfire splits the air.


    The shot slams into the pig¡¯s left shoulder.


    The Sweets Sow squeals, the bullet digging into its marshmallowy flesh. It charges Clyde, stopping short. It rears up, massive hooves rising, casting a shadow over Clyde¡ªand slams down.


    The ground shakes. Wet paste sprays outward, splattering everything.


    A glob of it lands on my forearm. Almost instantly, I¡¯m filled with agony. It burns. Like boiling sugar, the paste-like substance pops and sizzles. I think of a marshmallow¡¯s insides after it comes off the campfire, gooey but will burn the shit out of your mouth if you don¡¯t wait a second.


    My health bar takes a hit. I shake the stuff off my forearm as fast as I can.


    ¡°HEY, FATASS!¡± Veronica, from the side, warhammer at the ready, charging.


    The pig¡¯s head snaps toward her.


    Veronica grins. Another flash of light, and a metallic breastplate forms around her.


    The Sweets Sow snorts so hard a sticky bubble of molten sugar inflates from its nostrils before popping with a hiss. Its candy-coated hooves gouge into the dirt as it huffs, snorting steam, and I see the muscles in its syrupy bulk tense.


    Oh, hell no.


    It¡¯s about to do that damn splash attack again.


    Veronica sees it too.


    She grins. Not a nice grin. A ¡®time to ruin your whole day¡¯ kind of grin.


    She bolts forward, her warhammer flaring red, like it¡¯s been dipped in the molten heart of a forge.


    The Sweets Sow rears. sea??h th§× nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Veronica slides beneath it. She swings.


    Wham!


    The hammer collides with the pig¡¯s gut, sending the truck-sized monstrosity airborne. Like, actually airborne. It¡¯s flipping up, ass over snout, limbs flailing, squealing like a car alarm on fire.


    Veronica twists, rearing back¡ªand swings again.


    Crack!


    The second impact lands, right into its marshmallow underbelly. It screams in pain. Its piglet looks up from its meal, turning its head to the side in confusion, or concern.


    The shockwave sends ripples through its gelatinous hide as it slams down.


    Molten marshmallow explodes outward.


    Veronica doesn¡¯t have time to move. The splash of sticky, searing goo splatters her entire front side. She screams, falling to the ground.


    Shit shit shit!


    I run to her as quickly as I can, arms pumping.


    She¡¯s on the ground, covered in searing sugar, skin blistering, jaw clenched so hard I can hear her teeth grinding.


    ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck!¡± I stammer.


    I yank a health potion from my Inventory.


    ¡°Drink.¡± I say. I uncork the bottle and place it to her lips. She lifts her head, pushing her lips against the opening of the bottle. She downs it in one go, coughing, wheezing.


    Already, the burns start to fade. High health stat, I imagine, and its probably back into the green now. Built-in regen. Thank goodness for HP!


    From across the clearing, Clyde yells between gunshots as he attempts to fend off the Sweets Sow.


    ¡°Its belly!¡± BANG! ¡°That¡¯s the weak spot!¡± BANG! ¡°Juggle it one more time! Then give it everything you¡¯ve fucking got!¡±


    I summon both spectral hands to my side. They had been floating there limply, as though they were disappointed at how ineffective their punches had been and had placed themselves into a timeout.


    They hover near my shoulders, knuckles cracking, twitching with power.


    Veronica is already gritting her teeth, pushing herself up.


    She reaches for her hammer.


    I look at her.


    ¡°Can you do that again?¡±


    She spits blood phlegm onto the forest floor, grabs her weapon, and grins like a psychopath.


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Spits again. ¡°Thirty-second cooldown.¡±


    Alright. Time to go full wizard mode.


    With a mental command, I summon my gear.


    My pointy wizard¡¯s hat pops onto my head.


    My cape flares into existence, rippling behind me like a banner of arcane authority.


    But this time? No wand.


    I flex my fingers, feeling the power thrumming just beneath my skin. Both hands free. Ready. It¡¯s time to put my Strength score to full use.


    Veronica is back on her feet, already moving.


    She yells, loud and guttural. ¡°Come on, you fat slab of diabetes!¡±


    The Sweets Sow freezes mid-charge at Clyde.


    Its rock-candy eyes narrow. It shifts its weight, turning away from Clyde and towards us. It charges. Straight for Veronica.


    I move into the path of the Sweets Sow, planting my feet.


    I command my Wizard¡¯s Hands into position and brace myself, expecting another one of its molten sugar splash attacks¡ª


    But nope. The Sow lowers its head.


    Shit.


    It¡¯s going for a full-body slam.


    My Wizard¡¯s Hands shoot forward, gripping its snout.


    The pig slams headfirst into me like a goddamn runaway truck. My body rocks, bones groaning. A notification pings in my HUD.


    Ability Triggered: Hold Your Ground.


    In the bottom corner of my interface a third of my health bar is instantly deleted. I grit my teeth.


    ¡°NOW!¡± I roar.


    Veronica¡¯s warhammer ignites, blazing with searing red energy.


    She swings.


    Wham!


    The Sweets Sow lifts into the air again, twisting, flipping¡ªits exposed underbelly gleaming like a candy-coated target.


    Perfect.


    I trigger my cape.


    A third Wizard¡¯s Hand bursts into existence in a cloud of ethereal mist.


    Three spectral fists hover at my side. I command all three to attack.


    And I join them.


    A storm of jabs, punches, and piston-fast blows pummel the Sow¡¯s marshmallow gut.


    Five fists.


    A symphony of destruction.


    The Sweets Sow thrashes, squealing like an overworked espresso machine. Its body vibrates, every impact sending shockwaves rippling through its sticky flesh. I get in two final punches, before the beast comes back down to earth. Its feet plant onto the ground. The fucking thing is still standing, after I gave it everything I had. What the literal fuck!


    Then, a blur of pink slams into its side. The Sweets Sow is T-boned at full speed.


    By fucking Jelly Boy.


    The little blue slime is riding the Bubblegum Piglet.


    Yup¡ªI¡¯m not hallucinating.


    Jelly Boy. On his mighty, pink candy steed.


    The Sweets Sow flips, lands hard on its side, sending up a final mushroom cloud of sugar dust.


    Silence.


    Ding!


    You have defeated Sweets Sow, Level 10.


    You have received partial credit for the defeat of Sweets Sow.


    Partial credit awarded to . . . Clyde Richmond.


    Partial credit awarded to . . . Veronica Sampietro.


    Partial credit awarded to . . . Jelly Boy, Slime.


    Level 6 increased to Level 7!


    I blink.


    I squint at the triumphant, vibrating slime, still mounted atop his glorious pig steed.


    He wiggles proudly.


    The little bastard got credit for the kill.


    That¡¯s twice now that he¡¯s received partial credit for a monster kill.


    Wait.


    Can¡­ can Jelly Boy level up?


    I¡¯ll deal with that later. For now, I take a breath, surveying the wreckage.


    Clyde is reloading his flintlock.


    Veronica is shaking off molten marshmallow gunk off of her hammer.


    The air smells like burnt sugar and victory.


    I step forward, plucking Jelly Boy off his pig mount.


    He vibrates in protest before squish¡ªinto the backpack he goes.


    I look at the two of them.


    ¡°So¡­¡± I start, shifting my weight. ¡°Are you going to report me?¡±


    Clyde and Veronica exchange a glance.


    A long, silent moment.


    Then¡ª


    Veronica grins.


    ¡°No,¡± she says.


    She slings her Warhammer over her shoulder and smirks.


    ¡°Actually, I think we both want in on this leveling scheme you¡¯re running.¡±


    I blink.


    Then I laugh.


    ¡°Holy shit. Uh, okay¡­¡±


    This is an interesting development.

 Chapter 21. How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part VI (Cheers!)

    Chapter 21


    How to Win Friends & Level Up, Part VI (Cheers!)


    My mouth parts into a wide, toothy grin.


    ¡°Well¡­¡± I slap my hands together, sending up a small puff of marshmallow dust. ¡°Alrighty, then!¡±


    Clyde stows his pistol in a flicker of pixelated light, the weapon disassembling into shimmering motes before vanishing completely.


    He stretches his arms over his head, popping a few joints. ¡°I imagine the Exploration Team and other Extraction Teams will be circling back soon. They¡¯ll want us done with this sector so we can all return to the Gate.¡±


    I nod. How much time had I spent grinding on candy-composed snails? Too long, if Clyde and Veronica had stumbled upon my plot. I should¡¯ve been more cognizant of the time, more careful and likely more frequent with backtracking to the Wind Shard veins to disguise what I was really up to. Oh well¡­ I¡¯m not unhappy with how things turned out.


    Clyde strides over to the Bubblegum Piglet, which is still sniffing around the wreckage of its mother.


    I swallow, a small lump forming in my throat. The thing nudges at her cooling, gelatinous corpse, letting out a confused little snort. The entire scene makes me feel like absolute shit. This is Littlefoot from The Land Before Time coming back from my childhood to fuck me up all over again.


    Clyde rests a hand on the piglet¡¯s back. ¡°For now, let¡¯s grab more Wind Shards and get back to the Gate to rendezvous with the big boys.¡±


    Veronica isn¡¯t listening. She¡¯s watching the piglet, arms crossed, a deep frown on her face. She jerks her chin toward it.


    ¡°What do we do about that one?¡±


    I blink.


    She continues, ¡°I feel terrible. We killed its mom¡ªsure, she tried to smother us to death with molten sweet cream, but still. Can it even survive without her?¡± She shifts uncomfortably. ¡°Seems crueler to leave it alone.¡±


    I open my mouth, ready to disagree. I can¡¯t bring myself to off Littlefoot. Not now, after looking into its sweet bubblegum eyes.


    But before I can say anything, Clyde clicks his tongue and gestures at the piglet¡¯s hind leg.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯ll be leaving it alone,¡± he says. He points. ¡°Check this out.¡±


    I squint, stepping closer. Sure enough¡ªburned into its left rear flank is a faint, almost white brand.


    FIEND FARMS.


    My stomach twists. Something about the pig being branded doesn¡¯t sit right with me.


    Clyde watches the Bubblegum Piglet for a second longer, then shakes his head.


    ¡°I¡¯ve read some things about Candy Land on the Discussion Channels,¡± he says, dusting marshmallow fluff from his pantlegs. ¡°Folks say there are sapient inhabitants in some of these Realms¡ªincluding this one. Some mention native peoples of Candy Land being as high as Level 30.¡±


    My stomach lurches. Level 30? I barely survived a Level 10 pig made of marshmallow fluff¡ªand probably wouldn¡¯t have if Clyde and Veronica hadn¡¯t been there. If there are candy people running around at Level 30, I sure as hell don¡¯t want to meet them.


    Clyde sighs. ¡°I¡¯m sure Fiend Farms will come looking for their property. But I don¡¯t want to be anywhere near when they find their sow.¡± He eyes the corpse of the Sweets Sow.


    Veronica makes a mock salute. ¡°You¡¯ve convinced me. Let¡¯s skedaddle!¡±


    She un-summons her armor and hammer, and I do the same, though I keep my Lumberjack Boots on, as I don¡¯t have normal shoes with me.


    We turn to leave the clearing, but before I take two steps, a notification dings in my interface.


    Achievement Unlocked!


    Achievement: [Teamwork]


    [You fought together, bled together, and most importantly, didn¡¯t let each other die horrible deaths! Congratulations!]


    Reward Pending: [Claim Now in Menu]


    Huh.


    Before I can even mentally select the reward option, Clyde raises a hand.


    ¡°If you guys just got the same notification as me, don¡¯t open the reward.¡±


    I frown. ¡°Why not?¡±


    Clyde jerks his thumb back in the direction of the Gate. ¡°Once we¡¯re through, they¡¯ll ask us to hand over all the materials we extracted from this Realm.¡±


    Veronica groans. ¡°Ugh, bureaucratic bullshit.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. And they¡¯re thorough.¡± Clyde continues. ¡°They have devices that link to the Gate¡¯s signature and scan us for anything matching it. Any loot we pick up in the Realm? It pings. So, if this reward we just got came from the System here, it might register. Which raises hard questions.¡±


    He nods toward my backpack. ¡°That also goes for that little buddy of yours¡ªif you picked him up in these woods.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± I adjust my bag¡¯s strap. ¡°He actually tagged along with me from the outside.¡±


    Clyde blinks. ¡°You¡¯re kidding¡­ You¡¯ve got a pet slime?¡±


    I glance at Veronica, half-expecting her to rat me out.


    She just grins.


    Clyde lets out a low whistle.


    ¡°Please don¡¯t tell anyone,¡± I say quickly.


    Veronica snorts. ¡°I already said we¡¯re interested in whatever little leveling scheme you¡¯re running. And honestly? That slime is freaking adorable.¡±


    Clyde shakes his head. ¡°I agree with her. I would never turn in something that cute. Was it really riding the piglet?¡±


    Veronica laughs.


    I sigh, relieved. But then I glance at Veronica¡ªthe same woman who, not two minutes ago, suggested killing the orphaned Bubblegum Piglet. I swallow.


    My Wizard¡¯s Hands silently float between us, crossing through my field of vision. They look¡­ Bored? I dismiss the Spell and the three hands vanish in a puff of silvery dust.


    Clyde claps his hands together. ¡°Alright, enough chit-chat. Let¡¯s get the hell out of here.¡±


    We make our way back toward the Gate, stopping every so often for me to snag more Wind Shards.


    And the whole time, I keep one eye on the trees. Because if Fiend Farms is really out there¡­ I don¡¯t want to be around when they come knocking.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    The Gate exit looms ahead, a swirling mass of shimmering energy suspended in the archway. The hum of magic fills the air, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrates in my chest.


    The other Teams arrive moments later. Once they confirm that we¡¯re finished, we all step through the Gate.


    For a split second, my stomach flips, and the world blurs. Then, we¡¯re back.


    The transition from Candy Land¡¯s chocolate and molasses forest to the the Municipal Guild¡¯s concrete work site is jarring. My boots click against the concrete paved surface of the outdoor storage facility. The air smells like a construction site and ozone.


    The Exploration Team mill about, their gear caked in caramel, gum, and what I¡¯m fairly certain is blood. Some chatter in small groups, while others move toward the processing stations, where Municipal Guild members in pressed uniforms are waiting. I¡¯m pretty sure those weren¡¯t there when we entered the Gate, which means they must have arrived while we were in the other Realm.


    Just as Clyde predicted, we¡¯re asked to hand over any extracted materials.


    A Municipal Guild officer, a tall woman with severe cheekbones and half-moon glasses, waves a wand over Clyde first. The thing looks like an airport security scanner¡ªall sleek metal with glowing runes running along its length.


    She scans him once. Then again.


    Nothing.


    Veronica goes next.


    Nothing.


    Then me.


    I hold my breath.


    She passes the wand over my chest, arms, legs.


    Nothing.


    I exhale.


    ¡°Alright,¡± the officer says, expression neutral. ¡°You¡¯re free to go.¡±


    We step away from the processing zone and move toward the exit.


    Veronica stretches, then glances at her phone. ¡°So,¡± she says, tapping at the screen, ¡°would either of you be interested in grabbing a drink? Probably a good idea for us to circle up.¡±


    Clyde raises an eyebrow.


    She tilts her head. ¡°Looks like there¡¯s a hole-in-the-wall bar not too far from here.¡±


    Clyde shrugs. ¡°Sure.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Yeah, why not.¡±


    The bar¡ªMilton¡¯s Saloon¡ªis exactly the kind of place you¡¯d expect a dive bar to be. Dim lighting. Stale air. Wood paneling that hasn¡¯t been updated since the seventies. A jukebox sits in the corner, next to a vending machine filled with cigarettes. A classic rock joint fills the air.


    The only other person here is an old bartender who looks like he¡¯s been around since the dawn of time. He gives us a single glance, grunts, and goes back to wiping down a glass.


    I order a light draft beer. Veronica does the same. Clyde, ever the refined gentleman apparently, orders a whiskey, neat, along with a glass of water.


    We take a booth in the corner, where the light is just dim enough to make everything feel just a little bit more secretive. Clyde and Veronica settle into one side, while I squeeze into the other, Jelly Boy (nestled safely within my backpack) beside me.


    Veronica leans forward, resting her elbows on the sticky table. ¡°Alright,¡± she says. ¡°So, what were you planning?¡±


    I freeze. ¡°Er¡­¡±


    Clyde, thankfully, saves me. He takes a small sip of his whiskey, then sets the glass down.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we start,¡± he says, ¡°by actually getting to know each other a bit first, hm?¡± He arches an eyebrow. ¡°Best to know who we¡¯re getting in bed with, right?¡±


    Clyde starts, swirling his whiskey in his glass before taking a slow sip. He sets it down with a quiet clink, then leans back, eyes flicking between us.


    ¡°Clyde Richmond,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m twenty-eight.¡±


    He pauses, like he¡¯s lining up his words, making sure they hit the target.


    ¡°Before the System, I worked at a library on the east side. I was a clerk. Good job. Quiet. Got to browse on the computer during slow hours, or read.¡± He tilts his head slightly. ¡°But once the System arrived, and things settled down after all that madness when it first hit? Well, I got drawn in.¡±


    His fingers drum once against the side of his glass.


    ¡°I think this is what¡¯s meant for me, you know? I feel it,¡± he added. His eyes grow a little glossy and distant, as though he¡¯s looking at something else.


    He snaps out of it. He takes another sip, eyes steady over the rim.


    Then he nods at me. ¡°You guys?¡±


    I clear my throat, suddenly very aware that I do not have a rehearsed answer.


    ¡°Uh. Right. Joe Sullivan.¡± I pick up my beer, mostly so I can have something to do with my hands. ¡°I moved back here from New York City around Christmas, after losing my job.¡±


    Clyde tilts his head. ¡°What kind of job?¡±


    ¡°Finance.¡± I say the word like it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.


    There¡¯s a brief moment where I expect one of them to make some kind of joke about finance bros, but instead, they just nod.


    I push forward.


    ¡°Well, the System arrived. Then there was that long hiring freeze while everyone figured out what the hell was going on. Everything was so up-and-down in the market.¡± I exhale through my nose. ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything System-related until recently, other than work out.¡± I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. ¡°Anyways, I ended up getting a job offer but¡­ I don¡¯t know. I was sick of being in the same cycle. It never worked for me. I thought I would pursue something else¡­Something new.¡±


    I feel like I¡¯m rambling, so I shut up and drink my beer.


    Clyde and I both turn to Veronica.


    She¡¯s mid-sip, glass tilted, eyes glancing between us.


    She swallows and blinks. ¡°Oh. Right.¡± She sets the beer down.


    ¡°Veronica. Veronica Sampietro.¡±


    Her fingers tap against the side of the glass.


    ¡°I was in law school. Before, you know¡­¡± She gestures vaguely at everything.


    ¡°In my first year. Did pretty well first semester, actually. Thought I might even be on pace for a federal clerkship. Beginning of second semester¡­ Well.¡± She breathes out sharply, a not-quite laugh. ¡°When your Constitutional Law professor explodes in front of your class, it¡¯s a little traumatizing.¡±


    There is a beat of silence as Clyde and I process that sentence. I can¡¯t help but think of Dave. Four months later, and the scene of the break room still haunts me.


    She takes another sip before continuing.


    ¡°And then there was the first Gate. Anyways, my grades that semester tanked, and I lost my scholarship.¡± She rolls her eyes. ¡°Which was total bullshit.¡±


    Another sip.


    ¡°But, after a little bit of therapy, I came to terms with this System, and I saw what the top-performing Guilds pay, and well¡­¡± She shrugs. ¡°Yeah. Here I am.¡±


    Silence.


    Then, as if on cue, we all take a sip of our drinks, awkwardly.


    Veronica leans forward, resting an elbow on the table, and eyes my bare arms with undisguised skepticism.


    ¡°So,¡± she says, ¡°you spent four months just using the System to work out?¡±


    Her gaze flicks over my biceps, then back to my face.


    ¡°While I guess I can¡¯t deny the results, seems kind of stupid, no?¡±


    I blink. ¡°Uh.¡±


    Clyde barks out a laugh, slapping the table lightly.


    ¡°I mean, she¡¯s not wrong,¡± he says, still grinning. ¡°The System makes people stronger. Faster. Gives them skills that break reality. And you were over here maxing out your bench press?¡±


    I shrug, but I¡¯m grinning a little, too. ¡°It made sense at the time. Veronica had a therapist, I had the gym, okay?...¡±


    ¡°Alright, gym bro,¡± Clyde says, still amused. ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell us what you were actually planning?¡±


    I take a sip of my beer, gather my thoughts.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say. ¡°Here¡¯s the thing. From everything I¡¯ve read, Exploration Teams are the only ones who get real opportunities to fight mobs and gain experience. Extraction Teams? Just glorified workers. Support Teams outside the Gate? Even worse.¡±


    Veronica nods along.


    ¡°The problem,¡± I continue, ¡°is that most Exploration Team postings require you to be at least Level 20 and have your Class selected. Folks on the Channels seem to recommend being at least Level 15 before using your Bronze Ticket, if you want to play it safe. Maybe Level 10 on the lower side.¡±


    I glance between them.


    ¡°My plan was to take on as many easy Extraction jobs as possible, and use them as an opportunity to kill mobs on the side. Grind XP. Level up faster. Then apply for an Exploration job. Maybe a private Guild.¡±


    I take another sip, but my eyes are on Veronica and Clyde.


    She tilts her head. ¡°Huh.¡±


    ¡°Not a bad plan,¡± Clyde muses. ¡°Simple. Slow, though. Potentially dangerous, too. If you¡¯re on an Extraction Team, you won¡¯t have real backup. If you wander into something bigger than you can handle¡­¡± He clicks his tongue.


    ¡°Yeah, well,¡± I say, ¡°it was the only option I could think of.¡±


    Veronica leans back, swirling her beer. ¡°Would be a lot easier if the three of us applied to the same jobs together.¡±


    Clyde snaps his fingers, pointing at her. ¡°That¡¯s what I was about to say.¡±


    He looks at both of us. ¡°Think about it. If we don¡¯t update our records with the Municipal Office, we¡¯ll all likely be placed on lower level Extraction Duty. Likely together, on many jobs.¡± He leans in, lowering his voice slightly. ¡°That means easy jobs. Low-risk. We can cover for each other while grinding XP in the background.¡±


    Veronica grins. ¡°It could work.¡±


    I sit back, considering. It could work.


    It would be faster. Safer.


    I nod.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say. ¡°Let¡¯s do it.¡± S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    We finish our drinks, then pull out our phones and sign up for a Rank E Gate job two days from now.


    Clyde raises his whiskey glass.


    ¡°To the start of a mutually beneficial friendship.¡±


    We clink our drinks together, and I can¡¯t help but feel like this is the start of something big.


    The conversation shifts to our System-gifted capabilities.


    ¡°After all, if we¡¯re going to form a rag-tag party, we should know what each other can do,¡± says Clyde.


    Clyde¡¯s Harvester Discipline grants him basic competency in one-handed, medium-ranged firearms generated by the System and a Skill called ¡®Scan (Beginner),¡¯ which reveals to him vulnerable areas on a target creature. He also has a Skill called ¡®Help (Beginner)¡¯ that can boost an active Skill being used by someone else.


    Veronica¡¯s Warrior Discipline seems to be geared towards a ¡®tanking¡¯ role. Her ¡®Center of Attention (Beginner)¡¯ Skill increases a target creature¡¯s ¡®ire¡¯ towards her and draws their attention. It¡¯s triggered by her needing to insult them, apparently. She also explains the Skill she used to send the Sweets Sow airborne. A juggling Skill called ¡®Liftoff (Beginner).¡¯


    I explain my Spellcasting prowess. ¡°I¡¯ve currently got access to a Light cantrip, and a nasty Wizard¡¯s Hand that can pack a real punch!¡±


    Veronica palms her forehead, clearly re-thinking who she chose as her party spellcaster. ¡°And you¡¯re sure you¡¯re not some kind of magically-supplemented fist-based melee Class?¡± she asks.


    ¡°I technically don¡¯t have a Class¡­ yet!¡±


    And so the conversation continues.


    We eventually leave the bar, having exchanged contact info and agreed to meet again before our first job.


    I head to my car, the evening air cool against my skin. The sky is starting to turn the color of a new bruise.


    For a moment, I think about just going home and relaxing. Maybe putting on a show for me and Jelly Boy, having a snack, and letting the day settle.


    But the sun is only just beginning to set, and I have so much more to do tonight.


    First things first¡­


    I need to see what reward I got from that Gate.

 Chapter 22. After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part I (Solo)

    Chapter 22


    After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part I (Solo)


    I sit in my car, the driver¡¯s seat reclined just enough that I can stare up through the windshield at the darkening sky. The neon glow of Milton¡¯s Saloon flickers in my peripheral vision. I should go home. Sleep. Maybe eat something more substantial than beer (I¡¯m really under my protein goal for the day).


    But first, I need to see what I got. I¡¯m actually surprised neither Clyde or Veronica brought up our rewards. In any case, I couldn¡¯t wait any longer.


    A soft, wet plop sounds from the passenger seat.


    I turn.


    Jelly Boy has wriggled out of my backpack, his little translucent body vibrating with curiosity. His surface ripples, reflecting the dim streetlights outside. S~ea??h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Hold on,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ll let you know if it¡¯s anything good.¡±


    He jiggles in what I¡¯m pretty sure is excitement.


    I pull up my notifications.


    SYSTEM NOTIFICATIONS¡­


    [2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Points?]


    I exhale, already expecting that one.


    I open my Stats window.


    [User Statistics]


    Health Points (HP): 40 [Current: 40]


    Mana Points (MP): 4 [Current: 4]


    Stamina: 55 [Current: 55]


    PHYSICAL STATISTICS:


    Strength: 15


    Dexterity: 4 (Equipment Modifier: +1)


    Constitution: 3


    MAGICAL STATISTICS:


    Intelligence: 3


    Willpower: 2


    Spirit: 1


    I smile. Finally!...


    At first, every time I leveled up, my MP stayed at 3¡ªjust a flat number, never increasing. But now, suddenly, I have 4 MP. A whole ass increase of a single point.


    I check the details. Looks like having an Intelligence of 3 is enough to start adding to my base MP every time I level. That could be useful. Not now, of course. Right now, I have exactly two cantrips and a wand that makes them free to use. But later? When I have real Spells? When I start needing at least some mana?


    I tap my fingers on the steering wheel.


    Strength still feels like the best bet, though.


    Strength lets me fight. Strength lets me defend myself.


    Until what?


    Until I figure out how to enhance more of my Spells? Until I find a way to change the Source of my Spells from Intelligence to Strength?


    I don¡¯t even know if that¡¯s possible. How rare was that spell enhancement potion I had received from the first Gate? Would I ever see a potion like that again? I don¡¯t know that either.


    But I do know that right now, I can¡¯t afford to waste my levels waiting for something theoretical.


    I assign both points to Strength. Immediately, I feel it.


    It¡¯s subtle, not like an instant Hulk transformation or anything, but it¡¯s there¡ªmy muscles tighten, grow denser. There¡¯s a familiar heat, like the burn after a solid workout, but deeper.


    Jelly Boy jiggles, watching me.


    I roll my shoulders, flex my hands. Yeah. Definitely stronger.


    But as I shift in my seat, another thought creeps in.


    If increasing my Strength is physically altering my muscles, making them stronger, then what about everything else?


    My bones. My joints. My connective tissue.


    Even with all my conditioning¡ªthe months of training, the careful workouts¡ªhow much can my body actually handle before something snaps?


    I flex my fingers again, testing the movement. I flex my biceps, my pecs.


    Maybe I need to start dropping points into Constitution soon. Just to be safe.


    I move onto my second notification.


    System Notification:


    [Claim reward (1)?]


    I mentally select yes.


    A new notification pops up.


    [Achievement Unlocked: Teamwork]


    [Description: You have successfully worked as a team with other Participants in order to defeat a stronger monster.]


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Reward:Bronze Gate Ticket Enhancement: Combine (1 of 4), Spell Scroll: Magnify Gravity (x1).


    I blink. That¡¯s¡­ more than I expected.


    Jelly Boy vibrates beside me, his little jelly body shifting in a weird, flexing undulation¡ªhis version of curiosity.


    ¡°Hold on, let me check these out first.¡±


    I open the first reward.


    [Bronze Gate Ticket Enhancement: Combine (1 of 4)]


    [Description:This is a Ticket Enhancement with the ¡®Combine¡¯ attribute. It must be activated in conjunction with a Bronze Gate Ticket. When used, this Enhancement is capable of combining Bronze Gate Tickets into a single Gate Ticket. Requires all component parts of the Enhancement to be used simultaneously. Using this item expends the Enhancement.]


    Weird.


    I turn the words over in my head.


    So, if I get all four pieces, I can combine Bronze Gate Tickets? Into what, exactly? A Silver Ticket? Or something else?


    I don¡¯t know. And that bothers me.


    Jelly Boy jostles against my arm. I absently pat his jiggly head and move onto the second item.


    [Spell Scroll: Magnify Gravity]


    [Description: This is a spell scroll. It has a one-use limitation. Note: This Spell Scroll may be transfigured into a permanent Spell with the correct application of Skills and Tools. This is a Level 1 Spell Scroll. This Scroll contains the Spell ¡®Magnify Gravity.¡¯]


    I pause.


    A spell. A real spell. Magnify Gravity. That sounds badass!


    Magnify Gravity (Evocation Spell: Level 1)


    Casting Time: Instantaneous


    Mana Cost: 5 MP


    Range: 60 Feet


    Duration: 1 minute


    Description: The spellcaster can create a sphere centered on a point that the spellcaster can see within range. The radius of the sphere is equal to the spellcaster¡¯s Intelligence stat, up to a maximum radius of 10 feet. Within this sphere, the effects of gravity are magnified. Warning: this Spell requires concentration! A spellcaster cannot have this Spell active while having other Spells active that also require concentration.


    Five Mana. That¡¯s the cost of Magnify Gravity. Actually, it¡¯s surprisingly low, being a Level 1 Spell. I thought the jump from Cantrip to Level 1 might have been bigger. Still, I frown at the number on my interface. Four MP total. Not enough. Which means, even if I wanted to, I couldn¡¯t cast it right now.


    Disheartening. But not unexpected. I wouldn¡¯t burn my one-time use on something stupid anyway. No, the real value here is figuring out how to make it permanent. That part of the Spell Scroll¡¯s description is the real promise, even with the Spell itself sounding awesome.


    I mentally flag that as a priority. Maybe there¡¯s a thread on the Discussion Channels about it? People have figured out dumber exploits before. If someone out there knows how to transfigure a scroll into a real, slotted Spell, I need to find them.


    Before I can dig into it further, my phone vibrates.


    I check the notification. A new group chat.


    ¡®Teamwork Make the Dream Work¡¯


    It¡¯s from Clyde.


    >Clyde: You guys open your rewards yet?


    I smirk. Clyde doesn¡¯t seem like the type who¡¯d wait long himself.


    >Joseph: Couldn¡¯t help myself.


    >Veronica: First thing I did. LOL.


    Clyde responds almost immediately.


    >Clyde: You two get that weird Bronze Ticket Enhancement too?


    I blink.


    >Joseph: Yeah.


    >Veronica: Same.


    >Clyde: Interesting.


    I tap my fingers against the wheel, watching the little ¡°typing¡­¡± bubble flicker.


    >Clyde: I think this means we might be able to enter a Bronze Gate TOGETHER, right?


    That stops me cold. That thought hadn¡¯t crossed my mind.


    A Bronze Gate. With allies?


    That would be a game changer.


    Normally, Bronze Gates are solo affairs. You go in alone, you fight alone, and you get your Class alone.


    But what if we don¡¯t have to?


    What if the Combine Enhancement lets us stack our tickets? If we can force our way into a single Bronze Gate as a group, it completely changes the odds.


    >Veronica: Holy shit. That would be huge.


    >Veronica: Mine said 1 of 4. We need to find a fourth Ticket Enhancement.


    >Veronica: Maybe we¡¯ll get it on our next Extraction job.


    I chew the inside of my cheek, staring at the screen.


    I could text them. Tell them about my next move. What I was planning on doing this evening. Ask them to join me.


    But I don¡¯t.


    Something in me hesitates. I don¡¯t know why.


    No¡ªI do know why.


    I need to do this next part alone.


    I exhale, lock my phone, and toss it into the center console¡¯s cupholder. Jelly Boy lets out a soft, warbling hum as I turn the ignition. The engine growls to life.


    I shift into drive.


    The sky outside has darkened, more lights outside Milton¡¯s Saloon flickering to life like embers in the gloom.


    ¡°Alright, buddy,¡± I murmur, gripping the wheel. ¡°Let¡¯s go see what we¡¯re made of.¡±


    And with that, I pull out onto the road, disappearing into the night.


    The junkyard is quiet.


    Not silent¡ªthere¡¯s always sound in the city, even out here¡ªbut quiet enough. The occasional gust of wind rattles loose scraps of metal. Distant sirens wail, swallowed by the night. A rusted-out washing machine groans as it shifts under its own weight.


    I pull up to the chain-link fence, my tires crunching over gravel. The headlights catch the warped letters on a battered old sign:


    STEVE¡¯S SCRAP & SALVAGE


    NO TRESPASSING


    (EXCEPT IF YOU¡¯RE COOL¡ªTHEN KNOCK FIRST)


    I smirk, throwing the car into park.


    Steve, my favorite owner of Diesel Athletic Club, my favorite gym, also owns this place. It¡¯s more of a pet project than a real business. A place to tinker, to tear apart engines and put them back together again. I would often help Steve on this pet project when I had time¡ªand since coming back home, I¡¯ve had time to spare. Sometimes it was helping him unload his pickup truck with whatever interesting scrap he found on the side of the road that day. Other times, I was a full-fledged mechanical assistant. I have to admit, I enjoyed the work. But god dammit, am I an idiot when it comes to mechanics and tinkering.


    Just as I expected, the junkyard looks deserted. No one comes around unless it¡¯s Steve, and he¡¯s not a night owl.


    Perfect.


    I kill the engine and grab my backpack. Jelly Boy wriggles inside, vibrating with curiosity.


    ¡°Hold your horses,¡± I mutter, slinging the pack over my shoulder.


    I step out and approach the gate. The lock on the gate is old but solid. No key. Just a four-digit combo. Steve showed it to me ages ago and, luckily, I still remember it.


    Click.


    The lock pops open.


    I slip inside, shutting the gate behind me.


    The yard sprawls out before me in a maze of rusted husks and twisted metal. Gutted cars, mountains of scrap, skeletal remains of machines long past their prime. It smells like old oil, hot metal, and rain-soaked concrete.


    I make my way toward the back.


    Near the far fence, there¡¯s a covered patio, half-hidden behind a pile of scrap. Exactly how I remembered it! It¡¯s tucked away, out of view from the main road. Even if someone happened to drive by, the light wouldn¡¯t be obvious from the other side of the junkyard¡¯s fence.


    This is it.


    I exhale, rolling my shoulders. Time to get to work.


    I access my Inventory with a thought.


    A Gate Ticket (Rank E Quality) materializes in my hand. A small, thin sliver of shimmering paper, barely bigger than an old-time train ticket. The letters on them shift, almost alive, written in a language that isn¡¯t meant to be read.


    I need the experience. Even if the Extraction jobs go the way we think, they won¡¯t give me the real test I need. Or the time to experiment.


    This, though? This will.


    I take a deep breath.


    For a second, I consider the risks, but I¡¯ve been thinking about it ever since the day I turned down Midwest Capital. My mind was made up. I access my System interface and equip my equipment.


    Flash.


    The cape appears on my shoulders and the pointy blue wizard¡¯s hat snap onto my head in a flicker of blue light. My equipment slots fill.


    And then, using the last of my AP, I slot my new ability: Dismember (Beginner).


    A shiver runs through me. The ability settles in like a knife sliding into its sheath. Something in my core clicks into place.


    I clench my fist. You¡¯re ready, I tell myself. Now, for the main event.


    I hold up a Gate Ticket. With a quick mental command, I activate it.


    The air trembles.


    Then, with a snap of electricity¡ª


    Rip.


    A jagged, swirling tear rends open reality before me. A vortex of light, swirling with raw, arcane force. The Ticket disintegrates, its particles sucked into the maw of the forming Gate.


    The wind picks up. Fingers of electricity crackle around the edges of the portal.


    Jelly Boy shivers in my backpack.


    I step forward.


    And then, without another thought, I enter the Gate.

 Chapter 23. After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part II (Punching In)

    Chapter 23


    After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part II (Punching In)


    Entering Dead World #13.


    The light fades.


    I blink, adjusting to the sudden shift in atmosphere. Gone is the junkyard, the distant hum of city life in the background, the scent of gasoline and asphalt.


    Damp walls rise on either side, rough-hewn and ancient. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of mildew and something else. Something rotted. Water drips somewhere in the distance, echoing in the long corridor that stretches ahead, vanishing into a pool of shadows.


    Torches burn in iron sconces along the walls, their flames guttering as if caught in a constant, unseen breeze. The stones beneath my feet are uneven, cracked in places, as if the very bones of this place are crumbling from age and disuse. Moss and creeping vines cover parts of the stone walls.


    I exhale.


    Then, with a thought, I withdraw my wand from my Inventory. It appears in my grip in a soft pulse of white light. A plan forms in my mind. With the wand, I can spam Wizard¡¯s Hand and keep two hands summoned at all times.


    My thoughts are interrupted by a vibration at my back. Jelly Boy. I unzip the backpack, and before I can say anything, he slips out of the pack, practically leaping out.


    Plorp.


    The little slime slaps onto the ground, landing with an unceremonious squelch. His gelatinous body wobbles, eyes blinking as he takes in his new surroundings. He vibrates, little bubbles rising in his semi-translucent form. Excited? Curious? Nervous? I actually have no idea this time.


    A pulsing sensation ripples through my mind, and I¡¯m welcome by a small, audible ping as a notification flares to life in my vision.


    New Quest!: In the Grim Darkness of the Castle.


    Description: Clearing a single Dungeon in the Realm will trigger a Return Gate to your home plane. However, clear three Dungeons and locate the heart of the Castle to complete this Quest and earn its Reward.


    Reward: Access to an ally.


    I frown. What does that even mean?


    ¡°Jelly Boy,¡± I say, glancing down. ¡°Any idea what the hell this is about?¡±


    Jelly Boy gurgles. His eyes close in what looks suspiciously like a happy smile. Then, without hesitation, he starts moving. Gently rolling down the dim corridor.


    I stare. ¡°So, uh. Okay, I guess¡­¡±


    Jelly Boy wiggles, hopping forward in little plorp-plorp motions. I hesitate, looking back the way I came. The Gate is gone. Only the long stretch of stone remains. I roll my shoulders, gripping my wand a little tighter. I can¡¯t help but feel my muscles tighten in anticipation¡­fear¡­ Memories of my first Gate crash against my mind. The carnage of the factory floor. My stomach lurches and when I exhale, the breath is shaky.


    Something vibrates against my leg. I look down and there¡¯s Jelly Boy. He looks up at my with those surprisingly puppy-dog eyes.


    ¡°Thanks for coming back, buddy,¡± I say.


    I cast Wizard¡¯s Hand and my Mana bar blinks, but remains at its maximum of 4. The two spectral hands appear in a puff of silvery mist. Each hand curls into a fist, poised to beat the shit out of something, anything. Sorry there are no snails here, guys.


    Jelly Boy is rolling back down the hall. He stops, turns and looks back at me, vibrating with a rhythm that says, ¡®Okay, enough belly-achin¡¯, we¡¯ve got a Dungeon to crawl!¡¯ The corner of my mouth turns into a slight smile.


    And with that, I take a step forward, falling into stride behind my squishy little companion.


    We¡¯ve been walking for what feels like forever. The steady drip of water echoes from somewhere. A distant, leaky part of the dungeon¡¯s ceiling. The scrape of my boots against worn stone and the squelching sound of a slime rolling along are the only other sounds. It¡¯s enough to drive a man mad.


    Jelly Boy, always a few feet ahead, bounces happily along, his gelatinous body jiggling with every hop. I¡¯m glad one of us is having a great time! S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    I check my phone, half out of habit. Dead, no signal. Of course.


    Eventually, the corridor ends. The hall ahead of us stops at a wall, torch burning gently. The hall, I realize, ends in a ninety-degree angle. Two paths, left and right, yawning like gaping mouths.


    Jelly Boy stops, quivers for a second, then takes the left turn without hesitation. Only, a heartbeat later, he¡¯s back¡ªbzztt, bzzztt, bzzzzz!¡ªvibrating like mad.


    ¡°What the¡ª¡±


    Then I hear it.


    Clack. Clack. Clack.


    From the left, out of the gloom, two figures emerge, bones gleaming under the torchlight.


    Skeletons.


    Full-on, honest-to-god, walking skeletons.


    One wields a short sword, the other a chipped hatchet. But otherwise, they each look like they¡¯re straight out of a high school biology lab. Both creak with each step, bones grinding, hollow sockets locked on the floor where Jelly Boy trembles like an over-caffeinated jellybean.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Above their heads, two familiar System windows blink into existence:


    Monster Identified: Skeleton Warrior


    Level 2


    Classification Basic Undead


    ¡°Shit.¡±


    They haven¡¯t noticed me yet. Their bony feet clack forward, fixated on my little blue buddy.


    I don¡¯t wait, mentally commanding my two Wizard¡¯s Hands to attack the skeletons. A pulse thrums in my mind in response to the command, and the two phantasmal hands explode forward. Translucent, oversized, cartoonish fists with a subtle, blue glow fly through the air, meeting the two skeletal warriors.


    The skeletons barely lift their skulls before the first hand punches one square in the face, shattering it into a cloud of bone dust.


    The second hand follows suit, reducing the other¡¯s head to splinters.


    Both bodies crumble instantly, collapsing into heaps of worn bone.


    You have defeated Skeleton Warrior, Level 2!


    You have defeated Skeleton Warrior, Level 2!


    Notifications flicker in the corner of my vision, but I¡¯m already walking forward, wand still ready.


    Jelly Boy plorps after me, still jittery.


    The skeletons¡¯ remains aren¡¯t much to look at¡ªjust brittle bones and dust. I squat down, rifling through their inventories. Both have ¡®bone dust,¡¯ which looks like powdered calcium in a pop-up window. Tempting, but I leave it. Perhaps if I had an infinite Inventory, but with limited slots I don¡¯t see the value in grabbing everything this early in the Dungeon.


    What catches my eye is the short sword. Rust kisses the blade¡¯s edge, but it¡¯s still sharp enough.


    Iron Short Sword (Rusted)


    Description: A basic martial weapon from the past. It has seen better days. Physical Damage: 11.


    With a mental flick, I pull it into my Inventory. It¡¯s no wand, but it might come in handy if things get up close and personal. Probably better than that club I got from the Municipal Guild office, I think. The club is still in my backpack.


    I glance down at Jelly Boy. ¡°Good scouting, buddy.¡±


    He vibrates, eyes bright.


    We move on.


    My Wizard¡¯s Hands rip through another patrol of skeletons like they¡¯re made of paper-mach¨¦. Bone fragments scatter in every direction, skulls shattering as the spectral fists do their dirty work. These Skeleton Warriors¡ªLevel 2 chumps¡ªare no match for the might of the Wizard¡¯s Fists!


    A ping echoes across my vision.


    You have defeated Skeleton Warrior, Level 2.


    Level 7 increased to Level 8!


    ¡°Hell yes!¡± I grin. My first level up since I stepped foot into this crumbling crypt. It had taken killing more of the Level 2 Skeleton Warriors than I had expected to finally level up again.


    Without hesitation, I funnel both stat points into Strength. I can feel the difference immediately¡ªmy muscles flex tighter beneath my skin, veins buzzing like live wires. My Strength¡¯s sitting at a 17 now, and I can feel the juice radiating from my Wizard¡¯s Hands like they¡¯re roided-out gym bros ready for round two. I¡¯m so close to hitting a clean 20 in Strength. I share my Spell¡¯s excitement.


    You¡¯re pushing this a little too far, too fast. The thought, unbidden, slips into my mind. The worry of my unbalanced strength triggers a pang of anxiety. I¡¯ll put points into Constitution at Level 10. After I get to a nice, round 20. Yup. Everything will be fine¡­ Just fine.


    I rifle through the skeletons¡¯ pathetic inventories. More bone dust. ¡°Exciting stuff,¡± I mutter, shoving it aside. Where¡¯s a damn map when you need one? At this point, Jelly Boy and I have ran into several groups of the Skeleton Warriors, usually in patrols of two or three of the monsters. I would have expected at least one to have a map in its inventory. No such luck.


    Jelly Boy is already pulsing with energy, bouncing down another corridor like an excited kid at a theme park. The floor here slopes downward, the incline subtle but undeniable. We¡¯re heading deeper. Definitely deeper. I think about the Quest, and needing to locate the heart of the Castle.


    My brain itches at the thought of the Return Gate. What if it spawns way back at the dungeon¡¯s start? I¡¯d be boned. No map, no breadcrumbs, just endless stone halls and undead assholes. I¡¯ve already lost any sense of direction in this place. Every corridor looks eerily similar.


    Click.


    There¡¯s a slight give underfoot. My stomach drops as I look down and see that one of the stones comprising the floor has been pressed in by my foot. Jelly Boy turns around, intrigued by the stone plate he had literally just rolled over. He¡¯s probably too light.


    Behind me I hear a loud ¡°BOOM!¡± Then, a low rumble starts¡­ slow. Then it swells. Louder. Closer.


    I glance over my shoulder and¡ªthere it is¡ªa massive stone boulder barreling toward us like a pissed-off god.


    ¡°Oh shit!¡±


    I stash my wand, scoop up Jelly Boy mid-vibration and bolt. My feet pound against the ancient stone as the corridor shakes beneath me. The boulder¡¯s gaining, but I¡¯m moving, heart jackhammering as my HUD pops up a green Stamina bar.


