Avarice: The Realm Chapter 8: Ratsi

Ratsi

Brandi Knock, also known as Ratsi. In the day after my capture of ReaperGoon, the intel staff at Fort Lincoln identify an item that I can use for my plan. Ratsi is planned to travel through a specific building tomorrow in a meeting with her boss. I assume she’ll probably touch the surface of that building’s door.

With the card Sticky Glue, I can attach the tracking half of Focus Teleport to an object that she’ll touch. When she touches it, the Focus Teleport card will be able to teleport me directly to wherever she is at any time.

This plan will only work once. The card Shroud, among other things, nullifies Focus Teleport. While I’ll still know exactly where Ratsi is at any time, I won’t be able to teleport directly to her. Since she doesn’t know my plan she most likely does not have a Shroud card active. The effect only lasts for twelve hours, and they’re not cheap.

I walk up to Fort Lincoln’s fast travel tower. “Jiniva,” I say.

Jiniva is a city in the Eastern Jungle Biome. It’s not the biggest, not by a long shot, but it does have a small, dedicated player population.

I am curried by the ball of light across the landscape until I land at Jiniva’s fast travel tower.

Jiniva is a city with a Maya influence. Step pyramids rise out of the jungle surrounding the city, and vines crawl across most of the stone surfaces. There are a couple of modern-looking buildings, but most of the houses look like they were taking straight out of Jumanji.

There doesn’t seem to be a considerable player population here, just as expected. Most of the people walking past are NPCs, probably here just to make the city feel lived-in.

The tallest building in the city is the one where Ratsi will meet Mandrake Signa. All I have to do is stick the Focus Teleport tracking module and make sure Sticky Glue’s activation condition is set to Ratsi’s touch. Since I know her username, I’m able to target her with Sticky Glue’s “landmine” function.

I set up the trap in the doorway and then back out. Since they know exactly where I am at all times, I place a video camera in the balcony of an inn that looks over the entrance. The room has been rented out for the next week.

I take the fast travel tower back to Fort Lincoln, enter my officer’s quarters, and watch the trap site remotely with a small screen.

Most of the people going in and out are NPCs dressed in business attire. The building is some sort of governmental entity. I also note several player guild members of several major guilds in Jiniva.

And then she arrives. Ratsi. She’s about as ordinary-looking as any lackey of an international terrorist can be.

When she touches the door handle, Sticky Glue takes effect. She recoils, shakes her hand out, and looks straight at the camera—but it appears that she didn’t see it. She enters the building and closes the door behind her.

I shut off the view screen and stand up. I could use Focus Teleport to get to where Ratsi is now, but she’s probably surrounded by goons and is too close to Mandrake for comfort.

I need to use Focus Teleport’s incidental track function to mark a good time to teleport to Ratsi. Preferably when she’s alone, or when she is in transit.

“Status,” I say. I open up my world map, and turn on the marker that tracks Ratsi. She’s still in the building having her conference with Mandrake right now.

I spend the rest of the day just watching Ratsi move from place to place. After her meeting with Mandrake, Ratsi takes the fast travel system to the city of Endiga. I assume that’s where she lives.

She does some food shopping, heads to a salon, and then goes home.

I take out the Lightning Cage card and flick it. We’re good to go. I put that card back for later use and take out Focus Teleport.

“Teleport: Ratsi!” I say.

A ball of black smoke surrounds me. Before I can orient myself, a knife stabs out of the black and glances off my armor.

“I knew you were coming!” says Ratsi, through the haze.

The smoke clears. I am standing in a cozy, well-lit living room. Ratsi is pressed against the wall.

“Binder,” I yell. “Lightning cage!”

“Binder,” says Ratsi. “Counterspell.”

My card spell fizzles.

“Footlock!” I say.

Ratsi taps her feet. “Aerial walk!” Her feet float off the floor. She tosses a dagger at me.

I dodge. “Slow movement!”

“Counterspell!” says Ratsi.

My spell fizzles again.

“Darken, night vision!” I say.

The room plunges into darkness, but I can still see.