    And it¡¯s ticking down.


    Faster, faster¡­Come on, man, pump those arms! Where¡¯s the clich¨¦ side corridor when you need it? My eyes wildly scan the corridor in front of me, but there¡¯s no salvation in sight.


    Click.


    Another floor plate. God dammit!


    Suddenly, the ground isn¡¯t beneath me anymore. It¡¯s a chute, slick and steep. I tumble, slide, and slam into the next level below, dropping from the ceiling and landing awkwardly onto the cold, hard floor beneath. Pain explodes through my ribs and legs as I hit the stone hard. Luckily, the System is quick to kick in. My HP buffer takes the brunt of it. Bones knit themselves, bruises shrink and fade.


    I groan, still winded, sprawled on the dungeon floor. ¡°I¡¯m starting to hate you, Dungeon.¡±


    The rumble overhead cuts out with a sharp, satisfying crunch. I glance up at the jagged hole above me where I slid down. No boulder falling to crush me. Thank god.


    From the shaft, my Wizard¡¯s Hands descend like smug little ghosts, floating in slow, controlled spirals. As they get closer, they start shadow boxing some invisible opponent, flickering with faint blue light like they¡¯re about to square off in a parking lot behind a bar.


    ¡°Real professional, guys,¡± I mutter. I can¡¯t believe my cantrip is starting to develop a personality of its own, and it¡¯s douchey as all hell. Fucking fantastic!...


    I look down. Jelly Boy is still squished against my chest, eyes wide. ¡°You okay, dude?¡±


    He vibrates, lets out a soft, happy gurgle, then wiggles like a water balloon on a power plate. I set him down gently and take a proper look around.


    I¡¯m in a big room. Like high-school-gymnasium big. Stone walls, damp with old moisture, rise around me. Torches mounted in rusted sconces cast flickering light across the cracked floor. A candlelit chandelier swings gently from the ceiling, like it¡¯s just waiting for the next Indiana Jones stunt.


    And then there¡¯s the skeletons. Yeah, a couple dozen of them.


    Some are seated around a makeshift stone table, cards and dice scattered in front of them. Others are leaned back against broken pillars or slouched on crates. All frozen. All staring at me.


    Oh.


    The silence is interrupted with the sound of clacking bones. One skeleton, enters from a doorway on the far wall of the room. The creature shuffles in with a scroll unrolled in its bony hands. It clears its throat¡ªwhich is weird since it doesn¡¯t have one¡ªand speaks in a clipped, nasal voice, like a manager at a terrible call center. ¡°Alright, folks, it looks like our shift¡¯s about to get started, so let¡¯s wrap up and¡ª¡±


    It looks up, finally noticing me.


    The entire room goes quiet again.


    The skeleton manager blinks¡ªwell, not literally, but you know what I mean¡ªand then sighs, closing the scroll with an audible snap. ¡°Your shift starts NOW, actually.¡±


    Groans. Actual, honest-to-god groans from the skeleton crew.


    Cards and dice disappear into thin air, replaced with rusted short swords, chipped hatchets, and jagged knives that look like they were pulled out of the discount bin at Murder Depot.


    I glance at my Wizard¡¯s Hands. They float forward, cracking their nonexistent knuckles. One throws a mock uppercut at the other.


    ¡°Alright, boys,¡± I whisper, lips curling into a grin. ¡°Let¡¯s punch in.¡±

 Chapter 24. After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part III (Putting in Work)

    Chapter 24


    After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part III (Putting in Work)


    I don¡¯t even need to give them the order. Lefty and Righty know what¡¯s up.


    The spectral fists, glowing faintly blue in the dim torchlight, surge forward like caffeinated pit bulls at a mailman convention. Bones crack, dust puffs into the air like cheap talcum powder, and femurs snap like twigs beneath a boot.


    But there¡¯s too many of them.


    It¡¯s like smashing cockroaches in a hoarder¡¯s basement. I take a step back, grabbing Jelly Boy as he starts to jiggle forward as though he¡¯s about to dive into the melee. Nope. Not happening, pal.


    ¡°Backpack. Now,¡± I mutter, shoving him into my bag.


    He lets out a disappointed gurgle as I zip it shut. ¡°Stay in there and don¡¯t do anything weird.¡±


    I yank the rusted short sword from my Inventory, the flash of light illuminating a few hollow sockets staring right at me. It¡¯s seen better days, but hey, so have I.


    Bones clatter as more skeletons close in. Lefty punches one¡¯s head clean off; Righty follows up by karate chopping another¡¯s ribcage into its spine. They¡¯re earning their keep. Still, the horde¡¯s pressing forward. There¡¯s too many angles. Too many rusted swords and brutal-looking axes closing in.


    I grin, feeling clever, and trigger the ability on my cape. A third Wizard¡¯s Hand will absolutely wreck their backline¡­!


    Ding.


    A bright red text box slaps me across the face: Item Cooldown Still in Effect. Item will refresh in 16 hours, 41 minutes.


    ¡°Shit.¡±


    Yup, I completely forgot about the 24 hour cooldown on my arcane cape. Candy Land seems so long ago¡­ Apparently, not, Joe. You freaking idiot!


    I sidestep a wild swing from a skeleton wielding what looks like a femur club.


    The horde tightens around me. Lefty and Righty are doing work, but I¡¯m running out of breathing room fast.


    ¡°Guess it¡¯s you and me, Rusty,¡± I mutter, raising the chipped blade.


    And then I charge in.


    The skeletons grin¡ªat least, I think they do. Hard to tell with no lips.


    I lunge at the closest skeleton, rusted sword gripped tight, already tasting victory. I¡¯ve seen enough movies to know how this goes. Skeleton blocks. Our blades lock. I overpower the skeleton, twisting its blade to the side. I then turn it into a pile of bone dust. Easy. Then, I turn my attention to the next skeleton who has patiently been waiting its turn to taste my blade!


    Nope.


    The skeleton casually sidesteps my wild, clumsy swing like I¡¯m a toddler flailing a pool noodle. I barely have time to process the embarrassment when two more skeletons rush in. No waiting their turn like good little minions. Nope, this is a bar brawl.


    Blades flash.


    Steel bites into my ribs, thigh, and shoulder. A hatchet lodges into my side, twisting before it¡¯s yanked free. I can¡¯t even keep track of who¡¯s stabbing me anymore. Notifications scream across my vision in rapid-fire succession.


    My health bar dives, plummeting from a healthy green, to a ¡®less health, but you¡¯re alright¡¯ yellow to deep red. I don¡¯t need the flashing warning icon to know I¡¯m about to die: the wounds on my body aren¡¯t healing quickly at all, and I feel blood pouring from my wounds. I need my HP back up ASAP!


    ¡°FUCK!¡± I roar, panic lending me idiot strength. I lower my shoulder and charge like a linebacker, bowling through brittle ribcages and snapping femurs with raw momentum. Bones explode into splinters as I take one skeleton completely out, sending his skull clattering across the room.


    You have defeated Skeleton Warrior, Level 2.


    I stagger clear of the fray, gasping for breath, sword slick with marrow-stained dust.


    ¡°God damn it!¡±


    You have been inflicted with the Corrosion debuff!


    All wounds will now heal 0.25x slower. Your Stamina bar will drain when your Health is not at 100%. This debuff will not heal with time and will require a minor restorative effect.


    Holy shit¡­ My Stamina bar starts ticking down, slow but steady. I can already feel the creeping rot gnawing at my muscles. This is not fun! Nothing like the movies!


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    Lefty and Righty are still throwing haymakers behind me, but even they can¡¯t punch their way through an entire shift of skeleton guards.


    I need a plan. Fast.


    The skeletons lunge again, blades flashing like white-hot sparks. I dive to the side, ducking a rusty hatchet and thinking as fast as the adrenaline will let me.


    Then it clicks, a plan forming into place in my mind.


    I snap a mental command to my Wizard¡¯s Hands: ¡°Don¡¯t punch. Push! Get them packed in as much as possible!¡±


    The spectral hands freeze mid-swing, then pivot, grabbing skeletons by bony shoulders and rib cages and shoving them like the world¡¯s worst game of bumper cars. Bones rattle and clack as they stumble into a tight knot near the center of the room.


    ¡°Good boys,¡± I mutter as I yank a health potion from my Inventory.


    I uncork it and slam it down. It tastes like fermented garbage juice, like someone juiced a compost heap and called it a smoothie. I gag, but I can feel my Health bar lurching back to yellow. I don¡¯t stop there. Another potion appears in my hand and I force it down too. My health climbs, but my Stamina bar is still bleeding out fast.


    No time to complain. I deposit the sword and draw my wand, flipping through my Inventory until my fingers brush the Spell Scroll from the Candy Land Gate. The scroll appears in my right hand in a flash of pixelated light. I had wanted nothing more than to save this scroll until I learned how to learn the spell permanently. But that was only an option if I was alive along enough to explore the possibility. Now, I faced death by a thousand cuts: a skeletal mob threatening to overwhelm me.


    ¡°Now or never,¡± I growl, popping it open. The unfamiliar symbols ignite as I trigger the spell: Casting -Magnify Gravity.


    The scroll crumbles to dust, and the air over the dogpile of skeletons ripples like heat off asphalt. Then¡ªvroom!¡ªone poor bastard is pancaked instantly, bones snapping into dust as the spell squashes him flat. The sphere is only about six feet wide, but it¡¯s catching stragglers too¡ªone skeleton¡¯s arm gets crushed at the elbow, another¡¯s leg pops clean off.


    It¡¯s working. But it¡¯s not big enough. My Intelligence stat is too low. I wonder if I can move the sphere.


    I focus hard, and to my delighted surprise, the sphere moves! It lurches toward another knot of skeletons. Wherever it goes, bones pop and joints dislocate. Skeletons scramble to get clear, but Lefty and Righty keep shoving them back into the meat grinder.


    I duck under a flying axe and sprint around the room, guiding the spell like it¡¯s Pac-Man with a vendetta. Bones dust the floor like snow. Notifications ping like crazy.


    Finally, with a final bone-crunching sweep, the spell fizzles out. Only a handful of skeletons remain, and my cantrip hands finish them off with a satisfying series of neck snaps and rib-cracks.


    You have defeated Skeleton Warrior, Level 2.


    Level 8 increased to Level 9!


    I¡¯m panting, knees nearly buckling, but there¡¯s a grin on my face. That was a mess. But damn if it wasn¡¯t fun. sea??h th§× n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The dust hasn¡¯t even settled from the last skeleton when the big guy shows up, lumbering forward in the corner of my vision.


    A hulking brute of bone and bad attitude, maybe seven feet tall, steps out from the shadows like it owns the place. The System throws a window in my face:


    New Monster Identified: Skeleton Brute


    Level 6.


    Classification: Basic Undead


    Fantastic. Its arms dangle like sledgehammers, and it doesn''t even bother with a weapon. Guess when your fists are the size of cinder blocks, you don''t need one.


    Lefty and Righty float up, eager, ready to throw down. But before they can even throw a jab¡ªpoof!¡ªthey vanish into silver dust, dissipating like a bad magic trick.


    ¡°¡­Shit!¡±


    I slam the Wizard¡¯s Hand Spell again, trying to re-summon my fisticuff-happy friends. Nothing happens. The empty MP bar flashes at me in the corner of my vision, taunting me. That¡¯s when I remember¡­ Magnify Gravity spell must¡¯ve bled me dry. Even with the wand, it uses my maximum amount of Mana.


    No time to whine about it, though. The Brute charges.


    I dive to the side as the skeleton crashes past, fists punching holes into the stone where I was just standing. It turns on me, surprisingly fast for a bone giant, and backhands me like it¡¯s swatting a gnat.


    I skid across the floor, pain lighting up my ribs. HP bar dips a chunk, but worse, my Stamina starts hemorrhaging again. Great. That Corrosion debuff is a huge pain in the ass.


    I scramble to my feet, duck another swing by inches. Then another damned notification pops up. Absolutely impeccable timing!


    [2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Points?]


    ¡°Now? Are you serious?¡± I snarl.


    Fine. Whatever. I place one point into Strength. Screw it! My Strength is now a whopping 18, but I don¡¯t have time to even celebrate as I dodge another wide swing of the Brute. The swing leaves the gigantic creature off balance, but with its torso exposed.


    Fueled by pure spite, I charge the Brute and throw a punch with every ounce of my boosted Strength.


    The result? Instant bone confetti. The skeleton explodes, ribcage and skull vaporizing in a violent shockwave of marrow and dust.


    Unfortunately, so does my arm.


    White-hot agony screams up from my shattered forearm as muscles tear and bones crunch. I drop to my knees, clutching my mangled limb.


    You have defeated Skeleton Brute, Level 6.


    ¡°Fuck you,¡± I hiss through clenched teeth, trying not to black out from the pain.


    Walter, Skeleton Accountant and Schedule Keeper of the Castle, was in absolute and utter shock at what he just witnessed. He stood motionless, jaw unhinged and hanging at an awkward angle. It took him several moments to even realize it. With a creaking pop, he adjusted his mandible, but it didn¡¯t help the dread pooling in the pit of his nonexistent stomach.


    He had just watched an adventurer¡ªan actual, bona fide adventurer¡ªcrash through the ceiling like a sack of wet meat, obliterate his second shift skeleton crew, and punch a Brute into boney confetti. The guy¡¯s arm practically liquefied in the process, but still. Walter hadn¡¯t seen anything like it since¡­ when? Centuries ago? Millennia? Time was a blur when you were undead and stuck in the night shift. It had probably been back when he was a fleshy.


    Walter rubbed his bony fingers over his smooth forehead. ¡°What an absolute pain in the vertebrae,¡± he muttered.


    He pressed himself deeper into the shadows, trying to ignore the crunch of bone and the squelch of healing flesh as the adventurer¡ªno, this lunatic¡ªsummoned potion after potion, chugging them like an addict. Walter winced, watching the man¡¯s body struggle against the combined effects of Corrosion, overexertion, and sheer magical backlash. Rookie mistake. Overclock your power, skimp on Constitution, and boom: you¡¯re a ragdoll with muscles tearing like wet tissue paper.


    Walter took a cautious step sideways, but the adventurer¡¯s eyes snapped toward him. Burning blue with magical energy. Hungry. Furious.


    Walter froze.


    The man staggered forward, clutching his still-mangled arm, and loomed over him. Even in pain, the sheer presence radiating off this guy was suffocating.


    Then the adventurer spoke, voice gravelly and dark.


    ¡°Do you happen to have a map?¡±

 Chapter 25. After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part IV (Tour Guide)

    Chapter 25


    After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part IV (Tour Guide)


    I stalk across the ruined battlefield of bones and dust, cradling my broken arm like it¡¯s a sick puppy. Every step feels like my stamina bar is laughing at me. It continues to plummet, practically zeroing out. My Health is trickling upwards thanks to the potions I just chugged. My vision flashes as excruciating pain tears through my mangled arm. I can feel it healing, but it¡¯s very, very slow. God damn that Corrosion debuff!


    Jelly Boy wiggles from my backpack, but I nudge him back in. ¡°Not now, dude,¡± I mutter. I¡¯ve got other things to deal with.


    Like the skeleton currently pressed against the far wall.


    Scroll in hand, eye sockets wide, jaw slightly slack. I squint at him, and the System pings.


    New Monster Identified: Skeleton Accountant


    Level: 10


    Classification: Professional Undead


    ¡°What the hell does ¡®Professional Undead¡¯ mean?¡± I mutter under my breath.


    I limp closer, still clutching my throbbing arm as skin and bone actively reknit themselves. The Skeleton Accountant trembles, parchment quivering in his bony grip. This one¡¯s different from the others. No weapons, no armor, just an aura of someone who files tax returns on time. Or of middle management. Sear?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Do you happen to have a map?¡± I ask, voice hoarse.


    He flinches like I just asked if I could borrow his bones.


    A wave of temptation crashes over me¡ªeasy XP. A Level 10, sure, but this thing looks like it¡¯d crumble if I sneezed hard enough. I could probably take him out right now, even with one arm practically useless. Get that sweet, sweet dopamine hit of a level-up notification.


    But¡­


    But he spoke earlier. The way he bossed around the skeleton crew, the way he¡¯s clutching that scroll like it¡¯s a lifeline. There¡¯s a flicker of intelligence in those hollow sockets, something more¡­ Something human. And it¡¯s not like the creature is posing a threat to me at the moment.


    I exhale, shaking off the urge. I¡¯m not a monster. I can¡¯t help but feel a slight, burning shame rise to my cheeks.


    ¡°Look,¡± I say, softer this time, lowering my voice like I¡¯m talking to a feral cat. ¡°I don¡¯t want to turn you into bone meal. I¡¯m just looking for a map. I need to get to the heart of the castle.¡±


    The skeleton¡¯s jaw works silently for a second, then clicks shut.


    I watch him carefully. If he makes a sudden move, I¡¯m ready. Well, as ready as a guy with a mangled arm and a dwindling stamina bar can be.


    The room is silent, save for the soft drip of some questionable liquid leaking from the ceiling and the slow, whining creak of the chandelier overhead.


    The skeleton shifts uncomfortably, or as uncomfortably as a skeleton can shift, scraping bony toes against the cold stone floor. ¡°Sorry, pal, no map,¡± it rasps, voice thick with gravel and stained with what sounds like decades of chain-smoked cigars. It sounds like he should be hustling poker games in the back of a dive bar, not standing in the middle of a torch-lit murder dungeon.


    I squint at him, my ruined arm throbbing like a second heartbeat. ¡°You sure? No dusty old parchment in your Inventory you could use to sketch one out?¡±


    The skeleton shakes his head. ¡°What do I look like, a cartographer? Nope. And if it¡¯s all the same to you, I¡¯d appreciate if you didn¡¯t murder me like you did my entire second shift.¡±


    I blink. ¡°Second shift?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, second shift.¡± He gestures at the bone litter decorating the chamber like party confetti. ¡°The castle guard. You just flattened them, buddy. That¡¯s gonna set me back years on my promotion if I don¡¯t get it sorted out right.¡± He groaned, palming his forehead. ¡°Don¡¯t even get me started on reworking the staffing schedule.¡±


    I rub my temples, nearly punching myself with how janky my healing arm feels. ¡°I¡¯m not following any of this.¡±


    The Skeleton Accountant folds his arms, parchment scroll still dangling in one bony hand. ¡°Look, you¡¯re clearly new here. I don¡¯t know your deal, and frankly, I don¡¯t care. But if you think this place runs on ¡®random skeletons that pop out of closets,¡¯ you¡¯ve got another thing coming. There¡¯s structure. Management. People work here.¡±


    I growl, feeling that low simmer of frustration edging toward full boil. ¡°If you can¡¯t help me, then I¡¯ll find my own damn way.¡± I try to ignore how the skeleton spoke about the mobs of warriors I¡¯d just defeated. Shit, did I murder like¡­ a skeleton with a skeleton wife and baby back at home?


    The Skeleton Accountant raises a bony index finger. ¡°Didn¡¯t say I couldn¡¯t help you. Just that I don¡¯t have a map.¡±


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    I stare. ¡°You¡¯re enjoying this.¡±


    ¡°Maybe a little, I¡¯ve got to admit.¡± A raspy laugh escapes the skeleton¡¯s mouth. ¡°Not often you get new adventurers coming through these parts.¡±


    I sigh, letting the weight of the situation sink in. No MP, Stamina cratered, no idea where I am, and now I¡¯m negotiating with what sounds like a skeleton bookie I¡¯d find back in New York. Jesus Christ, I think.


    He clears his throat¡ªimpressive for a guy without lungs¡ªand speaks up again. ¡°Walter. Accountant and Schedule Keeper of this fine establishment. Soon to be Senior Accountant and Assistant Overseer, if management stops jerking me around.¡± He bows slightly, scroll wobbling.


    ¡°So¡­you¡¯ll help me?¡±


    Walter nods. ¡°Sure. I can show you to the heart of the castle, if that¡¯s where you¡¯re headed.¡±


    ¡°And the catch?¡±


    ¡°No more mayhem,¡± Walter says, dead serious. ¡°At least not until I¡¯m out of the room.¡±


    I squint at him. ¡°Wait, you¡¯re really not mad about all the skeletons I just¡­y¡¯know.¡±


    Walter snorts, sounding like he¡¯s chewing on gravel. ¡°Mad? Yeah, sure. But mostly about the paperwork. Most of those sorry sacks of bones will be fine. Their souls¡¯ll float back to the Graveyard and get recycled. Bruised egos, maybe a few who¡¯ll be grateful to be out of night shifts. Rogir? Guy¡¯s been on the list for a zombie upgrade for, like, twenty fiscal years. He¡¯s probably thrilled to finally have had an opportunity to die in the line of duty¡­ That¡¯s the thing: don¡¯t die while actively working, you get a lateral recycle¡­. Or worse, a demotion!¡±


    I blink, caught somewhere between confused and morbidly fascinated.


    Walter jerks a thumb toward the mess behind me. ¡°Though, if it¡¯s all the same to you, I¡¯d appreciate if your slime didn¡¯t eat the remains of my crew. It¡¯s¡­ a little rude.¡±


    ¡°Slime?¡± I spin around just in time to catch Jelly Boy, my amorphous blue buddy, halfway through vacuuming up a pile of crushed femurs of the Skeleton Warriors I had taken out with the Magnify Gravity spell scroll. He waves a slimy pseudopod at me like I¡¯ve just caught him stealing cookies.


    Goddammit, Jelly Boy.


    Walter sighs. ¡°Yeah. That.¡±


    ¡°Hey, buddy¡ª¡±


    I pause. I actually don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen him extend his ooze body to create a temporary appendage before. Huh, I wonder if he¡¯s been able to do that the entire time. Or if it¡¯s a new skill of his.


    I walk over to Jelly Boy, crouching down beside him. ¡°Back in the bag,¡± I say, keeping my voice firm but soft.


    He lets out a low, warbly vibration, like a kid caught red-handed. But after a beat, he sulks back into my backpack, his gelatinous body squishing in like a guilty dog crawling back into its crate.


    I stand up and march over to Walter. ¡°Alright, you¡¯ve got a deal. No more mayhem if you get me to the heart of the castle.¡±


    Walter extends a skeletal hand, parchment scroll still clutched in the other. I reach out to shake it without thinking, using my bad arm.


    White-hot pain lances up from elbow to shoulder. ¡°Motherfu¡ª¡± I grunt, teeth clenched as my vision swims.


    Walter winces¡ªor at least his voice does. ¡°Oof. Magical backlash, huh? Seen it before. Low Constitution, yeah?¡±


    I nod, holding my ruined arm like it¡¯s about to fall off.


    He taps his bony chin. ¡°And you¡¯ve got Corrosion ticking on you too. Nasty combo. Look, I know a guy. Zombie cleric named Preston, works on the second floor. Real professional. He can strip that debuff and patch you up, no problem.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ would be amazing. Thanks.¡± I manage a breath between the throb of my arm and the dull ache of my pride. ¡°I¡¯m Joseph, by the way. And the little vacuum over there is Jelly Boy.¡± I stick a thumb back towards by pack.


    Walter gives a small nod. ¡°Pleasure. Walter, as mentioned. Let¡¯s try to keep this professional. The sooner you¡¯re out of this castle, the sooner I can start cleaning up this mess you made.¡±


    I mentally swipe open my menu, feeling the interface flicker to life despite my current state. One unallocated stat point blinks at me like a snarky reminder.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah,¡± I mutter, sliding it straight into Constitution. The moment it registers, there¡¯s a subtle, grounding sensation through my core. Lesson learned.


    Walter watches me, sockets somehow amused. ¡°Smart move, kid.¡±


    I¡¯m still cradling my arm when I glance over at Walter. ¡°Wait a sec¡­ how did you even clock that? The low Con, the Corrosion?¡±


    Walter chuckles, the sound like dry leaves rattling in the wind. He turns and strides out of the break room, bones clacking with each step like someone playing the world¡¯s most apathetic xylophone. ¡°Aetheric Vision Trait, kid. Comes with the territory. Maybe a few hundred years ago¡­ Promotion. I can see your stats clear as day. Your slime too. Speaking of¡ªlooks like ol¡¯ Jelly Boy sucked up the leftover energy from that gravity spell you threw around. Probably why he was eating my crew¡¯s remains.¡±


    I stop dead in my tracks. ¡°He what now?¡±


    Jelly Boy absorbed the Magnify Gravity Spell? My stomach does a somersault. I flash back to the Light cantrip incident from my first Gate, back when I was fighting that nightmare of phlegm and fangs. The Gluttonous Bob. Absorbing energy from a Spell¡­What does that even mean for a slime?


    ¡°Yeah, you heard me,¡± Walter says over his shoulder. ¡°Your little guy¡¯s munching on spell residue. He must really like the stuff. Might want to keep an eye on him before he starts bending space-time in ways you won¡¯t like.¡±


    I stare at the bulge in my backpack where Jelly Boy nestles, probably smug about his new trick. Fantastic.


    ¡°I¡¯m kidding,¡± says Walter. He sniggers to himself.


    He¡¯s already halfway down the hallway, skeletal hand giving me the universal ¡®get moving¡¯ wave. I jog to catch up, teeth gritted against the sharp throb in my busted arm.


    The corridors are worse than I expected¡ªnarrow, crooked, and lit by torches barely hanging onto life. The flames sputter and cough, casting jittery shadows on cracked stone walls and faded tapestries depicting scenes of¡­ honestly, I have no idea. The images are faded, lost to time.


    Walter halts beside a rusted sconce and gives the lit torch blazing within a sharp tug. The wall shudders, the stones grinding open, revealing a narrow ramp curling upward into blackness.


    ¡°Secret passages now?¡± I mutter. It¡¯s a scene straight from Scooby-Doo.


    Walter chuckles. ¡°You should see the trapdoors.¡±


    He strides up the ramp, not caring to look back at me. I follow, boots scraping against the worn stone.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the deal with this place?¡± I ask, still nursing my throbbing arm. At this point, it¡¯s largely back to normal, though still hurts. And there¡¯s a mental sensation of something foreign in my body. I presume it¡¯s the lingering debuff. ¡°All these guards and the weird... corporate vibe?¡±


    Walter glances over his bony shoulder. His eye sockets somehow convey amusement. ¡°Castle belongs to the Boss. It¡¯s really a vacation home, but he hasn¡¯t been around in a while. We¡¯re just here to maintain and defend it until he chooses shows up.¡±


    I frown. ¡°So, you¡¯re like¡­ undead property managers?¡±


    Walter shrugs. ¡°Close enough.¡±


    ¡°And who¡¯s the Boss?¡±


    Walter¡¯s voice drops low, ominous, like a B-movie villain about to reveal their master plan. ¡°Lord Dinescu, Lich of the Shivering Sands.¡±


    I blink twice. Of course it¡¯s a lich.


    Walter snorts. ¡°Yeah, and you¡¯ve probably just rung his doorbell.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what?!¡±


    ¡°Kidding.¡± The skeleton sniggers.


    He stops, standing before an old, wooden door. The knocker is in the shape of a man¡¯s face, twisted in screaming agony. Walter grips the knocker and slams it against the door three times. ¡°Now, let¡¯s get you fixed up.¡±

 Chapter 26. After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part V (Honey over Vinegar)

    Chapter 26 S~ea??h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part V (Honey over Vinegar)


    Walter knocks on the next door we come to. Three sharp raps. Bang, bang, bang! He does it again, louder this time. One bony hand on his hip bone, foot tapping like he¡¯s waiting for a late subway.


    After a long, grinding silence, I hear the slow, deliberate clunk of locks being undone. One after another. Like someone is unsealing a vault. Finally, the heavy door creaks open, revealing a nightmare that makes my stomach tighten.


    A hulking figure looms behind it, stooped down to peer through the doorway. He looks straight from the pages of Mary Shelley! It¡¯s like Frankenstein¡¯s monster got rejected from central casting for being too unsettling. Pale, sickly green skin stretched over massive muscles. His beady eyes glow a dull, menacing red, and his teeth¡ªjagged and yellow¡ªpeek out from a too-wide grimace. Metal bolts jut from his collarbone and wrists, dull and rusted.


    I instinctively take a step back. The guy¡¯s easily the size of Andre the Giant¡ªan undead, stitched-together, bad-dental-plan Hulk.


    ¡°So, uh¡­¡± I swallow, glancing up at the monster towering over me. ¡°You¡¯re Preston?¡±


    The hulking figure just stares at me, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring slightly. Silence presses down on us like a lead weight. His gaze feels like a physical force, pinning me to the floor.


    Is this a trap? My muscles tense. I start calculating my next move. How fast could I deck Walter and bolt? My eyes settle on Preston¡¯s long arms. Probably not fast enough.


    Then, Walter erupts in laughter, a dry, clattering sound, like bones rattling in a sack. He mimes wiping away a tear with a skeletal finger. ¡°That? Nah, kid, that¡¯s just Grush. Preston¡¯s assistant. And bodyguard.¡±


    Grush grunts, low and guttural, like distant thunder.


    ¡°Er¡­ Right,¡± I manage, still frozen halfway between fight and flight.


    Walter casually waves at Grush. ¡°We¡¯re here to see Preston. Got someone who needs his services.¡±


    Grush lets out another cavernous grunt, steps aside, and gestures us in with one meaty hand.


    I exhale, but my fists are still clenched. ¡°Services,¡± I mutter to myself, ¡°sure, why not.¡±


    The door yawns wider, and we step into the foyer. The whole place is drenched in this cold, blue-tinted light from eerie glowing orbs fixed to the ceiling. It¡¯s like walking into a dream where someone left the brightness turned all the way down.


    An old red carpet, frayed and threadbare at the edges, snakes down the hallway like a tongue inviting us deeper into some strange maw. Oddly enough, compared to the oppressive gloom of the castle, this hallway feels¡­almost cozy. Watercolor paintings hang on either side: peaceful landscapes, sleepy villages, serene lakeshores. Completely out of place.


    Grush lumbers ahead, each step making the floor creak like it''s going to collapse under him. I trail behind him, glancing at Walter, who¡¯s whistling like this is just another Tuesday. I wonder how he can whistle without any of the necessary anatomy, but decide to give up attempting to craft any sort of logical explanation.


    We end up in a cramped little office space. The vibe? Less ¡°mad scientist lab¡± and more ¡°underfunded middle school principal¡¯s office.¡± There¡¯s a battered desk shoved up against the far wall with two mismatched chairs on our side and a more ornate one behind it, though even that chair looks beat to shit. Sitting smack in the center of the desk is what looks like an old-school call button, the kind you¡¯d expect to buzz for a secretary. Right next to it, a small round fishbowl.


    Inside, a goldfish with gleaming orange and white scales stares back at me with dead, glassy eyes, circling lazily.


    Grush turns to us, his massive shadow swallowing the room whole. His voice rumbles like gravel sliding down a cliff. ¡°Take. Seat.¡±


    Then he furrows his thick, stitched-up brow and adds, like the word is something brand new he picked up this morning, ¡°Please.¡±


    Walter strolls to one of the chairs and collapses into the torn and tattered velvet cushion, rattling in his seat. I eye the fish, the desk, the towering undead doorman, then finally sit, still ready to bolt if things go sideways.


    Grush stomps out of the room, ducking low so his monstrous frame can squeeze through the doorway. The door slams behind him with a heavy thunk that vibrates through the floor.


    I sit there, staring at the now-closed door, still processing the mountain of green flesh and red eyes that just left. ¡°So¡­uh, did he go grab Preston or something?¡±


    Walter snorts, skeletal shoulders shaking. ¡°Oh, kid. You¡¯re killing me.¡±


    I raise an eyebrow, wary. ¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡±


    Walter gestures toward the desk with a bony finger. ¡°Preston¡¯s right here.¡±


    I follow his hand to the fishbowl.


    Inside, the goldfish, staring at my with its bulbous, milky eyes, does a lazy little loop like it¡¯s got all the time in the world.


    Walter grins, or at least does the best a skeleton can. ¡°How you doin¡¯, pal?¡± he says to the fish.


    I blink. ¡°Wait¡­ You aren¡¯t kidding this time. The goldfish is Preston?¡±


    As if on cue, the small button device on the desk crackles to life.


    ¡°Indeed, sir,¡± comes a soft, posh British accent from the speaker. ¡°I am Preston, Cleric in the service of Lichlord Dinescu.¡±


    My jaw drops. ¡°I thought you were supposed to be a zombie?¡±


    ¡°I am,¡± Preston replies smoothly, voice calm and dignified. ¡°I was formerly domiciled in the ponds on the castle¡¯s grounds with the other fish. Upon being cursed with zombification, I gained certain¡­ talents. Lord Dinescu saw fit to enlist me.¡±


    I stare at the goldfish, dumbfounded, mouth still agape.


    The System pings in my head, and a small text box sprouts to life over the fishbowl.


    New Monster Identified: Zombie Goldfish


    Level 25


    Classification: Enchanted Undead


    I rub my temples. Well, I¡¯ll be damned. A zombie goldfish.


    ¡°So, how may I be of assistance?¡± Preston asks, voice smooth as silk through the little desk speaker.


    Walter wastes no time. ¡°The kid here¡¯s got Corrosion. Bad case of it. Plus, he cooked his arm with magical blowback from pushing his Strength too far. Rookie mistake.¡±


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    Preston hums thoughtfully. For a goldfish, it¡¯s an oddly sophisticated sound.


    Then, without warning, he launches himself out of the bowl. The little orange and white missile arcs through the air in slow motion. I don¡¯t even flinch as a splash of water sprinkles my face.


    Immediately, I feel it. A warm pulse deep in my gut, like sipping hot cocoa on a cold day. Another pulse, this one behind my eyes, sharp and bright. I¡¯m almost immediately met with the System¡¯s notification.


    You have been Restored by Zombie Goldfish Preston.


    You are no longer under the effects of the Corrosion debuff.


    I blink, staring at the dripping water on my hands. Walter just gives me a knowing nod. ¡°Nice work, pal,¡± he says, admiring the results, though from my perspective I wash just splashed by a goldfish. And I¡¯m pretty sure he pees in that bowl.


    Preston flops gracefully back into his bowl, barely making a ripple. ¡°Now,¡± he says, voice calm as ever over the small speaker on the desk¡¯s surface, ¡°what to do about that arm?¡±


    After a moment of considering, the zombie goldfish speaks again. ¡°How attached are you to it?¡±


    I can¡¯t help the deadpan tone. ¡°Attached at the shoulder. And that isn¡¯t changing.¡±


    Walter snorts beside me.


    Preston lets out a soft chuckle. ¡°I do have a collection of spare limbs I could graft on. Quite the assortment. Some even come with enhancements. They could be of interest to you.¡±


    ¡°No thanks,¡± I say quickly, holding up my good hand. ¡°I¡¯m not looking to get Frankenstein¡¯d today. Anything you can do without swapping parts?¡±


    Preston considers, swirling around his bowl like he¡¯s pacing. Then, the little call button on the desk crackles, and his voice booms out, way too loud, rattling the old wooden desk and making my ears ring.


    ¡°GRUSH! ... Bring my set of Health Potions and Reconstruction Supplements, please!¡±


    From somewhere beyond the door, I hear the unmistakable stomping of Grush¡¯s giant feet.


    Walter leans over and whispers, ¡°Told you. Preston¡¯s the best.¡±


    I shake water off my face, muttering, ¡°Sure. The best goldfish cleric I¡¯ve ever met.¡± But I have to admit, I feel ten times better already without the debuff.


    The door slams open and Grush re-enters, stomping across the room with a silver tray balanced in his meaty hands. The tray rattles with every step, little vials clinking together like nervous prisoners. He sets it down on the desk with surprising delicacy, like he¡¯s placing a baby bird in a nest. Then, without a word¡ªexcept for a low grunt that sounds like tectonic plates grinding¡ªhe turns and ducks out of the room.


    Preston¡¯s voice crackles through the speaker. ¡°Take the potion on the far left first.¡±


    I glance at the tray. There, on the far left, is a bottle about the size of a sports drink, filled with what looks like watered-down cranberry juice.


    ¡°That is an Improved Restoration Potion,¡± Preston continues. ¡°It should replenish your Health, Stamina, and Mana.¡±


    My fingers hover over the bottle, but I pull back. ¡°Alright, what¡¯s the catch?¡±


    Preston chuckles, fish-bubbles rising lazily in the bowl. ¡°No payment necessary from you, sir. This debt is on Walter.¡±


    I look over to Walter, who slowly turns his skull toward me, dark, empty sockets staring at me. ¡°I¡¯ll put it on my tab,¡± he says. ¡°You can get me back later.¡±


    Later? What does that even mean? I¡¯m not planning on sending postcards to Castle Bonepile after this. I can¡¯t guarantee I¡¯ll ever see this Realm again. But I¡¯m running from fumes. It¡¯s hard to describe the feeling of my bars not being topped off for an extended period of time. It¡¯s like having dry eyes, or a scab that¡¯s ready to pick off.


    I snatch up the bottle and chug it. It tastes oddly¡­oaky, like someone steeped tree bark in sugar water. Instantly, it feels like I¡¯ve stepped into a boiling-hot shower. Warmth floods my body. My interface flashes like a Vegas slot machine: Health, Stamina, and Mana bars all shoot to the top.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say, blinking away the heat-haze. I gently place the empty vial back onto the tray.


    Preston doesn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°Now, the second to the right.¡±


    This one¡¯s in a tiny vial, no bigger than those sketchy energy shots you find near gas station registers. I down it in one gulp, and it tastes like battery acid mixed with regret.


    Instantly, my bad arm knits back together like a time-lapse of a flower blooming. My interface chimes again.


    Constitution increased by 1 point!


    I stare at my newly restored arm, flexing my fingers and rotating my shoulder. That was pretty wild, I think. Also, probably worth more than my soul on the open market. I imagine what people back in the real world would pay for something like that.


    Yeah, I think, glancing at the little goldfish still floating calmly in his bowl. What¡¯s the going rate for a zombie goldfish miracle-worker, anyway? At Level 25, this goldfish was probably stronger than half of the current population of System-enhanced humans on Earth.


    I set the empty vial back onto the tray. The colors in those potions are still swirling and shimmering like melted tie-dye.


    ¡°Thanks again, Preston,¡± I say, rubbing my now-perfectly-fine arm.


    Preston¡¯s voice hums softly through the speaker, ¡°Quite welcome, sir. Is there anything else you require?¡±


    Walter waves a hand dismissively. ¡°Nah, just passing through with the kid here. Heading to the heart of the castle before I crawl back into my paperwork pit.¡±


    ¡°Ah, the logistical nightmare of managing legions of skeletons,¡± Preston says, sounding almost sympathetic. ¡°Do give my regards to the rest of your skeletal cohort.¡±


    Walter grumbles something that might be a thanks, and we both stand to leave. Grush is already standing back in the room, holding the door open.


    Preston¡¯s voice chimes in one last time. ¡°I do hope our paths cross again, Mr. Sullivan.¡±


    I freeze mid-step, eyebrows nearly climbing into my hairline. ¡°Uh, yeah¡­ definitely,¡± I manage to say.


    Walter¡¯s already halfway to the door, oblivious. I follow him out, heart thumping.


    As we step back into the blue-lit main hall, it hits me. I never told him my name. Not my first name, not my last. The chill that slides down my spine feels like someone just dropped an ice cube down the back of my shirt.


    I glance back toward the door.


    The goldfish bowl is still sitting on the desk inside, doing lazy circles through the water.


    I shudder and pick up the pace.


    Walter just keeps walking, whistling through lips he doesn¡¯t even have.


    Walter leads me through a twisting labyrinth of stone corridors and ramps that seem like they¡¯ve been pulled straight from some gothic fever dream. The walls close in, then open wide again, only to narrow into claustrophobic passages. The flickering torchlight keeps teasing shadows into grotesque shapes. My head¡¯s still half-spinning from Preston knowing my name.


    Finally, we reach the end of a hall where a massive door stands like the final boss in a video game. The thing has to be at least ten feet tall, framed by dark stone and inscribed with runes that hum faintly when I get close. Yup, definitely Final Boss vibes. Walter did say the Lich was out of town, right?


    Walter saunters up to it, all casual, and tries to push it open with his bony arms. Nothing. The door doesn¡¯t even flinch.


    ¡°Give me a hand, will ya, kid?¡± he grumbles.


    I roll my shoulders, mutter a silent prayer to whoever¡¯s listening, and push alongside him, hoping my arms don¡¯t explode when my enhanced Strength activates. The door groans like an ancient beast, but it opens. Miraculously, I don¡¯t feel any muscles tear or bones snap in the process.


    The sight greeting us inside is surprisingly anticlimactic.


    It¡¯s a throne room, sure. A big one. But there¡¯s no gaudy decor, no mountain of treasure, no swirling vortex of doom. Just a single, raised dais with an imposing¡ªbut empty¡ªstone throne. The rest of the room is bare, save for dust motes drifting lazily in shafts of light pouring from high, narrow windows. I let out a sigh of relief. Even if I was expecting something more, I¡¯m happy there isn¡¯t a Lich there to greet us. If Preston was Level 25, I don¡¯t want to know what his boss is like.


    Walter sweeps a hand out like he¡¯s unveiling a masterpiece. ¡°And here we are, the center of the Castle: the Throne Room.¡±


    Ding!


    There¡¯s a pulse through my mind as a System notification flashes across my interface:


    Achievement Unlocked!


    Achievement: [Friend of Graveyard Castle]


    [Sometimes honey works better than vinegar. You have successfully cleared multiple levels of a Dungeon using peaceful means, ingratiating yourself to the native inhabitants of the Realm.]


    [Reward Pending: Claim Now in Menu.]


    My jaw almost drops. I didn¡¯t even know this was possible. Clearing parts of a Dungeon without actually fighting through it? What does that say about Classes and Skills? Are there entire builds based on diplomacy or pacifism? The possibilities of how to approach the Realms beyond the Gates now seem nearly limitless.


    Before I can process it fully, another notification hits my interface:


    QUEST UPDATE (In the Grim Darkness of the Castle): You have satisfied the requirements of this Quest. Congratulations.


    You may continue onto further Level Dungeons within this Realm, or use the Return Gate.


    Note: Using the Return Gate will close the existing Gate to this Realm.


    Reward: You have received one Return Ticket (Rank E Quality).


    The Return Gate Ticket materializes in my hand like some golden Willy Wonka pass, shimmering faintly. A strange feeling washes over me¡ªpart triumph, part disappointment. I¡¯m free to leave now¡­ but a part of me isn¡¯t ready. I came here to get stronger, after all and feel like I had somehow taken the easy road.


    It reminds me a lot of working out. Some workouts were hard. Made you wish you were dead. But it was those workouts that were the most satisfying¡­ Pushing myself to failure. It was the only way to get stronger, improve. Hate yourself a little less.


    I chew on the thought for a moment, then glance at Walter, an idea blossoming in my head. ¡°Hey, Walter.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡± asks the Skeleton Accountant.


    I deposit the Return Ticket into my Inventory and it vanished in a pixelated flash of light.


    ¡°Can I ask you a few questions?¡±

 Chapter 27. After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part VI (Sweat)

    Chapter 27


    After Hours at Graveyard Castle, Part VI (Sweat)


    The last of the skeletons stumbles into the throne room, its rusty sword dragging behind it with a scraping noise that makes my teeth itch.


    ¡°Okay, so this is all of them?¡± I ask, glancing around at the amassed crowd of bony sentinels. The throne room looks like an undead pep rally. One skeleton idly scratches the top of its skull.


    Walter taps his chinbone, counts silently, then nods. ¡°Fifty-five. All present.¡± He snaps his fingers, and a weathered scroll materializes in his other hand. With a flick of his wrist, a quill appears and starts scratching away like it¡¯s got someplace to be.


    The past hour has been a bureaucratic fever dream. Walter, the literal bonehead, has been barking orders like a middle manager on a power trip, coordinating skeletal squads like this is an HR nightmare instead of an undead castle. Assembling the requisite skeletons took just under an hour by my approximation.


    Before that, I¡¯d spent another hour peeling back the curtain on Graveyard Castle¡¯s respawn mechanics. Picking Walter¡¯s knowledge-filled skull.


    Turns out, when one of these poor schmucks gets taken out, their soul hops on the express elevator down to the Graveyard, which is somewhere on the Castle¡¯s grounds. No pearly gates. No harp music. Just a grim recycling center where they¡¯re graded like overachieving high school students.


    ¡°And it¡¯s based on performance?¡± I had asked earlier, scratching my chin.


    Walter had grinned¡ªor at least, I think that¡¯s what you call it when a skeleton widens its teeth and shrugs. ¡°Yes, performance since their last soul recycle. Combat effectiveness, loyalty, morale contribution, cleanliness¡­ you name it. The criteria, and how it¡¯s weighted depends on the castle inhabitant in question.¡± He pointed a bony finger at himself. ¡°Take me, for example. My most heavily weighted criteria is how many of my subordinates are promoted during my current cycle.¡±


    Interesting, I had thought. I had immediately thought about how it was a numbers game. Numbers could be manipulated. I had memories of toying around with EBITDA, adjusting (¡°normalizing¡±) the figures to get a company¡¯s numbers to tell the story my superiors wanted our Investment Committee to hear. ¡°And this whole up-down system,¡± I continued, eyes narrowing. ¡°You¡¯re telling me if one of these guys does well, they can get upgraded to, like, a lich themselves or something?¡±


    Walter gives me a finger-wag. ¡°Not quite a lich. But stronger, yes. A ghoul, revenant, maybe a dreadknight if they¡¯re exceptional.¡±


    ¡°And it¡¯s a queue, right?¡± I say, ticking off the mental bullet points. ¡°Does each recycle take a specified amount of time?¡±


    ¡°First-come-first-serve basis,¡± Walter had said, nodding. ¡°Meaning if someone dies, they¡¯re stuck waiting until the queue cycles back around. Sometimes a week or so, sometimes months.¡±


    The conversation kept looping back to the same twisted logic, like a snake eating its tail. Skeleton economics. Dead guys climbing the corporate ladder. I had known that I could use it all to my advantage somehow.


    ¡°Okay...¡± I¡¯d said, pinching the bridge of my nose, which has somehow become a nervous habit, like I¡¯m squeezing ideas out of my brain. We¡¯d been going in circles, but the circles were closing in. Walter had been nothing but accommodating, his skeletal fingers steepled in thought as he answered every probing question.


    ¡°So, let me get this straight,¡± I¡¯d asked, voice cautious. ¡°If some of your guys get promoted after dying, that¡¯s good for you?¡±


    Walter¡¯s grin widened, and even without flesh, I swear he managed to smirk. ¡°Precisely. Their success feeds into my success.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ you track this?¡±


    ¡°I keep meticulous notes,¡± Walter replied, pulling out a scroll from his Inventory so tattered it might have been pilfered from some ancient crypt, inked from top to bottom with names and data points like it was a long-lost civilization¡¯s most important Excel spreadsheet.


    Yeah, yeah¡­ This could work, I had thought. The tricky part was going to be selling the idea forming in my head to Walter.


    ¡°Okay, Walter. What if I told you, I had a method of ensuring you met your promotion criteria without clogging up the recycling queue?...¡±


    And so, I laid out my idea before the Skeleton Accountant. It was simple really. To earn a promotion, a skeleton had to have met all of its criteria and then die in active duty. Which meant die fighting an adventurer while protecting the Castle. Walter would bring all of the skeletons under his command who were due for big promotions, tell them to fight me with everything they had. I would defeat them, sending them to the graveyard. Walter would accumulate good marks towards his own promotion. I would fight Walter last before leaving the Castle and heading back to my own Realm. We would both level up, in a sense.


    Walter tilted his skull, the candlelight reflecting in those hollow sockets. I could practically hear the gears creaking behind his brow ridges. For a moment, I thought he might laugh it off.


    Then, like watching someone close a Faustian deal, Walter¡¯s whole demeanor shifted. ¡°I see...¡± he had muttered, bones tapping against the desk. ¡°I could meet triple my quota in one day. Maybe even higher... A single cycle performance such as that has been unheard of¡­ Might even be worth of multiple promotions.¡±


    It¡¯s all about incentives, I had reminded myself. People¡ªliving or dead, it had seemed¡ªare predictable that way. Find their angle, and you can twist the world in your favor. If you could convince someone that they got what they wanted in helping you achieve your objectives, negotiations became easy. The hard part was uncovering what truly motivated the other party. In Walter¡¯s case, his fixation on promotions was fairly obvious. I had felt like I was back at Summit Lake Capital, for a moment.


    Walter¡¯s jawbone clicked as he stood. ¡°You might have some brains after all, kid.¡±


    He extended a bony hand. ¡°You¡¯ve got yourself a deal.¡±


    I shook it, trying not to think about what that handshake would feel like on bare skin.


    I had plenty of time to kill while Walter went full middle-manager mode, corralling his league of calcium minions. So, naturally, I checked out my achievement reward. Might as well see what corporate perks I get for charming undead middle management and a zombie goldfish.


    The System window slides open like the world¡¯s most dramatic PowerPoint transition.


    Ping!


    Reward: Trousers of the Serpentine Lord


    Description:These trousers are imbued with the energy of the Serpentine Lord, one of Lichlord Dinescu¡¯s archrivals he defeated in combat long, long ago. This is an Enchanted Item.


    Enchantments:


    [Personalized These trousers will take a unique form specific to the wearer.]


    [Growth: These trousers will grow in strength the more often they are equipped and used in combat.]


    Attributes:


    +8 to Dexterity


    +5 to Willpower


    +10% chance to evade any area of effect type Spells and abilities


    Skill: Speed Boost (Beginner)


    Description:When equipped, this item provides the user access to the ¡®Speed Boost¡¯ Skill. When triggered, the user¡¯s speed and acceleration are increased by +100% for ten seconds.This Skill has a 2 hour cooldown timer.


    I blinked in absolute astonishment. ¡°Holy shit,¡± I whispered. The thing was absolutely busted. Not just a little strong. It put my other equipment to shame.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Fast forward to now, and Walter has the gang assembled. Fifty-five skeleton guards, all standing at attention in a ragged line like some bone-white Boy Scout troop waiting for their badges in self-immolation.


    Jelly Boy boings up next to me, all jiggly enthusiasm. He¡¯s been bouncing around the throne room like a kid on a sugar high while I waited for Walter to assemble his troops. I had told him to stay in the room where I could see him. He had a penchant for stirring up drama, and I didn¡¯t need him wandering around the Castle and getting into trouble. I blame all the Real Housewives.


    ¡°Well, buddy,¡± I say, cracking my neck and eyeing the crowd of clattering bones, ¡°looks like showtime.¡±


    Jelly Boy gives a little wiggle in response, which I¡¯ll interpret as ¡®let¡¯s get dangerous.¡¯


    I let out a sigh and glance down at Jelly Boy, who¡¯s doing that wobbly, eager bounce he does when he¡¯s amped up.


    ¡°Not this time, buddy,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ll handle this one solo. No stealing my XP, okay?¡±


    He quivers, deflating just a little, but gives a resigned blorp and settles by my side like a gelatinous dog told to stay.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. If you behave, I¡¯ll hook you up with something later. Promise!¡±


    Jelly Boy jiggles begrudgingly.


    Walter steps forward and claps his bony hands together. The skeletons all snap to attention like a row of deadbeat toy soldiers.


    ¡°Alright, boys,¡± Walter says, pointing a bony digit straight at me. ¡°This is your intruder. Your job is simple¡ªtake him down. Give it all you got! No mercy!¡±


    A chorus of rattles and clanks erupts as the skeletons ready their chipped swords, rusted spears, and assorted murder implements. I swallow hard.


    For half a second, doubt creeps in like a slow-rolling fog. Maybe this wasn¡¯t such a great idea. Maybe I¡¯m about to get Julius Ceasar¡¯d by fifty-five undead goons in a room that smells faintly of moldy drapes and disappointment.


    But then I remember the weightroom back home. Results are forged in sweat and iron. Or in this case, bone and borderline suicidal optimism. No pain, no gain, I think. I roll my shoulders, crack my neck, and prep my interface. I slot a few low-quality health potions into my hotlist, withdraw my wand, and finally, with a deep breath, equip the fancy new pants I just got.


    The second I do, my legs flash, pixelated light washing over me. The room suddenly feels colder, like someone just opened a window. And when the light clears¡­


    ¡°Oh, come on,¡± I groan.


    I¡¯m standing there in front of Walter, Jelly Boy, and fifty-five skeletons wearing the most skin-revealing pair of jean shorts imaginable. We¡¯re talking Daisy Dukes with a 3-inch inseam, acid-washed and frayed just enough to hint at poor life decisions. A brown belt cinches it all together, complete with a snake-shaped buckle, the serpent curling into itself to bite its own tail.


    My face burns. ¡°You¡¯ve got to be kidding me.¡±


    Ping.


    My interface blinks and a notification pops up:


    You have equipped a Cursed Item. This Item will be automatically equipped when in any Realm outside of your native plane. This Item cannot be unequipped when in any Realm outside of your native plane.


    ¡°What the fuck,¡± I mutter, dragging a hand down my face as the skeletons snicker in dry, hollow rasps.


    Walter lets out a low whistle. ¡°Tough break, kid. We don¡¯t have any Curse-breakers here at the Castle¡­ Nice legs, though.¡±


    I want to die.


    ¡°Well, anyway,¡± Walter says, grinning wide with teeth that could use some serious dental work, ¡°should we get to the fighting and the killing?¡±


    I glance down at my ridiculous shorts, then back up at Walter.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I sigh. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with.¡±


    Walter scoops up Jelly Boy like a proud dad at a soccer game and moseys off to the side, out of the splash zone and harm¡¯s way. ¡°Don¡¯t let him eat anything weird!¡± I call after them.


    The skeleton crew¡ªliterally¡ªbegins closing in, a semicircle of bone, glinting blades, and soulless sockets. Fifty-five Skeleton Warriors, all eager to stab, slash, or bludgeon me back to oblivion. I take a deep breath, slow and steady.


    Alright, Joe. You wanted this.


    I exhale, and the world narrows. The embarrassment over my new apparel washes away. I¡¯m focused on a singular goal: fight and survive.


    My wand is out, pulsing faintly. I tap into it, casting Wizard¡¯s Hand once. Whoosh! Lefty appears in a shimmer of mist. Again. Whoosh! Righty joins the party. Both spectral fists hang in the air, ready to rumble.


    The wand practically hums, its passive ability keeping my MP fully topped. I send the spectral hands flying into the fray.


    They slam into the first rank of skeletons like wrecking balls through drywall. Vertebrae clatter to the floor. A femur whistles past my head as a skeleton gets clotheslined by Lefty and explodes into a cloud of dust.


    I move like I¡¯m navigating a mosh pit at a metal concert¡ªsidestepping around the throne dais, using its bulk to keep distance between myself and the horde¡¯s rusted weapons, bottlenecking skeletons whenever possible. I learned my lesson from the last scrap: no getting swarmed.


    Lefty and Righty stay tight, orbiting me like heavyweight champions, sending haymakers into any skeleton dumb enough to get close. It¡¯s a ballet of violence, bone chips flying like confetti at a funeral.


    A sword grazes my bicep, but I down a health potion like it¡¯s a lukewarm energy drink, and the wound closes instantly. No debuffs this time. Thank God.


    It¡¯s not long until the room is a dust storm, thick with the crushed remnants of Walter¡¯s underlings. My shorts cling uncomfortably to my thighs, reminding me of their cursed presence every time I lunge. Luckily, I avoid any wardrobe malfunctions.


    By the time the last skeleton crumples, my muscles are buzzing. I¡¯m panting, but grinning. Sweat is pouring off my body in waves.


    Ping!


    I receive the notification as my Wizard¡¯s Hands smash through the final skeleton. It¡¯s the second notification since the battle started.


    You have defeated Skeleton Warrior, Level 3.


    Level 10 increased to Level 11.


    Hell yeah! Level 11. Not bad.


    [2 Stat Points Currently Unallocated. Assign Stat Point?]


    The first time I had leveled up during the combat, I had immediately pumped two points into Constitution. S~ea??h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Now, I place another point into Constitution, bringing my base Constitution up to 8. I place the other point into Strength, my mind making the selection on instinct. That means my Strength currently sits at 19. So, so close to cracking 20.


    Righty and Lefty both disappear in a puff of silvery mist, the timer on my cantrip seeming to have run its course.


    I dust off my shorts, brush a bone shard off my shoulder, and glance over at Walter and Jelly Boy.


    Walter approaches with a swagger, Jelly Boy tucked under one arm like a football. He plops the slime down and scoops up a chipped sword from the boneyard that used to be his crew. The blade rattles in his grip.


    ¡°Well, looks like I¡¯m the last line of defense,¡± he says, loudly as though hoping for a hidden listener to take not. He puffs his non-existent chest.


    I smirk, the burn of adrenaline still humming through my limbs. ¡°Then bring it on, Walter.¡±


    Walter lets out a comically heroic battle cry as he charges, sword hoisted overhead like some kind of undead barbarian.


    He gets three steps in.


    I snap my fingers. Wizard¡¯s Hand ignites in a flash of silver mist, cutting off the skeleton¡¯s path. Righty materializes mid-air and delivers a karate chop that would make Bruce Lee proud, cleaving Walter¡¯s skull clean in half. The skeleton collapses like a cheap Halloween decoration.


    You have defeated Walter, Skeleton Accountant, Level 10.


    ¡°Seriously?¡± I mutter, staring at Walter¡¯s heap of bones. ¡°Level 10 and you get one-shot by a single Wizard¡¯s Hand?¡±


    I¡¯m still blinking at the notification when Jelly Boy wiggles up beside me.


    ¡°Well, buddy,¡± I say, scratching the slime behind what I think might be his nonexistent ears. ¡°Ready to go home?¡±


    Jelly Boy jiggles like a gelatin mold on a trampoline. I¡¯ll take that as a yes.


    I dismiss Righty with a flick of my wrist and swap my wand out for the Return Ticket. The second I activate it, the parchment crumbles into electric-blue threads of light that twist and spiral through the air, knitting themselves into a swirling portal of pure energy.


    ¡°Let¡¯s bounce,¡± I say.


    Jelly Boy bounces.


    We step through together, leaving the Castle¡ªand its pile of broken skeletons¡ªbehind us.


    A flash of light punches through my eyes, and suddenly I¡¯m back. The Castle¡¯s ominous halls are gone, replaced by the rotten metal towers and scattered debris of Steve¡¯s junkyard. The night sky stretches overhead. The comforting stench of rust and burnt rubber hits me like a warm blanket. Somewhere, just beyond the junkyard¡¯s fence, a streetlamp buzzes. Beyond that, the sound of traffic.


    I glance down. My pants are full-length and mercifully intact. No cursed jorts.


    ¡°Thank God,¡± I mutter, flexing my legs.


    I place Jelly Boy onto a flat sheet of metal and immediately get assaulted by a wall of notifications.


    QUEST COMPLETE: In the Grim Darkness of the Castle.


    You have successfully completed this Quest.


    Reward: Gate Ticket (Rank D Quality) (x1), Ally Recruitment Token (x1).


    PARTICIPANT-SPECIFIC QUEST ASSESSMENT COMPLETE (In the Grim Darkness of the Castle)!


    Quest Description:


    Time limit assigned to Participant: None.


    Grade: B-1 (Great).


    Final Dungeon Reached Prior to Return: Level 3.


    Grade: B-1 (Great).


    Overall Efficiency and Performance Rating: B-1 (Great).


    Additional Reward: Ally Recruitment Token has been upgraded to an Enhanced Ally Recruitment Token.


    I withdraw the Ally Recruitment Token and a comically large, thin silver coin appears in my hand. One side is smooth, blank. The other side bears the image of a castle. The System interface produces a description of the item when I examine it more closely.


    Enhanced Ally Recruitment Token


    [Description: A Token that may be gifted to any non-Participant. The non-Participant may accept or reject the Token. When rejected, the Token loses all power. When accepted, the recipient will become an ¡°Ally.¡± An ¡°Ally¡± is a non-Participant, semi-permanent party member. This Token has been enhanced! When accepted by a non-Participant, the non-Participant will obtain a boost to a random stat.]


    I barely finish reading when Jelly Boy starts wildly vibrating. The vibrations are frantic, unmistakable: ¡°You owe me dude!¡±


    I grin. I did say I owed him one if he stayed out of the skeleton fight. ¡°You want this?¡±


    He jumps. Literally. Straight up like a spring.


    I crouch down, holding the token between my fingers. It¡¯s warm, almost pulsing, like it has a heartbeat of its own. The sensation is unsettling. ¡°It¡¯s your decision, buddy. Not a pet anymore¡­ this would make you my official partner. And that means accepting all the responsibilities that comes with.¡±


    Jelly Boy doesn¡¯t hesitate. More jumping. More excited jiggling.


    ¡°Okay!¡± I say, laughing. ¡°It¡¯s yours.¡±


    I flick the token, and it spins through the air, landing squarely on Jelly Boy¡¯s gelatinous head. Instantly, it melts into his body like butter on a frying pan. His goo shifts and shimmers. A golden aura explodes outward, surrounding him in a soft, glowing outline.


    A pulse echoes through my entire body.


    Ping!


    You have obtained a new Ally!


    Jelly Boy the Slime has joined your Party!


    . . .


    See Ally information?

 Chapter 28. Muscle Man’s Self-Improvement Guide, Part I

    Chapter 28


    Muscle Man''s Self-Improvement Guide, Part I


    I mentally tap the option to ¡°See Ally Information,¡± and my interface floods with windows, cascading like someone¡¯s airdropped a stack of spreadsheets on my brain. The first window looks like my own User Profile.


    Name: Jelly Boy


    Race: Blue Slime (Ooze)


    Discipline: Harvester


    Class: Currently Unavailable


    Level: 6


    Health Points (HP): 55 [Current: 55]


    Mana Points (MP): 12 [Current: 12]


    Stamina: 10 [Current: 10]


    See Ally Statistics?...


    I select ¡®yes¡¯ and am met with a haptic tingling in my brain as the interface accepts the selection and pulls up the requested information.


    Ally Statistics:


    PHYSICAL STATISTICS:


    Strength: 2


    Dexterity: 2


    Constitution: 6


    MAGICAL STATISTICS:


    Intelligence: 8


    Willpower: 6


    Spirit: 3


    My eyes immediately clock Jelly Boy¡¯s Intelligence stat. ¡°Eight!?¡± I blurt. ¡°You little brainiac.¡±


    Jelly Boy jiggles smugly, like he¡¯s been waiting for this validation. Yes, grovel before me and my oozey superior form!


    Sure, I know Intelligence in this new System-integrated world is tied to things like mana regeneration and magical aptitude¡ªnot raw IQ¡ªbut it still feels like the System just reached out and slapped me in the face. I mean, I¡¯ve been running around thinking I¡¯m the big guy here, and here¡¯s this squishy pile of goo with twice my Intelligence. And his other stats are well-balanced and nothing to sniff at.


    ¡°You win this round,¡± I mutter.


    I check out some of the other information the System generated for Jelly Boy.


    Trait: Gelatinous Body


    Description: As an ooze, your gelatinous form provides you with natural protection from certain types of harm.


    Damage Immunities: Acid, Poison, Psychic


    Damage Resistances: Fire, Ice, Lightning, Light, Dark, Physical


    You are immune to the following conditions: Blinded, Charmed, Deafened, Silenced


    You have a 50% chance of succeeding against any attempt at being restrained or grappled.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re a tanky little bastard,¡± I say, whistling.


    Jelly Boy gurgles. A pseudopod extends from his jelly-like mass like he¡¯s flexing nonexistent muscles.


    The next window outlines his Skills.


    SKILLS:


    [Consume (Tier 2)]


    [Description: User is capable of consuming practically anything, though it takes a while to digest. Side effects may vary.]


    Interesting¡­ If a little terrifying.


    The next window:


    ABILITIES:


    [Absorb Spell Component]


    [Description: The user¡¯s body is capable of absorbing and storing components of magical spells. This process is slow and not always efficient and is better suited towards static spell elements and components.]


    I instantly think of Jelly Boy absorbing my Light cantrip, or gobbling up the Spell residue left in the skeletons¡¯ bone dust during the Castle Dungeon. Or¡­ was he Consuming the bone dust? Thinking back on it, I¡¯m not sure it was clear which he was using at the time. And I still don¡¯t know the side effects.


    [Pseudopod (Beginner)]


    [Description: Can extend temporary arm-like projections from the user''s body. At this level, the pseudopods have limited functionality and are mostly capable of low-level motility.] S~ea??h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    I suspect this is a relatively new ability, as I¡¯ve only recently noticed him using it. Unless he was simply doing so with a little more comfort. He does need to change his streaming services throughout the day somehow¡­


    I check his Equipment listing. Empty.


    No slime-sized swords, no tiny helmets, not even a leftover bone from the massacre back in the Castle. I¡¯m curious if he was even capable of equipping anything.


    I focus a bit harder on the Equipment interface and the screen changes, shifting in a brief flash to the outline of a small slime, similar to my detailed interface that has a humanoid outline. A few lines branch off from oblong slime caricature. So, he¡¯s got a fraction of the equipment slots that I have. Helps to have appendages, I guess.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    But it seemed like he was capable of equipping some things. I can¡¯t help but imagine my little slime guy in a small matching wizard¡¯s hat. Too cute!


    Jelly Boy vibrates at me angrily, black eyes somehow furrowed, as though declaring that he is in fact not cute and is rather the embodiment of manliness. I chuckle and give him a little pat on the top of his body.


    I check the last window the System had summoned: Jelly Boy¡¯s Inventory. I expect to see nothing there, just like his Equipment. I¡¯m surprised when there is a single occupied slot.


    Gate Ticket (Bronze) (x1)


    [Description: A dimensional ticket capable of opening an auspicious Gate. Think twice before using this Gate Ticket.]


    This Item has one potential Enhancement available.


    [Bronze Gate Ticket Enhancement: Combine (1 of 4)]


    [Description: This is a Ticket Enhancement with the ¡®Combine¡¯ attribute. It must be activated in conjunction with a Bronze Gate Ticket. When used, this Enhancement is capable of combining Bronze Gate Tickets into a single Gate Ticket. Requires all component parts of the Enhancement to be used simultaneously. Using this item expends the Enhancement.]


    He has a Bronze Gate Ticket. And a Ticket Enhancement. The exact same ¡®Combine¡¯ enhancement I have for my Bronze Gate Ticket. Same as Clyde and Veronica.


    ¡°What the actual hell¡­¡± I mutter.


    Jelly Boy vibrates innocently, like he doesn¡¯t know he¡¯s holding the missing puzzle piece to a game-changing artifact.


    This is bad. Or good? No, it¡¯s probably bad. Our fourth party member is a slime from another Realm. But he¡¯s also adorable and the only real friend I have at this point (which I try not to think about too hard).


    I close the window, trying to quiet the internal alarms blaring in my head. I stare down at the little blob of semi-sentient Jell-O.


    ¡°Welcome to the party, my guy,¡± I say, voice a little shaky. Wait til the others hear about this!


    Jelly Boy wiggles like a bowl of gelatin in an earthquake.


    Alright. Time to bail. I need to get home, text Clyde and Veronica, and have a full-on panic attack in the comfort of my own bed. The Bronze Gate, Class Selection, and the ominous warning in the Gate Ticket¡¯s description all seem suddenly closer.


    I sling Jelly Boy into my backpack, zip him halfway in¡ªleaving enough of an opening to let air into the backpack, though I¡¯m still not sure Jelly Boy actually needs it¡ªand turn to leave.


    That¡¯s when it hits me. The tingling at the base of my skull. Like ice water sliding down my spine.


    I freeze, scanning the junkyard. The sky is drenched in the bruised swaths of starless darkness. The blinking red light of a plane moves through the firmament, across the backdrop of a dull, waning moon.


    The twisted silhouettes of rusted cars and scrap metal seem sharper, somehow. More sinister. Piles of junk become an intent audience. The wind snakes between broken appliances, whistling like it¡¯s trying to whisper secrets. Something in the back of my brain screams ¡®You¡¯re being watched!¡¯


    Nope. Nope-nope-nope!


    I shake it off and start hoofing it, pretending the pit in my stomach isn¡¯t turning into a full-blown crater.


    Nothing followed me out of the Castle¡­ right? Walter would¡¯ve said something. He¡¯d have noticed while rounding up his promotion-ready crew, filed the proper paperwork, probably handed me a carbon copy.


    Still, I don¡¯t stop speed-walking until I¡¯m back at my beat-up car, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles go white.


    Only when I¡¯m halfway home, city lights starting to flicker on around me, does that bone-deep chill start to fade.


    And even then¡­it doesn¡¯t really go away.


    I pull into the driveway, killing the engine with a sigh that feels like it comes from deep in my spine. Before I even unbuckle, I remember to unequip the Lumberjack Boots. They disappear in a flash of pixelated light, swapping out for my worn-out sneakers. As soon as they materialize, I can almost feel my arches breathe a sigh of relief.


    The night is quiet, heavy. The hum of distant streetlights and the whisper of wind rustling bare branches make for an eerie soundtrack as I walk around to the side door. My fingers are cold against the key, and when I finally step into the foyer, I¡¯m greeted by near-darkness. Just the stove light and a lonely, dim yellow lamp in the kitchen nook cast a soft glow, throwing long, stretched shadows against the walls.


    My stomach growls like a feral animal, gnawing at my insides. Food first. Then, I can slink downstairs and text Clyde and Veronica about Jelly Boy¡¯s little inventory surprise.


    But when I step fully inside, careful not to squeak the door too loudly, I see him. Dad. Sitting at the nook, elbows on the table like he¡¯s part of some old painting. There¡¯s an empty plate in front of him, littered with crumbs, and his phone is tilted just right so I can hear the soft murmur of sports highlights.


    ¡°Dad, you¡¯re still up?¡± I ask, voice low but laced with surprise.


    He looks up, eyes tired but warm. ¡°Hey, son. Yeah. Got home late. Just ate and catching up on some games¡­ You just get home?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say, trying to act like I¡¯m not hiding a squirming sentient slime in my backpack.


    Jelly Boy shifts subtly, a faint buzz from the bag making my dad¡¯s eyebrows twitch. He probably chalks it up to phone vibrations. I set the backpack down quietly and walk toward the nook.


    ¡°You need to get a second plate,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re looking skinny lately.¡±


    He chuckles, but waves me off. ¡°Grab a plate. Come sit with me,¡± he says.


    I grin and jab him lightly in the arm. ¡°I¡¯m serious. You need to put some meat on those bones!¡±


    He laughs, pushing his chair back slightly with a satisfied groan. ¡°Feels like I just swallowed a bowling ball. I might be sick if I tried to take another bite. Don¡¯t even think I¡¯ve got room for rice pudding.¡±


    ¡°Mom made rice pudding?¡± I ask, not bothering to hide the excitement in my voice. I might need to snag a quick, creamy, cinnamon-covered bite before fixing myself a real plate.


    I drift into the kitchen, the soft creak of the old wooden floor keeping me grounded. On the counter, under plastic wrap, Mom¡¯s left a feast like some benevolent food fairy. Fried chicken, mac-n-cheese, greens. The works.


    Normally, I¡¯d avoid the fried chicken at this hour, but hunger overrules my usual pickiness and sensitivities to empty macros. I pile on two servings worth. The chicken¡¯s cold, but there¡¯s no time for zapping it. Besides, cold fried chicken has its own crispy charm.


    I join my dad at the nook, plate practically overflowing, and stab a forkful of mac-n-cheese. He¡¯s already back to half-watching highlights, the soft murmur of commentary blending with the quiet of the house.


    And for a second, just a second, I forget about the creeping feeling from the junkyard, castles filled with skeletons, and the Gates to other Realms.


    I stab the mac and cheese and shovel it into my mouth, the cheese is clumpy due to cooling off, but it might as well be the best damned mac I¡¯ve ever had. Dad leans back, tired but comfortable, phone in hand. We trade mundane chatter: how was work, how¡¯s Mom been, sports talk (the Cleveland Cavalier¡¯s playoff run). Then, without fanfare, he drops a bomb on me.


    He looks up from his phone, locking eyes with me across the table.


    ¡°So how long have you been going into those Gates?¡±


    My fork freezes midair, halfway to my mouth. Mac and cheese trembles. I lower the utensil slowly, the bite forgotten, and swallow a lump in my throat.


    ¡°How¡¯d you know?¡±


    His eyes, usually so relaxed, lock onto me like twin searchlights. ¡°Your eyes, son. They¡¯re just like that first day you came home after going into a portal. The day the System arrived. They were this strange blue. Faded over time, back to the eyes of my boy. But I¡¯m looking into them right now. Blue.¡±


    I blink. Hard. My tongue runs across suddenly dry lips. Blue? My interface never mentioned it. How had I not noticed it before? I don¡¯t even know what this means.


    There¡¯s no point in hiding anything from him. Secrets only hurt people in the end. ¡°It¡¯s my first day. I decided to try it¡­ wanted to explore what the System¡¯s offering instead of chasing another job in Finance.¡±


    His gaze softens, and he smiles, all creases and worn warmth. He reaches across the table and his hand settles on my shoulder, firm and fatherly.


    ¡°As long as you¡¯re happy, son. But you need to be careful. Your mom couldn¡¯t handle it if something were to happen to either you or your sister. Okay?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Dad¡­ Of course.¡±


    He yawns wide enough I think his jaw might unhinge. ¡°I¡¯m calling it a night.¡± He stands, closing out the sports highlights with a swipe.


    I rise too, pulling him into a hug. He really is getting skinny. He¡¯s light. Lighter than I remember. Or maybe it¡¯s me. The stat boosts. The enhanced body. His frame feels smaller in my arms.


    ¡°Love you, Dad.¡±


    ¡°Love you too, son.¡±


    He gives me a few pats on the back and slinks out of the kitchen, footsteps fading down the hall.


    I don¡¯t waste time. The rest of the fried chicken disappears in record speed. I swipe the last of the mac and greens into my mouth, then grab a bowl of rice pudding on my way down to the basement.


    I collapse into my desk chair, flick on the desk lamp, and alternate between spooning pudding into my mouth and dropping clumps into Jelly Boy. The slime hums happily, slurping the treats into his goopy form.


    Phone out, I tap into the group chat with Clyde and Veronica.


    >Joseph: You guys won¡¯t believe what I just discovered.


    Send.

 Chapter 29. Muscle Man’s Self-Improvement Guide, Part II

    Chapter 29


    Muscle Man''s Self-Improvement Guide, Part II


    The scent of freshly ground coffee beans hits me the second I step through the door of Revolver Coffee. It¡¯s a small spot¡ªtucked away in Cleveland¡¯s Waterloo Arts District¡ªthe kind of place that¡¯s been here long enough to be a neighborhood staple but still feels like a well-kept secret.


    To the right, a glass-doored fridge hums softly, packed with pre-made food: cold sandwiches, oat parfaits, little plastic cups of hummus with pretzels. The main bar is straight ahead, where two baristas are handling orders like a well-oiled machine. Taps line the counter, dripping out house-made cold brews and pre-batched lattes in deep browns and nutty ambers. An espresso machine hisses somewhere in the background. Above them, a handwritten chalkboard menu lists an array of drinks, most of which I already know by heart. The rest of the space is a mix of seating¡ªa faded leather sofa, some mismatched chairs, a few small round tables with just enough room for a laptop and a cup. A long bar with stools runs along the massive front window, framing the street outside.


    No sign of Clyde or Veronica yet. Looks like I¡¯m the first one here.


    I stride up to the bar and place my order¡ªsmall pour-over, black. The barista nods, moving with the fluid precision of someone who¡¯s done this a thousand times. A few minutes later, I¡¯m handed a ceramic cup with steam curling from the rim. I bring it to my nose, inhaling the earthy, slightly fruity aroma before taking a sip. It¡¯s good. Really good.


    I pick an open table near the window, setting my coffee down and leaning back in my chair. The street outside is quiet, a few people wandering past, most wearing jackets against the crisp morning air. I take another sip, letting the warmth spread through me. Today is a good day. I feel solid. My mood is light, though there¡¯s still that edge of anticipation¡ªborderline anxiety¡ªcoiled in my chest.


    This morning¡¯s workout was a killer. Fasted cardio¡ªthirty minutes on a steep incline¡ªthen a solid Pull day. Wide-grip lat pulldowns, rows, curls. Everything felt strong and I was able to really push myself on squeezing out a couple more reps. Those final, gratifying, partial reps before failure had become harder to achieve since I¡¯ve grown accustomed to my enhanced body. The biggest downside to my System-modified form is the fact that the pre-workout barely hit. I¡¯m starting to think my body isn¡¯t reacting to stimulants the way it used to. Could be the System doing something. Could be that I¡¯ve just adapted. Either way, it¡¯s weird.


    I check my phone. Still no messages from Clyde or Veronica.


    I take another slow sip of my coffee, feeling the slight burn on my tongue, and pull out my phone again. The screen lights up, and I shoot off a quick text to the group chat.


    ¡®Teamwork Make the Dream Work¡¯


    >Joseph: Here. Got my coffee. Where you guys at?


    I drop in a gif of Spongebob sitting patiently in a booth, hands folded in front of him, steaming cup on the table.


    No immediate response.


    I lean back in my chair and start scrolling aimlessly, half-reading an online article on weightlifting supplements for the System-enhanced while my brain idly soaks in the caf¨¦¡¯s ambiance.


    To my left, two women are deep in conversation. Not the hushed kind that people have when they¡¯re trying to be discreet. No, this is the animated, slightly-too-loud kind that practically demands to be eavesdropped on.


    ¡°¡­I¡¯m telling you, it¡¯s a goddamn nightmare,¡± the first, a brunette woman, says, aggressively shaking her iced latte like it personally offended her. ¡°More bodies this morning. All women. And all of them had System access. It fucking terrifying!¡±


    I blink and glance over, pretending to be engrossed in my phone.


    The other woman, a blonde with thick glasses, shakes her head. ¡°Yeah, I saw. Chicago¡¯s totally losing its mind over this. They¡¯re bringing in Guilds because the System-Empowered Unit of the Chicago Police Department is completely useless, apparently.¡±


    ¡°Creeps me out¡­¡± the first woman says, still shaking her latte.


    ¡°It¡¯s in Chicago,¡± the second woman responds, ¡°which makes me feel a little better. And we don¡¯t have System access¡­ It¡¯s more like following one of those true crime podcasts I used to binge.¡±


    I freeze mid-scroll. A System-empowered serial killer? That¡¯s¡­ bad. Really bad. Just like the woman said: it¡¯s a terrifying thought. The news has never been shy about reporting on all the chaos the System brought with it, but this? This is next-level. There were several incidents during the first month or so, but governments quickly responded to install order by expediting their own embracement of the System. I¡¯m surprised that something like a System-empowered serial killer in Chicago hadn¡¯t made national headlines already. And the fact that it¡¯s targeting people with access?


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    My stomach churns.


    I pull up my System interface and navigate to the Discussion Channels. Maybe there¡¯s a thread on this. Maybe someone has real info and not just secondhand caf¨¦ gossip.


    Nope. Nothing useful. The Discussion Channels are an absolute mess. A million people shouting into the void about their builds, their loot, their dumb conspiracy theories about the System. No way to filter. No way to search efficiently. Just chaos. I can¡¯t help but think the System designed the Discussion Channels this way on purpose. Can¡¯t have a resource of unlimited knowledge be too helpful, after all¡­ God dammit.


    I run a hand through my hair, irritated, when the door swings open. The bell jingles, and I glance up to see Clyde strolling in.


    He spots me immediately, grins, and makes a beeline for the counter.


    I close out of my interface, lock my phone and take another sip of coffee, trying to shake the uneasy feeling settling in my gut.


    My phone vibrates and I glance down.


    ¡®Teamwork Make the Dream Work¡¯


    >Veronica: Be there in a sec!


    A ¡®Haha¡¯ reaction is added to my Spongebob gif.


    Clyde walks over from the counter, looking like he lost a fight with his pillow and barely survived. His hoodie is wrinkled, his bomber jacket looks like it¡¯s seen some things, and he¡¯s clutching a large cold brew like it¡¯s the only thing tethering him to this world. He plops down in the chair across from me, eyes half-lidded but alert.


    ¡°Sounds like Veronica should be here any second,¡± I say, locking my phone and setting it down.


    ¡°Good,¡± Clyde mutters, taking a sip of his drink. ¡°Don¡¯t think I can wait too long, man. Interested to hear about this.¡± He flashes me a toothy grin before taking a sip of his cold brew.


    Last night, when I texted them about having found the Bronze Gate Ticket Enhancement, they both freaked out. I barely had time to explain before Clyde started spamming all-caps texts and Veronica sent a string of rapid-fire voice messages demanding we meet in person. So here we are.


    ¡°Yeah, well, hopefully we¡¯re not waiting on Veronica too much longer,¡± I say, taking another sip of my coffee. ¡°Excited for our next job tomorrow, partner?¡±


    Clyde smirks. ¡°The Extraction A-Team.¡±


    Before I can respond, the door swings open, and Veronica rushes in, looking flustered. She blows a stray strand of hair from her face and spots us immediately, giving us a curt wave of the hand as she makes a beeline for the counter. She orders quickly, bouncing on her heels as she waits for her drink.


    A moment later, she slides into the seat beside Clyde with an exaggerated sigh, sets her cup down, and offers a tired but bright smile. ¡°How¡¯s it going, team?¡± S§×ar?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Good,¡± Clyde says.


    ¡°Good,¡± I echo.Top of Form


    ¡°Okay,¡± Veronica says. ¡°Spill it. How¡¯d you happen to get your hands on the fourth Ticket Enhancement item?¡±


    Clyde raises an eyebrow. ¡°Yeah, man. You running some secret solo dungeon-crawling business on the side?¡±


    I sigh, knowing full well they¡¯re not gonna let me off easy. I scratch the back of my head sheepishly. ¡°I used one of my Rank E Gate Tickets,¡± I say. ¡°After we left that bar. Went in solo. Well, sort of. Jelly Boy was with me and¡­ And¡­¡±


    How do I put this?


    ¡°Jelly Boy has officially joined my party.¡±


    Silence. Clyde just blinks at me. His face screams that he¡¯s waiting for me to say I¡¯m joking and cut to the real explanation. Veronica¡¯s face is twisted into a thoughtful expression.


    I clear my throat nervously, then grin. ¡°Turns out, the little guy has a Bronze Gate Ticket. And his own copy of the Enhancement. Same as ours.¡±


    Clyde chuckles, picking up his cold brew and taking a slow sip. ¡°No way. You¡¯re telling me our fourth party member is a goddamn slime?¡±


    Veronica shrugs. ¡°I mean, it did land the final blow on that pig.¡±


    Clyde pauses, considering. ¡°And he is adorable as shit¡­ I suppose our Party was missing a mascot.¡±


    I laugh. ¡°I¡¯m not sure he¡¯d appreciate being called a mascot. Anyway, I think we should bring him along on our Extraction jobs. If we all hit Level 10, I think we can tackle a Bronze Gate together. Should only take two more jobs too, if we¡¯re lucky.¡±


    Clyde leans back, considering it. ¡°Alright, I like it.¡±


    Veronica narrows her eyes at me. ¡°I think we should address what is the worst idea?¡± Her eyes throw daggers at me. ¡°You going into a Gate alone.¡± She crosses her arms. ¡°Seriously, Joseph. That was selfish and stupid. We need to coordinate, communicate. We¡¯re supposed to be a team, remember?¡±


    A team that just met each other for the first time yesterday, I silently retort. But I bite my tongue. She¡¯s right, after all. It was foolish.


    I glance at Clyde for backup, but he raises his hands in surrender. ¡°She¡¯s right, man.¡±


    Veronica gestures at Clyde like, See? Then she sighs. ¡°I would¡¯ve gone with you if you¡¯d asked, you know.¡±


    I feel my face heat up. ¡°I¡ª¡± I clear my throat. ¡°Yeah. I get it. I should¡¯ve told you guys. I won¡¯t go solo again without letting you know. Promise. I don¡¯t know what got into me. I think that Extraction job set something off inside of me.¡±


    Veronica studies me for a long moment, then nods. ¡°Good. We¡¯ll need that kind of motivation if we¡¯re going to all reach Level 10 after only two more jobs. Who¡¯s to say sneaking off to kill mobs will be as easy this next time?¡±


    ¡°And speaking of levels,¡± Clyde says, eyeing me, ¡°How are you looking after soloing that Gate last night?¡±


    I can¡¯t help the wide smile that spreads across my face. ¡°11.¡±


    Veronica looks like she wants to throw her coffee at me. Clyde just whistles and nods appreciatively. I chuckle, waving them both off.


    From there, the conversation shifts to strategy. We talk numbers, plans for the next job, how to optimize our efforts and maximize XP. Clyde and I go back and forth on whether I should be in the thick of battle, joining my spectral hands in combat. I try to explain to him that it might not be the best idea.


    ¡°I actually have zero experience fighting, and I¡¯m still learning how to properly use my max Strength,¡± I say. An idea blossoms in my mind as I admit my shortcomings.


    We hash it out until Clyde glances at his phone and groans.


    ¡°Shit. I gotta get to work.¡± He drains the last of his cold brew and stands, stretching.


    ¡°Yeah, me too,¡± Veronica says, grabbing her drink. ¡°See you guys tomorrow!¡±


    I watch them go, lingering a bit longer to finish my coffee. I now have my own stops to make today. The plans begin to take real shape in my mind.

 Chapter 30. Muscle Man’s Self-Improvement Guide, Part III

    Chapter 30


    Muscle Man''s Self-Improvement Guide, Part III


    A quick search on my phone pulls up two places that might fit the bill. The first is in Strongsville, south of downtown. The second is located in Lakewood, out on the west side. Strongsville¡¯s a bit further away, but I could use the time in the car to think and strategize. So, Strongsville it is.


    I punch the address into the GPS on my phone, down the rest of my coffee, and head out.


    Ace Boxing Gym sits in a strip mall, wedged between a nail salon and one of those discount cell phone stores that¡¯s perpetually ¡°Going Out of Business¡± and I¡¯m sure exclusively cells burner phones. From the outside, it¡¯s nothing special¡ªjust a faded sign, a glass door, and the smell of padded floor mats that I seem to have a supernatural nose for.


    I step out of my car, grab my gym bag, and take a deep breath. My body hums with energy, my muscles practically itching in excitement. Ace Boxing Gym was one of the few boxing establishments in Northeast Ohio established to cater to System-enhanced individuals. I step in, ready to take in some epic sparring matches.


    The place is¡­ empty.


    No trainers barking orders, no rhythmic thudding of gloves against pads. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights mingled with a popular hip hop song turned onto the room¡¯s speakers, and the faint scent of sweat and rubber mats.


    Heavy bags hang in neat rows from the ceiling, looking disappointingly normal, not something that can withstand a punch from someone with an enhanced Strength score. The floor is padded, the lockers near the desk are standard metal fare, and in the back, a single boxing ring sits under bright overheads. It looks new, the padding still vibrant, but otherwise unremarkable. No glowing runes, no shifting gravity plates, no void-energy ropes that trap you in until you¡¯ve gone five rounds with a mana-infused heavyweight.


    This is my first experience at a System-user¡¯s gym!... I was kind of expecting something more.


    I¡¯m still standing there, debating whether I should¡¯ve gone to Lakewood first instead, when a woman steps out from the back office.


    She¡¯s tall. Maybe my height. She¡¯s built, too¡ªmuscular in a way that¡¯s obvious even under the loose tee she¡¯s wearing, the Ace Boxing logo stretched across her chest. She¡¯s black, with dark eyes that pin me in place, and her dyed hair¡ªa deep, blood-red at the tips¡ªgives her a sharp, no-nonsense edge.


    She walks up to the desk, leaning her hands against it in a casual-but-all-business sort of way. ¡°Good afternoon. How can I help you?¡±


    I clear my throat. ¡°Uh¡ªyeah. This is a System-enhanced gym, right?¡±


    The woman nods. ¡°Yeah, this is a System-enhanced gym.¡± She tilts her head slightly, studying me. ¡°You looking to sign up for a class? We¡¯ve got another scheduled this evening. And usually every morning too.¡±


    ¡°I am,¡± I say, then shrug. ¡°But, uh, I¡¯ve never boxed before. I was hoping to learn.¡±


    She gives me a once-over, crossing her arms. ¡°You look like you work out. Any other martial arts experience outside of boxing?¡±


    I laugh. ¡°Nope. Never been in a fight in my life.¡± Unless you count gobblins and giant pigs made of candy, I think.


    She doesn¡¯t look impressed. ¡°Huh.¡± Then, after a beat: ¡°I can do an intro class with you now, if you¡¯ve got time. I don¡¯t have a one-on-one for about an hour.¡±


    I blink. ¡°Uh, really?¡±


    She nods, pulling a tablet from behind the counter and sliding it across to me. ¡°First, I¡¯ll need some information and for you to sign a waiver.¡±


    ¡°Right¡­!¡± I take the tablet and fill out the forms. Name, emergency contact, basic health information. There¡¯s a part that asks if I¡¯m System-enhanced, and I check yes.


    I sign at the bottom and hand the tablet back.


    Jordan reviews the form, then smiles. Just a little. ¡°Okay, Joseph, let¡¯s show you the ropes.¡±


    ¡°Just Joe is fine.¡± I extend a hand. ¡°And your name?¡±


    ¡°Jordan.¡±


    She takes my hand. Her handshake is firm, just short of crushing. System-enhanced strength? I can¡¯t help but think. Hard to tell, but I make a mental note to be careful.


    ¡°Go ahead and change,¡± she says, nodding toward the locker rooms. ¡°We¡¯ll start with stretching.¡±


    I head to the restroom, swap into my gym clothes, and meet Jordan back on the mat.


    She starts us off with some light stretching. Standard stuff¡ªhamstring stretches, shoulder rolls, deep lunges. Then she hands me a jump rope.


    ¡°Warm up,¡± she says.


    Luckily, I have jumped rope before, so I get into a rhythm without too much trouble. The rope whips against the mat, steady, controlled. Jordan watches, arms crossed, then gives a short nod.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± she says after a while. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s get started.¡±


    Jordan pulls two cloth wraps from a bin behind the counter and tosses them to me. ¡°First thing¡¯s first: hand wraps.¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    I catch them, fumble them a little, and nod like I know what I¡¯m doing.


    She smirks. ¡°You ever wrapped your hands before?¡±


    ¡°Not once.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll show you how.¡± She gestures for me to hold out my left hand and starts wrapping. Her fingers are quick, practiced. ¡°You do this to protect your knuckles, support your wrists, and keep everything tight when you punch.¡± S§×ar?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    I watch closely as she loops the wrap around my wrist, then across my palm, threading it between my fingers before wrapping the knuckles. She does it methodically, making sure everything is snug but not cutting off circulation. Then she hands me the other wrap.


    ¡°Now you try.¡±


    I do my best to mirror what she did. It¡¯s not great, but Jordan only corrects me once, tightening one of the loops.


    ¡°Decent for a first try,¡± she says, stepping back. ¡°Alright. No gloves yet. Just get into a fighting stance.¡±


    I shift my feet apart, bend my knees a little, and hold my fists up. This seems right?


    Jordan tilts her head. ¡°Not bad,¡± she lies. ¡°Mind if I adjust you?¡±


    ¡°Go for it.¡±


    She steps in and starts making small corrections. ¡°Turn your body slightly¡ªyeah, like that. Feet a little wider. Loosen up. You¡¯re too stiff. Your heels shouldn¡¯t be flat¡ªstay light on your feet. Knees bent. Elbows in.¡± She taps my arms into place. ¡°Hands up. Always.¡±


    I try to internalize it, committing the feeling to memory. This is a lot like weightlifting form. Keep your body aligned. Engage the right muscles. Make sure everything¡¯s balanced and in the right position.