“Night vision,” says Ratsi.

The whole room is cast in a monochrome series of outlines. Ratsi walks through the air towards one of the doors.

“Freeze object,” I say, and the door is frozen shut.

Ratsi attempts to open it, but can’t. “Destroy artifact!” she says.

“Counterspell!” I say.

Ratsi’s spell fizzles.

“Lightning cage!” I say.

Ratsi is surrounded by a cage of electricity. She is breathing heavily. “You got me,” she says.

I attach the threads of my apprehension module and capture her before the Lightning Cage expires. Ratsi disappears in a flash of light, and I put the module in my pocket.

“Unfreeze object,” I say, and I leave the room through the front door.

I walk quickly through the city until I reach the fast travel tower, and then I transit to Fort Lincoln.

Pierre and Garnet are standing next to the tower, chatting. Garnet approaches me.

“Do you have her?” she asks.

I hold up the module. “Bagged and tagged,” I say. “I burned through quite a few cards, though,” I say.

“That’s to be expected,” says Garnet.

“Right,” says Pierre. He takes the module from me. “We’ll make sure she doesn’t try to commit suicide.” He pauses. “Did you have trouble with rats?”

I shake my head. “The battle was too fast,” I say. “I didn’t give her a chance to summon anything.”

“Hrm,” says Pierre. “Well, you’re certainly taking to card combat.”

“It’s all about strategy,” I say. “The things you can do are pretty amazing.”

Pierre grins. “Two more targets to go,” he says.

“And both know I’m coming,” I say.

“Well, Ratsi knew you were coming, right?” says Pierre. “And you took her down.”

“It won’t be so easy anymore,” I say. “Both Mandrake Signa and Peter Cool are probably under the shroud card by now. I can’t use the same tactic twice.”

“You’re pretty experienced, though,” says Garnet. “You’ll figure something out.”

“Do you have any planes I can parachute from?” I ask.

“Parachute?” says Pierre. “Sure. We have a couple of small prop planes that can do that. Why would you want to?”

“I think,” I say, “In this situation, a direct approach is best.” I turn to Garnet. “Do you have any cards that would help me direct myself while skydiving?”

Garnet nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Feather Fall would work great.”

“Get me enough copies of Feather Fall to get me through a skydive from the prop plane’s maximum altitude,” I say.

Pierre chuckles. “You’re definitely the daring type,” he says.

“I have to be, for my job,” I say. “Also, in order for this to work, we need to interrogate Ratsi and get her to tell us where Peter Cool is at a known time. We need to implant him with a Tracking Beacon card.”

“Do you think the Sticky Glue strategy will work a second time?” asks Garnet.

“I don’t think anyone noticed it,” I say. “Not even Ratsi herself.”

“Great,” says Pierre. “I’ll get my best interrogators on the job.”

I walk back to my quarters and stew on the strategy that I’ll use to take out Peter Draws. As I think, I fidget with the half medallion that I was given by the Black Marches.

I try to make a chunk of bismuth bronze, but it turns into a different kind of metal. I’m no expert, but it’s not the same sheen as the medallion. I decide to ask Garnet about that.

I leave my quarters—still waiting for that flash of inspiration to come—and head over to where I know Garnet will be.

I find her in the card library, sorting through a number of black cards. When I enter, she looks up at me.

“Can you help me?” she says. “I’m sorting a new shipment of supply cards.”

I kneel down beside her. “Before that,” I say, “Take a look at this.” I hand her the metal I conjured.

Garnet looks at it under the light. “Looks like it might be arsenical bronze,” she says.

“Arsenical?” I say.

“Bronze that uses arsenic instead of tin,” says Garnet. “Don’t worry,” she says. “As long as you don’t eat it or lick it, you’ll be fine.” She hands the metal back to me. “The MREs go on the second shelf.”

I spend about an hour working with Garnet, organizing cards. Most of them contain ammunition and food. Garnet says almost nothing as she works. I’m fine with that, as I am still thinking of ways that I can defeat Peter Cool.

When we are finished, we head over to the cafeteria.