    ¡°Your head, hips and the center point between your two feet should form a line,¡± Jordan says. She steps back, evaluates my adjusted stance and nods. ¡°Better. Now, let¡¯s get into punches.¡±


    We start with the jab.


    ¡°Left hand,¡± she says. ¡°Step¡ªjab. Back. Step¡ªjab!¡± She demonstrates with her own crisp punches.


    I follow along, stepping and punching in rhythm. It feels¡­ clumsy. Awkward. But I get the basic movement.


    After several repetitions, Jordan changes pace. ¡°Now, the cross.¡±


    She demonstrates, twisting her hips as she throws the punch. Then she gestures for me to do the same.


    I try it.


    ¡°Twist your back foot more,¡± she says.


    I do.


    ¡°Again.¡±


    I throw another punch.


    ¡°Keep your chin tucked to your shoulder as you drive through.¡±


    I do.


    Jordan nods. ¡°Good.¡±


    I let out a breath. This is a lot of small details to remember. But I¡¯m getting it. ¡°Okay, what¡¯s next?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Alright,¡± she says, rolling her shoulders. ¡°Last one for today¡ªthe left hook.¡±


    Jordan runs me through the left hook, breaking it down into small pieces. Pivot on the lead foot. Keep my elbow at a ninety-degree angle. Drive the punch with my hips, not just my arm. She has me do it slowly at first, then speeds me up. I feel awkward as hell, but she gives me a nod of approval after a few tries.


    ¡°Alright,¡± she says, stepping away. ¡°Let¡¯s get you hitting something.¡±


    She walks over to a rack of boxing gloves, grabs a pair, and tosses them to me. I slide my hands in and start strapping them up. They feel stiff and padded, bulkier than I expected.


    I glance at the heavy bags hanging from the ceiling. They look normal. Just canvas and leather stuffed with sand or whatever. But something about them feels¡­ off. There has to be more to them, right?


    ¡°These bags can handle enhanced Strength, right?¡± I ask, flexing my fingers inside the gloves.


    Jordan smirks. ¡°They might look plain, but everything in this gym is made with materials from other Realms. Magically reinforced. Doesn¡¯t matter if you¡¯re Level 1 or Level 20, you¡¯re not breaking anything here.¡±


    I nod. That makes sense. ¡°Guess that means I can go all out?¡± I ask. No way in hell I¡¯m actually going all out, though. I think of my ruined arm when I was in the Castle Realm and shudder. Yeah, fuck that.


    ¡°Within reason.¡± She gestures at the bag in front of me. ¡°Let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve got.¡±


    She starts calling out sequences. ¡°Jab, cross. Jab, jab, cross. Jab, cross, hook.¡±


    I hit the bag, focusing on form, trying to keep my stance solid. The impact feels good. There¡¯s a satisfying thud every time my fists connect, and for the first time since stepping into the gym, I feel like I get it.


    Jordan keeps pushing me. ¡°Faster. Stay light on your feet. Hands up.¡±


    I get into a rhythm. My breathing evens out. I start pushing myself, hitting harder, moving quicker. The bag swings, absorbing every hit like a sponge. My knuckles throb inside the gloves, but I don¡¯t stop.


    After three rounds, I¡¯m wrecked. Sweat drips down my face. My arms feel like lead. My shoulders burn.


    Jordan watches me, arms crossed, looking amused. ¡°Not bad for a first timer,¡± she says.


    I huff out a breath, pulling off my gloves and shaking out my hands. ¡°Not bad?¡± I wheeze. ¡°I feel like I just got hit by a truck. That¡¯s some serious cardio¡­!¡±


    She laughs. ¡°That¡¯s how you know you did it right.¡±


    I grab my bag, still in my gym clothes, and head toward the door. Jordan leans against the counter, watching me. ¡°So?¡± she asks. ¡°You signing up for more lessons?¡±


    I nod, too tired to argue. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯ll take a class later this week.¡±


    ¡°Good. See you then, Joe.¡±


    I pay for the class, she enters me into her schedule, and we bid each other farewell. For now.


    I step outside, sucking in fresh air, already feeling tomorrow¡¯s soreness creeping in.


    One stop down. One more to go.


    The drive to Lakewood is quick, but my arms feel like jelly. I roll my shoulders at a stoplight, trying to shake off the burn from Jordan¡¯s training. Maybe two combat sports in one day was a bit much. But between boxing and BJJ, I figure I¡¯ll have my bases covered. Striking? Check. Grappling? Soon-to-be check. If something does manage to get past my Wizard¡¯s Hands, I¡¯d prefer not to be absolutely useless.


    I pull into a small parking lot, spotting the sign for Lakewood Jiu Jitsu Academy. It¡¯s tucked between a laundromat and a vape shop. Very Cleveland. The windows are fogged with condensation, and through the glass, I see people filtering out, sweaty and laughing, some still in their gis, others in street clothes.


    Inside, the place is smaller than I expected. White mats cover the floor, and the air smells like detergent and exertion. A few guys are still lingering, chatting near the cubbies, but my focus locks onto the instructor.


    He¡¯s a middle-aged with the classic build of someone who¡¯s been a jiu jitsu instructor for years. He¡¯s shorter than me by about a head, with tanned skin, a thick black beard, and curly hair. Bright, hawkish eyes track me as I step inside. His ears are swollen and twisted, the unmistakable badge of a lifetime spent grappling on the mat.


    I approach, offering a nod. ¡°Hey. I¡¯m Joseph.¡±


    The man grins, his voice warm. ¡°Kyle. What can I do for you, Joseph?¡±


    I glance around. ¡°I¡¯m interested in learning BJJ. Heard this was the only System-enhanced friendly spot in the area.¡±


    Kyle crosses his arms, considering me. ¡°Hoping to be,¡± he says. ¡°Right now, all our classes are just¡­ normal folks. But I¡¯ve been looking to draw in some System-enhanced students.¡±


    I frown. ¡°So, there¡¯s nothing for people like me?¡±


    ¡°Not yet.¡±


    Damn. That¡¯s disappointing.


    I scratch the back of my head. ¡°What about one-on-ones? Do you do those?¡±


    Kyle strokes his beard, thinking. ¡°Maybe. What¡¯re your stats?¡±


    I rattle them off. When I finish, he chuckles. ¡°A little unbalanced, no?¡±


    I smirk. ¡°A little. But I have my reasons.¡±


    He grins at that. ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s see¡­.¡± He steps over to a small seating area, digs through a gym bag, and pulls out his phone. He flips through it. ¡°I could fit you in Saturday morning?¡±


    I check my own phone and add the appointment. ¡°Works for me. What time?¡±


    ¡°8am?¡±


    ¡°Perfect!¡±


    Kyle nods, sliding his phone back into his bag. ¡°Good.¡±


    I shake his hand, then head out, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settling in. I could use some protein¡­ and desperately need some post-workout carbs. I look up a nearby smoothie joint as I get back into my car.


    One step closer to not getting my ass kicked.


    Wait til Jelly Boy and the others witness my kick ass combat skills, I think. I start my car and pull out. I¡¯m almost t-boned when I slam on the break, a System notification springing into my vision.


    NEW QUEST!

 Chapter 31. Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part I

    Chapter 31


    Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part I


    A car horn blares at me and I lift my hand apologetically as I whip my steering wheel and pull my car off to the side of the road into an unoccupied parking meter spot. The blue window that had slammed into my vision a moment earlier like an overly-eager pop-up window from hell, is still hovering in front of my face, populating with neat, silvery script.


    New Quest!: The Fundamentals of Magic 101


    Description: Hello, Participant! You selected the Spellcaster Discipline. Despite this, during the Tutorial Stage of the God Game, you have shown a penchant for failing to take your Discipline seriously. To complete this Quest and remain in good standing as a Participant, you must make progress as a Spellcaster.


    Objective: Learn 1 new Spell (0/1)


    Preliminary Timer for Objective: 48 hours, 00 minutes


    Penalties for Failing to Complete Objective Prior to Expiration of Preliminary Timer: Participant will be inflicted with the Decay debuff until Objective has been completed.


    I barely have time to process that absolute bullshit before a second window snaps into existence.


    Decay (Debuff)


    [Description: User inflicted with Decay will slowly and painfully lose base points in Stamina and Constitution until both hit 0, at which point all organs will begin to atrophy. The Decay status has a different set of effects if the inflicted individual is of the Undead.]


    What the fuck.


    WHAT. THE. FUCK!


    Decay?... Decay?! My eyes quickly scan the Quest description one more time. Then the debuff¡¯s description¡­ Just to be sure I read that right. This isn¡¯t some slap-on-the-wrist penalty.


    ¡°You will slowly and horrifically rot to death doesn¡¯t seem like a fair consequence for not learning a new spell¡­!¡± I shout at the System interface. Especially when I only have forty-eight hours! It was some next level bullshit.


    I blink, half-hoping the screen will flicker, change, telling me this is some kind of joke.


    The interface does flicker. The screens disappear. Replaced by a small, blinking counter in the top right corner of my HUD: 00:47:58.


    I groan. I have forty-eight hours to learn a Spell.


    Is that even possible? My mind races. I haven¡¯t gotten any new Spells through leveling up. Was I supposed to? Or was gaining Spells on leveling up restricted to those with Classes? Or were Spells only obtained through Gates?


    I don¡¯t fucking know¡­ But I need to find out, and fast.


    My breathing¡¯s a little too fast, my hands gripping the wheel tight enough that my knuckles go white.


    Okay¡­ Okay. Calm. Logical. Think it through.


    I squeeze my eyes shut, push the panic down. I try to smother it.


    Dad¡¯s voice pops into my head. He had a particular phrase from Seneca he sometimes quoted¡­ What was it, again? Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of strong men.


    If I was going to become stronger, like I planned, then this would just be another challenge in a series of adversity that I would need to face. I take in a deep breath through my nose, letting the air fill my lungs. Then, I slowly exhale.


    I shift into drive, and floor it toward home.


    I barge into my room, head spinning, heart still hammering from the glowing death sentence that just popped up in my vision. I need a plan. I need to figure this shit out.


    Jelly Boy is sitting on my desk. His little translucent form pulsating gently as he watches TV on my laptop. He¡¯s perched right in front of the laptop screen, oozing in place, eyes fixed on the bright back-lit scene.


    And what, exactly, is he watching?


    I squint.


    The Deal or No Deal Island logo flashes across the screen. Contestants in swimsuits clutch briefcases, sweating under the hot Fijian sun while the host¡ªwho looks familiar, but I¡¯m terrible with celebrity names¡ªgrins like an evil genius about to unleash his master plan.


    I blink.


    Jelly Boy¡¯s eyes turn toward me, his little slime body vibrating in greeting.


    ¡°¡­Getting into reality competition shows now?¡± I ask.


    Jelly Boy buzzes happily, his body jiggling like a Jell-O mold that just got smacked.


    Well. Can¡¯t fault his taste. Could be worse. Could be Love is Blind.


    I shake my head and pull up my Menus. If I¡¯m going to stress myself into an early grave, I might as well do it while claiming my daily reward.


    A glowing notification blinks at me:


    [Daily Reward Available! Would you like to claim?]


    I mentally assent to the request window and am greeted with a ping!


    Congratulations! You have received:


    Adventurer¡¯s Cookie (x3)The cookies materialize in my Inventory¡ªlittle caramel-colored discs of absurd nutritional value, each one dense with enough sustenance for two days.


    I pull one out and toss it to Jelly Boy. He catches it mid-air, absorbing it into his gelatinous form with a gleeful little warble. The cookie begins dissolving instantly, little bubbles forming in his translucent body.


    I pocket the other two. Because if I¡¯m really about to start taking this whole ¡°Gates and Magic¡± thing seriously, I need to be prepared. Last thing I need is getting caught in a Gate for weeks without any food or water.


    I grab the towel off the hook behind my door, slinging it over my shoulder. ¡°Alright, I¡¯m gonna shower off,¡± I announce to no one in particular. Well, to Jelly Boy, technically. He wobbles in acknowledgment but stays glued to the screen, thoroughly engrossed in the fate of some poor bastard sweating over a briefcase.


    I turn toward the bathroom but hesitate. My brain is still buzzing from that quest notification. The Decay debuff. The 48-hour timer. If I don¡¯t learn a new Spell, my Stamina and Constitution will start rotting away. Literally. I run my hand across my face. God dammit.


    I can¡¯t just wing this. I need information.


    With a sigh, I sit on the bed, towel still draped over my shoulder, and pull up the Discussion Channels menu on my System interface.


    And immediately regret it.


    The Discussion Channels functionality is still a nightmare. Clunky. Disorganized. It¡¯s like someone took an ancient web forum, let a caffeinated squirrel build out the organization, and then set it all on fire for good measure. Oh, and forgot a search function.


    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    I grit my teeth and start digging.


    Spells. Magic. Learning new abilities. I scan threads for any related topic, checking multiple regional Channels.


    Bingo!


    A thread discussing Spells and Spell selection from one of the European Channels. Every Discussion Channel is, thankfully, automatically translated into English, though some of the syntax is still a little off.


    I click in. The conversation is a mess of half-baked theories, secondhand accounts, and people shitposting about how obviously you just need to eat a magic rock from Dead World #32 and boom, free Spells. But between the noise, I find the important bits:


    Most people don¡¯t gain new Spells through level-ups before Class Selection. Some have, but they seem to be exceptions, not the rule.The main ways people obtain new Spells are through Spell-crafting, Realm rewards from Gates, or finding specific magical items.Concern blossoms in my chest. If access to Spells through level-ups depended on Class Selection, then I had a dilemma on my hands. I am already at Level 11. How many opportunities to gain new Spells had I missed by leveling up before I had my Class? How many more will I potentially miss if I continue to level-up?


    Some of the responses to the thread seem to indicate people with magical-focused Classes learn new Spells as early as Level 7.


    I lean back, rubbing a hand over my face. Shit. If that¡¯s true, then I need to be careful. If I power-level myself too fast, I could be missing out on potential Spells I¡¯d get after choosing a Class.


    I can¡¯t afford to kneecap myself before I even hit the Bronze Gate.


    But Clyde, Veronica, and Jelly Boy? I still need to help them level up. If I get them all to Level 10 as quickly as possible, at least I know my whole team is in fighting shape before I pick a Class. Clyde is already close¡ªhe probably just needs one more level after the whole Sweets Sow nightmare.


    I nod to myself. That¡¯s the plan. Now, time for that shower.


    I let the steaming water pound against my shoulders, but my mind is a thousand miles away. One hand idly scrubs at my scalp, the other swipes through the System¡¯s Discussion Channels menu, because Spell-crafting. The phrase had been so casually dropped in that other thread.


    What the hell is it? How does it work? And more importantly¡ªcan I do it before my Quest timer runs out and Decay starts chewing through my organs like a starving rat?


    I scroll past garbage posts¡ªhalf-baked theories, people arguing over semantics, some guy insisting you just need to ¡°believe in the magic inside you, bro.¡± As if believing alone is enough to fabricate new Spells¡­ There¡¯s a thread about someone asking about the ¡°Magic of Friendship.¡± Useless.


    Then, I strike gold.


    A thread from some Nordic dude named Arvid (at least based on his chosen Display Name). In my head I imagine a chiseled, blonde berserker type, the kind of guy who probably eats raw liver and wrestles bears for cardio. But his posted thread seems to indicate otherwise. An actual step-by-step Spell-crafting guide.


    I lean against the tiled wall of the shower, scanning fast.


    Spell-crafting Guide for System Users, Level 8 and Above!


    After a short introduction, Arvid gets into the nitty gritty¡­


    >User: Arvid: Want to learn Spells before Class Selection? Here¡¯s what you need:


    A medium for inscription: a Spellbook, blank Enchanted Scrolls, or enchanted Parchment. An ink substitute: Magical ink is best, blood works too, or similar magical material. Affinity components: Shards aligned with the magic you want to craft. You will need at least 10. A stabilizing core: a Monster Core of an appropriate level.I run through the list in my head. I actually have most of what I need already.


    Spellbook? Check¡ªI still have the one I received as part of my start pack.


    Ink? Check¡ªI looted some from the gobblins (almost forgot, too).


    Shards? Check¡ªI have thirteen Star Shards sitting in my wardrobe.


    But the last one¡ªthe Monster Core.


    Shit.


    I don¡¯t have one. And I know enough about Cores from general discourse on the topic. Not every monster even drops them. Most of the time, Exploration Teams are the ones who snag cores during Gate jobs. They¡¯re the most magically charged resource that can be extracted from the Gate and if they¡¯re left to an Extraction Team, it¡¯s usually the top Extraction Team on the job.


    It doesn¡¯t matter. One thing is certain: tomorrow, when I go into that Gate, I need to get my hands on a Monster Core. Because if I don¡¯t figure out Spell-crafting in the next 48 hours, I¡¯m pretty much dead. I close my eyes and let the water run over my face, turning the handle towards ice cold. The frigid water jolts me awake. And it feels good too.


    Another countdown to my doom, I think. Fantastic!


    I shut off the water, step out of the shower, and grab my towel.


    Tomorrow just got a hell of a lot more interesting.


    Mornings suck.


    But if I¡¯m going to survive this whole ¡®learn a Spell in 48 hours or start rotting from the inside out¡¯ situation, I need to be sharp. Strong. Focused. And that means starting the day with an awesome push workout.


    I pull up to Diesel Athletic Club before the sun¡¯s even up. The gym is mostly empty when I get there. Just me, a few other early risers, and the sound of plates clanking over the dull thud of bass-heavy workout music.


    Lots of cable work¡ªchest flyes, triceps extensions, shoulder raises. I focus on the squeeze at the top of each motion, trying to work in some higher reps to shock my muscles a bit. Mind-muscle connection, I think to myself as I envision the small portions of my movement. Every rep with intent. Every contraction a promise to my future self that I won¡¯t be the guy who dies because he didn¡¯t take his own progression seriously.


    By the end, my chest is burning, and my shirt is sticking to me like I¡¯ve been dunked in a vat of my own sweat. Mission completed.


    I wrap up in the sauna, letting the heat soak into my muscles, then hit the showers. By the time I¡¯m toweling off, I¡¯m feeling loose, refreshed, and ready to take on whatever Realm this Gate job wants to throw at me.


    Back at my place, Jelly Boy buzzes unhappily as I zip my bag shut. He¡¯s back in the backpack, where he absolutely does not want to be.


    ¡°You loved the last Gate,¡± I remind him, slinging the bag over my shoulder. ¡°Come on, it¡¯s another adventure. Monsters. Loot. Probably snacks.¡±


    Jelly Boy wobbles in protest, but I feel his excitement flicker at the mention of snacks. He¡¯s trying to be indignant, but I know the truth. He wants in on this as much as I do.


    By the time I get to the Gate site, Clyde and Veronica are already there.


    Clyde greets me with a lazy wave, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets. The man does not know the meaning of urgency. Veronica, by contrast, looks like she¡¯s been buzzing with energy since sunrise. She gives me a quick nod, shifting from foot to foot like she¡¯s ready to throw hands with a hobgoblin right now.


    The setup is the same as last time. Crews everywhere. Security posted around the closed-off perimeter. A Municipal Guild official clutching a clipboard like it holds the meaning of life.


    Apparently, this Gate¡¯s been open for two weeks, and the Exploration Teams are still combing through deeper sections. But since the lower-leveled areas near the entrance have been cleared, Extraction Teams¡ªaka, us¡ªare finally being allowed inside. Better to get in while the areas are still cleared of most mobs rather than wait another week when the mobs might repopulate the areas near the Gate.


    One of the Guild officials starts handing out hooded insulated coats.


    Clyde holds his up, inspecting it. ¡°What, are we expecting a blizzard in there?¡±


    The official, a tired-looking woman with scars on the bridge of her nose and cheeks, glances up from her clipboard. ¡°Arctic-based climate. But a blizzard? No.¡±


    I pause mid-motion, halfway through slipping my arms into the sleeves.


    ¡°Arctic based?¡± Veronica asks, already tightly bundling her coat around her like the cold is a sentient entity waiting to strike.


    ¡°Not quite arctic temperatures,¡± the official clarifies. ¡°But it¡¯ll be cold enough that you¡¯ll want the Guild-issued gear.¡±


    I finish sliding mine on but leave it unbuttoned. Clyde does the same, while Veronica is basically swaddled in hers.


    Ahead of us, a higher-level Extraction Team disappears into the Gate. A few minutes later, our turn comes. Clyde takes the tablet containing the requisite maps. This time, our job is to harvest Cold Shards.


    The portal looms before us¡ªa swirling vortex of pale blue light, humming with energy. I take a deep breath, adjust the straps of my backpack and take my spot at Veronica¡¯s side.


    This is it.


    We step forward.


    Light. Blinding, all-consuming light accompanied by the pulling sensation behind my navel I¡¯ve come to expect with being teleported through portals.


    I step forward, and for a second, I don¡¯t exist. The world around me ceases. My body feels like it¡¯s been turned inside out and shoved through a meat grinder made of static. And then¡ªjust as quickly as the sensation started, it¡¯s over¡ªI exist again.


    Entering Dead World #16.


    Cold.


    So much colder than I thought.


    A gust of frigid air slaps me across the face, the kind of cold that sinks straight into bone marrow and makes you wonder if you¡¯ve ever truly been warm in your entire life. Sear?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The world sharpens around me. We¡¯re in a snow-covered glade. Bare trees stretch toward the sky, their skeletal branches crusted with ice. The ground beneath me is a thick, undisturbed sheet of pure white snow, and above, the sky is a piercing, cloudless blue that stretches on for as far as I can see.


    It¡¯s beautiful. Majestic, even.


    It¡¯s also freezing my goddamn ass off.


    And then realization dawns on me like a fucking anvil.


    Not my ass.


    My legs.


    My legs are cold.


    My exposed, completely bare legs.


    I look down.


    Oh. Oh no.


    Silence.


    I slowly look up to find both Clyde and Veronica as they, too, notice my current state of being.


    Clyde is the first to react. He tilts his head, brow furrowing. ¡°Bro¡­¡± He squints. ¡°¡­are you wearing booty shorts?¡±


    Veronica immediately snaps her gaze away, a slight rise of color on her cheeks as though she¡¯s experiencing secondhand embarrassment on my behalf. A small chuckle escapes her, quickly followed by another that she tries¡ªbut fails¡ªto smother with her hand.


    Clyde, however, does not look away.


    Clyde is staring directly at my thighs with a look that can only be described as a mixture of confusion, amusement, and some sort of deep existential questioning. Then, he starts to laugh. Hard. His laugh echoes through the naked trees.


    I yank my insulated coat closed, but it does not solve the problem. My legs remain completely, stupidly, obscenely exposed. Like a winter-themed Winnie-the-Pooh.


    ¡°Ha, ha, ha. Yeah, yeah,¡± I say, voice tight with suffering. ¡°It¡¯s a long story. And I forgot about them. But¡ª¡±


    I don¡¯t even get to finish the sentence.


    Because that¡¯s when the squirrels attack.

 Chapter 32. Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part II

    Chapter 32


    Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part II


    And when I say I¡¯m ¡®attacked¡¯ by squirrels, I mean I am immediately and mercilessly mobbed.


    White fur, claws, screeching, fangs. Everywhere.


    I don¡¯t even see them coming. One second I¡¯m standing there, shivering like a dumbass, about to explain my Cursed Daisy Dukes when¡ª


    SQUIRREL. DIRECTLY TO THE FACE!


    I stumble back with a choked yell as a ball of writhing white fur and claws clamps onto my head like a god damned facehugger.


    Another drops from the tree above, latching onto my shoulder.


    A third goes straight for my exposed thighs.


    ¡°WHAT THE FUCK,¡± I scream, flailing. ¡°WHY¡ªWHY IS THIS HAPPENING?!¡±


    My Health bar appears in my System interface, though it barely budges.


    Clyde, to his credit, is zero help. He¡¯s dying¡ªhands on his knees, wheezing with laughter.


    Veronica, meanwhile, makes a valiant attempt to swat one of the squirrels away with her hands. It bites her coat sleeve and refuses to let go.


    ¡°Really?!¡± she yells, shaking her hand violently. ¡°Why are these things so aggressive?!¡±


    They¡¯re everywhere. Chittering, screeching, relentless.


    One of them yanks on my hair with surprising strength, violently shaking my head back and forth.


    I grab it. I pry it off. I throw it into a tree.


    Hard. Too hard. Way too hard.


    It¡¯s like my body suddenly forgets that I have Strength way above human baseline, because the second it leaves my hand, the damn thing rockets through the air like a furry, pissed-off bullet and¡ªsplat!


    The squirrel explodes against the tree trunk. Like, full-on cartoonish blood splatter. A mess of fur, viscera, and tiny squirrel giblets paints the bark in a way that is both deeply unsettling and morbidly fascinating. I actually gasp out loud.


    ¡°Oh, oh shit.¡±


    I do not have time to process the sheer magnitude of overkill I just committed, because there is still another tiny demon squirrel trying to eat my face.


    I mentally cast Wizard¡¯s Hand. The Spell triggers from my hotlist immediately and a familiar, shimmering spectral hand appears beside me. My ever-loyal Lefty, ready for action.


    Lefty snags the remaining squirrel off my face like a claw machine from hell. It flails, screeching, tiny humanoid fingers scrabbling wildly at the air.


    Without hesitation, Lefty spikes the little bastard onto the snow-covered ground like a goddamn football.


    Crunch.


    It dies instantly, and whatever mess is on the ground is barely recognizable as the squirrel. S§×arch* The n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ding!


    Two notifications pop up in my vision:


    You have defeated Petite Yeti Squirrel, Level 1.


    You have defeated Petite Yeti Squirrel, Level 1.


    I barely have time to register this before the third squirrel¡ª the one that had latched onto my thigh¡ªscurries off me like its tiny life depends on it.


    Smart move, pal!


    The squirrel latched onto Veronica¡¯s sleeve flies off, landing on the ground and scurrying to join my thigh-squirrel in the branches of the tall tree. I hear a chorus of angry chittering.


    I look up. At least a dozen of them have retreated to the tree branches above us, their blue-frost eyes gleaming with menace. Their tiny, humanoid fingers clutch at the bark. Their unnervingly human-like hands curl into fists.


    I swear to God one of them is shaking its tiny fist at me.


    I scan the tree line. Pause. Did that one just flip me off?


    A System notification appears over the cluster of retreating squirrels.


    New Monster Identified: Petite Yeti Squirrel, Level 1.


    Classification: Minor Yeti.


    I squint at the small, white furred monstrosities.


    Minor Yetis?


    I glance at the tree trunk where I, uh¡­ exploded the first one. I guess that makes sense.


    And then, just like that, they flee. Gone.


    The sounds of their angry chittering fade into the distance, swallowed by the trees and the snow-covered glade.


    A long, heavy silence follows.


    I breathe out. Hard. I try my best to control my breathing.


    Then, finally¡­


    ¡°What the fuck was that?¡± I ask, exasperated.


    Clyde is still laughing. A full-on, hands-on-his-knees, can¡¯t-breathe, tears-in-his-eyes kind of laugh.


    Veronica is less amused. She¡¯s shaking her arm, flicking her wrist like the ghost of that squirrel is still clinging to her sleeve. Her expression is half-exasperation, half-why am I even here?


    Meanwhile, I¡¯m still standing there, legs bare to the icy chill in the air. I clutch my coat tighter around me and big to button it shut.


    Finally, I turn to Clyde, scowling. ¡°And why exactly are you laughing your ass off instead of, I don¡¯t know, helping me?¡±


    Clyde waves a hand, trying to catch his breath. ¡°Calm down, Legs.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that.¡±


    He ignores me. ¡°Look, I saw they were Level 1. And I also have this Trait that lets me get a little more info when I ID a new monster.¡± He pauses, cracks up again, doubling over.


    I cross my arms, waiting. Veronica gives him a look that is this close to telling him to get his shit together.


    ¡°Okay, okay,¡± he gasps, straightening. He wipes a tear from his eye, then continues, grinning like an idiot. The expression is a bit jarring when paired to the dark bags under his eyes.


    ¡°I think¡­ I think I recall exactly what it said.¡± He clears his throat. Then, with dramatic flair, he recites: ¡°Petite Yeti Squirrels are usually docile creatures and only show hostility towards the Naked Sasquatch, who is their natural predator.¡±


    There¡¯s a beat of silence.


    Then Veronica snorts.


    I blink. ¡°Wait.¡±


    Clyde loses it all over again. He practically folds in half, laughing so hard he has to brace himself on his knees.


    I point at myself. ¡°You¡¯re telling me¡­ these things thought I was¡­¡±


    ¡°The Naked Sasquatch!¡± Clyde wheezes, almost collapsing into the snow.


    Veronica is laughing now too, a full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of laugh.


    I stand there, stone-faced, bundling my coat tighter. My legs feel more naked than ever before. I silently curse the System for gifting me with the Cursed item.


    Mentally, I equip all my gear. Boots. Cloak. Wizard¡¯s Hat. Ring. Everything. I am done letting this realm humiliate me.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Okay. Whatever.¡± I shake out my arms, trying to ignore the way Clyde is still gasping for air like he just ran a marathon.


    ¡°Clyde,¡± I say, voice tight, ¡°tell us where we¡¯re going to harvest these Cold Shards. And let¡¯s find the best way to get some off-path mobs. Don¡¯t forget¡ªI need a Monster Core, or I¡¯m royally fucked.¡±


    Clyde, still grinning like a bastard, finally glances down at the tablet in his hand. ¡°Yeah, yeah. Good point.¡± He scrolls for a second, then shakes his head, glancing up at me. ¡°Man, I still can¡¯t believe the System did you dirty like that.¡±


    I texted them both about my situation last night. If I am going to craft a Spell and avoid the Decay penalty in time, I needed their help.


    ¡°Yeah, the whole situation is fucked up,¡± Veronica agrees, shaking her head. ¡°It¡¯s like if I got punished for reading a book just because I picked the Warrior Discipline.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± I say, stabbing a finger in the air.


    Lefty floats over, placing a consoling hand on my shoulder. I dismiss the cantrip and the hand disperses into a puff of silvery mist. ¡°Let¡¯s just go collect these Cold Shards or whatever so we can get on with our real order of business,¡± I add.


    The other two nod. There¡¯s a brief flash of light. When it fades, they¡¯re in their gear too. Veronica with her metallic breastplate, and Clyde has a pauldron strapped onto his left shoulder. With nothing else to say, we set off through the cold, bare trees.


    Clyde leads the way, weaving through the trees with the confidence of someone following a very official-looking GPS marker on his tablet. His boots crunch over the snow, and the rest of us follow, breath misting in the crisp air.


    The forest around us is quiet. Not in a peaceful, serene nature walk kind of way, but in the way that makes you feel like you¡¯re being watched. Only a few Gates in and I realize that there¡¯s something unsettlingly voyeuristic about the other Realms. Here, it¡¯s like the trees have eyes. And also tiny, vicious squirrels that still probably think I¡¯m some kind of hairless cryptid.


    Eventually, the landscape changes.


    At first, I don¡¯t notice. But then Clyde stops, pointing ahead. ¡°There.¡±


    I look up.


    The trees in front of us are different.


    Their skeletal branches stretch outward, fingers grasping at the air. But more importantly, something floats near them. Suspended in midair, just barely shimmering in the light, are crystalline snowflakes.


    I narrow my eyes and step closer. They aren¡¯t falling. They just hover in the air around the branches and trunks of the tree. Like someone paused them mid-descent.


    Clyde gestures. ¡°Cold Shards.¡±


    I focus on them further, summoning the System notification.


    [Cold Shard]


    [Description: A shard of ice mana.]


    Nice.


    I glance over at the others. Veronica is already gathering them, plucking the floating shards closest to the ground like they¡¯re fruit on an invisible vine. Clyde follows suit.


    I roll my shoulders and get to work, grabbing as many as I can. It¡¯s strangely satisfying, like harvesting something that shouldn¡¯t exist. The mindless task reminds me a lot of throwing stock at Save-Some-Bucks.


    A few minutes in, Veronica glances at me. ¡°Hey, where¡¯s Jelly Boy?¡±


    I pause. Good question.


    ¡°He¡¯s in my backpack,¡± I say, adjusting the straps. Then I frown. The slime has been oddly quiet.


    Which is¡­ weird.


    I take off my backpack, kneeling in the snow as I unzip it. Inside, Jelly Boy sits, his gelatinous body gently rising and falling. His eyes are closed.


    I stare, waiting the his usual series of vibrations.


    Is he¡­ asleep?


    Veronica steps closer. ¡°Oh my god.¡±


    I glance up. ¡°Yeah, uh. I think he¡¯s sleeping?¡±


    She claps a hand over her mouth. Then, with the excitement of someone who just saw a kitten in a tiny sweater, she crouches down next to me.


    ¡°That is so adorable.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Yeah, yeah. I¡¯ll wake him up when it¡¯s time to slay mobs. Guy must have been watching reality T.V. pretty late last evening.¡±


    Veronica leans in. ¡°Look at his little jelly belly¡­ Wait, did you say reality T.V.?¡±


    I zip the backpack halfway shut, just shaking my head in response.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say, hoisting the pack back on. ¡°Let¡¯s finish up and get moving.¡±


    We do. And by the time we¡¯ve stripped the area of every last hovering Cold Shard, my inventory is looking a lot fuller.


    Clyde taps at his tablet as we walk, the soft crunch of boots in the snow the only sound for a while. His brow furrows. ¡°Alright, so¡­ I think I¡¯ve found us a spot. Should be off the main cleared paths, but not too far.¡±


    I glance at him. ¡°How long do you think it will take us to get there?¡±


    ¡°How strong will the monsters there be?¡± Veronica asks.


    Clyde shrugs. ¡°The map doesn¡¯t say what Dungeon level it¡¯s from, just that it¡¯s an unexplored sector. Think it will take us¡­ Half an hour, maybe, to get there. Another half an hour back?...¡±


    Veronica tightens her coat around her. ¡°Well, if it was that high leveled, we wouldn¡¯t be able to reach it this close to the entrance, right?¡±


    I nod. ¡°Good point. I wouldn¡¯t think so.¡±


    Clyde shrugs again, the universal gesture for we¡¯re probably fine, but also maybe not. ¡°I guess I don¡¯t know enough about the Gates. What if they loop back on themselves. Like how in games some higher leveled areas can be unlocked, and they¡¯re near the starting point.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not speak that into existence,¡± says Veronica.


    I nod. ¡°I agree¡­ But maybe we should be ready to run. You know, just in case?¡±


    Veronica laughs. ¡°Hope I¡¯m faster than you if that¡¯s the case.¡±


    I smile. ¡°I just need to be faster than Clyde.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡± interjects Clyde, looking up from the tablet.


    We move.


    The landscape shifts as we push deeper into the forest. The trees get taller, their bare, skeletal limbs stretching into the sky. The branches stretch out over the forest paths¡ªgnarled, clawed hands. Not ominous at all. The further we go, the quieter it gets.


    Then, faint noise shatters the silence.


    Voices. No, chittering. The low growl of something frustrated.


    We slow, creeping toward the source. We reach a clearing and¡­


    Huh.


    The scene in front of us looks like the world¡¯s worst holiday special.


    Two small trees stand in the center, looking like miniature Christmas trees with arms and legs. Each is about five feet tall, green needles bristling as they flail their bark-covered arms wildly, trying to fight off the creatures circling them.


    Ding!


    New Monster Identified: Winter Meliad, Level 3.


    Classification: Tree Spirit.


    Oh, tree people. That¡¯s interesting!


    And judging by the System classification, they¡¯re some kind of spirit-based monsters. But they look pretty corporeal to me.


    One of the tree-things¡ªer, Meliads¡ªswings a short, branch-like arm at one of the other type of creatures in the clearing. It chitters angrily.


    Four creatures move around them, short and covered in long, white fur. They¡¯re squat, only about three feet tall, dressed in ragged cloth and furs that barely cover their thick, muscular builds. Their beards are long and white, blending into their fur, and three of these albino-looking mini-wookies clutch well-crafted axes in their hands.


    I stare at them.


    ¡°What the hell are those things?¡± Veronica asks in a hushed tone at my side.


    I focus my attention, and the System triggers a message, as I intended.


    Ding!


    New Monster Identified: Yeti Goblin, Level 6.


    Classification: Goblinoid.


    A Yeti Goblin?...


    I guess goblins and yetis got real friendly at some point.


    One of them isn¡¯t holding an axe. Instead, it stands behind the others, barking out orders in a guttural, chittering language.


    Ding!


    New Monster Identified: Yeti Goblin Warlock, Level 7.


    Classification: Goblinoid Spell-Slinger.


    Great. So, this one¡¯s a magical Yeti-Goblin hybrid. Before I let myself get too side-tracked at the anxiety of facing my first spell-casting mob, I realize this is just what I wanted. The Discussion Channels discourse on the topic of monster cores had made one thing clear: if a monster had the capability for magic, it more likely than not had a core that could be harvested.


    The Winter Meliads swipe at the air, their little tree fists whiffing wildly, but the goblins dodge, jeering at them, sharp teeth bared in laughter.


    I glance at Clyde and Veronica.


    ¡°So,¡± I say, keeping my voice low. ¡°Time to save some innocent Christmas trees?¡±


    ¡°For all we know those tree creatures killed the others¡¯ mother or something,¡± Clyde responds.


    ¡°Oh my god, shut up,¡± Veronica says, rolling her eyes. ¡°One the count of three. One¡­ two¡­¡±


    I don¡¯t wait for three.


    With a flick of my wrist, I whip out my wand¡ªit materializes in my hand as I pull it from my hotlist. Then, I summon both of my Wizard¡¯s Hands.


    Lefty and Righty materialize in a flash of blue light, spectral fingers crossing each other and flexing like they¡¯ve just woken up from a nap. I send them forward.


    I lean in, whispering to Clyde and Veronica, ¡°Stay hidden. Let my hands soften them up first.¡±


    Clyde nods. Veronica lets out a slow breath, lowering herself behind a snow-covered bush.


    Behind me, Jelly Boy stirs. My backpack wobbles slightly, the gelatinous mass shifting inside. Not now, buddy. Not yet.


    The Wizard¡¯s Hands shoot toward the Yeti Goblins.


    At first, the goblins don¡¯t notice. They¡¯re too busy taunting the little tree people, jeering and waving their axes around. But then Lefty slaps one across the face.


    The goblin snarls, teeth bared, and swings its axe¡ªstraight through the hand. The blade passes through harmlessly.


    That doesn¡¯t stop the goblin from trying again. And again.


    Meanwhile, Righty grabs another one by the head and repeatedly slams it face-first into the snow.


    The goblins panic. They shriek, swinging wildly, but their attacks do nothing.


    The Winter Meliads take the chance to flee, their tiny root legs scrambling through the snow.


    The Warlock yells something at the others. The voice comes from the warlock¡ªbut for a split second, it sounds scrambled, distorted, before suddenly shifting into English.


    ¡°Idiots! Don¡¯t let them get away!¡± It screams. ¡°We need the spell components!¡±


    Spell components? My ears perk up at the words.


    The closest yeti goblin snarls and charges after the fleeing tree spirits, raising its axe¡ª


    Bang!


    The goblin¡¯s head jerks forward. A hole appears dead center in the back of its skull. It collapses, twitches once, then goes still.


    Clyde lowers his pistol, blowing out a breath. ¡°One down.¡±


    The warlock whirls toward our position, its frost-blue eyes narrowing.


    Shit.


    ¡°Three!¡± I shout.


    Veronica bursts from cover, summoning her hammer mid-stride.


    She hits the clearing like a goddamn wrecking ball.


    One of the yeti goblins snarls, raising its axe, but Veronica¡¯s hammer is already in motion.


    CRACK!


    The goblin flies backward, skidding across the snow, landing flat on its back with a wheeze.


    Veronica plants her feet, twirling her hammer in one hand. ¡°Is that all you¡¯ve got?¡± she taunts, eyes flicking between the two remaining goblins.


    They don¡¯t answer. They just snarl and charge, axes glinting. They run towards Veronica, flanking her.


    Idiots, I think. They completely ignore me, Clyde, and Jelly Boy as we emerge from our covered position. Big mistake.


    I mentally command my Wizard¡¯s Hands to attack the Warlock.


    Lefty swings. Righty jabs. The Warlock twists and dodges, narrowly avoiding each strike. The bastard is fast and far more nimble than I gave it credit for.


    The Hands pause. Hovering. Reassessing.


    Then they come in again, moving differently this time.


    Jab. Jab. Cross. Jab. Hook!


    Are my Wizard¡¯s Hands incorporating my boxing lessons? I pocket that thought for later.


    Lefty lands a mean left hook.


    The Warlock staggers, clutching its face. It snaps its head toward me, frost-blue eyes narrowing.


    It thrusts out a clawed hand.


    Oh. Oh no. That can¡¯t be good!


    A pulse of energy rips through the air. I try to move, but it¡¯s too fast. The Spell¡ªor whatever it is¡ªhits me square in the chest.


    Something quakes in my core, like a rubber band snapping. A System notification pops into my vision.


    You have been hit by the Disable Skill.


    [Wizard¡¯s Hand] has been disabled.


    You no longer have access to the Spell [Wizard¡¯s Hand].


    [Disable effect will expire in: 1 minute.]


    A timer appears in the corner of my vision, counting down.


    00:00:59 ¡­ 00:00:58


    Across from me, my Wizard¡¯s Hands throw themselves dramatically skyward as if screaming, ¡°Nooooooo!¡± before vanishing in a puff of silver mist.


    I blink.


    ¡°Well¡­ fuck,¡± I say.


    The Warlock¡¯s face splits into an all-too-wide, shark toothed grin.


    Frosty blue and silver motes of magical energy swirl around its open hands.


    That can¡¯t be good.

 Chapter 33. Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part III

    Chapter 33


    Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part III


    The Warlock¡¯s eyes blaze with a fierce energy. Frosty silver swirls coiling tighter around its clawed hands until they snap outward like an over-cranked jack-in-the-box.


    A sound¡ªlike a high-pitched whistle mixed with the tearing of paper¡ªrings my ears. Wind howls through the clearing, laced with blue and silver light that stings my eyes and boggles my brain. I¡¯m not used to seeing wind. The blast hits an unexpecting Clyde square in the chest as he raised his pistol, leveling to take a shot at one of the yeti goblins surrounding Veronica.


    He flips backward, arms flailing. He slams into the snow with a loud thump.


    ¡°Clyde!¡± I shout, already squinting through the whipped up flurry of snow filling the air.


    Frost begins creeping up his coat, slithering across his limbs like sentient rime. With a ¡®pop!¡¯ a small, red potion vial appears in his free hand¡ªhis other hand thankfully still gripped onto his weapon. He downs it in one gulp, gasping as the frost evaporates in a shimmer of steam.


    The second gust catches Veronica mid-swing. She grunts, eyes scrunching shut as the cold lashes her face, her breath a white cloud. Still, she holds her ground like a tank with bloodlust. Her hammer cracks into the white-bearded goblin she¡¯s facing, but a second axe-wielding miniature slams its weapon in her back.


    Clang!


    The axe head bites into her armor, just enough to knock her forward with a stumble.


    I brace for impact, but the cold gust of magically reinforced wind still crashes into me. It feels like someone¡¯s slapping my thighs with frozen meat.


    God damn these cursed jorts.


    My health bar blinks red, pulsing like it¡¯s trying to get my attention. But it barely moves, quickly refilling back to full.


    I blink, trying to keep my eyes open through the biting wind. My teeth chatter. Despite the stinging bite of the wind against my exposed legs, I¡¯m surprised the Warlock¡¯s spell didn¡¯t do more harm, especially after seeing what it did to Clyde and Veronica.


    There¡¯s a soft, rhythmic vibration at my back.


    Jelly Boy. That¡¯s right!


    I yank my pack off, hastily unzipping it and pull Jelly Boy out into the open. The blue, gelatinous ball of slime is trembling with excitement. His little jelly body glows faintly, a blue outline pulsing around his edges.


    He bounces in place, wobbling aggressively like he¡¯s ready to suplex a mountain.


    It had to be his spell absorption ability that lessened the impact of the Warlock¡¯s Spell. Or was it his resistance to cold damage? I dismiss the thought. That wouldn¡¯t explain why the Spell¡¯s effect on me was lessened. I should have spent some time testing the boundaries and applications of Jelly Boy¡¯s ability to know for certain. But that had to be it¡­ There are no other explanations.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± I whisper. ¡°You¡¯re the reason I didn¡¯t get turned into a Joseph-sicle.¡±


    I give the slime a gentle, appreciative pat on the head. My little buddy isn¡¯t just cute¡ªhe tanked that frost spell like it was a snack.


    I glance up at the Warlock. It¡¯s focused on Veronica and Clyde, pummeling them with icy blasts of wind. Veronica is getting ganged up on the by the other yeti goblins. An axe slices into her leg and she screams in pain, desperately swinging her hammer to create space before being blasted by another gust of wind that knocks her off balance. Webs of frost crawl up her breastplate and down the arms of her coat.


    ¡°Okay, let¡¯s show this asshole we¡¯re the ones he should be worried about!¡± I say to Jelly Boy.


    Jelly Boy lets out a squelchy, enthusiastic bloop!


    The Disabled Status Timer in the corner of my HUD continues to tick down.


    00:00:48.


    Still forty-eight seconds until I get my spectral punchy boys back.


    I don¡¯t wait. I can¡¯t wait.


    The Warlock¡¯s still weaving those ice spells, his hands dancing with cold, blue and silver light like some demonic figure skater, leaving trails of the magic as they twist and turn. His eyes are still focused on Veronica and Clyde. I bolt forward, boots crunching through the snow, Jelly Boy still squirming under my arm like a jello-based football.


    Bzzztttt!... Jelly Boy vibrates loudly with what I¡¯m pretty sure is a war cry.


    The Warlock turns its head towards me. Its mouth twists into a cocky snarl. It its arm toward me and suddenly the air is full of spinning snowflakes. But not cute, holiday-card snowflakes. No, these are each the width of my hand, serrated like shurikens of ice, crackling with pale blue energy.


    Shit!


    No time to dodge as my momentum continues to propel me forward. I skid to a halt, pivot, and throw my arms up just as I drop Jelly Boy to the snow.


    Schwip! Schwip! Schwip!


    Wham! Wham! Wham!


    ¡°Oomph!...¡±


    The snowflake projectiles slam into me, and detonate like exploding snowballs. Cold stabs deep into my chest and forearms. My HUD flashes an angry red. A decent chunk of my Health bar disappears in three angry gulps.


    Pain flares. Muscles clench. Teeth grind. The pain is gone just as quickly as it came, replaced by the new, itching pain of my body knitting itself back together, though a lot slower with a chunk of my HP now gone.


    I pick Jelly Boy back up.


    ¡°Keep your eyes on me, asshole!¡± I snarl.


    I mentally activate Speed Boost.


    And holy hell.


    It¡¯s like getting dropkicked by a thousand espressos.


    Warm energy floods my body, seeping into every cell, setting my nerves alight with a go-go-GO urgency. My legs feel like they¡¯ve grown engines. The cold fades into background noise. I dash forward, practically gliding over the snowy ground like a caffeinated figure skater from hell.


    The Warlock¡¯s smug face twists into something better. Much better: shock. Its bushy white eyebrows shoot hallway up its head as its eyes widen. It barely raises its hands before I¡¯m directly in its face. Inches away. I cock one arm back like I¡¯m about to lay him the hell out.


    No, I think. Not like this. I¡¯m a wizard, damn it. A wizard with muscles and the Strength score any Barbarian would be happy with, but a fucking wizard damn it! Even if Lefty and Righty are currently sipping mai tais in magical time-out.


    I bring my first forward, stopping an inch from the Warlock¡¯s ugly mug. I open my hand.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    And I cast Light.


    A brilliant orb of searing, golden-white magic explodes into being, hovering directly in front of the Warlock¡¯s eyeballs. I turn my face away to avoid being blinded myself.


    The yeti creature screeches in pain, reeling backward as it clutches at its face, blinded and stumbling like it just got flashbanged. Well¡­ it did kind of just got flashbanged.


    ¡°Take that, you frosty little bastard,¡± I mutter, fire blooming in my chest as the last remnants of my Speed Boost Skill leak out of my limbs.


    Jelly Boy lets out a wet, triumphant bloop, like he agrees.


    The Warlock¡¯s still flailing like a drunken snow-cone vendor on fire when Jelly Boy launches himself out of my arms like a sentient scoop of vengeance.


    Plorp.


    He lands right onto the Warlock¡¯s head, slowly sinking to cover the monster¡¯s face entirely with his blue ooze.


    The goblin lets out a strangled scream, muffled by the gooey blue dome now wrapped around its face like a living jello death mask. It claws at Jelly Boy, fingers scraping uselessly at the shimmering slime surface. The Warlock stumbles and flails, staggering through the snow like he¡¯s trying to headbang his way out of a swimming pool full of glue. Its screams are distant sounding¡­ muffled.


    Jelly Boy starts undulating, rippling with sudden spasms.


    ¡®What the fuck,¡¯ I silently mouth.


    Is he¡­ is he eating the damn Warlock? Or, at least trying to?


    The yeti goblin¡¯s screams turn gurgled, echoing wetly from inside the translucent slime. Black smoke begins to leak from its eyes, curling in slow, oily tendrils through Jelly Boy¡¯s semi-solid mass. The smoke rises out of the top of the slime in thin, sinuous wisps like burning incense made out of evil.


    ¡°Oh man¡­ That¡¯s so gross,¡± I whisper.


    Also¡­kind of badass?


    Jelly Boy is vibrating violently now, like he just downed five Red Bulls and is processing the soul of a warlock like it¡¯s high-fructose corn syrup.


    But there¡¯s no time to gawk at my murder-slime. I spin around to check on the others.


    Clyde¡¯s back on his feet and aiming his pistol with both hands. His coat is frosted, ice glinting on the shoulders like silver epaulets. The last of the axe-wielding yeti goblins is grappling with Veronica, trying to pry her hammer from her grip.


    She looks like hell.


    One of her eyes is swollen shut, purple-black and angry. Blood streaks down her cheek from a wound on her head, and her legs are slashed and bleeding, staining the snow red. But her grip on that hammer? Still iron.


    Clyde fires.


    Crack!


    The goblin¡¯s head detonates like a cursed melon, splattering white fur, brain matter, and icicle fragments across the snow. I assume he used his Skill and scored a critical hit.


    The thing drops. Veronica yanks her hammer free from its dead fingers with a snarl, then looks over at me.


    ¡°What the hell are you doing? Don¡¯t worry about us!¡± she shouts, voice raw. ¡°Deal with the spellcaster and don¡¯t let it get away! You need its core, idiot!¡±


    Shit. She¡¯s right.


    I whirl back around.


    The Warlock, blinded and half-suffocated, is staggering through the clearing, Jelly Boy still suctioned to its face.


    That¡¯s when the notification pops into view:


    Disable effect has expired. You are no longer under the Disable effect.


    You have regained access to [Wizard¡¯s Hand].


    Oh, hell yes.


    ¡°LEFTY, RIGHTY¡ªGO!¡±


    I whip out my wand, the tip glowing like a neon baton, and slam on the cantrip twice from my interface¡¯s hotlist.


    Two familiar flashes of silvery-blue shimmer into existence midair. The fists emerge from puffs of mist.


    Lefty and Righty rocket forward, streaks of light and vengeance.


    Lefty swoops in and grabs Jelly Boy, tugging the happily feasting slime off the Warlock¡¯s head, snatching ooze between its fingers like grabbing the scruff on the back of a troublesome pup.


    The Warlock gasps, mouth open wide, eyes¡ªnow dark, empty pits¡ªstreaming black tears.


    Righty doesn¡¯t wait. It bitch slaps the Warlock right across the face. The slap is quickly followed by a nasty uppercut that smashes into the Warlock¡¯s chin. The Warlock flies backward, limbs twitching, and collapses into the snow with a thud.


    You have defeated Yeti Goblin Warlock, Level 7.


    You have received partial credit for the defeat of Yeti Goblin Warlock.


    Partial credit awarded to . . . Jelly Boy, Slime.


    Jelly Boy lets out a victorious bloop, wiggling in Lefty¡¯s spectral grasp like a champion returning home from glorious slime-combat. The spectral hand glides over and gently places the slime onto the ground near my feet.


    I jog back toward Clyde and Veronica, breathing hard and clutching Jelly Boy to my chest like a wobbly, semi-sentient football. He¡¯s warm and jiggly, and still humming with some kind of magical afterglow that makes my fingers tingle. He lets out a happy blorp as I cradle him like a battle-hardened baby.


    Veronica¡¯s leaned against a tree, uncorking a healing potion with her teeth. She throws the whole thing back in one go, chugging it like a college sophomore who doesn¡¯t understand how tequila works. The gash on her forehead near her hairline stitches together like time-lapse footage in reverse. The swelling around her eye fades so fast it¡¯s almost creepy.


    ¡°You guys okay?¡± I ask, chest heaving, eyes darting between them.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Clyde says, brushing snow off his coat and depositing his pistol in a shall of pixelated light. ¡°Just a little shaken. I¡¯ll probably cry about it later when no one¡¯s looking.¡± He gives me a weak grin and then winces as he rolls his shoulder.


    Veronica wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ¡°Still standing,¡± she says. ¡°Still hammering.¡± Then she blinks and adds with mock pride, ¡°And I held my own against pretty much all those mobs on my own¡­ So not too roughed up, all things considered.¡±


    Clyde gives her a sidelong glance. ¡°Yeah, but if we¡¯re gonna make this whole party thing official, we¡¯re gonna need a healer. Like, a real one. No offense to our slimey blue MVP over there, who keeps coming up with these kills.¡± He nods toward Jelly Boy, who emits a bubbly gloop and twitches like he¡¯s flexing. Adorable.


    ¡°Seriously,¡± Clyde continues, tapping his tablet. ¡°If Veronica keeps soaking damage like this, she¡¯s gonna end up tanking herself to a quick funeral.¡±


    I grimace. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong.¡± I glance at Veronica, who gives me a ¡®don¡¯t even¡¯ look as she stretches her neck. ¡°Sorry for not taking that Warlock out faster.¡±


    ¡°Worked in the end,¡± she says, shrugging. ¡°We all walked away. Mostly upright.¡±


    I pull up my Party Menu, head still swimming with the after battle jitters. ¡°Speaking of which¡ªhow¡¯d you two do, XP-wise? I didn¡¯t get jack from the goblin minions. So, I assume you two split all of that yourselves.¡±


    Veronica wipes her now-healed cheek and grins. ¡°Leveled.¡±


    Clyde smirks. ¡°Yup. Same here.¡±


    I blink. ¡°Hell yeah.¡±


    Then something catches my eye at the bottom of the Party Menu. A little pulsing notification.


    My chest swells with pride. ¡°No way. Jelly Boy leveled up too.¡±


    Jelly Boy vibrates violently in my arms, doing what I can only describe as the slime equivalent of a touchdown dance. He emits a deep, contented blorrrrrrrrp and I swear the little bastard¡¯s glowing faintly.


    I grin. ¡°Atta boy.¡± Then I remember the monster core. I stick a thumb over my shoulder. Clyde nods.


    I stroll over to the Warlock¡¯s corpse, brushing snow off my jorts and whistling like I didn¡¯t just watch a blue slime attempt to eat a living creature''s soul through its eyeballs. I wonder what sort of effects consuming other monsters would eventually have on my gelatinous good boy.


    God, my legs are numb, I silently curse.


    The yeti goblin¡¯s body is crumpled like a dropped puppet, steam still curling up from the gaping cavities in its skull.


    I crouch over the corpse and examine it more closely, summoning the interactive menu hovering over the body. Classic looting options pop into my HUD. The Warlock has ten gold pieces, and a variety of strange crafting materials.


    Standard junk really, but I¡¯ll take whatever I can get my hands on. I mentally scan over the items once more preparing to loot the corpse, but then hesitate¡­


    Ugh. Right. I can¡¯t pocket anything from this Realm that¡¯ll trip the exit scans. Freaking dungeon lawyers. I sigh.


    ¡°No core,¡± I mutter.


    Of course not. Monster cores don¡¯t just appear in the Inventory menu like most other goods. That much was easy to gather browsing the Discussion Channels. No, they have to be harvested. Manually. Organically.


    Which brings me to the next problem.


    I stand there scratching my head, staring at the yeti goblin¡¯s fuzzy ribcage like I¡¯m supposed to take a biology final. ¡°How the hell do I get this thing open?¡± I mumble. Asking the question aloud makes my stomach turn. Even knowing this would be a possibility didn¡¯t help¡ªhow am I supposed to carve up something so¡­ human?


    That¡¯s when I feel a curious blorp at my feet. Jelly Boy¡¯s watching me intently, his gelatinous body subtly vibrating like a tuning fork full of questionable ideas. I¡¯m sure he¡¯s asking, ¡°You going to finish that?¡±


    I shiver. I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s from the cold.


    I glance up at Lefty, my spectral Wizard¡¯s Hand, who¡¯s just been floating there like a loyal balloon at a murder party. I mentally command it: Hey, Lefty¡­ break it open. Get me that core.


    It floats down toward the corpse, fingers flexing experimentally, and hovers over the Warlock¡¯s chest. For a second, I think I overloaded the poor magical appendage with instructions far too complicated. Maybe it¡¯s not smart enough. Maybe I need to¡ª


    WHAM!


    Lefty punches straight through the chest cavity like it¡¯s tenderized brisket. Wet crunch. Nasty squelch. Something cracks. I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.


    Then it rips. Not delicately. Not surgically. Lefty rips upward with a wet, meaty shhhhhlurp, and emerges with an apple-sized gem pulsing with violet light. Purple-black mist leaks from it like a soul¡¯s last exhale.


    ¡°Oh my god,¡± I say, blinking. He just Mortal Kombat¡¯d that poor bastard.


    Lefty hovers there like a proud serial killer holding a trophy.


    The core is disturbingly beautiful. Smooth, glassy, with arcane fractals dancing in its center like lightning bugs on acid.


    Veronica walks over, wiping her now-barely-injured hands on her armor. ¡°Is that the monster core?¡±


    I pluck it from Lefty¡¯s grip¡ªit¡¯s warm, pulsing¡ªand examine it. When I do, a tooltip flashes in my vision:


    [Monster Core]


    [Quality: Weak] S§×arch* The N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Sure is,¡± I say, tossing it once and catching it with a grin thinking of that Warlock¡¯s stupid snarling grin.


    Veronica crosses her arms. ¡°So¡­ now what?¡±


    I grin wider, the possibilities spinning through my brain. ¡°Now¡­¡±


    I raise the core toward the sky, letting sunlight capture the violet facets of the gem.


    ¡°Now¡­ I need to do the ritual to turn this bad boy into a Spell.¡±

 Chapter 34. Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part IV

    Chapter 34


    Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part IV


    I step over to the one patch of snow not painted with blood, brain matter, or matted tufts of white, yeti fur. It¡¯s a nice little spot, a peaceful square of crunchy white silence in the middle of a battlefield that smells like gore, wet dog and frostbitten regret.


    Time for magic. Time to prove that I¡¯m truly the spellcaster the System has designated me. You got this, Joseph, I tell myself. Even in my head the words ring hollow. I crouch down and start pulling things out of my Inventory. In a single flash of light, the necessary elements sit splayed before me, like a wizard-themed garage sale.


    First: Spellbook. The thing is a thick, leatherbound tome. I had received it as part of my starter pack, but it had spent the last four months collecting dust on my bedroom floor.


    Next: Vial of Enchanted Ink. I got it off that gobblin robber baron back in my first Gate. The vial was full when I had first obtained it, but now sat just shy of half-full.


    And finally: Thirteen Star Shards. Thirteen tiny slivers of celestial crystal, glittering with starlight that would be easy to lose in the snow if it wasn¡¯t for their otherworldly brilliance. Each one hums faintly when I touch it. The resonance is hard to explain, but it taps into something deep within me.


    I flip open the Spellbook to the centerfold. The pages of the tome are weathered, but empty. Except for these two pages, adorned with the spell circle I painstakingly copied from Arvid¡¯s notes on his Discussion Channel thread on the topic of Spell-crafting. I¡¯m still impressed that he was able to recreate a depiction of the spell circle using standard keyboard inputs, coupled with painstakingly detailed notes. Apparently the process could be used by anyone, but he had a Skill that automatically generated spell circles. Lucky bastard.


    The thread exploded with comments. People said it worked. I hope they weren¡¯t just being trolls. That would be¡­ not great.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I whisper, heart hammering. ¡°Moment of truth.¡±


    I pick the Star Shards out of the snow and carefully place them into the tiny runic divots etched across both pages. The spell circle was meant to contain up to twenty of these ¡°nodes¡± as Arvid had called them. I make sure the placement is precisely as I remember him describing. Part of me considers opening the Discussion Channels now, but I know it would take me ages to locate the same thread again. I exhale, centering myself.


    Next, I uncap the ink, dip my wand, and begin tracing an inner circle within the larger one.


    ¡°Wow,¡± Veronica says from behind me. ¡°You really are a wizard.¡±


    ¡°Those muscles are really just for show,¡± Clyde mutters.


    ¡°Bzzzzzt!¡± Jelly Boy blurts like an excited kazoo. He¡¯s currently perched on a yeti goblin¡¯s thigh, digesting it with a happy little ripple. The leg twitches every now and then. I try not to look.


    I ignore them. Mostly.


    ¡°Well, we¡¯re putting that statement to the test right now,¡± I say through gritted teeth, trying to keep the lines as smooth as possible. Why were circles so damned hard to draw?


    My wand traces the inner ring first, then it draws a twelve-pointed star in the center. The ink glows as I work, bleeding into the parchment like it¡¯s being sucked in by an invisible mouth. So far, so good¡­ I think, letting the faintest glimmer of hope simmer up in my chest.


    As soon as the ink is absorbed my the parchment it¡¯s replaced by identical lines marked in blood red. Just like Arvid had explained. My breath quickens as I hold the monster core above the center circle.


    The monster core vibrates in my open hand like I¡¯m holding an excited Jelly Boy. Then, it stops, replaced by a slow pulse. Each pulse is matched by a violet glow. Pulse. Then another. And another. Each flash faster than the last. Until the monster core begins to dissolve in my hands, as though an eraser rubbed away at its very existence. Violet sand slides between my fingers, being pulled in by whatever hungry force lives within the pages of my spellbook.


    The blood red ink begins to emit a matching violet light. The two concentric spell circles begin to rotate in opposite directions. When the last remnants of the monster core leaves my hand, I am met with a pulse that echoes through my mind and a System notification.


    [Ritual Spell Detected]


    [You have begun the Ritual of Spell Synthesis]


    Components Detected: Star Shards (x13), Monster Core (Weak), Spell Circle: Twelve Pointed Star (Correct Form)


    Spell-crafting Skill: Undetected


    Chance of Success: 71%


    Chance of Unintended Effect: 16%


    Chance of Catastrophic Magical Failure: 13%


    [Proceed?]


    [Note: During the Ritual, you will be unable to move from the Ritual Circle. If you move, the Ritual will result in Failure and all Components will be expended with no resulting effect.] sea??h th§× Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Well. Crap¡­


    ¡°Thirteen percent?¡± I mutter. ¡°That¡¯s unlucky as hell.¡± The System must hate my guts. ¡°Son of a bitch¡­¡±


    Apparently, Arvid¡¯s thread left out the tiny little detail where I become the human equivalent of a magical lightning rod while this thing cooks. No movement. Locked in place. I can¡¯t blame Arvid. Probably less of an issue when you¡¯re doing this in the safety of your own apartment and not a Winter Wonderland of Horror. And his guide got me this far.


    I look up at Clyde. His eyes leave the glow of magic pulsing from the pages of my spellbook. ¡°Uh,¡± I say aloud. ¡°Minor development. I can¡¯t move. At all. Like, the ritual straight up says ¡®move and fail¡¯.¡±


    Veronica stops mid-scan of the treeline and raises a single eyebrow. ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°So?!¡±


    ¡°So, what are you waiting for?¡± she shrugs, slinging her hammer over her shoulder with a sickening wet clonk. ¡°We can¡¯t pretend to be on Extraction Duty forever. If you¡¯re going to be locked in while this takes place, then no time to waste. We¡¯ve got your back. Start the ritual.¡±


    Clyde nods, adjusting his pauldron. ¡°Yeah, man. Get that spell and let¡¯s bounce.¡±


    I glance at Jelly Boy. He¡¯s moved onto trying to consume more of the Warlock.


    ¡°Bzzt,¡± he chirps, all-in.


    ¡°Fine.¡± I sigh and mentally select ¡®Proceed¡¯.


    Immediately, my hands are yanked down onto the pages by some invisible force. I attempt to lift them, but they refuse to budge, as though magically vacuum-sealed to the surface of the pages.


    ¡°Okay! Okay! Jesus!¡± I hiss, trying to wriggle my fingers, but they won¡¯t budge. The parchment is warm now. Pulsing, just like the monster core had been. The light lifting off of the pages intensifies.


    Ping!


    Another notification:


    RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 1%.


    The ink on the page starts shifting. Crawling around the page like a mosh pit. It writhes into swirling little sigils in the upper margins, twitching like they¡¯re being written by a very caffeinated centipede leaving words in its wake. My HUD shows a faint progress bar, glowing purple. It inches forward.


    RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 2%.


    A few seconds later: 3%.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    I take a few more seconds to try and get my breathing under control. I hate being stuck there. Vulnerable. Useless. I almost want to chew my arm off and just make a break for it.


    Veronica seems to notice. ¡°Hey, it¡¯s okay. We¡¯re here,¡± she says.


    Then Jelly Boy starts buzzing. Loud.


    ¡°BZZZZZZZT¡ªBZTZTZTZT!¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong, buddy?¡± I ask without looking, unable to move anything except my mouth and my increasingly tense butt cheeks.


    That¡¯s when I hear it.


    Rustle. Snap. Crunch. Like the forest itself just cleared its throat.


    ¡°And we¡¯ve got company,¡± Clyde says, stepping between me and the tree line.


    ¡°That didn¡¯t last long,¡± Veronica says with a sigh.


    Eight yeti goblins emerge from the brush. A few are brandishing axes. Some, simple clubs.


    And they¡¯re not alone.


    Each of them has one of those nightmare-inducing yeti squirrels clinging to their shoulders. Their beady pale blue eyes glow with malicious, rabid intelligence. One of them bares tiny crystal teeth and chitters like it wants to chew through a kidney.


    Mine, specifically.


    ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± Veronica says, not looking back.


    ¡°No plans,¡± I say through gritted teeth.


    Clyde summons his pistol, spinning the chamber, which flashes with magical energy and a satisfying click-click-click-click. ¡°We¡¯ve got your back. Finish the ritual and we¡¯re out. Don¡¯t worry.¡±


    Jelly Boy blobs down off the chest of the dead Warlock and lands with a wet plorp. He slides out in front of the group, vibrating with chaotic enthusiasm.


    The goblins hiss. The squirrels scream. One squirrel in particular I swear runs a hand over its throat.


    My HUD ticks upward.


    RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 4%.


    5%.


    My palms are sweating, but the book doesn¡¯t care. My hands are still locked in place like the pages themselves are drinking in my pulse.


    The yeti goblins move as a pack¡ªslow, hunched, coordinated. These guys are on some kind of patrol pattern. Probably sniffed out the corpse of their Warlock buddy and followed the stench of magical carnage to our happy little battlefield.


    ¡°Just hold,¡± Clyde mutters. ¡°Let them commit first.¡±


    The goblins fan out. One breaks off. It bends low, snorting with bloodlust, trying to capture Veronica off guard.


    Bang!


    Clyde fires a shot, the bullet catching the goblin right in the shoulder. It falls to the ground, barrel rolling and landing back on its feet. It dropped its club and has a hand over its shoulder. Dark blood spills from between its fingers, but the wound isn¡¯t enough to take it out.


    RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 8%.


    This is going to be a long fucking ritual. And that squirrel just made eye contact with me. My legs suddenly feel very, very naked.


    POV: Clyde Richmond


    They¡¯re trying to flank us.


    I see it in their posture, in the way their knobby legs shuffle through the frostbitten brush. One goblin sniffs the air with its gross little pig-nose, and I catch the twitch of movement from two more breaking wide to the sides, trying to get a clear line on Joseph.


    That¡¯s not good. They know he¡¯s our weak link.


    Which means it¡¯s time to thin the herd.


    I raise my pistol.


    Line up the shot.


    Exhale.


    Crack.


    Miss.


    The lead yeti goblin¡ªone of the bigger ones¡ªdives to the side just before my bullet whistles past its bearded face.


    ¡°Shit,¡± I murmur, already adjusting. No time to get emotional. No time to panic. This isn¡¯t a raid team in some video game. This is real. If Joseph gets swarmed mid-ritual, we¡¯re boned. If Veronica goes down, we all go down. She can handle their aggro, but not for as long as we¡¯d need.


    I blink, triggering my Scan Skill.


    A ripple bursts from my chest in a faint pulse of invisible force. It¡¯s like my skin exhales, a breath from each pore. The world tints and flexes, then there they are.


    Neon green outlines wrap around every yeti goblin like a crime scene chalk drawing. Simple wireframes. Basic silhouettes. Not the real treasure.


    That comes next.


    Green ¡®X¡¯ marks flicker over certain points of their bodies. Knees, throats, armpits. Some over the lower back. They pulse three times¡ªthump, thump, thump¡ªthen vanish. My eyes suddenly dry out. I blink once, trying to ignore the pain.


    But it¡¯s enough.


    I know where to aim now.


    I pivot, sweep left, target the goblin with the sideways jaw. Kneeling near the corpse of their Warlock. His squirrel chittering like a methed-up toddler.


    I slow my breathing. Picture the angle. Visualize the entry point.


    Crack.


    [Critical Hit]


    The bullet enters just above the collarbone, rides the angle down, and explodes out the goblin¡¯s spine. A spray of black-red mist paints the frost behind it. The yeti goblin collapses to its knees with a sound like a sack of wet rags and doesn¡¯t get back up.


    A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.


    So that¡¯s how it works.


    When I leveled earlier, I picked a new passive Ability: Crowd Control. The description said it stacked critical bonus damage when chaining hits against the same exact monster type. Combine that with Scan¡¯s weak point targeting?


    It¡¯s lethal. Obviously, I immediately equipped that shit.


    And I¡¯m just getting started. These motherfuckers don¡¯t know the hell they¡¯ve just unleashed. But damn do I wish I had some eyedrops on me.


    I scan the battlefield again¡ªthis time for momentum. For rhythm. The goblins are hesitating now. They''re not dumb. They saw their buddy get turned into a meat sprinkler. They¡¯ll adjust. If they¡¯re smart. And I won¡¯t give them the time.


    One of them howls and starts forward. Too late.


    My finger is already squeezing the trigger.


    Clyde¡¯s out there, doing his best impression of a bullet hose. I can hear the sharp retorts of his pistol like thunderclaps behind me. Rapid fire, no hesitation. Just that cold, methodical rhythm. Like a heartbeat with a body count. I want to get a better vantage point but I¡¯m stuck here like a jackass.


    ¡°VERONICA!¡± Clyde barks. ¡°Draw the squirrels! They¡¯re on me! I¡¯ll handle the goblins!¡±


    Veronica doesn¡¯t hesitate. She straightens. She cups her free hand around her mouth and screams. ¡°HEY! YOU FURRY LITTLE RAT DICKS! COME GET SOME!¡±


    The squirrels lose it. I know that has to be her Center of Attention Skill.


    Eight of them chitter like caffeinated maracas and launch from goblin shoulders like little furry torpedoes of death. They hit Veronica like a squirrel tsunami. One ricochets off her shoulder. Another latches onto her thigh. She spins, roaring, her warhammer a whirling steel hurricane.


    One of the squirrels¡ªoh god¡ªis inside Jelly Boy. Like, inside him. Just floating there. Suspended in ooze. Flailing in slow motion. Its tiny mouth pulled back in a silent scream, its little claws scraping uselessly against the gelatin walls of its new, jiggly prison.


    Jelly Boy doesn¡¯t seem to mind. He gurgles happily. ¡°Bzzzt! Blorp!¡± Like he just got a surprise protein shake. He bounces across the middle of the battlefield.


    I check the status of my ritual.


    RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 71%.


    ¡°Almost there!¡± I yell.


    That¡¯s when everything starts to go sideways. Clyde moves and is finally in my line of sight. The goblins take advantage of Clyde¡¯s reload window like they were waiting for it. They break cover and charge.


    Clyde swears, opening and spinning his chamber which sparks with magic. He lines up a shot, squeezes the trigger.


    Bang!


    The bullet zips. It¡¯s a clean shot. A squirrel throws itself in front of the target goblin like it¡¯s jumping on a grenade. It explodes in a mist of blood and fluff.


    ¡°WHAT?!¡± Clyde barks.


    He fires again, hits the goblin this time, square in the chest¡ªand it just keeps coming. Like he tossed a water balloon at a charging rhino.


    I feel my stomach clench. What the hell?! His shots were just turning goblins into Swiss cheese. How did that goblin just body the shot like it was nothing?


    RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 80%.


    Even more goblins flood from the tree line. More squirrels too. Their chittering and screaming fill the air, a white noise of violence.


    It¡¯s chaos.


    I swallow hard.


    Do I break the ritual? Jelly Boy, Clyde and Veronica are outnumbered. Outgunned. I could help. I could do something!


    But if I move now¡­ it all goes to waste.


    ¡°God dammit¡­!¡±


    I grit my teeth and press harder into the book, like that¡¯s going to make it go faster.


    RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 82%.


    Come on¡­


    Come on, come on, come on¡­!


    That when there¡¯s a loud crack in the trees. A deep-throated grunt. And then something tears into the clearing like a drug-fueled linebacker charging through a paper banner on Homecoming Night.


    For a terrifying second, I think it¡¯s more goblins. Or worse. Bigger ones. Giant squirrel god, maybe. I brace for death.


    But no.


    Oh no.


    What barrels into the clearing is¡­ Well, not that.


    It¡¯s something else.


    Seven feet tall, at least. Humanoid. Pale as sour milk left out in the snow. Completely, aggressively naked. Like, no shame at all. And hanging between its legs is the saddest little Vienna sausage I¡¯ve ever had the misfortune of being exposed to in such, er, high definition. Its hair¡ªbright white¡ªsticks straight up like a static-charged broom, and its eyes are icy blue. Its hands are too big for its body¡ªcomical proportions. Its feet are snowplows with claws.


    My HUD pings.


    New Monster Identified!: Adolescent Naked Sasquatch, Level 18.


    I blink.


    ¡°What the fuck,¡± I whisper. You¡¯ve got to be kiddingme!


    The Sasquatch doesn¡¯t he. It hesitate. It lowers its head and shoulder-checks a yeti goblin hard enough to yeet it across the clearing. The goblin slams into a tree with a noise that sounds like celery snapping in a vice. It doesn¡¯t get back up.


    The Sasquatch¡ªstill flopping in the breeze¡ªgrabs two of the squirrels mid-leap, like it¡¯s picking apples. One of them screams. The Sasquatch bites its head off. Crunch! Like it¡¯s opening a beer with its teeth.


    Then it tosses the headless squirrel at the ground, already snatching for another one.


    The other goblins and squirrels panic. I mean lose-their-damn-minds panic. They shriek and scatter, diving for the trees in an absolute terror.


    And the Sasquatch? He just¡­ jogs after them. Loping like a bloodthirsty gazelle.


    But before it disappears into the trees, it pauses. Just a moment. Turns.


    And looks right at me.


    Those bright blue eyes meet mine. There¡¯s something in that look. Something gentle. Wise. Paternal.


    It gives me a little wave.


    Like a bro.


    Like it¡¯s saying, ¡°You¡¯re doing great, sport.¡±


    I blink.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a fucking sasquatch!¡± I yell after it.


    But it¡¯s already gone.


    RITUAL COMPLETE.


    The words blink across my vision. My hands release from the Spellbook.


    I stumble back, lightheaded. Feels like someone jammed a USB drive directly into my soul and started uploading new firmware. Notifications explode across my interface, but I mentally slap them into minimized notifications in the bottom corner of my vision.


    Now¡¯s not the time.


    I yank the Spellbook into my Inventory and push myself to my feet.


    Clyde¡¯s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here.¡±


    He¡¯s standing with his pistol raised, eyes scanning the trees.


    Veronica is cradling Jelly Boy in both hands. The slime burbles happily, still partially digested squirrel floating inside it like a nasty little snow globe. The dead squirrel lamely falls out of the bottom of the slime.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I croak. ¡°Let¡¯s do that.¡±


    And so we run.


    Three human wrecks and a murder-jello, limping, bleeding, but very much alive, sprinting toward the Exit Gate.


    Behind us?


    Dead goblins, mutilated squirrels, and the haunting memory of one very naked, very majestic forest bro.


    I swear I hear distant screaming.


    And somewhere, out in the woods¡­


    The Naked Sasquatch roams.

 Chapter 35. The Flying Monkey

    Chapter 35


    The Flying Monkey


    Loading Participant Profile¡­


    User Profile:


    Name: Joseph Sullivan (Participant No. 4,432,444)


    Race: Human


    Discipline: Spellcaster


    Class: Currently Unavailable


    Level: 11


    Health Points (HP): 70 [Current: 70]


    Mana Points (MP): 5 [Current: 5]


    Stamina: 80 [Current: 80]


    User Statistics:


    PHYSICAL STATISTICS:


    Strength: 19


    Dexterity: 12 [+9 from Equipped Items]


    Constitution: 8


    MAGICAL STATISTICS:


    Intelligence: 3


    Willpower: 8 [+6 from Equipped Items]


    Spirit: 1


    Loading Participant Profile¡­


    User Profile:


    Name: Clyde Richmond (Participant No. 928)


    Race: Human


    Discipline: Harvester


    Class: Currently Unavailable


    Level: 10


    Health Points (HP): 95 [Current: 95]


    Mana Points (MP): 15 [Current: 15]


    Stamina: 60 [Current: 60]


    User Statistics:


    PHYSICAL STATISTICS:


    Strength: 5


    Dexterity: 10


    Constitution: 8 [+2 from Equipped Items]


    MAGICAL STATISTICS:


    Intelligence: 5


    Willpower: 10 [+4 from Equipped Items]


    Spirit: 2


    Loading Participant Profile¡­


    User Profile:


    Name: Veronica Sampietro (Participant No. 6,010,689)


    Race: Human


    Discipline: Warrior


    Class: Currently Unavailable


    Level: 9


    Health Points (HP): 180 [Current: 180]


    Mana Points (MP): 10 [Current: 10]


    Stamina: 50 [Current: 50]


    User Statistics:


    PHYSICAL STATISTICS:


    Strength: 10 [+2 from Equipped Items]


    Dexterity: 4


    Constitution: 20 [+5 from Equipped Items]


    MAGICAL STATISTICS:


    Intelligence: 4


    Willpower: 3


    Spirit: 1


    Loading Ally Profile¡­


    User Profile:


    Name: Jelly Boy


    Race: Blue Slime (Ooze)


    Discipline: Harvester


    Class: Currently Unavailable


    Level: 8


    Health Points (HP): 75 [Current: 75]


    Mana Points (MP): 18 [Current: 18]


    Stamina: 11 [Current: 11]


    User Statistics:


    PHYSICAL STATISTICS:


    Strength: 2


    Dexterity: 2


    Constitution: 8


    MAGICAL STATISTICS:


    Intelligence: 8


    Willpower: 8


    Spirit: 3


    ¡°So, you received a Spell that lets you learn more Spells,¡± Veronica says slowly, narrowing her eyes across the table at me like I just told her I eat my own toenails for power. ¡°From Monsters?¡±


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    I nod, mid-sip of my beer. It¡¯s a light, if slightly bland, lager. Bokarala Bar is a hole-in-the-wall bar tucked away in Tremont. Sticky floor. Wobbly chairs. No door on the only bathroom. The sign above the bathroom reads ¡°No Sex in Restroom. Restroom Specifically for Urinating and Doing Cocaine.¡± A dart board randomly placed in the back corner.


    Veronica leans in, resting her elbows on the table. Her voice drops. ¡°Does that include Jelly Boy?¡±


    From inside my backpack¡ªpropped safely on the chair beside me¡ªbzzzzt. A wet, satisfied gurgle follows. He¡¯s still digesting the complimentary bar peanuts I offered him. He seems to like them, too.


    I look down. The backpack wiggles. I look back up.


    ¡°Er, pretty much¡­¡± I say. ¡°And I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯ll work with Jelly Boy, but I¡¯m definitely going to try.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re going to spell-leech your own pet.¡± She sounds impressed. Or horrified. Hard to tell with Veronica. Her face always reads like she¡¯s considering whether or not to stab someone; an expression that lacks any sense of patience.


    Behind her, Clyde lines up another shot at the dartboard. The guy¡¯s got a level of focus like a retired sniper playing lawn darts at a family reunion. A soft thunk echoes every few seconds. He¡¯s not even missing the bullseye anymore. I wonder if he was always that good at darts, or if it was a byproduct of his access to the System.


    We¡¯d made it out of the arctic-like Realm with no issue after the Naked Sasquatch bailed us out.


    The Exit Gate was still where we left it. We¡¯d downed healing potions like we couldn¡¯t get enough of the stuff. Enough to smooth out the bruises and close the wounds. Most importantly, our Guild-issued coats were intact. No rips, no bloodstains. Nothing that should raise any obvious questions.


    Stepping through the Gate felt like crawling out of a freezer into a sauna. One second you¡¯re in otherworldly winter hellscape, the next you¡¯re standing in a sterilized temporary booth, blinking like you just got abducted by aliens and dropped in a DMV. We turned in our extracted material and went through the exit scans without issue.


    So, we did what all responsible, traumatized adventurers do after surviving a combat-heavy, reality-bending field op: we went to the bar.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think spell leeching is really the right way to describe it,¡± I say, lifting one finger like I¡¯m about to give a lecture. ¡°It¡¯s more like¡­ magical estate planning. A gift.¡±


    Veronica stares at me, unblinking. Clyde snorts from the dartboard.


    I sigh, lean back in my chair, and open my HUD with a flick of my eyes. A familiar notification pulses to life in my vision. I read the notification and Spell description again.


    You have learned a new Spell!


    [New Spell: Pact of the Novice Scribe]


    Pact of the Novice Scribe (Ritual Spell: Level 1)


    Casting Time: 1 minute


    Mana Cost: The Spell expends 100% of the User¡¯s Mana and will require an equal amount of Mana from the other participant in the Spell.


    Range: Touch


    Duration: Permanent


    Description: The spellcaster can enter into a one-time pact with a willing target Monster. The Monster will bestow a magical ability using a facsimile of its own innate abilities. The spellcaster will receive a single spell. The spell will be a Cantrip or a Level 1 Spell. The Spell received depends on the nature of the target Monster. This Spell may only target the same Monster once, even if such attempt is not successful. This spell will automatically fail if the targeted Monster is incompatible or does not have sufficient Mana. The target Monster does not need to know any Spells for this Spell to work.


    I minimize the screen and glance down at my backpack.


    It burps.


    Jelly Boy is technically a Monster. He¡¯d also probably be a willing participant in the Spell. It all begs the question: what kind of Spell would I receive from Jelly Boy? A consumption-based Spell? The ability to turn my bones to gelatin? The possibilities were endless. In any case, I look forward to finding out later.


    More importantly, with the Pact of the Novice Scribe spell under my belt, I successfully completed my Quest and avoided the fucking Decay debuff. The System seemed to really favor fucked up do-or-die timeline styled penalties and it was beginning to really get under my skin.


    QUEST UPDATE (The Fundamentals of Magic 101): You have satisfied the requirements of this Quest. Congratulations!


    You have taken steps on becoming the true embodiment of magic.


    You have avoided all penalties for failing to complete the Quest¡¯s primary Objective.


    QUEST UPDATE (The Fundamentals of Magic 101): You have successfully completed a Hidden Objective! You have obtained a method of dependably obtaining additional pieces of magical knowledge and spellcraft.


    REWARD: Magical Tome (Force Push).


    I summoned my Quest update message and read it one more time. Hidden Objectives? It¡¯s a fascinating new piece of information and how the System¡¯s Quests function. But I can¡¯t help to feel that it leaves the door open for Hidden Penalties. And that¡¯s a thought that brings me a lot of dread. More variables. More uncertainty. It¡¯s what I would refer to back in my finance job as a ¡®known unknown.¡¯ You could account for it, but not entirely.


    ¡°And,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s not the only Spell I obtained today.¡±


    Veronica almost spits out her beer. ¡°What?¡±


    Clyde stops his dart-throwing to turn around and lock eyes with me. ¡°The Quest gave you another Spell?¡±


    I just nod, taking a long pull of my beer.


    ¡°Anything good? Please tell me it¡¯s a healing spell. Or at least some form of magical armor,¡± he says. He picks up his glass of whiskey and takes a small sip.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s an offensive spell. It¡¯s called ¡®force push¡¯.¡±


    Clyde sighs. He sets down his glass and picks the darts back up. ¡°Well, if I walked out of today¡¯s Gate with any conclusion, it¡¯s that we need our Classes,¡± he says. He throws a dart.


    Thunk! Bullseye.


    ¡°Almost as much as we need a healer, but that can wait. Our little informal party will be more desirable if we have our Classes.¡± Another dart.


    Thunk! Bullseye, again.


    ¡°Would you guys be okay with using our Bronze tickets sooner than later?¡± He turns back towards me and Veronica. Without looking, he fires his third and last dart.


    Thunk! S~ea??h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°I¡¯m ready,¡± Veronica says. ¡°I know we mentioned Level 10 before, but I think we get our Classes and handle whatever the Gate throws at us. Unlike most people, we¡¯ll have each other. That has to be an advantage.¡±


    She looks to me with her dark eyes. Those eyes are dark steel, edged with a question: ¡°And you?¡±


    I swallow hard before downing the last of my beer. I¡¯ve been ready to tackle the Bronze Gate. But am I ready to put others in danger? Is it too soon for Veronica and Jelly Boy to enter the Gate?


    They did help protect your sorry ass during the Ritual.


    I lock onto Veronica¡¯s gaze. ¡°Let¡¯s do it.¡±


    Her expression softens to a wide grin. ¡°You know, confidence looks pretty good on you.¡±


    My cheeks catch on fire and I cough, breaking our gaze and averting my eyes to somewhere, anywhere else. They find the dartboard.


    All three darts are perfectly pinned to the bullseye.


    POV: The Imp


    Later that night¡­


    Chicago, Illinois


    The Imp stretches its leathery wings wide, riding a warm updraft rising from the cracked pavement below. The Chicago skyline looms around it like jagged teeth, the strange steel-and-glass towers glittering like a maw filled with luminescent fangs. These towers were different than the ones the Imp was used to perching atop in his own Realm. He had grown to like them.


    The night air is thick with the scent of humans. Lots of humans.


    Delicious.


    Below, the city pulses with noise. Car horns. Sirens. The dull, percussive thump of music echoing from bar patios. Somewhere, someone screams. Not the good kind of scream¡ªthe kind of screams his Master¡¯s victims emit¡ªbut one of those mundane, boring screams. Human drama of one kind or another.


    The Imp doesn¡¯t care.


    Its yellow eyes flick down. There she is. The Master¡¯s target.


    The woman steps out of her office building like she always does, heels clicking on the sidewalk like the ticking of a countdown. She¡¯s late, as usual. Overworked, looking exhausted. She adjusts her purse strap and turns right, toward the river, before making another turn. Past the little coffee shop. Then a left, over a bridge.


    The Imp has seen her do this every night for a week. Watching from rooftops. From gutters. From beneath cars. It knows her gait, the way she hums tunelessly under her breath, the pattern of her footsteps. Humans are nothing if not predictable. It¡¯s almost sad. Six days of the week, the woman doesn¡¯t deviate from the routine journey between the office building and her apartment.


    Tonight, though? Tonight is different.


    Tonight, she doesn¡¯t make it home.


    Tonight, she is transformed by violence.


    A sacrifice.


    A step in a greater design that her pathetic little meat-brain can¡¯t even begin to comprehend. In the end, she will be nothing but another stepping stone for the Master. The woman has access to the same source of power as the Master, but she¡¯s weak. No match for the Imp and his brethren.


    The Imp¡¯s talons grip the railing of a rooftop bar where drunk human mingle over cocktails, snapping pictures with their small devices. It sits beside a pigeon who doesn¡¯t acknowledge it. The bird can¡¯t see him. Neither can the humans. Most animals can¡¯t. Unless he wants them to.


    The Imp considers reaching over and snapping its neck just for the hell of it. Maybe taking the pigeon for a light snack? Yes, a little snack won¡¯t hurt. And the Master never lets them take a bite out of their victims. No matter how tasty they look¡­


    But no. Focus.


    He must be professional. That¡¯s what the Master always says. A professional, yes¡­


    The other Imps are already in position. Four of them clinging to the shadows of the space between the two buildings that the woman always uses as a short cut, approximately a block away from her apartment. They¡¯re pressed like nightmares into the cracks of the brick walls. Two more up on the fire escape, gnawing on something that used to be a raccoon. One hanging upside down from a rusted pipe, swaying silently in anticipation.


    Their Master watches through their eyes. He likes to watch. The link pulses in the back of the Imp¡¯s skull like a static-filled whisper, full of hunger and command. Tonight, the Master is particularly eager. It¡¯s our last night. Tomorrow, we leave this city, his Master had said.


    The signal comes.


    A surge of intent fills the Imp¡¯s mind.


    Begin.


    The Imp¡¯s eyes gleam. It stretches its wings again. Flaps once. The pigeon startles¡ªfinally sensing something, perhaps the air shifting, or the sudden drop in barometric pressure, or maybe just death¡¯s proximity.


    The Imp dives from the railing, talons extended, hunger gnawing at its belly.


    Tonight, the blood spills early. And the city doesn¡¯t even blink.

 Chapter 36. Class Sessions, Part I (Doing Your Homework)

    Chapter 36


    Class Sessions, Part I (Doing Your Homework)


    We finish our drinks. Clyde throws one last dart¡ªit hits the bullseye, of course¡ªand Veronica makes a face like she¡¯s only pretending not to be impressed. Jelly Boy is still in my bag, full of peanuts and absolutely content. I text the address to the group chat.


    ¡°This is where you opened your last Gate¡­ when you went solo?¡± Veronica asks, eyebrow arched.


    ¡°Yeah. Secluded. No cameras. Nothing really adjacent to the property,¡± I say. ¡°And I can confirm the owner won¡¯t be there when I hit the gym tomorrow.¡±


    Clyde finishes the last of his whiskey. ¡°Let¡¯s just hope this one doesn¡¯t involve squirrels again.¡±


    ¡°Or naked sasquatches,¡± Veronica adds.


    Clyde chuckles. ¡°Next time they¡¯ll take Joe in as one of their own. Like Dances with Wolves.¡±


    ¡°Dances with Sasquatches?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Exactly, Thunder Thighs,¡± Clyde says.


    Veronica snorts.


    Jelly Boy gurgles from the depths of my bag, offended. I just take it as a compliment. I do have pretty large legs, even relative to the rest of my System-enhanced body. ¡°Hey man, I worked damn hard to get these Thunder Thighs! I just wish the System hadn¡¯t taken such close notice of it too.¡±


    Clyde and Veronica both erupt in laughter.


    We part ways. Saying our goodbyes.


    ¡°Okay, I think this is the last thing I need to jot down,¡± I say, tongue out in focus as I scribble down another note.


    I glance back at my System interface and the Discussion Channel thread on ¡®bond¡¯ magic. There wasn¡¯t a lot I could easily find on warlock-based spells, but a few folks had Skills or similar abilities that allowed them to bond to creatures and receive certain benefits.