An alarm sounds. Dozens of X-marines hurry past us. The tanks parked in the staging area are starting up, and a jet takes off from the runway. A dozen Apache helicopters rise from between the buildings.

Garnet puts her hand to her ear. “Looks like Avida is being invaded by zombies,” she says. She puts her hand down. “We’re not contracted to help, but I’m going. It’s up to you if you want to help.”

I nod. “I need to stimulate my senses a bit,” I say. I conjure my trusty bow and arrow.

“This way,” says Garnet. She leads me through the buildings until we reach the helicopter landing pad. Garnet has a few words with a helicopter pilot, and then the pilot makes a motion with his hand.

Get on.

I step onto the helicopter behind Garnet, just as it begins to rise. The wind surrounding me is incredible. We lift off. The ground pulls away, and the buildings of Fort Lincoln scroll past.

 One of the soldiers riding the chopper hands me a helmet with an earpiece. I put it on.

There are gigantic speakers attached to each side of the helicopter. I know exactly what they’re for.

Iron Maiden’s The Trooper begins to blast from the speakers, coordinated with the rest of the choppers.

“Nice,” says Garnet, giving the pilot a thumbs-up.

“Who pays for this stuff?” I say.

“The government says it improves morale!” says the pilot. He makes the metal symbol with his hand.

Indeed, I feel my blood pumping through my veins. This is quite the rocking way to enter a battle.

The city of Avida appears on the horizon. In between us and the buildings is a mass of squirming black that looks to fill an entire square kilometer.

“Are those the zombies?” I ask.

“That they are!” says the pilot.

As we pass over the mass of monsters, we strafe them with rockets and machine guns. It looks to do very little damage.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to handle this one!” says one soldier beside me. “There’s a lot of them goons!”

Two jet planes release cluster bombs into the mass. Again, very little damage was done.

“The order to evacuate Avida has been given!” says the pilot. He takes the chopper around the city’s central dungeon, which is identical to the one at South A Town.

“The brass says there’s almost a hundred thousand of them!” says Garnet.

“We’ll do what we can,” says the pilot. He takes the chopper back over the mass of zombies. We fire another two dozen rockets into their mass. Pieces of zombie offal fly everywhere.

And yet, the mass advances.

“Avida has been evacuated via the fast travel towers,” says a voice over the radio. “All units pull off.”

“There’s a gold card in there somewhere,” says Garnet, her eyes sparkling.

“Hold up,” says the voice on the radio. “Lieutenant Braze, what makes you think that?”

“There’s no way this would be designed into the game unless there was a reward,” says Garnet.

“Certainly,” says the voice. “We’ve considered that. But you know something, don’t you?”

“Sir,” says Garnet, “It’s just a hunch.”

“We’ll investigate,” says the voice. “For now, all units have been ordered to retreat.”

Our chopper peels off and heads back to Fort Lincoln.

“How often do zombies invade cities?” I ask.

“The wave attacks cities at random,” says Garnet. “Once they’ve destroyed everything, they move on to the next. There’s only one wave, and it moves slow, but it’s near impossible to defeat.”

“Has anyone tried?” I ask.

“Over the years, yes,” says Garnet. “But no one has succeeded.”

“And you think there’s a gold card reward for defeating them,” I say.

“Yes,” says Garnet. “And we’ll get it.”

“After I capture Mandrake and his goons, I think this might be worth my while,” I say.

“Indeed,” says Garnet. “But for now, you have to focus on your own mission.”

“Gotcha,” I say. “I’m on it."

Avarice: The Realm Chapter Four: Goblin Invasion

Goblin Invasion

“Goblins, eh?” I say. “They don’t sound too terrible.”

“These goblins are,” says Garnet. “They bring trolls and lesser dragons. I don’t even think you’ll be able to take down a lesser dragon alone.”

I open my binder and don my suit of armor, and then I conjure my trusty bow. I twirl an arrow between my fingers. “Who’s helping us?”

“I’ve called for backup from Fort Lincoln,” says Garnet. “The air support will arrive in five minutes. Two Thunderbolts and five Hueys.”