    I¡¯m sitting cross-legged on my bed, back against the wall, surrounded by scattered papers covered in my chicken scratch handwriting, my open spellbook, and a suspicious number of empty energy drink cans. The room looks like the aftermath of a grenade being launched into a middle of a Hogwarts frat party.


    Across from me, Jelly Boy wiggles impatiently on the comforter, jittering like a caffeinated toddler made of gelatin. He keeps glancing at my laptop, sitting on top of my desk. Probably because the new episode of The Traitors is starting in¡ªyep, exactly thirteen minutes.


    ¡°This won¡¯t take long,¡± I assure him, already reaching into my Inventory.


    He does not look convinced.


    I withdraw the Spell Tome. It appears in my hand with a shimmer of blue light and the smell of very old parchment. The cover is blank. The pages are thick and yellowed, bound by what looks suspiciously like stitched skin.


    Of course it is.


    When I examine the tome more closely, a notification window springs into my vision, hovering over the book.


    [Magical Tome: Mana (Force) Blast]


    A notification pops into view the moment I open it:


    This is a Magical Tome. Using this Tome will teach the User the Spell ¡®Mana (Force) Blast.¡¯ Using this Tome will expend the item.


    [Do you wish to use the item ¡®Magical Tome (Mana (Force) Blast)¡¯?]


    [Proceed?]


    [Yes / No]


    I mentally select ¡®yes.¡¯


    The Tome responds by snapping open with a gust of wind that smells faintly like ozone and cinnamon, its pages turning so fast they blur. A warm, golden light pours out, bright enough to wash out the corners of the room.


    Then it¡¯s gone. Just as quickly as it had happened.


    The book disintegrates midair, dissolving into a swarm of fireflies that swirl around me, the cinnamon-like smell grows stronger. They drift upward, flickering once, then vanish.


    ¡°Woah¡ª¡±


    The rush of knowledge fills my mind. It¡¯s a¡­ strange sensation that¡¯s hard to describe. Like someone plugged a USB drive into the meat socket of my brain and uploaded Force Blast.exe directly into my frontal lobe. I know the Spell and its details instantly, as though I always had, but have no recollection of practicing the spell, reading the Spell description. Nothing.


    It¡¯s disorienting. Like waking up and suddenly being fluent in Portuguese. There is knowledge beyond the rudimentary description of the Spell¡¯s components too. My head swims with concepts I didn¡¯t know five minutes ago¡ªmana channeling vectors, kinetic discharge thresholds, effective impact radius. I understand it.


    Still, I mentally click through my System menus and pull up the Spell¡¯s description.


    [Spell: Mana (Force) Blast]


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Mana (Force) Blast (Evocation Spell, Level 1)


    Casting Time: None


    Mana Cost: 6 MP


    Range: 120 feet


    Duration: Instant


    Description: The Spellcaster is capable of firing beam of pure force-based energy at a single target within range. The force blast has an impact of three to six inches in diameter, depending on the distance traveled and hits targets with a force approximately equal to the force required to move an average adult human (and weaker at further distances).


    I blink, then look at Jelly Boy.


    He¡¯s already got the remote in one pseudopod, hovering over the ¡°Watch Now¡± button.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say. ¡°You win. I¡¯ll let you watch your murder show. But I¡¯ll have you know, I can now telekinetically shove people!¡± If I use my wand to lower the mana cost, and then only once, I silently add. My low mana continues to haunt me.


    He chirps in victory and slaps the remote. Dramatic music floods the room, accompanied by the voice of Alan Cumming.


    I lean back and let myself smile.


    ¡°But after this episode, we¡¯re going to use my new Spell,¡± I add.


    He ignores me, fully engrossed in his television show.


    Jelly Boy is glued to the TV. Figuratively¡­Mostly.


    His new favorite show is back on, and he¡¯s quivering with anticipation like a lime Jell-O mold at a metal concert. One pseudopod is clutching the remote. Another dips into a half-empty bag of sour cream and onion chips. Don¡¯t ask me how he¡¯s holding chips. I¡¯ve stopped trying to understand the biology of snack consumption for semi-sentient goo.


    Wait, where the hell did he get those chips from?


    Meanwhile, I¡¯m only half-watching. The other half of me¡ªthe stressed, overcaffeinated part¡ªis swimming through the chaos that is the System¡¯s Discussion Channels.


    Some guy in Toronto bonded with a murder crow. Now he can echolocate like a bat and cough up bones. He says it¡¯s a feature, not a bug. Another user claims their bond with a fire gecko gave them heat resistance and an immunity to bad salsa. The forum argued for three days about whether the salsa part was metaphorical.


    There are others that seem far more serious in nature. Bond with a hawk as your familiar? Boom, you¡¯ve got eagle vision. Team up with a cat? Say hello to darkvision.


    But what about a slime?


    Jelly Boy isn¡¯t exactly a textbook familiar. And, even then, what I¡¯m about to attempt isn¡¯t even similar to the testimonials others have shared. I was unable to find anything specific to warlock classes or pact magic. But it was analogous enough.


    What could I gain from bonding with a creature like Jelly Boy?


    Acid spit? The ability to consume spells? A spell that turns all my bones into jelly?


    The possibilities are... weird.


    The episode ends. Some dude got backstabbed by his best friend and Jelly Boy lets out a squelchy noise that sounds suspiciously like, ¡°I knew it.¡± He wriggles back to the center of the bed and gives me the look. That ¡°Okay, dad, time for science and emotional vulnerability¡± look.


    I scoop him up with both hands and plop him down in front of me. His semi-transparent body glistens in the glow of the room lights, faint hints of snack debris still swirling inside him like cosmic dust in gelatinous nebulae.


    He looks up at me with big, innocent googly eyes.


    ¡°You ready, buddy?¡± I ask.


    Jelly Boy jiggles. Affirmative.


    ¡°Okay, then.¡±


    I extend a hand. He extends a pseudopod.


    Our limbs meet. Goo touches skin.


    And I cast the spell.


    [Pact of the Novice Scribe]


    It¡¯s like being punched in the chest by a marshmallow made of light. A glowing aura erupts around both of us, golden and warm, like the inside of a dream you don¡¯t want to wake up from. Firefly motes swirl again, dancing in the air, spinning between us. My heart thunders, not with fear, but with the weird, giddy anticipation of knowing something big is about to happen. Before I know it the minute as just about passed.


    Jelly Boy squeaks, but it¡¯s not pain¡ªit¡¯s excitement. Pure, childish glee. The light grows, then fades, dimming down to a flicker. sea??h th§× NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Ritual complete! Pact of the Novice Scribe: Successful.


    [New Spell: Slimy Shield]


    Slimy Shield (Abjuration Spell: Level 1)


    Casting Time: Instant


    Mana Cost: 4 MP


    Range: Self


    Duration: 30 seconds


    Description: Summon a disk of ooze approximately 12 inches in diameter that provides additional protection via a physical warding effect. The disk of ooze has all the qualities of a common slime. When struck with physical force, the spell creates a splatter effect with the slime.


    He jiggles smugly.


    I grin.


    ¡°Hell yes.¡± I think.


    I don¡¯t know what awaits in that Bronze Gate, but now I can summon a shield of goo. That¡¯s good, right?


    And I¡¯ve got a slime bestie who watches reality TV and eats bar snacks.


    We are not a normal team. We are not a smart team (speaking for myself).


    But we will absolutely be ready.


    ¡°Good!¡­ Good! Enough. Let¡¯s start our cooldown,¡± Jordan shouts, her voice sharp through the headset, like a commander giving orders in a war against our own cardiovascular systems.


    I step away from the punching bag, soaked. Sweat slicks my shirt to my body like a second, swampier skin. My arms are trembling. My legs are threatening to unionize. I¡¯m pretty sure my lungs are trying to sue me for reckless endangerment. Cross-training, I realize, is killer.


    I collapse onto the floor like a felled tree, limbs sprawling out in a puddle of personal regret. Around me, the other students groan and lower themselves to the mat like they¡¯ve just survived a small plane crash. Jordan transitions smoothly into the cooldown stretches, leading us through hip openers and hamstring torture poses like she wasn¡¯t just annihilating us with a thirty-minute cardio murder session.


    Tomorrow is my first Jiu Jitsu class. Because of course I decided one combat sport wasn¡¯t enough. And the day after that? Bronze Gate time. Which is fine. It¡¯s fine. Totally manageable. Just your standard, possibly lethal dungeon dive with interdimensional consequences. I¡¯m starting to get nervous, but also¡­ excited? It¡¯s hard to explain.


    Earlier today, Jelly Boy and I had a little... science experiment. We tested his spell absorption capabilities. Verdict? The little guy is great at sucking up anything purely substance-based. The Light cantrip disappeared into him like a marshmallow into a campfire. Same with my Slimy Shield¡ªwhich, yeah, I guess is kind of poetic, considering he is slime. When he absorbed the shield, I think he got slightly bigger during the remaining duration of the shield. If I could spam the shield, could he absorb them all and become a kaiju slime? The thought was tempting, to say the least.


    But Wizard¡¯s Hand? Jelly Boy didn¡¯t have as much luck absorbing the Spell. Lefty and Righty handled him like a ball of pasta dough. Jelly Boy jiggled like he was offended. Construct spells, especially pure force or raw mana types, seem to be difficult for him to absorb.


    ¡°Great job, class,¡± Jordan says as we finish the last stretch, her headset clicking off. She steps behind the desk, sweatless, glowing with that frustrating post-workout aura of a minor deity. I have to admit, I¡¯m very impressed.


    I grab my stuff and shuffle over to her desk like a teenager asking their crush to prom. Which, if we¡¯re being honest, this kind of is.


    ¡°Hey¡­ uh¡­ do you maybe have a few minutes?¡± I ask, swallowing my nerves and my dignity. ¡°I wanted to know if you could show me some boxing stuff I can work on at home?¡±


    Jordan raises an eyebrow. ¡°Getting serious after just one class? . . . Or are you trying to flirt with me?¡±


    I laugh nervously. ¡°Not flirting, I promise¡­ But I totally would, I¡­ Er, nevermind!¡± I clear my throat. What the hell Joe? I settle for giving a little shrug, scratching the back of my neck. ¡°I want to get better at fighting. Like once I start a new hobby¡­ I kind of get a little obsessed. Ya know?¡±


    She smiles at that. Not a polite, ¡®please stop talking to me¡¯ smile. A real one. The kind that briefly makes me forget I¡¯m covered in sweat and probably smell like a gym sock left in a microwave.


    ¡°Sure thing,¡± she says. ¡°Let¡¯s make you dangerous.¡± She gives me a sly wink.

 Chapter 37. Class Sessions, Part II (Teacher’s Pet)

    Chapter 37


    Class Sessions, Part II (Teacher''s Pet)


    ¡°Guard up,¡± Jordan says, circling me with the precision of a raptor deciding whether or not I¡¯m prey or project.


    I¡¯m standing in the middle of the boxing ring. My hands are still wrapped, but I¡¯m not wearing any gloves. I do as she says¡ªelbows in, fists up by my chin. I feel like I¡¯m trying to look like I know what I¡¯m doing while simultaneously preparing for someone to punch me directly in the gut. The stance is exactly as Jordan showed me before.


    ¡°Good. Now jab¡­ cross¡­ jab.¡± She demonstrates the motion. Her punches slice through the air like a viper strike.


    I throw the first jab. It¡¯s not elegant. But Jordan nods anyway. I follow up with a quicker cross-and-jab.


    ¡°Now, bob and weave.¡±


    I duck, swing low to the side, then come back up like I¡¯m dodging imaginary volleys. We go again. Jab, cross, jab¡ªbob and weave. Over and over.


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s change it up,¡± she says, stepping around me again like a predator that smells inexperience. ¡°Double jab. Cross. Slip, slip.¡±


    I do it. One jab, two, then a cross¡ªstep off-line and duck twice. My body is starting to get into it. My breathing? Not so much. I¡¯m already huffing like I just ran a marathon made of stairs and regret.


    ¡°Jab, cross, uppercut, slip front.¡±


    Now there¡¯s an uppercut. I throw it too wide and she quickly, but gently corrects my form. I try the combo again. Then again. I¡¯m getting the rhythm now.


    ¡°Final combo,¡± she says. ¡°Jab, cross, hook, bob and weave.¡±


    I run through it. Again. Again. Muscles aching. Shoulders burning. But something about the movement is satisfying in a way I didn¡¯t expect. Like I¡¯m actually shaping myself into something new. Something sharper. Stronger. It¡¯s similar to the satisfaction of hitting the weightroom.


    Jordan claps her hands. ¡°Alright! You can work those in with some jump rope and that should be a good place to start on solo exercises. Wanna run a couple partner drills?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± I say, way too fast. My voice cracks like I¡¯m thirteen again and asking someone to slow dance.


    Jordan raises an eyebrow.


    ¡°Uh, I mean¡­ if that¡¯s alright with you,¡± I add, trying to reel in the excitement like it¡¯s a loose kite in a thunderstorm. God dammit, man, I think, silently chastising myself for being so lame and over-eager. But the thought of getting better at boxing is thrilling. Particularly if the lessons translate to Righty and Lefty, like I suspect them to.


    She chuckles. It¡¯s not mocking. It¡¯s¡­ warm. Approving. ¡°Put your gloves back on, Killer.¡±


    I grab the beat-up rental gloves I used earlier. They absolute reek, the acrid smell of old sweat mixing with the sterile smell of disinfectant to result in an absolutely disgusting entanglement. But hey, they get the job done. Jordan pulls out a pair of focus mitts and motions for me to step up.


    Jordan runs through a series of drills. The first she calls an ¡®eight-count drill.¡¯ The goal is to throw a series of eight punches in quick succession, aiming to land each punch as accurately as possible. Once she runs through that drill a few times, she mixes in a body shot and counter drill. This one involves her throwing a body shot to my side that I¡¯m expected to block with my elbow before countering with a 1-2 combo.


    We go again. And again. My arms are starting to feel like hot taffy. She moves fast, switching angles ever so slightly. Enough to really test the accuracy of my punches. I¡¯m dripping sweat, and somewhere deep in my lungs, a small part of me is wondering if I¡¯ll ever stop breathing like a panicked vacuum cleaner.


    ¡°Stop,¡± she says suddenly. ¡°You¡¯re not breathing right.¡±


    I blink at her. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ what?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not focusing on your breath,¡± she says, stepping closer, mitts resting at her sides. ¡°It¡¯s a common mistake. Breathing comes so naturally to us we forget it¡¯s part of the movement. Exhale when you throw a punch. Every time. It¡¯ll keep you from locking up. Right now you¡¯re holding your breath, and it¡¯s killing your power.¡±


    I nod, panting. ¡°Thanks. That actually¡­ yeah. That makes sense. Like in lifting. Exhale on the upward push of a motion. Explode.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± she says, flashing a grin. ¡°You¡¯ve got good instincts. You just need to breathe.¡±


    Easy for her to say. She¡¯s standing there like a poster for functional strength. I¡¯m one more combo away from puddling onto the floor.


    Still¡­ I square up again.


    I breathe in. I jab, exhaling in a short, quick breath. Another jab. Exhale.


    Jordan runs me through another four rounds of the drill before she feels merciful and tells me it¡¯s time to call it quits. ¡°I need to prep for my next class,¡± she says. ¡°Great job!¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I sputter, desperately reaching for where I left my water bottle on the gym¡¯s floor.


    After signing up for a class the following week, I grab my gym bag from one of the lockers and say goodbye as I leave the gym.


    ¡°See ya again soon,¡± Jordan cheerfully calls after me as the door bell jingles in my wake.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Saturday.


    It arrives like a boot to the ribs.


    I roll out of bed at 5:05 A.M., peel myself off the sheets like a slice of deli ham, and stumble into my gym gear with the grace of a tranquilized panda. By 5:40, I¡¯m at Diesel Athletic Club, hammering away at the treadmill incline setting like a gambling degenerate at a slot machine.


    The gym is quiet at this hour. Silent, except for the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of my feet hitting rubber and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Outside, the world is still dark, the sky hanging low and slate-colored, like the world forgot to turn itself on yet.


    Forty minutes on incline. No music. Just me, my thoughts, and a growing resentment for the concept of cardiovascular health. This is, I have to admit, a whole lot easier than boxing.


    My mind runs through the different possible scenarios that me and the party may face on the other side of the Bronze Gate. From what people were willing to share on the Discussion Channels, Bronze Gates simply dropped you off in a slightly elevated section of the same Realms Gates typically brought people. Once there, the System would give you a Class and a Quest. Simple. I spent most of last night looking up as much as I could about the different Realms. From Candy Land to The Veld.


    I finish drenched in a fresh sweat glaze, the kind that makes you feel simultaneously accomplished and like a used dishrag. It¡¯s one of the best feelings in the world. It¡¯s technically my rest day from lifting¡ªwhich is weird, because nothing about my body feels rested. But whatever. The real goal today isn¡¯t gains.


    It¡¯s information.


    And an appointment to probably get my ass kicked¡­ We¡¯ll see.


    As I towel off and make my way toward the exit, I spot Steve, the gym¡¯s owner, rearranging some kettlebells near the front desk. Steve looks like someone squeezed a linebacker into a car dealership polo. He¡¯s got a permanent tan and the kind of thick, manicured beard that makes you think he owns several Yeti coolers and possibly an ATV. Despite looking a bit like a jackass, I know he¡¯s actually a pretty chill, and nice guy.


    ¡°Yo, Steve,¡± I call out.


    He looks up and grins. ¡°What¡¯s up, Joe?¡±


    ¡°Just getting in some low-intensity cardio before my first jiu jitsu lesson¡± I say. ¡°You up to anything this weekend?¡±


    ¡°Jiu jitsu?... That like karate?¡± Steve stands, brushing chalk dust off his hands. ¡°Heading out to Hocking Hills with the missus. Got a cabin this time. Couple days of hiking, drinking, and pretending we know how to build a fire without a lighter.¡±


    I laugh, casual. ¡°Sounds awesome. Enjoy, man.¡± I wave goodbye on my way out.


    I try to contain my excitement. He¡¯ll be out of town this weekend.


    Which means his junkyard will be unoccupied. Perfect. We were in the clear for our Bronze Ticket dungeon trip tomorrow night. Just good old-fashioned interdimensional spelunking without the risk of Steve strolling in and finding a glowing portal in his backyard.


    I slap the door bar and step into the morning chill. The air outside still tastes like night. Dew clings to everything like shy ghosts.


    I pull out my phone, thumb in the address for Lakewood Jiu Jitsu Academy, and drop into my car. Time to roll around on the ground a bit! I crank the ignition and peel off.


    I push open the door to the Lakewood Jiu Jitsu Academy and step inside, the bell above the frame giving a tired jingle.


    Kyle¡¯s down on one knee, a bottle of disinfectant spray in one hand and a rag in the other. He¡¯s short with dark, curly hair, thick beard, cauliflower ears, lean as a butcher¡¯s knife. He looks up, eyes widening in genuine surprise.


    ¡°You really came back,¡± he says. His shock melts away into a smile.


    ¡°I had to hold you to your word,¡± I say, walking forward and sticking out a hand. His grip is strong. The kind of strong that doesn¡¯t need to brag about it.


    He nods toward the back room. ¡°I¡¯ve got a few spare gi. Should be something in your size. Go ahead and change, and we¡¯ll get started.¡±


    Ten minutes later, I step out wearing a navy blue gi. The material is stiffer than I imagined. The belt hangs loose and awkward around my waist.


    ¡°Nice fit,¡± Kyle says, walking me to the center of the mat. ¡°Let¡¯s start with some stretching.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good,¡± I say, nodding.


    Kyle walks me through a series of stretches, largely focused on the calves and shoulders. ¡°Most common injuries for beginners come to these areas while rolling,¡± he explains.


    ¡°Makes sense to me,¡± I reply


    As we wrap up the last bit of stretches, he squats down next to me, casual. ¡°Hey, I know it¡¯s a little personal, but you mind sharing your Physical stats? Helps me get a sense of what you¡¯re working with and how much I can push you from a physical standpoint.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Sure. Uh¡­ 19 Strength. 12 Dex. 8 Constitution.¡±


    Kyle blinks. ¡°Wow. And what did you say your Level was?¡±


    ¡°11¡­ Oh, wait!... Er, sorry. Those numbers were with gear. Base stats are 19, 3, and 8.¡±


    He nods appreciatively. ¡°Still, with a Strength stat like that, you could apply to a Guild as an entry-level associate. My Guildmaster would probably welcome a Warrior with those numbers.¡±


    Warrior, I think. I bit my tongue and stifle a laugh.


    ¡°Right,¡± I say instead. ¡°So,¡± I say, ¡°what¡¯s next?¡±


    Kyle begins by showing me the fundamentals¡ªshrimping, bridging, shoulder rolls¡ªand each movement feels like trying to drive a go-kart through wet cement. My gi is too stiff, my belt won¡¯t stay tied, and I¡¯m sweating like someone who knows they¡¯re about to be a cautionary tale in a very painful YouTube compilation. Idiot tries BJJ for the first time!


    Shrimping, by the way, sounds adorable. It is not.


    It¡¯s sliding backward on your ass using your heels and hips like a deranged crab. It burns my abs, roasts my thighs, and makes me question all my life choices that led to this very moment. But Kyle¡¯s patient. Steady. Like a stone Buddha statue with a low-key sadistic streak.


    Once I stop flopping around like a dying fish, he nods in approval. ¡°Good. You¡¯re catching on quicker than most. Let¡¯s try a few rolls.¡±


    We do shoulder rolls, forward rolls, and a few bridge-to-shrimp-to-roll transitions until I¡¯m dizzy, soaked in sweat, and wondering if Jelly Boy would like to trade bodies for a day. Being a slime sounds easier. I could probably get into the Real Housewives thing.


    Then he claps. ¡°Alright. Ready to spar?¡±


    Yes. Yes! Hell yes! This is what I came here for.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I start to say, then freeze. ¡°Wait. Uh¡­ if you don¡¯t mind me asking. What are your Level and stats?¡±


    Kyle grins. ¡°Smart man. No worries. I¡¯m Level 16. 22 Strength, 26 Dexterity, 15 Constitution. But I¡¯ll take it sufficiently easy on you, I promise.¡± sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Oh.


    I¡¯m in danger, aren¡¯t I?


    He¡¯s a goddamn monk-type class or some shit, I know it.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say as confidently as possible. ¡°Let¡¯s do it.¡±


    And then he proceeds to absolutely ruin me.


    He takes it really easy on me. That much is obvious. But it doesn¡¯t stop me from having my ass kicked. Strength score be damned.


    It¡¯s like being attacked by a hurricane made of spider monkeys and clinical efficiency. One second I¡¯m trying to hold position, the next I¡¯m flying, flailing, and flopping. I get my arm wrenched into angles that should only exist in digital animation. Twice. I¡¯m too stubborn to tap, and twice I get dangerously close to needing a sling¡ªor a new arm altogether.


    Kyle¡¯s good about it, though. Every time I go down¡ªand I go down a lot¡ªhe walks me through it. ¡°Don¡¯t reach like that when you¡¯re in bottom guard.¡± Or: ¡°Try hooking your leg here next time.¡±


    My ego gets beat up harder than my body, and my body is very bruised.


    By the time we collapse for cool down stretches, I¡¯m sweating from my soul. I¡¯ve discovered new muscles, and most of them are screaming. But somehow, I feel incredible. Like I just got steamrolled by a freight train made of wisdom and now I¡¯m spiritually aligned with the pain.


    I look over at Kyle. ¡°Would you¡­ be willing to spar again sometime?¡±


    Kyle grabs a towel and wipes his face. ¡°Until I¡¯m able to get an actual System-enhanced gym up and running, I¡¯m happy to help you train. Maybe eventually, you¡¯ll be an actual sparring partner.¡±


    I laugh.


    It¡¯s a ragged, bruised-lung kind of laugh, but it¡¯s real.

 Chapter 38. Class Sessions, Part III (Open Enrollment)

    Chapter 38


    Class Sessions, Part III (Open Enrollment)


    POV: Clyde Richmond


    The dreams always start the same.


    Soft orange light barely bleeding through a dusty, grime-covered window, slanting across stained wallpaper and the silhouette of my old futon mattress, a crumpled blanket cocooned around a younger version of me. Then the smell hits¡ªsour malt liquor, weed, something faint and feral lingering under it all. That¡¯s how I know I¡¯m back.


    Back in that busted-up government subsidized apartment off W. 25th in Ohio City, where the floors were soft from water damage and the air always held a tension you could pluck like a guitar string. No one in that damned building was happy. We were all just trying to get by.


    I was eight. Maybe nine. Skinny as hell. Elbows like knife points and eyes that didn¡¯t blink when they should¡¯ve. I¡¯d wake up with the sun, because sleep didn¡¯t do much but make time go faster¡ªand back then, I didn¡¯t want it to. Even though time meant hunger.


    Time, as one of the old head¡¯s had told me at some point, was money. And even eight-year-old me knew that shit was a scare resource at home.


    So, I¡¯d grab my sidekick¡ªa snapped-off golf club shaft I¡¯d pulled out of a dumpster behind a thrift store. The handle was cracked (I fixed that with duct tape). The end? Fractured metal, wicked and jagged.


    I¡¯d slip out of the apartment barefoot, navigating the chipped tile and creaky wood like a ninja. Past the drugged-out silence of apartment doors that never quite latched. Had to be careful not to wake mom¡­ If she was home. Down the stairs, across the parking lot, over to Morningstar¡¯s¡ªthe bar on the corner that turned into a sand volleyball haven in the summer.


    That¡¯s where the gold was.


    Not real gold. No. I couldn¡¯t be so lucky. I had to settle for aluminum.


    Empty beer cans. Crushed and discarded like fallen soldiers on the field of battle. Aluminum relics of other people¡¯s good times and likely regrets that morning. Saturday mornings were best¡ªafter Friday night leagues, when drunk thirtysomethings came to Morningstar¡¯s in droves. They¡¯d leave cans by the hundreds stuffed into overflowing garbage bins, and scattered across the patchy grass by the fence.


    I¡¯d collect them with my busted club¡ªstabbing each can like I was spear-fishing. Shove them into a big, black garbage bag until the plastic stretched and moaned.


    Ten bucks on a good haul. Ten bucks could get me a sleeve of bologna, some powdered donuts, a bottle of pop, and still leave plenty more to ration out over a week. That wasn¡¯t just sustenance¡ªthat was strategy. That was survival turned into art. Summer meant no school. No school meant no free school lunches. No school lunches meant I was going to sleep hungry or knocking on my cousin¡¯s door to see if he could whip me up a bologna sandwich on wonder bread.


    And on Sundays? I had church.


    Say what you want about God, but the adults at church gave out free coffee and stale donuts after every service, and to little Clyde, they tasted like Michelin-star cuisine.


    Something about the way the sugar turned to syrup in your mouth, how the edges were hard but the inside still kinda doughy. They were always a bit stale and painfully sweet. Even now¡ªgrown and that apartment now far, far behind me¡ªI can¡¯t bite into a fresh one without wishing it was just a little staler. I¡¯d go as far to say I prefer stale donuts.


    People think it¡¯s funny. The stale donut thing.


    I let them laugh. I don¡¯t explain it. I don¡¯t say that every bite tastes like nostalgic, familiar safety. Like a morning when I knew I wouldn¡¯t be hungry. Or hurt.


    The dreams always end before the church part, though.


    Usually, they fade just as I¡¯m dragging that full bag to the recycling center, sweat crusting my forehead, sandals flopping on asphalt still cool from the night. Just a kid and a bag of cans, trying to get by.


    I wake up with the echo of aluminum clinking in my ears and the metallic sting of hope in my throat. The clock on my bedside table reads 12:02 P.M. I let myself sleep in. It¡¯s the big day after all¡­ My Bronze Gate. Another opportunity to try and scrounge up a little something for myself. Just like those empty cans back at Morningstar¡¯s.


    POV: Veronica Sampietro


    ¡°...and I told him, ¡®Bro, if your DPS can¡¯t handle a few Level 4 goblins in under 30 seconds, you¡¯re dead weight.¡¯ Can you believe the gall of on some of these chumps? The Exploration Team said if it wasn¡¯t for me helping clear the path, they wouldn¡¯t have completed that extra dungeon level. Yeeaahh, it was pretty bad ass¡­!¡±


    The words tumble out of his mouth like verbal diarrhea, each syllable just a little louder, a little more nasal than the last. I¡¯m ninety percent sure the table next to us is contemplating homicide. Or maybe I¡¯m projecting. You¡¯re probably projecting, Veronica.


    This is what I get for trying to date in the System Era. It¡¯s my first date using the System Match app¡ªa new dating app exclusive to registered System-enhanced persons. And here I thought having access to the System might make men a little less insufferable. Turns out, it¡¯s the opposite actually!... Who would have guessed?


    The little bistro in Little Italy is cute, honestly. String lights twinkling above, candlelight flickering and filling the small dining room with a cozy ambiance. The air smells like warm garlic knots, fried calamari and my grandma¡¯s red sauce. There¡¯s a violinist in the corner playing some gentle Paganini piece. It¡¯s a really nice spot for a first date. All wasted on a man whose idea of charisma is reciting his base stats like it¡¯s a birthright.


    He¡¯s smiling. At himself. Again.


    I don¡¯t even remember his name. Gavin?... Wait, no, it¡¯s Grayson. Definitely Grayson.


    I sip my wine¡ªa pleasant enough Pinot Noir¡ªand smile with my mouth but not my eyes. I¡¯ve been told I have a great fake smile. Corporate-honed. Razor-edged. It¡¯s a skill, really. A skill I was planning on using during on campus interviews to land a high-paying law firm job. But law school was a thing of the past at this point thanks to one exploding Con Law professor and not-yet-enough therapy sessions.


    He¡¯s saying something now about his Guild application. Apparently, Ohio¡¯s finally handed out all its private Guild licenses and now the Great and Powerful Gavin¡ªer, Grayson¡ªis awaiting his invitation to participate in the official Guild assessment. He says this with a straight face, like he¡¯s being knighted.


    My phone buzzes. I glance down. 7:42 p.m. Ugh. Still a couple of hours until I meet the others at the junkyard.


    He snaps for the waiter. Like literally, snaps.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll take a pistachio gelato and an espresso,¡± he tells the waiter, then turns to me with that smirk I¡¯ve grown to hate over the course of the past hour or so dinner. ¡°Just the espresso for her¡­ She doesn¡¯t need the sweets.¡±


    Oh. Oh hell no.


    That¡¯s the line. The moment. The crystallized, diamond-cut epiphany that I¡¯m done here.


    I stand. Smooth. Graceful. Like a queen exiting a peasant¡¯s hut.


    Fake smile engaged. ¡°Heading to the ladies¡¯ room,¡± I purr. ¡°Be right back.¡±


    He winks at me. Winks. Like we¡¯re sharing a secret. The only secret we¡¯re sharing is that he¡¯s about to be ghosted so hard his dignity is about to end up on a Missing Person billboard.


    I walk past the waiter. He raises an eyebrow. I jerk my chin toward the table.


    ¡°Respect,¡± he says quietly, flashing me a thumbs up.


    Out into the Cleveland night I go. The air smells like oil and cigars. It¡¯s getting a bit chilly out, but my blood is running hot, like it always does after a clean getaway.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    God, that felt good.


    I check the time again. Guess I¡¯ll go actually enjoy the evening.


    Maybe grab a real dessert¡­ Change into different clothes. Maybe just sit somewhere and let the city breathe around me.


    One thing¡¯s for sure: Tonight, I¡¯m choosing me.


    POV: Joseph Sullivan


    I arrived to the junkyard early, not wanting the others to be the first ones there.


    I sit behind the wheel, engine off. Jelly Boy is in the passenger seat, vibrating in sync with the bassline of the radio. No real shape to him right now¡ªjust an excited pile of blue goo with two vaguely spherical eyes floating in the mix. Every time the beat drops, he does this thing where he bubbles upward, then splashes back into himself. Like a sentient lava lamp on cocaine. It¡¯s pretty amusing.


    A pair of headlights slices across my rearview, and I glance up.


    Veronica.


    She pulls in smooth, controlled. I look through my passenger-side window at her. Hair pulled up, leather jacket zipped, windows rolled up against the chill. She cuts the engine, waves through the windshield, then glances down into her lap, the pale light of her phone illuminating her face. A second later, mine buzzes.


    >Veronica: A bit nippy out. Going to wait for Clyde to pull up.


    I tap the little heart icon next to the message. I don¡¯t trust myself to text at the moment. I¡¯m too wired. Muscles thrumming. Blood hot. Tonight¡¯s the night we crack open our Bronze Gate.


    Tonight¡¯s the night I get my official Class.


    Jelly Boy slurps up the last of a discarded energy drink can he pulled from the car floor and burps through his membrane. His version of a war cry¡­ I think.


    Another set of headlights appears. Clyde.


    He steps out before the engine of his car even stops rumbling. Hoodie, jeans, worn boots. Eyes scanning the place with a clear amount of skepticism. Like he¡¯s outlining all of the potential issues the location might present to us. I like that about him. He¡¯s a problem-solver.


    We all get out of our cars, and for a second, we just stand there. Three humans and one slimy ball of chaos, all staring at the rust-bitten gate like it¡¯s going to sprout fangs and eat us.


    ¡°Yo,¡± Clyde says.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Veronica replies, brushing stray strands of hair out of her face. She doesn¡¯t look nervous. She looks ready. Still, I can¡¯t help but sense all of our nerves are firing to the max right now.


    I nod. Jelly Boy bounces next to me, vibrating, almost humming, some tune only he knows. He¡¯s practically glowing.


    With a click and a groan, I unlock the gate and swing it open.


    The junkyard yawns in front of us like the open mouth of a beast.


    I feel like something¡¯s watching us.


    I don¡¯t say it. But I feel it. It¡¯s a prickle along the back of my neck, a weight just behind my eyes. Like there¡¯s a presence out here in the dark, breathing slow and silent, waiting for us to turn our backs.


    The wind kicks up, rustling the skeletal trees along the yard¡¯s perimeter. A low, bone-dry hiss. The clatter of dead leaves scraping across hoodless car frames. A bird takes off s, its wings loud in the silence, like a wet slap to the face.


    I turn a slow circle, scanning the yard.


    If Steve did finally install cameras, they¡¯re well hidden. But I know this feeling. It¡¯s the same one I had the night I exited the Graveyard Castle Gate. The same goddamn hair-raising, limb-tightening sense that something was watching me.


    Still, I see nothing. Just rust and shadows.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± I say, more to myself than the others.


    We move.


    I lead us past the various pieces of broken-down, rust-covered junk. Finally, we reach the covered pavilion I used for covering my last Gate. ¡°Here,¡± I say. Pointing to the empty wall.


    Clyde¡¯s already pulling out his ticket. Veronica too. Jelly Boy wiggles excitedly, then spits out his own like it¡¯s a cough drop. I reach down and pick it up. It¡¯s warm and slick with slime, like it¡¯s been hugged by a jellyfish all day. Jelly Boy extends a pseudopod and I hand him his ticket. I also withdraw my own ticket.


    We stand in a rough circle. Four tickets. Four losers. One, eerily quiet junkyard.


    Clyde glances around. ¡°Ready?¡±


    Veronica exhales hard through her nose. ¡°As I¡¯ll ever be.¡±


    I nod, heart hammering so loud it might crack a rib. ¡°Now or never.¡±


    ¡°On the count of three,¡± Clyde says. ¡°One¡­¡±


    Veronica joins in. ¡°Two¡­¡±


    ¡°Three,¡± we all say at once. I mentally activate my ticket.


    [Bronze Gate Ticket]


    [This Bronze Gate Ticket has been enhanced with the ¡®Combine¡¯ attribute.] S§×arch* The ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Activate ¡®Combine¡¯ Enhancement?


    I mentally slam ¡®yes.¡¯


    The parchment in each of our hands ignites with pure magically energy. Glowing golden dust peels off the surface like sun-flaked paint, drifting up, curling, congealing in midair. The particles dance in lazy spirals, gathering into a rough circular shape. Then the outline sharpens¡ªbronze-colored lines etched by lightning.


    Before we know it, the Gate has fully formed. Ten feet high, shaped like a cathedral window, rimmed in bronze light, crackling and humming like a power line in the rain. The space inside the frame is filled with swirling bronze energy¡ªliquid light shot through with sparks.


    We look at each other.


    Jelly Boy wobbles and makes a noise like a dial-up modem having a religious experience.


    I step forward.


    The air near the portal hums. It¡¯s thick and charged and tastes like static and pennies. My fingers tingle. My toes too. My heart drops into my guts and keeps falling.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Veronica says. She steps forward, taking the place at my side. Our shoulders brush for just a moment before she vanishes into the Gate.


    I take a slow breath. Then, I walk forward, into the bronze light. The moment I cross the threshold, something grabs me¡ªnot physically, but deep within my core. Like a hook behind my sternum yanking upward.


    Then the world goes white.


    The light dies. It just snaps off, like the bulb of existence burned out mid-thought.


    I try to scream, but I have no mouth. No lungs. No goddamn body.


    There¡¯s nothing. Just a floating, disembodied me, adrift in the kind of pure black that feels thick. Like I¡¯m suspended in warm oil, suffocating in the absence of everything. My brain reaches for sensation¡ªsight, sound, touch¡ªbut all I get is the heavy stillness of a sensory deprivation tank.


    And then¡ªping.


    A soft, pulsing sensation cuts through the void like a blade made of chill.


    A blue-tinted screen floats into my field of view. Like it¡¯s always been there. Like I¡¯m remembering it instead of seeing it for the first time.


    Welcome, Participant, to the God Game¡¯s Class Assignment and Selection Process.


    Processing Data Collected...


    Analyzing Performance Metrics...


    Compiling Participant Profile and Base Statistics...


    Preparing Class Selection Interface...


    Ping!


    The black is swallowed by soft cerulean light. A UI slides in like it¡¯s on rails, clean and humming with low-frequency power. Three rectangular windows unfurl across my vision¡ªeach glowing with gold borders, pulsing slightly, almost like they¡¯re breathing.


    At the top, a new message appears:


    Please Proceed with Class Selection.


    I take in the options presented to me. I would be surprised, but luckily knew that I would have some level of choice, thanks to details shared on the Discussion Channels.


    CLASS OPTION 1: Thousand-Palm Monk


    [Description: You are a master of speed and violence, utilizing your arcane prowess to become an embodiment of destruction itself.]


    Natural Stat Growth: +1 Strength, +3 Dexterity, +2 Constitution, +1 Spirit, +20 Health, +3 Mana, +10 Stamina.


    Class Attribute 1: Awakening of the Asura.


    [Description: You Wizard¡¯s Hand Spell will be replaced with the Skill ¡®Asura Arms.¡¯ When you activate this Skill, you summon four Wizard¡¯s Hands (Source: Strength and Dexterity). These arms will fight as an extension of your own self.]


    Class Attribute 2: Avatar of Imbuement


    [Description: You are capable of imbuing your Asura Arms with magical properties, including, without limitation, elemental affinities. Upon Class Selection, you will have two imbuements. Imbuements can be equipped and unequipped using your User menus.]


    This option seems like the System offering me a clear chance to course correct. Pivot from a spellcaster discipline into a hand-to-hand based martial Class. I wonder if my decision to take up boxing and jiu jitsu impacted the System¡¯s decision to offer this Class as one of my options. The natural stat growth is well-balanced on the Physical Stats, and I could still use my point allotment to assign points to Strength and my other stats.


    I¡¯m curious how this will impact Lefty and Righty. The subtle personality and feel of the cantrip is something I¡¯ve grown accustomed to. Will this overwrite the fundamental nature of the spell, or simply add a second pair to join me in combat?


    It¡¯s definitely tempting. But before I decide, I need to weigh my other options¡­


    CLASS OPTION 2: Menagerie Warlock


    [Description: You gain power through your bonds with monsters, siphoning off some of their energy and, eventually, exerting your control over them.]


    Natural Stat Growth: +3 Constitution, +1 Intelligence, +3 Willpower, +10 Health, +10 Mana, +10 Stamina.


    Class Attribute 1: Link with Monster


    [Description: You gain Skills that allow you to connect with various monsters. As you develop a stronger connection with these monsters, you will gain various Skills, Spells and Traits from the monsters. As you grow stronger, you will be able to connect with a both a larger number of monsters and stronger monsters.]


    Class Attribute 2: Control Monster


    [Description: You gain the Spell ¡®Control Monster.¡¯ Once your bond with a connected monster is sufficient in strength, you can exert control over the monster, having fully tamed it.]


    Something about this second option instantly makes me feel dirty and gross. The only monster I would be able to currently bond with is Jelly Boy, and the thought of ¡®controlling¡¯ him is fucking disgusting. As much as I love Pokemon, I¡¯m not sure how I feel about this Class.


    Part of me wants to consider it. I can forego using the ¡®Control Monster¡¯ Spell and focus instead of having an army of friendly creatures at my disposal, all while gaining a variety of Spells and Skills from those bonds. The versatility is seemingly limitless.


    CLASS OPTION 3: Muscle Wizard


    Description: Unlike other wizards, you mana channels have fused with you muscular-skeletal structure, and your magic is now powered by your very body.


    Inherent Stat Growth: +3 Strength, +1 Dexterity, +2 Constitution, +1 Willpower, +10 Health, +30 Stamina (current Mana will be converted into Stamina).


    Class Attribute 1: Body Focus


    [Description: You are no longer able to use traditional Spell focuses. Instead, your body has become your spell focus, allowing you to unfettered access to your Spellcasting abilities. You channel and expend Stamina in order to cast Spells. You gain the Trait ¡®Body Focus.¡¯]


    Class Attribute 2: Channel Might


    [Description: Your Spell Level Cap is set to Level 2. All Spells now have the ¡®Strength¡¯ Source. You gain the following Trait: ¡®Flexible Casting.¡¯ You gain the following Skill: ¡®No Pain, No Gain.¡¯ This Skill allows the spellcaster to ¡®overclock¡¯ Spells, expending additional Stamina and Health in order to increase a Spell¡¯s raw power.]


    I don¡¯t laugh. I cackle. Somewhere in the void, the UI jitters like it''s trying not to be offended.


    I scan all three options one more time and then, with a swift mental command (no mis-clicks this time, asshole), I make my selection.

 Chapter 39. Beyond the Bronze Horizon, Part I

    Chapter 39


    Beyond the Bronze Horizon, Part I


    I make my selection and¡ª


    FWOOM!


    The selection barely finishes confirming before the void yanks itself inside out.


    A tidal wave of bright white light, floods my vision, washing over whatever¡¯s left of my concept of ¡°up,¡± ¡°down,¡± or ¡°hey, maybe I¡¯m not dead.¡± A rushing sensation, like I¡¯m being sucked through a pipe heading straight into the great beyond.


    Just as suddenly as I was flash banged by the System, the light fades and with it the strange sensationless state of being. I¡¯m met by a gentle breeze. It¡¯s soft. Warm. Smells like cut grass. Grass? I can hear it shifting in the breeze. I feel the blades tickling my ankles and calves.


    I open my eyes and stumble forward, feet squishing into lush, dark green grass. I blink away the residual light, and suddenly the world resolves into an oddly familiar setting.


    Entering Dead World #43.


    I¡¯m standing in a wide-ass field. A sea of greens and golds stretch out around me, as far as I can see. Sunlight kisses my face. It feels good. I¡¯m instantly absorbed by the serenity of the scene. It¡¯s like I¡¯ve been picked up and dropped into a Bob Ross wet dream. The peace is interrupted by another System message:


    THE CARDINAL HAND SEES YOU.


    Well¡­ shit. That can¡¯t be good.


    Reading the message causes cold dread to spiderweb itself throughout my guts. It reads like a warning¡­ Or a threat.


    ¡°Wait a second,¡± I mumble. ¡°Dead World 43¡­¡±


    I knew that sounded familiar! My mind adjusts, orienting itself and pulling on threads of memories from months ago. Dead World #43 is the same Realm I entered during my first Gate¡­ It¡¯s Jelly Boy¡¯s home Realm. And I had received a very similar foreboding message just before using my Return Key to summon the Exit Gate.


    Great, Awesome. Love this for me, I think.


    I spin in a slow circle. Veronica. No Clyde. No squishy, bouncing Jelly Boy trying to lick electricity poles.


    Am I alone?


    Did the Combine Enhancement for our Bronze Tickets not actually work after all? Were we sent to different Realms? Perhaps each person¡¯s Bronze Gate is meant to take them back to the same Realm they visited on their first Gate? Who was to say? I don¡¯t recall seeing any mention of that pattern on the Discussion Channels.


    Or did the Bronze Gate Tickets work as we intended, and we were all brought to the same Realm. Just scattered to the four corners of this god-forsaken Dead World.


    I clap my hands together in a sad attempt to summon purpose.


    ¡°You just need to deal with the cards you¡¯ve been dealt,¡± I say, trying to do my best to channel Dad.


    Pop.


    The air next to me shudders, ripples like hot grease, and bam¡ªVeronica materializes out of thin goddamn reality, coming into being in a shower of pixelated light.


    She lands with a practiced step, eyes already scanning the horizon like she''s expecting trouble. I hope I looked half as cool when I materialized into this Realm, but let¡¯s be real. I know I came stumbling in like a newborn deer that just woke up from a long nap.


    Before I can say anything to her, I¡¯m greeted by another pop.


    Clyde appears to my left, half-crouched like he just got teleported in mid-squat. He looks around, then immediately straightens. His expression? About 10% relief, 20% suspicion, and 70% pure what-the-hell-is-this-place. He looks around, taking Veronica and I in, along with the rest of our surroundings.


    Finally, and to my immense relief, Jelly Boy joins us. Instead of a pop, his coming into being is heralded by a wet, squelching noise¡ªlike the sputtering sound a ketchup bottle makes when it coughs up the last of its contents. A brief flash of light and then there he is, a basketball-sized ball of blue ooze floating in the air near my face for a breath before he plops down onto the grass beside my feet.


    He looks side-to-side curiously before looking up at me, his eyes closing in joy, accompanied by a fanfare of vibrations. I bend down and give him a nice little pat. ¡°Welcome home, buddy,¡± I whisper.


    ¡°Careful crouching down like that,¡± says Veronica. ¡°With those jorts, something¡¯s bound to pop out!¡±


    I glance up at her, prepared for a quippy response, but am startled by the storm of System notifications that attack my vision. I stumble back, falling straight on my ass with a ¡°Oomph!¡±


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    Veronica busts out in laughter, covering her mouth while pointing a finger at me.


    I mentally karate chop the interface closed with one swipe of thought.


    Clyde finally decides to speak up. ¡°Get a bunch of notifications too?... OK if we take a beat? Review the notifications and then discuss next steps?¡±


    Veronica responds with a curt nod. Jelly Boy is bouncing softly in place, but his typically black eyes are reflecting a subtle blue light like they do when he¡¯s up late sitting in front of my laptop streaming one of his shows. He didn¡¯t even hesitate to begin working through his notifications.


    ¡°Makes sense to me,¡± I say. I remain seated as I begin to open and swipe through the System-generated text boxes.


    Party Synchronization: Complete.


    Veronica Sampietro has joined your Party!


    Clyde Richmond has joined your Party!


    [Party functions are available in the Party Menu.]


    I close out of this notification. I¡¯m excited to see what functionality the System might offer to an actual Party and make a mental note to check it our when I have a little more time. I know that Exploration Teams during Gate Jobs utilize the Party function all the time. But I never really spent time searching for information about it. Interesting that the System automatically placed us into a Party upon entering the Gate.


    New Class Obtained: Muscle Mage!


    [See User Menus for More Information]


    I exhale a slow, shuddering breath reading this message. I have an official, System-awarded Class¡­! And t think that a couple of weeks ago I was content using my System-enhanced body to make gains in the gym. I¡¯m assuming Clyde and Veronica are exploring the finer details of their new Classes too. I wonder what Classes they opted for?


    I need to check out my new Stats!


    User Profile:


    Name: Joseph Sullivan (Participant No. 4,432,444)


    Race: Human


    Discipline: Spellcaster


    Class: Muscle Mage


    Level: 11


    Health Points (HP): 80 [Current: 80]


    Mana Points (MP): 0 [Current: 0]


    Stamina: 115 [Current: 115]


    0 MP?... I run a hand down my face. What the hell did I do?... Clearly not read the description closely enough. I didn¡¯t realize I would be losing all of my Mana in exchange for channeling magic using my muscles.


    I try not to let my frustration get the best of me.


    I move on to my Statistics.


    User Statistics:


    PHYSICAL STATISTICS:


    Strength: 22


    Dexterity: 13 [+9 from Equipped Items]


    Constitution: 10


    MAGICAL STATISTICS:


    Intelligence: 3


    Willpower: 9 [+6 from Equipped Items]


    Spirit: 1


    Wow. Now, that is something to behold! It¡¯s a pleasant surprise to see an immediate impact from the Natural Stat Growth of my new Class. But it¡¯s immediately apparent why it isn¡¯t wise to level up too much before gaining your Class: that Stat Growth absolutely laps a measly +2 stat points on each level up.


    A 22 in Strength? Hell yeah¡­


    I mentally swipe to my Trait and Skill menus. At a glance, neither offers too much additional information beyond the basic attribute descriptions I was provided at Class Selection.


    TRAIT: Body Focus.


    [Description: The user¡¯s body becomes their arcane focus, allowing them to cast spells without the use of using an attuned focus. How the user focuses their body may impact the casting process of Spells. Stamina is now used instead of Mana for casting Spells. All Spell costs remain otherwise unchanged.]


    The sensation that follows reminds me of when I used the Spell Tome to learn Mana (Force) Blast. Like a USB was plugged into the front of my skull¡ªinstant understanding flooding my synapses. Different body movements and poses flip through my mind, each one attached to one of the Spells I know.


    The movement for Wizard¡¯s Hand? Turning my torso slightly to the side while flexing both arms in front of me¡ªalmost like a fighting pose¡ªfists closed. Hm¡­ That¡¯s interesting. I have a sneaking suspicion that causes me to think about the pose for Mana (Force) Blast. Arms opened wide, slightly bent to flex the biceps, and wrists turned slightly inward to pump the forearms a bit.


    Wait a second¡­! Is that a Crucifix pose?... I think back to the pose for Wizard¡¯s Hand. That¡¯s definitely a Mantis pose. These can¡¯t seriously be bodybuilding poses!


    TRAIT: Flexible Casting.


    [Description: The User has the ability to modify the nature of their spellcraft. At the current level, this Trait has altered all Spells cast by the User to use the Strength score as its Source. Beginning at Level 15, the User will occasionally be able to modify a single Spell upon level up.]


    Okay, now we¡¯re cooking! Who needs Enhance Spell potions from Quests when I¡¯ll eventually receive free opportunities to modify my Spells. While the ability to use my body as a spell focus is both a blessing and a curse, the optionality and customization this Trait provides me will allow me to design and tailor the kind of Spellcaster I am. It¡¯s freaking awesome!


    I check out my new Skill, next.


    Skill: No Pain, No Gain


    [Description: The User is capable of creating an ¡®Overclock¡¯ effect when casting a Spell. This Skill can be activated in combination with casting a Spell and has no cooldown time. The User may sacrifice a percentage (in units of 1%) of their Stamina in order to increase the power of the Spell. For every 1% of Stamina sacrificed, the User will also lose 0.50% Health.]


    Hm, okay¡­ Definitely not anything new, but the percentages are a helpful detail to keep in mind. Given the disparity between my Stamina and Health, it will be something I¡¯ll need to keep in mind. Don¡¯t need a math mistake zeroing out my Health and eliminating the protection it provides.


    I exit my own Stat windows and before I fully back out of the Menu interface, I pause. My eyes catch the Ally Menu. I mentally open the menu and select ¡®Jelly Boy¡¯ to see his details. His selected Class is¡­ Not what I expected. S~ea??h the N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Class: Arcane Juggler


    [Description: A rogue-like prankster Class focused on taking an enemy¡¯s magic and turning it against them. Arcane Jugglers are mischief-makers incarnate.]


    Before I can check out his Stats, as well as any new Traits or Skills he may have gained, a new message window slams into my vision.


    New Quest!: Beyond the Bronze Horizon.


    Description: Obtain a Dragon¡¯s monster core and bring it to the Old Gobblin Factory.


    Reward: You will receive a Return Key (x1).


    Did that just say dragon? As in a giant fuck-off, fire-breathing lizard?


    You¡¯ve got to be fucking kidding me! I groan, falling onto my back and closing my eyes. How was this even going to be possible?


    ¡°Huh¡­¡± Veronica says. ¡°Can the System make spelling errors?¡±


    ¡°Did that just say gobblin?¡± says Clyde.

 Chapter 40. Beyond the Bronze Horizon, Part II

    Chapter 40


    Beyond the Bronze Horizon, Part II


    I sit up in the grass and press my fingers against the bridge of my nose like I¡¯m trying to shove the information back into my skull. Or maybe squeeze out the part of my brain that thought this was a good idea.


    ¡°It¡¯s not a spelling error,¡± I mutter, still squinting at the translucent blue screen hovering in front of my face.


    Clyde blinks, raises an eyebrow. ¡°Why do you say that?¡±


    I let out a breath. ¡°Because I¡¯ve been here before¡­ This is the same Realm I ended up in during my first Gate. And yeah. I actually met gobblins¡ªwith two freakin¡¯ B¡¯s. They ran a factory. Pretty sure it¡¯s the same one the Quest just name-dropped.¡±


    Veronica lets out a low whistle, arms crossed, one brow arched like she¡¯s halfway between impressed and annoyed. ¡°Interesting. You guys think Bronze Gates always take Participants back to their first Realm, and our combined ticket just... piggybacked onto yours?¡±


    ¡°I actually had a similar thought when we first landed here,¡± I say. ¡°The gobblins ran the factory and the whole scene was like The Jungle meets Middle-earth.¡±


    ¡°That sounds... terrible,¡± Veronica says, dry as an overcooked pancake. ¡°I hate this place already.¡±


    Clyde¡¯s eyes flick through his interface. ¡°Okay, but can we talk about the Quest for a second? Unless dragons are the Realm¡¯s version of yeti squirrels, I¡¯m guessing the System ramped the difficulty to match the three of us?¡±


    Blurp! ¡­ Bzzzt!


    Jelly Boy makes an annoyed warble. It sounds like if a kazoo got drunk and tried to pick a fight with Siri.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± Clyde amends. ¡°Four of us.¡±


    I pat Jelly Boy¡¯s gooey head. ¡°Or maybe you guys just saved my ass from soloing a dragon with nothing but some cantrips and a pair of booty shorts?¡±


    Veronica snorts.


    Clyde doesn¡¯t seem half as amused. He scratches at his chin like he¡¯s thinking three moves ahead, a strategy guide already unfolding between his ears. ¡°I think we find high ground, get somewhere he can better assess our surroundings,¡± he says.


    That¡¯s when it hits me. ¡°Oh! Hang on.¡±


    I open my Inventory. I had never fully cleared my Inventory, and thank goodness too. Still sitting there in one of the first several slots, is the Map that I recovered off of one of the gobblins.


    Jackpot!


    The scroll materializes in my hand in a flash of bright pixels, old parchment with aggressive cross-hatching snaking across it in black ink, accompanied by slanted handwritten notes in a language I don¡¯t understand. One corner is stained with what I hope is jam and not gobblin bodily fluid.


    ¡°I actually got this map the last time I visited the factory,¡± I say, grinning.


    Jelly Boy makes a triumphant squelch.


    ¡°And you were dumb enough to drop it into your Inventory and forget about it?¡± asks Veronica.


    ¡°One hundred percent!¡±


    The unfurled map pulses in my hand like it¡¯s suddenly developed a heartbeat. That¡¯s¡­ Interesting.


    It begins to glow¡ªsoft gold veins spider-webbing across the parchment like molten tree roots. Before I can make a snarky comment about radioactive gobblin ink, the damn thing lets out a flash of brilliant light, practically blinding me.


    PFFFSSHT!


    Tiny flecks of light burst upward, smacking me in the face like someone just slapped me with a handful of sea spray, surprisingly cold and wet. A tingle slithers up the back of my skull and nests somewhere behind my eyes. A soft chime echoes inside my skull cavity.


    You have unlocked the [Map] Menu. Available maps of the surrounding areas can be accessed via the [Map] Menu.


    Well, that¡¯s convenient. ¡°Er, guys¡­ I just unlocked something.¡±


    ¡°Define ¡®something,¡¯¡± says Clyde.


    I wave the map at him. ¡°Map menu.¡±


    ¡°Can I see it?¡± he asks, already reaching forward for the piece of parchment.


    ¡°Sure,¡± I say, handing him the map. ¡°But be careful, the thing spits on you.¡±


    Clyde takes the map, eyes it for a heartbeat, and bam¡ªlight flashes, flecks of light particles fly into his face, dissolving into his skin. He¡¯s just staring at the map in his hands. A beat passes. Then he grins. ¡°That¡¯s useful¡­ Check it out.¡±


    He passes the map to Veronica, who regards it with a little more hesitation.


    I mentally summon my System interface and pull up my menu options. I select the shiny new ¡®Map¡¯ option. A new window of gray and black lines blossoms in front of me, sleek and smooth. It¡¯s a minimalist overlay that faintly resembles what I would anticipate for a digital map¡­ If someone forgot to fill in all the useful bits.


    A blinking white arrow marks my location. We¡¯re dead center in a big fat sea of gray.


    I squint, then mentally ¡®pinch¡¯ the view and drag the map around. Slowly, things come into view. A forest to the southeast. And beneath it a yellow dot, neatly labeled with white text in legible English: The Factory.


    ¡°Well guys, our map is broken,¡± I announce. ¡°There¡¯s a whole lot of gray nothing between us and the factory.¡±


    Veronica lets out a huh, staring into space but I know she¡¯s examining the same digital map I have open in front of me. ¡°I think the map is just incomplete. I assume because you obtained it from the factory, it only details the surrounding area¡­ Looks like we were dropped off a pretty good distance away from the factory.¡±


    ¡°Going straight to the factory won¡¯t do us any good anyhow,¡± says Clyde. ¡°Not without a dragon¡¯s core, at least.¡±


    He has a point. ¡°So, what next?¡± I ask.


    Jelly Boy make a burbling noise like a gurgling toilet. I choose to interpret it as, ¡°Yeah, anyone have any bright ideas?¡±


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Clyde speaks up. ¡°I think these lines on the map are marking elevation. It will help us find higher ground. We can find our bearings and then decide in which direction we should strike out.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say, dismissing the map and flexing my fingers like I just finished doing mental push-ups. ¡°What could go wrong? Lead the way!¡±


    ¡°First,¡± says Veronica. ¡°Let¡¯s equip our armor and stuff. I think we¡¯ve been sitting here vulnerable for longer than I¡¯m happy to admit.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ Good idea!¡± I say. In a practiced mental motion, I equip my full suite of armor and items. In a flash of light, my pointy wizard¡¯s hat and blue cape appear on my body, together with my lumberjack boots. I¡¯m sure I look ridiculous adding those to my ensemble of jorts and the baggy, faded black Fleetwood Mac tee shirt.


    Veronica equips her breastplate and has her hammer in her hands. Clyde, similarly, has the familiar pauldron on his shoulder and pistol strapped at his hip. Jelly Boy just bounces around near my feet.


    ¡°And with that,¡± I announce, ¡°We¡¯re now ready to go. Now, what could go wrong?¡±


    Clyde and Veronica both groan. ¡°Are you trying to jynx us?¡± asks Veronica.


    We set off, Clyde leading the way.


    We hike.


    And by hike, I mean trudge across an endless sea of green boredom. The sun hangs lazy in the sky. There doesn¡¯t seem to be an end to the serene fields. Where the hell were we expected to find a dragon in this place?


    ¡°So,¡± I say, more to fill the space than anything else, ¡°Classes. We all picked one, right? Let¡¯s hear ¡®em. I can start.¡±


    I explain my Class, and its various abilities.


    ¡°A glass cannon, then,¡± says Clyde. ¡°And since you¡¯ll now be burning Stamina, and possible Health, even more reason we could use a bona fide healer.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re really limited to Level 2 Spells?¡± asks Veronica.


    ¡°Think so,¡± I say, shrugging.


    ¡°If your Wizard¡¯s Hand cantrip is any indication, I wouldn¡¯t take that for as much of a limiter as it might sound,¡± says Clyde. It¡¯s a great point, and largely why I selected the Class. With a Strength score as high as mine (and only growing), my Spells¡ªeven being low-leveled¡ªcould be very, very dangerous. And there¡¯s still the question of how my Spells behave. Lefty and Righty seem to improve and scale alongside me. There¡¯s still so much I need to understand, I think.


    Clyde adjusts his pauldron and raises a hand like we¡¯re in a classroom and not just four friends trudging through a field.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m a Big Game Hunter.¡±


    There¡¯s a dramatic pause, like we¡¯re supposed to applaud. We don¡¯t.


    Clyde explains. The Big Game Hunter Class improves his ability to analyze enemies and pinpoint their vulnerabilities and weak points. Additionally, it offers him access to a growing array of debuff abilities.


    ¡°I can stack debuffs and eventually, as a battle drags on, take down behemoth-sized enemies. My analysis-related Skills will let me know which debuffs¡ªand combo of debuffs¡ªwill be most effective. And I can do this all from a relative distance, using my firearm,¡± he explains.


    I nod, impressed. ¡°So, like a fantasy sniper with a PhD in psychological and biological warfare. Terrifying. I love it!¡±


    ¡°Exactly. But right now, I¡¯m kind of... useless. Well, not entirely useless, but definitely in more of a support role for you two. At least until I really gain access to those debuffs.¡± S~ea??h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Still,¡± says Veronica, ¡°sounds like the kind of Class that snowballs. You¡¯ll be a menace with enough time.¡±


    Clyde shrugs. ¡°That¡¯s the hope.¡±


    Veronica, who has been casually walking like she¡¯s done this a thousand times in full plate, glances back over her shoulder.


    ¡°I picked Iron Maiden.¡±


    Iron Maiden, to no one¡¯s surprise, is a Tank Class. It allows Veronica to enhance her own armor, build shields using magic, and turn damage she takes into increased power for her own attacks.


    Clyde and I both nod. Yeah. No surprises there. She¡¯s built like someone who eats iron nails for breakfast and tells the monster horde to go screw itself.


    ¡°I thought the Skills that will allow me to generate shield constructs would be particularly helpful. We might not have a healer yet, but I might be able to make sure we can all stay standing for a little while longer if things get dicey.¡±


    ¡°And explain the damage redirection one more time?¡± asks Clyde.


    Her Skill¡ªI didn¡¯t quite catch the name¡ªallows her to lessen the damage she takes for a short period of time, and then redirect in the form of force damage the amount that she reduced the attacks by.


    ¡°Wait,¡± I say, squinting, ¡°so you¡¯re telling me you¡¯re a masochistic magical pinball machine?¡±


    Veronica smirks. ¡°If the pinball was made of rage and the flippers were vengeance? ¡­ Yes.¡±


    ¡°Hot,¡± Clyde mutters under his breath.


    That gets a laugh from both Veronica and I. I glance at Jelly Boy, who¡¯s been bouncing in erratic zigzags through tufts of grass like a caffeinated balloon animal.


    We¡¯ve been walking for maybe an hour. Maybe two. Time¡¯s starting to feel more like a suggestion and less like a fixed concept. Crazy how much not being able to constantly glance at your phone does that to you. There¡¯s a haze hanging over the distant hills that looks like someone half-erased reality and then got bored of the cleanup.


    My feet crunch against dry grass and the wind keeps whispering like it knows secrets I¡¯m not supposed to. The worst part?


    The Cardinal Hand.


    Yeah. That little notification? It hasn''t stopped worming its way through the meat of my brain since it appeared in my interface upon arrival. I try not to look around like I''m expecting to see a giant glove reaching down from the clouds, but... I absolutely am. Like what the fuck could the Cardinal Hand even be?


    I slow my pace a little, let my thoughts turn into words before they eat me alive.


    ¡°Hey, uh¡­ random question,¡± I say, casual-like. ¡°Did either of you get a weird message when you landed here?¡±


    Veronica glances over, suspicious. ¡°Other than the Realm announcement? No.¡±


    Clyde snorts. ¡°Just the normal message¡­ Why?¡±


    They both stop walking. Their shared concern blooms like a bruise across their faces. I feel it too¡ªsour and creeping, like something furry skittering down your spine in the dark.


    I exhale and scratch the back of my neck. ¡°Right, so, uh¡­ I did.¡±


    A pause. Clyde squints. ¡°Yeah?¡±


    I stare out across the field for a second, the grass swaying in waves like it¡¯s breathing. Then I turn back to them.


    ¡°It said: ¡®THE CARDINAL HAND SEES YOU.¡¯¡±


    More silence. Not the good kind.


    ¡°What the hell does that mean?¡± Veronica asks, voice low, eyes scanning the horizon like the message might¡¯ve been accompanied by a stalking presence.


    I shrug, but it¡¯s the helpless kind. The ¡®please don¡¯t shoot the messenger¡¯ kind.


    ¡°No idea. But I¡¯ve seen it before,¡± I say. ¡°The last time I was here¡ªin this Realm¡ªI got something similar. It was right before I used my Return Key to get back home. And now it¡¯s back.¡±


    Veronica mutters a curse under her breath.


    Clyde runs a hand down his face. ¡°Any idea what the Cardinal Hand is? Person? Monster?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± I sigh. ¡°But I don¡¯t like the fact that it sees me, and the System wants me to know.¡±


    Veronica puts a hand on my shoulder. Firm. Grounding. ¡°Well¡­ thanks for telling us. Even if there¡¯s nothing we can do about it right now. Better we know.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Clyde adds, quieter this time. ¡°I appreciate you not keeping that to yourself.¡±


    ¡°Not really into the whole ¡®withholding doom for dramatic tension¡¯ thing,¡± I say, trying to sound nonchalant. ¡°If some cosmic palm is about to come down out of no where and crush me, figured you guys should have front-row seats and not be entirely surprised.¡±


    Jelly Boy burbles uncertainly from where he¡¯s rolling through a patch of wildflowers, and for a second, I swear the blooms lean away from him like they¡¯re afraid.


    The moment passes and we continue our hike, though I can tell my news is sitting heavy on all of our minds.


    We crest the next hill like a bunch of tourists in a horror movie: sweaty, hopeful, and with absolutely no idea what¡¯s in store for us.


    Honest-to-god farmland stretches out in the distance. Crops. Fences. A big wooden barn. A two-story house not much further. Beyond the farm there¡¯s even a road. A dirt path cutting through the emerald fields beyond, snaking through scattered fields of wheat.


    ¡°Would you look at that,¡± Clyde mutters. ¡°We¡¯ve got potential civilization.¡±


    I just grunt, still taking it all in.


    ¡°Let¡¯s check it out,¡± he says, already halfway down the hill like the words summoned a magnet in his shoes.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Veronica adds, one brow raised. ¡°And let¡¯s hope whoever we meet there is friendly and not, y¡¯know...¡±


    Jelly Boy buzzes in what I swear is a cautious hum. His wobbly little body jiggles with every bounce as he catches up.


    The hill slopes gently at first, then sharply. My boots slip on a patch of loose dirt, and I almost faceplant, but a firm hand grabs my shoulder.


    Veronica, of course. ¡°Careful,¡± she says. ¡°We haven¡¯t even fought the dragon yet. Don¡¯t need you taken out by your own bad footing.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I mutter, embarrassed but also kinda glad she¡¯s here.


    As we descend, I notice the farmland isn¡¯t just quaint¡ªit¡¯s off. The wheat is too tall, too golden. It shimmers in the breeze like polished brass. The scarecrow in the middle of one field isn¡¯t wearing old clothes. It¡¯s wearing armor. Rusted, but still definitely once-functional plate mail, complete with a helmet that looks like it was gnawed on.


    And it¡¯s not hanging limp like a good scarecrow should.


    Nope. It¡¯s standing there.


    At attention.


    Watching us.


    ¡°Oh,¡± I say, voice a little higher than intended. ¡°Cool scarecrow.¡±


    Veronica glances at it. Her eyes narrow. ¡°Let¡¯s not go that way?¡±


    ¡°Agreed,¡± Clyde calls back, already halfway to the farmhouse. ¡°Maybe we can find away around it?¡±


    ¡°And what if whatever that is,¡± I jerk my head towards the not-scarecrow scarecrow, ¡°has already spotted us?¡±


    ¡°Optimism, Joseph,¡± Veronica says dryly. ¡°Try it sometime.¡±


    I do.


    It dies immediately.

 Chapter 41. Grain & Flesh

    Chapter 41


    Grain & Flesh


    We begin to round the outer edge of the wheat field, keen on not approaching the strange scarecrow. I can¡¯t shake the feeling that I¡¯m being watched. I take a peak in the armored scarecrow¡¯s direction and it¡¯s still there: standing guard on its perch, above its golden domain.


    Wait a second¡­


    It¡¯s turned now. Only slightly. Facing us straight on, despite the fact that it¡¯s not possible. Well, it shouldn¡¯t be possible. It¡¯s creepy, sure, and there¡¯s a strong modern day muscle-man part of my pride that says it¡¯s just a trick of the eye. My inner pride attempts to smother the primal alarms sounding in my brain.


    Did I see its head tilt just now? Or was that the wind?


    ¡°Er¡­ Guys,¡± I choke out.


    Clyde slows his pace and angles left, toward a narrow strip of packed dirt winding around the field. Veronica follows without a word, her Warhammer firmly in her grip, at the ready. I guess they didn¡¯t hear me.


    I start to follow, but something in me¡ªsomething primal, something dumb and filled with bad decisions¡ªmakes me glance back again. And just in time too.


    Fwoosh!


    The scarecrow lets go of its post, stepping down and falling into the sea of wheat. Its metal boots hit the dirt in the wheat field and vanish beneath the golden stalks like a shark slipping into the ocean.


    The others freeze and spin towards the wheat field. Apparently that was enough to get their attention.


    The wheat rustles. The scarecrow is moving towards us, and fast.


    ¡°Oh shit,¡± Clyde says. His pistol is in his hand almost faster than I can register.


    ¡°That¡¯s not good,¡± I add helpfully.


    ¡°Definitely not good,¡± Veronica agrees.


    Jelly Boy emits a low, warbling blorp like he¡¯s trying to become invisible through the power of wishful thinking.


    The wheat parts in a V-shape behind us as the armored scarecrow¡ªor whatever the fuck it actually is¡ªzeroes in, slicing a path through the crop with surgical precision. Each rustle grows louder, angrier. Closer.


    ¡°I hate wheat,¡± I say, and then I drop into my stance. I grit my teeth, throw my arms in front of me, and flex my biceps like my high school yearbook photo depends on it. I¡¯m surprised when the Wizard¡¯s Hand cantrip in my hotlist dimly lights up, like it¡¯s online and ready to fire. That¡¯s a new feature, I note, before mentally slamming on the trigger twice.


    A hum starts low in my belly and climbs, buzzing through my bones. My entire body thrums like a tuning fork. I feel it in my molars. My eyes water. Something deep within me clicks. My Stamina bar appears, upper right corner of my HUD. A solid green line. It dips¡ªjust a bit¡ªas power pours out of me.


    The air pops. Two clouds of silvery mist burst to either side of me with the urgency of soda cans shaken to hell and cracked open. Lefty and Righty materialize, my bicep bros from beyond the veil, floating hands made of shimmering mana-forged muscle and chaos.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get to work, boys,¡± I whisper.


    Lefty and Righty assist each other in cracking their phantom knuckles before taking a ready fighting stance. I take a few cautious steps back, trying to create some more distance between myself and the nightmare surging towards us.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Veronica mutters, voice tightening. ¡°What the hell¡¯s the plan here?¡±


    ¡°Step one,¡± Clyde says. ¡°Don¡¯t die.¡±


    ¡°Step two?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Hit it ¡®til it stops moving,¡± he says.


    I¡¯m assuming there¡¯s no step three.


    The wall of wheat explodes as the armored figure emerges. It¡¯s close enough to trigger a System message.


    New Monster Identified: Grain and Flesh Golem, Level 12


    Classification: Simple Golem


    The thing is worse up close. It¡¯s stitched together like Frankenstein was working overtime and drunk¡­ and a hillbilly. Its bulk. Its skin has the waxy, too-tight look of a rotisserie chicken that¡¯s been resurrected and placed in one of those gas station hot dog rollers to preserve its life. Patches of that disgusting sun-baked skin interlock with what appears to be pieces of burlap. Black stitches hold it all together. Its eyes burn with a radioactive green energy.


    Clyde doesn¡¯t wait.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Bang! Bang!


    One bullet pings off the thing¡¯s shoulder armor, denting the rusting armor. The other buries itself in the Golem¡¯s neck with a wet chunk, sending bits of thread and cartilage flying like zombie party confetti.


    It doesn¡¯t flinch. Its glowing green eyes remain trained on us¡­ on me.


    It just slowly, awkwardly lifts one hand and points a gnarled finger at the ground. The finger is unnervingly human, dirt beneath its yellowed fingernails.


    The earth at its feet cracks. A spiral of green lightning zips through the dirt.


    Fwoomp! S§×arch* The ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    A pitchfork rises up from the earth. It¡¯s big. Longer than any practical farm tool should be. Blackened wood shaft, three long, gleaming tines, each hooked like a claw. The golem grabs it and spins it like a seasoned martial artist. It levels the weapon at us, and I swear to god the thing¡¯s eyes twinkle with the hint of a smile.


    Unfortunately for it, it¡¯s all a little too theatrical. Too slow, mother fucker!


    ¡°GET HIM, BOYS!¡± I roar.


    Lefty and Righty detonate forward in twin bursts of silvery vapor trails. They hit the golem like twin rockets.


    SMACK.


    Righty goes for the jaw¡ªthere¡¯s a satisfying crack when its knuckles slam into the thing¡¯s helmt and the Golem¡¯s head snaps sideways.


    WHUMP.


    Lefty uppercuts straight into the ribcage. There''s an audible splorch, like someone punching a jack-o-lantern full of cold oatmeal. Bits of hay, corn kernels and something that looks suspiciously like a lung slurp out of the wound.


    The Golem stumbles.


    I don¡¯t know if it can feel pain. But it sure as hell at registers the damage.


    It lets out this low, gurgling moan that sounds like a dying tractor on its last leg. It tries to spin the pitchfork again but Righty grabs its wrist while Lefty just goes to town on its face with tiny, meaty slaps.


    Clyde reloads. Veronica charges with her hammer, boots thudding against the dry dirt like war drums.


    My spectral hands are still too quick on the jump. Righty lets go of the golem¡¯s wrist and punches it in the gut for good measure.


    The golem drops to one knee, leaking hay and corn meal.


    Just as Clyde¡¯s about to pull the trigger and send Mr. Haybale Nightmare into permanent early retirement, I hear something behind me.


    It sounds like Spanish, if it had been rinsed through a meat grinder, and then yelled by someone who¡¯s never seen punctuation. It¡¯s got rhythm, though. I''ll give it that.


    A pulse hits my mind, rippling through my brain and my very crore.


    . . .


    And the System is fucking buffering?! You¡¯ve got to be kidding me.


    Ding!


    [Language Integrtion to complete.]


    ¡°WHAT IN TARNATION ARE YA DOIN¡¯ TO MY GOLEM?¡±


    I freeze.


    The voice is old, pissed, and seasoned like a cast iron skillet that¡¯s been frying sins since the first epoch.


    I turn, careful to do so as slowly as I can. Like molasses trying not to get murdered. I include carefully raising my hands, palms open towards the elf-like man.


    My eyes lock on the muzzle of a blunderbuss. This thing is massive. Two-handed, golden inlaid trim. It¡¯s got teeth. Literal ones. The barrel¡¯s jagged at the end like someone smashed it open on a bear¡¯s skull and thought, "yeah, that looks right." A tongue stretches from the open mouth of the weapon and licks it chomps, eager to fire at us.


    The man holding it looks like he sleeps in dirt and wrestles wild pigs for fun. He¡¯s taller than me, broad-shouldered and thick in that rough-and-tumble, sneaky sort-of strength kind of way. His arms are more ropey than chiseled.


    He¡¯s got tawny skin, and his hair¡ªblond, maybe sun-bleached¡ªis receding like a tide that gave up. But it¡¯s long in the back, tied in a frizzy ponytail. His ears are pointed. Like... really pointed. Elven. But wrong. Like someone stretched an elf sideways and forgot to stop. His eyes are almond-shaped, glassy, and spaced just a little too far apart. He looks at me like he¡¯s trying to decide whether to shoot me or marry me off to his cousin-sister-wife.


    I raise my hands like a good citizen of Don¡¯t-Get-Yourself-Shot-Land.


    ¡°What the hell are humans doing this far North?... Don¡¯t look like savages either,¡± says the man, though it¡¯s clearly to himself, as though he couldn¡¯t understand him.


    I gingerly clear my throat, then say, ¡°Uh¡­ We come in peace¡ª¡±


    ¡°We mean you no harm sir,¡± interrupts Clyde, taking a gentle bow at the hips. ¡°We¡¯ve traveled from a very far land, and are simply looking for directions and perhaps some assistance in reaching any nearby town or city¡­ Is that something you¡¯d be able to assist with? If so, we can be on our way.¡±


    Watching the man¡¯s face, I¡¯d swear he¡¯d just witnessed a dog walking on its hind legs preparing an espresso. He physically stopped his jaw from dropping to the ground in utter shock at Clyde¡¯s words.


    The man squints. He¡¯s still got the gun pointed straight at my chest. ¡°Can these savages really understand me?¡± he mutters.


    Well, that¡¯s fucking rude¡­


    ¡°You ain¡¯t speakin¡¯ gibberish,¡± he mutters. His eyes narrow, shifting between the three of us and Jelly Boy like he''s doing mental calculus. And I hope we¡¯re on the right side of the equation.


    The farmhouse looms in the near distance, a sagging two-story relic. A slight breeze passes between us. It smells like a combination of wet hay and mildew. Probably from the golem here¡­


    ¡°Nope,¡± I say, slow and careful. I let out a breath I hadn¡¯t realized I¡¯d been holding that entire time. I focus on the man with the elongated and angular features, which produces a basic System message.


    Identified: Farmer Baptiste, Level 15 Farmer


    Level 15?... Really?!


    ¡°You''re talkin¡¯¡­ talkin¡¯.¡± The man steps closer, gun still loose in his hands, but not exactly not pointed at us. ¡°You¡¯re humans. And you talk?¡± His eyes scan us all, stopping on me to take in the jorts and the Fleetwood Mac tee. It¡¯s like watching someone witness a little gray alien step out from an airship in the middle of no where.


    ¡°We do¡­ We are,¡± says Clyde.


    Farmer Baptiste ignores Clyde, re-leveling his blunderbuss at me. Which is really not cool!


    ¡°You''re from the south, then?¡± he asks. ¡°How¡¯d you get this far north without gettin¡¯ eaten, flayed, or turned into a song for the fungus choirs? Ain''t never seen no savage this far north that didn''t have a collar on it."


    Clyde''s eye twitches, but it''s barely noticeable. He lets out a breath like he¡¯s been holding it since last Tuesday. ¡°Long story.¡±


    ¡°And a weird one,¡± Veronica adds. Both of them are so smooth with the lie. I just want to ask this Farmer Baptiste what the hell he''s even talking about, because it makes no sense to me.


    ¡°We¡¯d be willing to compensate you for your troubles,¡± says Clyde. There¡¯s the smallest flash of pixelated light near his fingers, which could easily be taken as a trick of the sunlight. But a small piece of gold, a coin the size of the old one dollar U.S. coins that used to be in circulation, appears in his hands out of now where.


    I¡¯d honestly forgotten I also had gold on me. I had obtained several pieces during my first Gate and they had spent the entire time since in my Inventory menu (though not a part of my actual Inventory).


    At the sight of the coin, I see Farmer Baptiste¡¯s eyes light up. The mouth-end of his blunderbuss lowers slightly, twisted into a frown.


    I suppose money talks. Even in other Realms.


    Okay, it looks like we¡¯re finally getting somewhere.

 Chapter 42. The Farm, Part I

    Chapter 42


    The Farm, Part I (Casa de Baptiste)


    ¡°Well, now, m¡¯pologies,¡± says Farmer Baptiste as he finally lowers the nightmare in his hands pretending to be a shotgun.


    The blunderbuss¡ªif you can even call it that¡ªactually licks its own muzzle with a wet, slurping sound. A fat, purple tongue, slick as an oil spill, worms out and wipes the barrel clean. The front of the weapon bends into what is clearly a frown, the metal folding into a distinct, cartoonishly disappointed face.


    Veronica takes half a step back. Jelly Boy buzzes defensively. Clyde just grunts like he¡¯s seen worse.


    Baptiste gives a lopsided shrug, like this is normal behavior for firearms (maybe it is in this Realm). ¡°Ya have to understand me wantin¡¯ to protect my property, what with ya¡¯ll just wanderin¡¯ in.¡±


    ¡°We weren¡¯t looking for a fight,¡± Veronica says, arms crossed tight over her chest, her hammer resting in front of her, the weapon¡¯s head on the ground near her feet. ¡°Your scarecrow attacked us. We were just defending ourselves.¡±


    The farmer blinks twice, face painted with shock as though surprised she was speaking. His mouth wordlessly works for a moment before he finally speaks up. ¡°Attacked ya¡¯ll, now did it?¡± Baptiste squints at the battered golem, still standing there like a shamed dog caught eating out of the garbage.


    He marches over to it, boots crunching dry stalks underfoot. He¡¯s wearing plain overalls that at my distance appear to be made from a brown, denim-like material.


    ¡°What is you doin¡¯ attackin¡¯ these savag¡ª¡± Baptiste stops himself mid-word, catching the look Veronica¡¯s giving him, the kind of look that could turn wine into vinegar.


    ¡°Fine, innocent folk,¡± he says instead, a little too brightly.


    Then he reaches into one of his many bulging pockets and pulls out a stone. It¡¯s a roughly round cystal, about the size of a chicken egg, smooth and pulsing with the same sickly green light that leaks from the golem''s stitched-on eyeballs.


    The moment Baptiste brings it out, I feel the energy in the air shift. The hairs on my arms stand up, and my lips and teeth feel a faint buzz, like I¡¯d just made out with an electrical outlet.


    The light from the crystal whips out like a tongue, wrapping around the golem¡¯s broken form. There¡¯s a gross slurping sound as its shredded cornmeal-and-bone guts slurp back into place, its skin and joints knitting with sizzling pops.


    I gag a little.


    The golem straightens. It doesn¡¯t look great, but it¡¯s standing. Its eyes flash once with that unsettling toxic green.


    Lefty and Righty both float in front of me. They crack their knuckles in perfect unison, like they''re ready to launch into a bar brawl with the now-patched-up golem.


    Baptiste doesn¡¯t even flinch at the sight of the spectral hands. His attention is still focused on his scarecrow.


    ¡°Now, go on, git!¡± he barks, snapping his fingers at the thing like it¡¯s an unruly dog. ¡°Back to yer post! Yer s¡¯pose to be watchin¡¯ for them giant flyin¡¯ reptiles, not innocent passers-by!¡±


    Did he just say giant flying reptiles? I wonder if he means dragons. I¡¯m reminded of the task that hangs over the party¡¯s heads.


    The golem hesitates, shoulders hunched and somehow looking¡­ sheepish? Can eldritch grain-filled abominations feel shame?


    It lumbers off, dragging its patched-up body back into the golden fields, disappearing among the stalks like a monster returning to its haunted corn maze. We all stand there, watching the wheat settle, the only sound the faint creak and groan of wood on wood as the scarecrow retakes its position atop its pole, its pitchfork still in one hand.


    ¡°Welp,¡± Baptiste says, tucking his blunderbuss under one arms and dusting off his hands. ¡°That¡¯s sorted.¡±


    I open my mouth to respond. But honestly? I have no idea what to say to that.


    Baptiste flashes us a grin full of crooked teeth.


    Baptiste turns back toward us, one meaty, calloused hand shielding his squinty eyes from the sun, which isn¡¯t quite setting but sitting pretty low in the sky. Clyde¡¯s pistol is still out, I notice, hanging casual-like at his side but ready to snap up if Baptiste so much as breathes weird.


    Good man, Clyde. I mentally confirm Lefty and Righty are also ready to go, if necessary. The spectral hands hover between me and the elf farmer.


    ¡°Now,¡± Baptiste says, his voice like gravel in a blender, ¡°you said you were wantin¡¯ help gettin¡¯ to the City?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Clyde answers, tone careful. Negotiator mode activated.


    Baptiste scratches his chin, rough enough that I swear I hear the scrape. His long, pointed ears twitch slightly, like satellite dishes catching a transmission only he can hear.


    ¡°Well, I ain¡¯t headin¡¯ into La Galcia ¡®til tomorrow mornin¡¯,¡± he says, hitching his mutant blunderbuss higher on his shoulder. ¡°But ya¡¯ll can hitch a ride with me then.¡±


    ¡°La Galcia?¡± I ask, the name feeling weird and chewy on my tongue. ¡°That¡¯s a city? How far is it from here?¡±


    ¡°Biggest settlement within a day¡¯s travel of here,¡± Baptiste says, wiping his nose on the strap of his overalls like it¡¯s a built-in handkerchief. ¡°O¡¯course, there¡¯s the matter of recompense for my troubles. Ya¡¯ll will be takin¡¯ up valuable space I¡¯d normally use to haul crops, after all.¡±


    There it is. I knew that was coming. Nothing in this world¡¯s free, especially not rides from creepy scarecrow-wielding farmers who apparently sleep with flesh-guns for protection.


    Clyde flashes the gold piece again. The coin catches the sunlight, flaring like a mini sun between his fingers. Baptiste¡¯s eyes narrow.


    ¡°We¡¯d be willing to pay you a gold piece,¡± Clyde says smoothly, ¡°for your trouble. Once we¡¯re safely to the city, of course.¡±


    Baptiste hocks another disgusting wad of something unspeakable onto the ground and grinds it into the dirt with his boot like he¡¯s snuffing out a cigarette made of spite. He works his jaw, making noises like an old lawnmower trying to start. Thinking.


    ¡°Of course¡­ Though a gold piece prolly barely makin¡¯ up my lost revenue,¡± he says after a beat, tone so mournful you¡¯d think we were tyrants coming to take our share of his hard-earned yield.


    Then he grins. It¡¯s a terrible grin. ¡°But I¡¯m a kind soul. I¡¯ll call it a deal. Ya¡¯ll are even welcome to stay under my roof for the night, me bein¡¯ so kind and all.¡±


    Behind him, the house looms. A light flickers behind one grime-smeared window, and I swear I see a shadow move across it. Something big. Something that makes my brain scream nope without even consulting the rest of me.


    We all exchange looks.


    I shrug. ¡°Deal,¡± I say.


    Clyde¡¯s head whips toward me so fast you¡¯d think someone slapped him. He gives me a look that very clearly translates to: What the actual fuck, man?!


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I shrug again. I hope it translates: What the hell else are we supposed to do, man? Travel by foot during the night when there are things like giant flying reptiles hanging around?


    Veronica just rolls her eyes and Jelly Boy gurgles contentedly, oblivious.


    Baptiste claps his hands once, the sound sharp and final.


    ¡°Good! Supper¡¯s near ready! Hope ya¡¯ll like stew. The missus makes a damn fine stew.¡±


    As Baptiste ambles back toward the house, humming a tuneless little song under his breath, we follow at a safe distance, trying not to think too hard about what else might be waiting for us inside.


    Baptiste marches ahead of us, boots thudding against the dirt path. The farmhouse grows larger and uglier with every step, a Frankenstein¡¯s monster of mismatched lumber and rusty nails. Some parts lean awkwardly, like they¡¯re too tired to stand up straight. A wind chime made of scrap metal clatters from the covered porch, laughing in the dying breeze.


    Just as we hit the creaky porch, the door bursts open and out tumble three kids, each a blur of frantic energy and too-big ears.


    ¡°Pa! Pa!¡± the second tallest of the three kids yells, voice cracking like a dying radio. ¡°Who¡¯re they?!¡±


    Behind that kid trails the tallest of the three. A boy, he¡¯s maybe eleven, but he¡¯s built like a kid who grew up wrestling pigs, and probably helping his dad on the farm. Behind him are two girls¡ªone about eight, the other barely five, from the looks of it. The youngest girl is clutching a ragged stuffed animal that might have been a rabbit in another life. Probably a hand-me-down.


    The littlest one spots us and lets out a blood-curdling scream, darting behind the woman who steps out onto the porch right after them.


    She¡¯s stocky and solid, like someone carved her out of sunbaked stone. Same tanned skin as Baptiste, same messy blond hair, and those unmistakably too-long, too-pointy ears. Her eyes flash, catching the last light of the sun like two little campfires.


    ¡°Are those humans?!¡± the little one squeals, peeking out from behind her mom¡¯s skirt with the wide-eyed horror of someone spotting a live rattlesnake.


    The oldest kid just says, ¡°Neat,¡± like he¡¯s just found a new bug to poke with a stick.


    The woman plants her fists on her hips. ¡°Alok, now who are these folks?¡±


    Baptiste tips his head back and grins, like everything is perfectly normal. Like inviting complete strangers into your patchwork farmhouse is just good Southern hospitality. Are we even in the ¡®south¡¯ of this Realm? I think. Based on the map we received, it doesn¡¯t seem so.


    ¡°This here¡¯s my missus, Syllia,¡± he says. Then he jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the kids. ¡°Oldest¡¯s Tasar. That there¡¯s Ulesse.¡± He points to the middle child, who sticks out her tongue at us in open defiance. ¡°And that lil¡¯ screecher¡¯s Sana.¡±


    Sana immediately hides again, clutching the stuffed pseudo-rabbit like it¡¯s a holy relic that could ward us off.


    ¡°They¡¯s just some folks passin¡¯ through,¡± Baptiste continues. ¡°I¡¯m givin¡¯ ¡®em a ride when I head into the City come mornin¡¯. Which means¡ª¡± he turns, locking eyes with Tasar ¡°¡ªyou ain¡¯t comin¡¯ with me and Vultog this time. Ain¡¯t gunna have enough room.¡±


    Tasar¡¯s face crumples like a kicked paper bag. ¡°Aw, pops, you serious?¡±


    ¡°No arguin¡¯. Gotta make room.¡±


    Syllia sighs, the sound thick with the weight of a thousand resigned arguments she¡¯s already lost. She gives us a tired, appraising once-over.


    ¡°Well,¡± she says, ¡°I wasn¡¯t expectin¡¯ company, so you¡¯re gonna have to excuse the state of the house. But there should be enough dinner for everyone, thank goodness I always make more than these four can eat.¡±


    From inside, something heavy thumps and rattles, like an angry dog throwing a tantrum in a metal trash can.


    ¡°Vultog ain¡¯t gonna be too happy ¡®bout the lack of second helpins¡¯, but nothin¡¯ we can do about that,¡± Baptiste says with a chuckle.


    I exchange a quick, frantic glance with Clyde and Veronica, who both look equally alarmed at the mention of Vultog, whatever the hell that is.


    Clyde¡¯s hand hovers near his pistol again. Veronica¡¯s fingers twitch around the shaft of her warhammer. Jelly Boy gurgles ominously. Or, perhaps that was his approximation of a stomach gurgling at the sound of anger. I didn¡¯t quite catch it.


    Me? I just smile and say, ¡°Sounds great.¡± I walk up and extend a hand towards Missus Baptiste. ¡°I¡¯m Joseph by the way,¡± I add.


    Missus Baptiste looks at me like I just sprouted two heads. I am beginning to suspect that humans¡ªor at least humans capable of coherent speech¡ªare something of an oddity around these parts. After a moment, she seems to remember herself and hesitantly takes my hand. ¡°A pleasure,¡± she says.


    A System-generated textbox appears over her head.


    Identified: Mrs. Baptiste, Level 17 Biomancer, Elf.


    Interesting. A Biomancer? Based on the name, I wonder if she¡¯s responsible for creating that golem out there?


    The elven family leads us inside of their house.


    The inside of the Baptiste house smells like wood polish, burnt coffee, and something savory stewing on the stove. Missus Baptiste waves us inside with the no-nonsense authority of a queen in her own domain.


    ¡°Come on now, don¡¯t dawdle,¡± she says, bustling ahead. ¡°Ain¡¯t polite to keep supper waitin¡¯, and it sure as sugar ain¡¯t polite to stink up my clean floors with that travel dust you¡¯re carryin¡¯.¡±


    I glance down at my boots, suddenly guilty, even though I¡¯m ninety-nine percent sure Farmer Baptiste is dirtier than any of us.


    The place is modest. The first floor is largely one big room. An open doorway leads towards the back of the house, and I can see the kitchen from where we stand. There¡¯s a crooked staircase leading up to the second floor and a fireplace that¡¯s way too big for the room it¡¯s in, currently hosting a small, crackling fire. A rug and some furniture fill the space.


    Missus Baptiste leads us upstairs to a small room, opens the door, and gestures inside. ¡°This here¡¯s where my sister stays when she bothers to visit,¡± she says. ¡°Ain¡¯t here now, obviously.¡±


    The room¡¯s about as exciting as a loaf of plain bread. Two twin beds shoved against opposite walls, a little side table with a chipped oil lamp, and a pot in the corner that I really hope is for flowers and not, y''know, other things. There¡¯s another table with a few rags and a basin of water.


    She dusts her hands on her apron. ¡°I¡¯ll be downstairs finishin¡¯ up dinner. Ya¡¯ll freshen up or whatever ya need to do. But don¡¯t take too long, now.¡±


    Before she¡¯s even disappeared down the stairs, Clyde taps Baptiste on the shoulder. ¡°Mind if we store our gear and come down in a moment?¡±


    Baptiste squints at him like he¡¯s trying to solve a particularly tough crossword. Then he shrugs. ¡°Ain¡¯t gonna stop ya.¡± He stomps off after his wife, leaving us blessedly alone.


    ¡­Almost.


    Because standing in the hallway, picking her nose with the grim determination of someone mining for gold, is Ulesse.


    She¡¯s staring at us like we¡¯re sideshow freaks.


    Tasar comes thundering up the hall behind her and yanks her by one of her too-long ears. ¡°Now don¡¯t go starin¡¯! Leave these poor folks alone.¡±


    ¡°But they¡¯re humans, ain¡¯t that weird?¡± Ulesse whines, rubbing her ear. S§×arch* The N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°No, they just different. You¡¯re weird,¡± Tasar says, like it¡¯s the final word handed down by the Supreme Court of Sibling Justice.


    ¡°Hey! Mama! Tasar¡¯s bein¡¯ mean to me!¡± Ulesse wails, and with that, the two vanish down the hallway, Tasar chasing her like a cat after a mouse.


    The house shakes a little with their retreat.


    We stand there in silence for a beat.


    Then Clyde moves¡ªquick and quiet¡ªchecks the hallway, waits a moment, then shuts the door with a soft click.


    The little room suddenly feels a whole lot smaller.


    Veronica¡¯s the first to crack the silence. She deposits her hammer into her Inventory and crosses her arms tight against her chest, like she¡¯s physically trying to hold her rage in, and levels a glare at Clyde and me that could peel paint off the walls.


    ¡°So, what the hell was that?¡± she says, voice low and sharp. ¡°We¡¯re really staying here? Are you sure that¡¯s safe?¡±


    Clyde leans his back against the door and folds his arms, cool as a cucumber in a freezer. ¡°No. I¡¯m definitely not sure. But I don¡¯t think we have much of a choice. It¡¯s getting dark soon, and I don¡¯t think we can risk traveling alone at night when we don¡¯t know what we¡¯re dealing with out there.¡±


    I nod, feeling the weight of it in my gut. ¡°I agree with Clyde. We don¡¯t know what¡¯s out there... but I bet it¡¯s worse than a bunch of weird farmers. Actually, the kids seem pretty normal.¡±


    Veronica scowls, the muscles in her jaw working like she¡¯s grinding her teeth into dust. ¡°How do we know we can trust them?¡±


    Clyde smirks. ¡°See how he reacted when I flashed that coin?¡± he asks. ¡°I¡¯m sure he¡¯s taking us for a ride, and I¡¯m not talking about just into the City. That coin¡¯s probably worth a hundred trips.¡±


    Again, I bob my head in agreement. Two for two with Clyde today. If I learned anything during my time in Finance it was cash could solve most problems.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the plan?¡± Veronica says, sighing through her nose like she already knows she¡¯s going to hate the answer.


    ¡°We play nice,¡± Clyde says. ¡°We go to dinner. We smile. We pretend to be the friendliest damn humans they ever saw. Then we take turns keeping watch tonight, one awake while the others sleep.¡±


    ¡°Until we make it to the City,¡± I say, picking up the thread. ¡°Then, we can find a moneychanger, we get some real gear, and we prepare to find and kill a dragon. Easy!¡±


    Veronica still doesn¡¯t look convinced, but she also doesn¡¯t start shouting, which I¡¯m taking as a win. Based on how scrunched up her eyebrows are and how tight her lips are twisted, I can tell she¡¯s fuming and ready to explode. Metaphorically¡­ Not like Dave.


    I shrug, big and theatrical, and dismiss Lefty and Righty with a lazy wave. They vanish two puffs of mist, like bad dreams at sunrise. ¡°Whatever. Maybe while we¡¯re here, we ask them about this ¡®Cardinal Hand¡¯ thing. Maybe they have useful information. Also¡­ what do you think they¡¯re having for supper?¡±


    The question hangs there, stupid and earnest, but hey, priorities are priorities. Jelly Boy jiggles at my feet, also buzzing in hungry curiosity.


    Clyde produces a dull brown Adventurer¡¯s cookie from thin air. He takes a big, defiant bite, the thing cracking like dried plaster under his teeth.


    ¡°Whatever it is,¡± he says around the mouthful, ¡°I¡¯m not trusting it.¡± He chews once. Twice. Swallows with a grimace. I¡¯ve never actually tried one of those cookies, but suddenly regretted giving so many of them to Jelly Boy. ¡°I¡¯ll be sustained for two days.¡±


    I stare at him for a second, then glance at Veronica.


    ¡°Well,¡± I say, clapping my hands once. ¡°Guess that just means more dinner for me.¡±

 Chapter 43. The Farm, Part II

    Chapter 43


    The Farm, Part II (Tales from a Dead World)


    I scoop Jelly Boy up from the foot of the bed where he¡¯s melted into a half-lump, half-blob puddle of bored goo. He perks up immediately¡ªif a sentient glob of living ooze can be said to perk¡ªsquishing up into a jellier, more alert posture with an enthusiastic burble that probably translates to something like yay, food or finally, you people stopped talking. Never change, Jelly Boy. Never change.


    ¡°Come on, you lil¡¯ weirdo,¡± I mutter affectionately, giving his squishy head a pat. ¡°Let¡¯s see what culinary horrors await us.¡±


    The stairs creak and groan under our boots as we descend and make our way to the farmhouse¡¯s kitchen. Clyde follows behind me, silent and brooding, while Veronica brings up the rear with arms crossed, scowling hard enough to warp the air around her.


    The scent hits me halfway down: something savory and sweet and spiced, thick with the promise of actual, honest-to-God flavor. My stomach does a backflip. Jelly Boy makes a giddy sploop sound and starts vibrating like a tuning fork, matching my energy and hunger.


    The kitchen¡¯s big. Bigger than I expected, certainly. Almost as big as the main room downstairs, and it feels even bigger, even with all the people crowding the space. The space hums with an energy I can¡¯t quite put my finger on. There¡¯s heat and sound and motion and generations of breakfast smells soaked into the wood.


    Missus Baptiste is planted in front of a pair of bubbling pots like some kind of culinary warlock, ladling and stirring and taste-testing with ruthless precision. Above the stove hang small pots of dirt, each suspended planter has micro-sized greens budding from the soil nestled within. Missus Baptiste waves a hand over one of the hanging pots and I watch as a sparkling green dust flutters from her fingertips and where the dust lands the greens sprout to life. I blink and suddenly what looks like parsley is bursting from the pot. She snatches a handful, placing it onto the counter near the stove and finely chopping them with a knife.


    Syllia¡¯s still glued to her hip, one hand clinging to mother¡¯s skirt like it¡¯s a lifeline, the other still clutching that rabbit doll like she¡¯s afraid the thing will up and runaway. The kid doesn¡¯t take her eyes off me. S§×ar?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    In the corner, Farmer Baptiste is sitting on a stool, lovingly polishing that nightmare of a blunderbuss. The thing purrs and licks its chops like a dog that just wants to chase and murder squirrels. Tasar watches from beside him, wide-eyed and grinning like he¡¯s seeing a hero in action.


    Ulesse is darting around the long wooden table in the middle of the room, setting mismatched plates with the wild precision of a child who¡¯s both helpful and constantly trying to prove she can do it without help. The tablecloth¡¯s a riot of patches and faded color, like it¡¯s made from the ghosts of old shirts that lived full lives and died honorable deaths by farm labor or children mud wrestling matches.


    ¡°Sit there,¡± Ulesse says, pointing at three specific seats with all the authority of a general assigning battlefield positions. ¡°And that one¡¯s for your blob.¡±


    She slaps a saucer down with a flourish and nods, satisfied.


    Jelly Boy buzzes happily in my hands. I sense a thank you in the vibrations.


    ¡°We put Syllia all the way over there ¡®cause she¡¯s scared of you all. But don¡¯t worry, I made sure she could see the blob. She said she likes the blob!¡±


    ¡°Well thought out,¡± I say, impressed. ¡°You¡¯re a little tactical genius.¡±


    Ulesse beams.


    I round the table towards my designated seat, Jelly Boy squelching happily in my arms, when I hear a loud thud from behind us.


    A shadow spills into the room like someone poured a bucket of oh no into the doorway.


    He¡¯s an orc. There¡¯s no other word for it. Seven feet of muscle. Shoulders like siege towers. He makes any human I¡¯ve ever seen look miniscule. His arms alone look like they could rip a horse in half. His skin is a greenish gray, like moss-covered granite.


    The orc¡¯s wide face is oddly, familiarly human. He¡¯s got jet black hair that¡¯s pushed back, and greying at the temples. His ears are rounded, ordinary. He¡¯s wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, perched daintily on the bridge of his pig-like snout. Behind the glasses are a pair of dark, thoughtful eyes that take us in. Two, large tusks protrude from his bottom lip. He¡¯s wearing a linen shirt, tucked into a pair of breeches. The shirt¡¯s top buttons are unbuttoned to reveal dark curls of chest hair, and is stained with sweat.


    Ping!


    A pulsing sensation echoes in my head and the orc¡¯s presence is greeted with a new System message.


    New Monster Identified: Orc Scholar


    Level: 22


    Classification: Former High-ranking Orc (Banished)


    Ulesse points dramatically with a spoon she was just about to place down, her little face lit up like she just discovered a second moon.


    ¡°Vully! Look! Humans! Ain¡¯t they weird?!¡±


    Ah, I think. So this must be Vultog.


    Vultog doesn¡¯t flinch. Doesn¡¯t blink. Just stands there in the doorway, a seven-foot wall of judgment and latent muscle. His thick brow rises slowly like a drawbridge creaking open.


    Tasar immediately walks over from his spot near his father delivers frontier justice in the form of a not-so-playful jab to Ulesse¡¯s upper arm. ¡°Ma and Pops said to not be rude, dummy!¡±


    ¡°Ow! Ma!¡­ Tasar hit me again!¡± she screams, rubbing her arm where her brother had hit her.


    Missus Baptiste doesn¡¯t even look up from the pots she¡¯s commanding. Her voice cuts through the kitchen with the weight of a thousand repeated warnings.


    ¡°Now, hush you two!¡­ And Ulesse, come lend me a hand now.¡±


    Ulesse pouts like someone just broke all her crayons, then stomps over to the stove, where her mother hands her a ladle roughly twice the size of her face.


    Vultog finally steps forward, casting a long shadow over the table. His eyes scan the room like he¡¯s counting equations, his gaze pausing on each of us. Then he stops¡ªright on me.


    Or, more specifically, on my jorts.


    His brow raises another centimeter. Then higher still as he moves on to my shirt.


    The spectacles slide a fraction down his nose.


    ¡°Huh¡­ And not only humans. Outworlders, it seems.¡±


    Tasar¡¯s ears perk, twitching curiously. ¡°Outworlders?... You for real? I thought you was always just tryin¡¯ to scare us with those stories!¡±


    ¡°Er, what do you mean ¡®Outworlders¡¯?¡± I ask, instinctively tugging at the edge of my jorts like they¡¯re suddenly too loud in this room and I might be able to trigger an ¡®extendo¡¯ button.


    Missus Baptiste saves Vultog from answering with the arrival of steaming bowls.


    ¡°All right now, enough yammerin¡¯. Sit and eat while it¡¯s still hot.¡±


    Baptiste puts down his demon-gun in the corner like it¡¯s a favorite hat, then takes a seat. Chairs creak. The table groans. The whole family slots into place like it¡¯s Sunday dinner in a Norman Rockwell painting¡ªif Rockwell had been a fan of Tolkien and into some other really strange shit.


    Vultog sits across from Clyde, who¡¯s already in full stealth mode. Hands beneath the table, shoulders loose, expression calm but eyes locked in like a hawk watching a rabbit it hasn''t decided whether to eat or let be. I suspect he may have his pistol out under the table, ready to fire into the orc¡¯s gut if things take a turn for the worse.


    God dammit, I hope not, I think. My eyes dart around the table. The Baptiste family seems nice enough, and I don¡¯t want a fight to break out with the kids around. I realize I actually don¡¯t know Clyde as well as I probably should, and pray he¡¯s not a ¡®shoot first¡¯ Han Solo type of guy.


    Vultog meets Clyde¡¯s gaze evenly, folding his hands. ¡°Outworlders,¡± he says, his voice a bassline so deep it probably rattles the local tectonic plates. His words come with a slow and methodical cadence. ¡°Sometimes called Adventurers, or Hunters, or Travelers, depending on your source. My people simply use the term Outworlder for its clarity. People from other worlds.¡±


    Clyde doesn¡¯t move. ¡°And what makes you believe that? Seems kinda far-fetched, no?¡±


    The look Vultog gives him could flay paint from walls. It says ¡®Do you think I¡¯m stupid and are you seriously asking me that?¡¯ with enough condescension to curdle milk. He gestures to me with an open palm.


    ¡°Do you see how you¡¯re dressed?¡±


    Fair enough. One point, Vultog.


    He continues, adjusting his glasses. ¡°Humans are not unheard of, but they hail from the Southern Badlands. You do not speak like them. You speak the common tongue fluently, if strangely. Accented, but clear. You carry foreign tools. And I¡¯ve never seen a human as pale as her.¡± He nods at Veronica, who scowls. ¡°And definitely not as pale as him.¡± He then nods at me.


    I blink. Did that orc just call me pasty? I admit it¡¯s too early in the year for me to have started on my summer tan.


    Missus Baptiste claps her hands together like the discussion¡¯s a fly she¡¯s swatting.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough chatter now. Eat. Before it gets cold!¡±


    Veronica squints suspiciously into her bowl. ¡°What is this?¡±


    ¡°Vegetable stew,¡± says Missus Baptiste. ¡°Carrots, taters, beans, the last of the squash we preserved from last season, onion. Some herbs I picked fresh. Good ole¡¯ elvish cookin¡¯ is what it is!¡±


    To my surprise, it looks familiar. I was half-expecting the concoction in my bowl to be a mix of foreign vegetables and fruits, and the System¡¯s language translation function had simply bridged the gap. But the carrots and potatoes and other veggies all look like produce I could find during any shift at the Save-Some-Bucks.


    My mind wanders back to something Vultog had said. He said we were speaking the common tongue, though with an accent. It confirmed something I¡¯d never bothered asking about. I had always known the System helped me understand the languages of the other Realms, but hadn¡¯t given too much thought to the fact that I had been speaking an alien language the entire time. What did I sound like to someone who didn¡¯t have System enhancements?


    I glance at Clyde. Then Veronica. Then shrug and dig in to the bowl in front of me.


    The stew is good. No¡ªscratch that¡ªit¡¯s amazing. Warm, rich, a little sweet, a little spicy. Both flavors balanced by a natural, earthy undertone from the vegetables themselves. Like a hug in a bowl with just enough burn to remind you it¡¯s from a proper southern kitchen. I moan softly.


    Veronica raises an eyebrow. I shrug again and nod at the stew. ¡°Trust me. It¡¯s clean. And if not, I die full and happy.¡±


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    She rolls her eyes, then cautiously lifts her spoon. Moments later, she nods approvingly and joins the idle conversation now bubbling up around the table.


    Clyde talks, asks a few measured questions, but doesn¡¯t touch his food.


    Which is fine. More for me.


    I reach across Veronica and pull his bowl toward me, nodding like a man who just won a secret lottery. Gotta get those gains, after all!


    There¡¯s a lull in the conversation. One of those natural dips where everyone¡¯s chewing, or swallowing, or just letting the heat of the food settle. It¡¯s the kind of silence that¡¯s warm and worn and meant to be comfortable.


    So of course, I decide to ruin it.


    ¡°Hey¡­ do any of you know anything about the Cardinal Hand?¡±


    It¡¯s like I tossed a lit firecracker on the table.


    Everyone freezes. Even Ulesse, who was halfway through poking Tasar with her spoon. Her eyes go wide. Veronica stiffens beside me. Clyde¡¯s already watching, head tilted just enough to make me think he was expecting this and is prepared for any negative fallout.


    Only Farmer Baptiste keeps moving¡ªbrings a spoonful of stew up toward his mouth like nothing happened.


    Then he notices the others. Their looks. The way even Missus Baptiste¡¯s hands go still.


    He snorts.


    ¡°The Cardinal Hand ain¡¯t nuthin¡¯ to worry ¡®bout! What they do makes no difference to us anyhow!¡­ And the Gluttons are the ones that made my gun, after all.¡± He points a thumb lazily toward the corner, where the blunderbuss rests like some sleeping beast. I swear I hear it lick its lips¡­ Er, muzzle, again.


    ¡°They¡¯re dangerous,¡± Vultog rumbles, voice like a distant avalanche. His eyes stay fixed on me. Calm¡­ Measuring.


    Tasar shifts in his seat, looking between the grown-ups. ¡°They ain¡¯t gunna come for our farm, though. Right, Pa?¡±


    Farmer Baptiste pauses. Spoon halfway to his mouth again. It hovers there. Wobbles slightly.


    Then, slowly, he lowers it back into the bowl. Doesn¡¯t eat. Doesn¡¯t speak right away.


    ¡°No, they ain¡¯t.¡± He says it like a fact he wants to be true. Then his eyes snap to Vultog. A glare sharper than the pitchfork his golem wielded. ¡°Now, who in the world gave you that idea, boy?¡±


    The orc doesn¡¯t flinch. But Baptiste¡¯s voice sharpens like a blade on a whetstone. ¡°And if anyone tried to take our farm, they¡¯d die tryin¡¯!¡±


    The silence that follows isn¡¯t comfortable this time. It¡¯s tight. Packed in like a crate of dry powder. Even the stew seems a little more muted, like it''s trying not to draw attention to itself.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Clyde says, his voice low, diplomatic. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t quite explain who these people¡­ or things, are.¡±


    Vultog leans forward. Pushes his empty bowl aside. The table creaks under his weight.


    ¡°The Cardinal Hand,¡± he says slowly, like he¡¯s tasting the name and finding it bitter. ¡°They are demigods. Some theorize. It¡¯s been hundreds of years. Some say they¡¯re the last living things to carry fragments of divine power. Relics from when the gods still walked this plane. Cursed, when the gods abandoned this world after the Divine Contest. Cults gathered around them, their name. They follow the will of the Hand. Or claim to. Mad tyrants, every one of them. If the Cardinal Hand even exists. Maybe they¡¯re just stories. Maybe the cults are real and the Cardinal Hand is just a mask they wear while they burn towns and take what they want.¡±


    ¡°Shut it, Orc!¡± Baptiste barks, voice hard enough to rattle the salt shaker. ¡°They ain¡¯t no gods and it¡¯s like I said before¡ªwhat these powerful folk do ain¡¯t got nothin¡¯ to do with us! Now, let¡¯s just enjoy our meal. You¡¯re givin¡¯ me a stomach ache with all this political talk.¡±


    Vultog growls, a low rumble.


    But Nobody argues. Everyone just¡­ eats. Quiet now. Focused on their meal like it¡¯s the most interesting thing in the room. The stew is still good, even if it tastes like tension now.


    Eventually, the bowls empty. The mood doesn¡¯t lighten, but it settles like dust.


    Clyde stretches and stands. ¡°We¡¯re gonna get some fresh air while there¡¯s still some sun left in the sky, if that¡¯s alright.¡±


    ¡°Go on, then. Leave the cleanin¡¯ to us. You¡¯re guests, after all.¡± Baptiste waves us off like we¡¯re children he¡¯s done dealing with.


    We file out the front door. Evening light greets us¡ªsoft and golden, falling across fields of something like wheat, but tinged red like rust. The air smells like soil, smoke, and something almost sweet.


    I whistle low. ¡°Well that was intense. Didn¡¯t think I was bringing up such a touchy subject, but now I know.¡±


    Veronica folds her arms. ¡°Not much different than back home. Sometimes it¡¯s easier to ignore what¡¯s going on in the world instead of talking about it. Politics is uncomfortable.¡±


    Clyde¡¯s looking back at the house, brows drawn. ¡°I¡¯m more interested in what that orc knows.¡± He glances at us. ¡°If one of us can talk to him without Baptiste around, it might be helpful. I really don¡¯t like having the attention of demigods. Or cults.¡±


    ¡°You and me both, man,¡± I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck.


    We loop around one of the Baptiste farm sheds, the smell of hay, metal, and manure clinging to the air. A sound comes from inside the shed, almost like a chittering. Nope, too much new World immersion for me already today! The shed¡¯s sagging roof and rust-splotched siding hide us from the house and the dinner table politics, and that¡¯s exactly what Clyde wants.


    ¡°Alright,¡± he says, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. ¡°Time to get a little practice in. Better we find out how all the new shit we gained works while we¡¯ve got a moment of down¡­ Before we continue our quest to slay a fucking dragon.¡±


    Veronica nods, pulling her ponytail tighter with a snap. ¡°Agreed. No offense to Jelly Boy, but I¡¯d rather not rely on him to bail us out time-and-time again.¡±


    Jelly Boy, for his part, makes a blorp noise that could be disappointment. Or indigestion. Or approval. Hard to tell. I pat his gelatinous dome anyway.


    We give each other space¡ªClyde paces to the far end near some overturned crates, Veronica claims a patch of bare dirt, and I step into a wide circle trampled flat by whatever creature the Baptistes use to plow.


    Time to check my new Skills!


    I open the System interface with a thought, and the semi-transparent HUD flares into view across my vision. Familiar layout, sure, but the text¡­ the descriptions aren¡¯t quite what I remember. I quickly run through the list of Spell.


    [SPELL: Wizard¡¯s Fist]


    Wizard¡¯s Fist (Conjuration Cantrip)


    Casting Time: Instantaneous


    Stamina Cost: 1 Point


    Range: 30 Feet


    Duration: 1 minute


    Description: The magnificent fist of the underlord magician. Conjures a spectral, floating hand composed of pure mana within Range. The hand lasts for the duration or until you dismiss it. The hand vanishes if it is beyond Range for longer than 5 seconds. You can mentally control the hand, using it for combat (and for limited manipulation and object interaction). Wizard¡¯s Fist will inherit the combat capabilities of its caster.


    Wizard¡¯s Fist? Seriously? The change in the name of the Spell is a little too on the nose. And I¡¯m not sure what that opening sentence of the Spell¡¯s description is about. I keep scrolling.


    [SPELL: Light]


    Light (Evocation Cantrip)


    Casting Time: Instantaneous


    Stamina Cost: 3 Points


    Range: Self (30 Feet)


    Duration: Instantaneous (20 minutes when condensed: costs 1 Point of Stamina for every minute maintained)


    Description: Let them be dazzled by your brilliance! When cast, your body produces a bright flash of radiant energy. The Spell can be condensed into a harmless sphere of heatless light imbued with radiant energy, producing light equivalent to a torch. The sphere can be held in the caster¡¯s hand, or remain suspended in the air near the caster¡¯s shoulder (or affixed to any inorganic surface).


    These changes were far more interesting. The initial casting of the Spell could be used to blind or surprise now. But I was trading some of the utility. Maintaining the sphere of light now came with a running cost, as opposed to being free after the initial Spell cost.


    My Pact of the Novice Scribe Spell was not altered, other than switching the Mana cost on my end of the bargain to Stamina. Unfortunately, that meant I had to be more conscious of the partner monster¡¯s Mana, as my Stamina was already scaling at an astronomic pace.


    Similarly, Slimy Shield was not altered other than now costing 7 points of Stamina to cast.


    [SPELL: Mana (Force) Blast]


    Mana (Force) Blast (Evocation Spell, Level 1)


    Casting Time: None


    Stamina Cost: 10 Points


    Range: 120 Feet


    Duration: Instant


    Description: Let them feel your Strength! You are capable of firing a beam of pure force-based energy at a single target within range. The force blast will strike the target with the force of your fists, though will lose power the farther it travels to its target.


    Holy shit! ¡­ Did I have access to the god damned Kamehemeha wave now? I¡¯m definitely excited to try this one out¡­ But maybe somewhere safer, with a lower chance of property damage? Last thing we need is our benevolent host finding out I blew a hole in his shed.


    But there¡¯s something I¡¯m equally excited to test out.


    I look down at Jelly Boy. ¡°You ready to test your magic absorption skills?¡±


    He vibrates in excitement.


    ¡°Hey guys,¡± I call to Veronica and Clyde, who are currently surrounded by floating metallic plates that I assume are from Veronica¡¯s new Class. ¡°You may want to cover your eyes!¡±


    I access the Light cantrip.


    A mental image flashes across my vision¡ªa muscular dude in shiny posing trunks executing a perfect front lat spread, light erupting from his torso like he¡¯s a bouncer at the gates of heaven.


    ¡°Okay. Okay.¡± I shake out my arms. Crack my neck. ¡°Let¡¯s get stupid.¡±


    I dig my heels into the dirt. Knees bent. Elbows out.


    And I hit the pose and slam on the Spell.


    A golden beam explodes from my chest and lat muscles. It¡¯s so bright it leaves a sizzling streak across my retinas. Veronica yelps. Clyde swears. Jelly Boy buzzes.


    ¡°Agh! My eyes!¡± Clyde shields his face with one arm. ¡°Joseph! Jesus!¡±


    ¡°Language, Clyde! There¡¯s children¡ªoh wait, no there¡¯s not. Carry on.¡± Veronica blinks rapidly, seeing stars.


    Jelly Boy, though? He just slurps that light right up like it¡¯s a protein shake. His body ripples and vibrates like a microwaved marshmallow.


    Three little glass orbs pop out of his side¡ªfwip, fwip, fwip¡ªand start orbiting him like he¡¯s the low-budget lovechild of a wizard and a circus juggler. Each orb is about baseball-sized, and inside is a gentle, glowing puff of light. Like someone trapped a dandelion made of sunlight inside a snow globe.


    ¡°Ho ho ho¡­!¡± I laugh, absolutely giddy. ¡°What are those?¡± I ask, still mid-pose, the light fading from my chest.


    Jelly Boy tosses one of the orbs at me. I flinch but catch it. I¡¯m immediately met with a notification.


    [Item: Minor Explosive (Light)]


    [Description: An explosive that when activated will detonate in 5 seconds. Explodes with blinding, radiant light. May also cause minor auditory disorientation.]


    [Note: This Item was created using the Catch & Juggle Skills. This Item is temporary. This item will degrade in 24 hours.]


    Holy shit. Jelly Boy just swallowed by Light Spell and turned it into flashbangs.


    ¡°Guys, check this out,¡± I say.


    Jelly Boy tosses the other two to them. Clyde accepts his with a nod, inspecting it like it might explode at any moment. ¡°We can use your Spells and Jelly Boy¡¯s new ability to prep some of these temporary items for battles,¡± he says.


    ¡°Assuming we have enough time to prepare and know what we¡¯re fighting,¡± says Veronica.


    ¡°Like a dragon?¡± I add.


    We each pocket our new light grenades.


    Before we retreat back to the house, I convince Vernoica to help me test out one last thing.


    ¡°You want me to attack you?¡± she asks.


    ¡°I need to test my new shield Spell, yes,¡± I say. I tap my chest with a fist. ¡°One good swing. Trust me. Even if it doesn¡¯t work, I have enough Health to take at least one hit from you.¡±


    ¡°Oh, really now?¡±


    Once we¡¯re set, I plant my feet. Veronica¡¯s hammer is in her hands. She steps forward and hefts her warhammer. I take a deep breath, preparing the stance for the Spell. She swings, bringing down her hammer and I trigger the Slimy Shield Spell from my interface¡¯s hotlist.


    My Stamina bar appears in my HUD, dropping slightly. A circular disk of shimmering blue goo pops into existence in front of me.


    Splat!


    Veronica¡¯s hammer slams into the shield, which ripples like the surface of a water balloon hitting concrete, and it barely slows her swing as the head of her hammer explodes through the shield.


    ¡°Oh, shit!¡± I shout, eyes wide as the hammer keeps coming.


    I barely dive out of its path. Veronica¡¯s swing sailing over my shoulder. She pivots with a surgical grace, catching herself as the now slime-covered hammer swings low and wide.


    Then, a System message pops into my interface.


    [Ally Jelly Boy has activated Residual Casting.]


    [Residual Spell: Magnify Gravity]


    The splatter of blue slime on Veronica¡¯s hammer¡¯s head slows faintly before it¡¯s ripped towards the ground, slamming it the ground. Veronica is surprised and yanked downward along with her grip on the hammer.


    ¡°Oomph!...¡± Wind escapes from her mouth as she stumbles forward.


    ¡°What the hell was that?¡± asks Clyde.


    I¡¯m standing there, a dumbfounded look on my face. Staring at the happily vibrating blue slime. The ooze on Veronica¡¯s hammer head hisses and sizzles before evaporating into nothingness.


    ¡°I think Jelly Boy is the most dangerous member of our party,¡± I say.


    The room is warm and smells like old wood and clean sheets. The kind of scent that sinks into you, cozy and nostalgic¡ªlike grandma¡¯s house, if grandma also happened to own a pair of hand axes and raised pigs the size of motorcycles.


    Veronica¡¯s already asleep, sprawled diagonally across her bed. Jelly Boy is at her feet, still in his own form of sleep, or rest. Clyde¡¯s not asleep yet¡ªhe¡¯s lying on his back, hands folded across his chest like a very polite vampire, eyes closed, but his breathing still has that too-even quality that says I¡¯m trying, damn it.


    Me? I¡¯m on the floor.


    Specifically, I¡¯m sitting cross-legged near the door, back to the wall, facing the door.


    Clyde showed me how to set a timer through the System before he hit the bed. Apparently it even dings in your brain if you let it. Like an Alexa for adventurers. I have it set for two hours. That¡¯s my shift. I¡¯m first watch.


    So, now I wait.


    Outside the room, the house creaks and settles. The wind outside tickles the shutters.


    But downstairs¡ªthere¡¯s music.


    Faint, like a memory whispered through floorboards. Strings. A guitar, maybe? It¡¯s gentle. Just calloused fingers and a quiet moment.


    Then the voice comes. Missus Baptiste.


    She sings low and slow, like she¡¯s trying not to wake the stars. And the words¡­


    I swear to God I know this tune.


    Not exactly. Not the words¡ªthose are strange, translated by the System into clean syllables with just a hint of accent. But the melody? The cadence?


    It hits somewhere behind my ribs, soft and uninvited.


    I think of my mom. She used to hum something like that when I was little, before she got too busy or too tired or too sad. I used to pretend I was asleep just to hear it longer.


    And now here I am. In another world. Sitting on a jelly familiar. Wearing slime-stained gym clothes. Listening to an alien woman sing a lullaby from a place I can¡¯t reach anymore.


    To my little one¡¯s cradle in the night,


    Comes a little fae, snowy and white.


    The fae will fly to its market,


    While mother her watch does keep.


    Bringing back wormwood and sugar,


    Sleep my little one sleep.


    I think about Vultog. I think about those cults her mentioned. About the Cardinal Hand.


    Veronica mumbles something in her sleep and rolls over.


    The lullaby downstairs ends. The guitar fades.

 Chapter 44. The Farm, Part III

    Chapter 44


    The Farm, Part III (Night Interruption)


    The silence doesn¡¯t last. It rips apart like paper soaked in blood.


    A scream, high and thin¡ªUlesse, I think. A roar¡ªFarmer Baptiste. Then a SCREEEEEEE that makes every hair on my body stand up and try to escape. It¡¯s an inhuman, hellish sound.


    BANG!


    The thunder of Farmer Baptiste¡¯s blunderbuss cracks through the still night like God smiting a microwave.


    I¡¯m on my feet before I even think. Muscles fueled by adrenaline. Clyde¡¯s already up, pistol in hand in a flash of light. Veronica groans and rolls upright, swearing as she kicks off the covers, accidentally sending Jelly Boy tumbling out of the bed.


    Wizard¡¯s Fist! Wizard¡¯s Fist! My mind scrambles as I strike the casting focus pose as quickly as possible, then hammer the spell twice.


    Lefty and Righty materialize beside me in two flashes of glowing mist¡ªtwo floating, disembodied fists the size of overinflated beach balls, humming with barely-contained violence and the smug satisfaction of spectral meatheads who never skip forearm day. Those are my boys!


    I plunge down the stairs, taking three steps at a time, then just vault the banister and hit the floor, ready to make a dash for it.


    The front door is wide open. The night outside yawns like a mouth full of sharp, invisible teeth. Stars peer in like nosey neighbors. A chill nighttime breeze snakes in, threatening the fire crackling in the hearth.


    Missus Baptiste is in the living room, crouched protectively over the two girls in front of the fireplace. Her eyes are wide, wild. Her hands shake but don¡¯t let go. Ulesse sobs against her mother¡¯s side. The other girl¡ªsmaller, quieter¡ªclutches a doll like it might turn into a sword. A guitar is on the floor beside them, tossed aside and forgotten.


    The door groans in its frame. Farmer Baptiste is gone.


    Vultog barrels in from the kitchen, looking like he just headbutted a wall on his way over. Shirtless, tusks bared, eyes burning from behind his spectacles.


    ¡°What in all the heavens¡¯ fury is going on?¡± he growls, the low rumble of a storm just barely held in check.


    Missus Baptiste¡¯s voice is cracked glass and disbelief. ¡°A¡ªA Giant Bat done swoop down, knock on the door askin¡¯ to be invited in¡ªthen snatched up Tasar like a sack¡¯a turnips!¡±


    Another gunshot¡ªBANG!¡ªsomewhere out there in the dark.


    ¡°Shit,¡± I breathe.


    Clyde¡¯s right over my shoulder. ¡°Outside,¡± he says.


    Vultog snarls and marches through the living room like a tank with a mission. I don¡¯t even think. I follow. Clyde is right behind me, pistol raised and ready. The orc¡¯s silhouette in the flickering light looks like the beginning of a horror movie.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get yourselves killed! Not without us, at least!¡± Veronica¡¯s voice rings out behind us as she stomps down the stairs, armor on, hammer in hand. Jelly Boy buzzes angrily from her shoulder like a pissed-off bee with opinions.


    Outside, the night opens up like a throat. And we plunge straight in.


    The night outside vomits chaos.


    I step outside and it immediately hits me. Jesus, that smell. Like hot copper and mildewed fur. Something primal and predatory rides the breeze. I squint into the dark and¡ª


    ¡°Holy shit!¡±


    A scene of horror is displayed in shades of night before us. A monster stands twelve feet tall, give or take a few what-the-fucks. Its wings stretch impossibly wide, thin and leathery like sun-dried organ meat, curled around a terrified and thrashing Tasar. The kid¡¯s screaming like a siren. Snot and tears cover his face.


    The monster¡­ it¡¯s some sort of furry Nosferatu freakazoid, with too-long limbs, jointed all wrong, and a face like someone stapled an old man mask to a diseased goat. Its eyes shine white and hungry. Two headlights on high beam.


    New Monster Identified: Giant Bat, Level 23.


    Classification: Large Night Horror. S§×arch* The N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Farmer Baptiste is nearby, rifle to shoulder, finger twitching like it wants to fire on its own. ¡°I ain¡¯t got a clean shot with it holdin¡¯ my boy!¡± he shouts. ¡°Get ¡®im outta its damn claws!... Urgh, no my boy!¡±


    The Giant Bat beats its wings once, twice. Slowly, it lifts off the ground, the fighting and screaming boy still in its hands.


    ¡°I got this!¡± I bellow, heart punching my ribs.


    I mentally command my Wizard¡¯s Fists: Don¡¯t let it get away!


    The fists surge forward like two freight trains of pure magical energy. They slam into the bat with an audible crunch, gripping its limbs and yanking downward. The bat shrieks, still trying to take off, wings flapping in slow, chaotic beats, each one stronger than the last.


    But my boys hold firm.


    Lefty wraps around its neck. Righty pins one of its legs. The beast grunts and tries again¡ªbut it¡¯s grounded. For now.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Lefty, ever the showboat, cocks back and clocks the thing right in its left eye. The orb goes dim like someone just unplugged a halogen lamp. The bat howls and thrashes. Tasar slips a few inches, dangling by one arm. Despite the best efforts of my cantrip, the Giant Bat slowly begins to ascend.


    ¡°Clyde!¡± I yell. ¡°It¡¯s getting loose!¡±


    Vultog¡¯s roar shatters the night.


    The orc is already moving, calm and brutal like a man born in war.


    A thick-bound spellbook snaps into his open palm in a flash of light. The thing opens itself¡ªpages fluttering so fast they hum. The light that spills out is a sickly green.


    The pages stop. The light coming off the surface of the book burns even brighter.


    Ribbons of light shoot off of the pages, tangling in front of us until a perfect clone of Vultog rips free of the book, formed entirely from shimmering emerald ink. It¡¯s two-dimensional but somehow not. Like if a comic book panel came to life. The effect reminded me of looking at a still picture of someone forming images using light.


    I receive a notification when I examine the moving, glowing ink creature.


    [Illustration: Vultog, Ink Warden, Level 10]


    The illustrated Vultog snarls and lunges forward, ethereal arms outstretched. Ink-Vultog clears the distance between us and the Giant Bat in a blink, wrapping its arms around Tasar and pulling.


    The bat shrieks again, spinning, thrashing, but my oddly human-like fists grip tighter. Lefty starts punching like a lunatic again, Righty joins in, turning it into a glowing ghost brawl.


    Tasar¡¯s eyes meet mine. I can see the tears, the absolute terror.


    We¡¯re not letting this thing go anywhere. Not tonight.


    I charge forward. Boots slam the dirt, adrenaline boiling over into white-hot instinct. The Giant Bat lifts off again, wings carving the air into chaos, and Tasar¡¯s still caught in its claws. Nope. Not today, Dracula.


    I plant myself right in front of it, heels digging into soil, and hit the pose.


    Front. Lat. Spread.


    I cast Light.


    Fwoom!...


    Radiance erupts from my chest¡ªan arc of divine spotlight bursting from my soul like I¡¯m a superpowered fog lamp at a rave. The beam slams straight into the Giant Bat¡¯s face, bathing the bastard in holy ultraviolet hellfire. It screeches, its entire body violently shaking as it squeezes its eyes shut and shakes its head from side to side.


    It lets go of Tasar, the boy dropping from its grip. He falls¡ªflailing, flailing¡ªand then fwump, lands hard into the soft dirt below. The air is knocked straight from his lungs and he deflates. Not moving.


    I cast the cantrip again, this time gripping it tighter in my mind, shaping the spell. I mentally activate the sphere variation. My will commands it. A ball of condensed light forms in my hand, glowing, throbbing, like an angry miniature sun.


    ¡°Had enough, asshole?¡± I mutter, then shove the orb toward the Giant Bat.


    It¡¯s not fast, but flies true, sticks to the monster¡¯s chest, though I know it won¡¯t hold. The spell¡¯s description was clear that it would only truly stick to inorganic surfaces. Still, it will hold long enough for my purpose. The Bat is fully exposed¡ªevery hairy vein and rotten fang on display. An easy target¡­


    ¡°NOW! HIT IT!¡± I scream.


    Clyde¡¯s already mid-motion.


    Crack! Crack! Crack!


    Gunfire tears through the night. Clyde¡¯s pistol barks thunder, muzzle flashes painting his face like a horror movie strobe. A few shots slam into the Bat¡¯s wing, others into its torso. Blood spatters in arcs across the dirt ground.


    BOOM!


    Baptiste fires his blunderbuss.


    Instead of buckshot or smoke, the man¡¯s blunderbuss belches magic. A green glob launches out like ectoplasmic snot, midair morphing into¡­ dentures?


    Yeah. A glowing, chattering, phantom pair of teeth.


    They clamp down on the Bat¡¯s shoulder with a wet crunch, gnawing and ripping like they¡¯ve been starving for centuries. Blood sprays through the air. The teeth laugh, and then combust, green fire licking across the Bat¡¯s wings, searing through membrane and muscle before fizzling into sparks.


    It shrieks again, half-charred and twitching, flapping madly toward the sky.


    But it¡¯s too late.


    I hear Vultog¡¯s growl behind me.


    He¡¯s muttering words that hurt to hear in a strange tongue the System fails to translate for me, and his spellbook is glowing like a mini-supernova. Pages flip again, faster this time, and a ring of yellow runes spirals out into the air, encircling the injured Giant Bat. They spread, shift, then snap together like trap jaws around the Giant Bat.


    The monster freezes mid-flap. It doesn¡¯t fight against its new magical binding. I¡¯m actually not sure if it even can.


    Crack.Snap!


    The Bat dissolves into light, and then line by line, sketch-like and sizzling, yellow threads of its form pull inward toward the orc, like ink being sucked into a drain. The lines funnel into Vultog¡¯s book.


    When the final thread vanishes, the book slams shut with a clap.


    Then, silence.


    The System chimes, accompanied by a soft pulsing sensation in my mind.


    You have defeated Giant Bat, Level 23!


    Partial credit awarded to¡­ Clyde Richmond, Big Game Hunter.


    Partial credit awarded to¡­ Baptiste, Elf Farmer.


    Partial credit awarded to¡­ Vultog, Orc Scholar.


    Level 11 increased to Level 12!


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± I breathe, hands on my knees, heart pounding like it wants out of my chest.


    The Illustration Vultog, green and glowing like a highlighter scribble that got struck by lightning, moves with surprising gentleness. It carries Tasar like a fragile package, cradling him in sketchy arms of shifting lines and flickering ink.


    It steps forward, its glowing feet not quite touching the earth, and deposits the boy into the arms of Farmer Baptiste.


    ¡°Oh, my boy, my sweet boy! Are you alright?¡± Baptiste¡¯s voice cracks, rough as gravel dragged across a church pew. He drops to his knees in the dirt, clutching Tasar like he¡¯s trying to rewind time and protect him from any harm the world had to offer.


    Tasar nods, once. Still shaking, but alive. Thank God.


    Baptiste breaks. No crying, but a couple of choking sobs. Then, voice caught in his throat as he says, ¡°Thank ye¡­ thank ye¡­ Oh, my boy!¡±


    He keeps saying it. Like he can¡¯t stop. Like if he stops, something worse might creep out of the darkness and take Tasar, for good this time.


    We head back inside together, Vultog trailing behind like a funeral shadow, spellbook still glowing faintly against his side. The night hums with tension and cooling blood, the smell of fire and fur and sweat thick in the air.


    The porch creaks beneath our weight as we step up. Veronica¡¯s there, hammer in hand, panting like she just finished sprinting laps. Jelly Boy sits on her shoulder, wobbling with frustration, his normally playful jiggle all sharp angles and sour vibes.


    ¡°Too slow,¡± Veronica mutters. ¡°Darn.¡±


    I wave a hand and dismiss Wizard¡¯s Fist. Poof¡ªLefty and Righty vanish into harmless swirls of mist.


    Then, I scoop up Jelly Boy. He buzzes angrily, a vibration I can feel in my arms like I¡¯m holding a pissed-off subwoofer.


    ¡°I know, bud. I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say, cradling him like a goopy football. ¡°We¡¯ll get you in there next time. Promise.¡±


    The battle had started and ended so quickly. A firecracker of violence, followed by silence.


    The slime emits a low gurgle, somewhere between a whimper and a curse. I give him a gentle squeeze and his gelatinous surface squishes with a wet blorp.


    The Illustration Vultog stands on the porch beside us for just a moment longer, as thought making sure everyone made it inside safely, lines of green ink already unraveling like a string caught on a nail. It looks down at Tasar with glowing, expressionless eyes, then begins to fade. One line at a time. Vanishing back into whatever eldritch coloring book it crawled out of.


    By the time I turn my head to check on the real Vultog, the spellbook at his side dims. The glow softens to a faint ember and then snuffs out completely.


    He looks tired. Not physically. I mean in the depths of his goddamn soul. Like he¡¯s been dragging something heavy that no one else can see.


    I make a mental note. I definitely owe Vultog a conversation.