I whistle. “That’s some serious firepower.”

“The ground cavalry will be here in half an hour,” says Garnet. “We just need to hold out until then.”

Garnet and I are walking through the town’s main street. Everyone is panicking, and the raid siren blares above our heads. Dozens of pillars of light are flying in from all directions and landing to reveal players.

“Is it that serious?” I say, as I watch more than a hundred players assembling in the main square.

“Goblin invasions typically contain ten thousand warriors,” says Garnet. “Without the cavalry we wouldn’t stand a chance.”

The beat of a heavy drum resonates across the landscape. It grows louder with every hit.

Garnet runs up the town’s palisade to stand among a dozen or so adventurers. I climb up after her.

The whole of the horizon is black. A line of fuzz punctuated by towering behemoths.

“What do they want with us?” I say.

“Control of the dungeon,” says Garnet. “Dungeons are valuable sources of all sorts of things.”

The drumbeat approaches. The faces of the players say it all: they aren’t prepared for this.

A low drone builds up in the sky to the east. Ten black dots appear in the sky, on the opposite horizon from the invasion.

Garnet holds her hand to her ear. “Yeah. Okay.” She puts her hand down and turns to me. “It’s the French. Their base of operations is closer to South A Town than ours.”

The helicopters fly overhead, their rotors chopping the sky. Hovering over the landscape, they open fire on the goblins with a volley of missiles. Explosions rip through the goblin army.

A pack of dragons rise up out of the invading army and fly towards the choppers. Fire shoots from their mouths. One helicopter is caught right in the body and spirals, smoking, to the ground.

“Ouch,” says Garnet.

Two French jets tear through the sky, releasing carpet bombs. A line of monstrous explosions races across the invaders.

“It’s going to take more than that,” says Garnet, as we watch the invaders continue to approach.

The choppers and jet planes continue to pound the advancing army. Even though it seems like many goblins are dying, there are just so many of them that it doesn’t seem to matter. Plus, the dragons are keeping the French air support from getting close enough to deal real damage. A dogfight breaks out between the jets and dragons, creating spirals of mist and fire in the blue above us.

The goblins begin to erect siege engines. Several of the engines are destroyed by the air support, but more than enough rise up out of the army and inch towards the wall.

The French air support pulls back.

“They’re out of ordinance,” says Garnet.

Two American Thunderbolt aircraft roar overhead. Their guns sound like the fabric of the world ripping apart—a long, drawn-out “bruuuuup.”

The goblins continue to advance towards the town as the Americans take over from the French on the assault.

“Goblins are tough,” says Garnet, as the army approaches. “I doubt the hits they’re taking will do more than thin them out.”

I have nothing to say. When I joined this game, I had the feeling that I would be seeing something like this, but actually experiencing it is a whole different beast.

“Is there some sort of magic protecting them?” I ask.

“Of course,” says Garnet. “Have you ever seen someone take a rocket to the face and survive without magic?”

“How about Freax?” I say.

“Freax is unique to player characters,” says Garnet. “The NPCs in The Realm use a different kind of magic. Kind of like distilled Freax, but different.”

I tap my fingers impatiently on my bow. The American planes, as they run out of ordinance, draw back. The invasion advances. I can make out the individual mountain trolls. Each one looks to be at least five meters in height.

A frazzled-looking Hob approaches us from the stairs to the wall. “RT,” he says, taking a position near us. “Glad to have you here. We’ll take everything we can get.” He is holding an Israeli Galil. He eyes my bow and arrow. “You’re going mid,” he says. “I didn’t take you for the type.”

“His weapon isn’t actually mid,” says Garnet, with a bit of swagger to her stance. “He uses it aboveground as well.”

“Humph,” says Hob. “So you’re not mid or mod.”

“Um, mid and mod?” I say.

“Medieval and Modern,” says Garnet. “Medieval style weapons like bows and swords have certain advantages against magic and are usually buffed with some sort of in-game ability. However, people can still use modern weapons if they so choose. About a quarter of the players in The Realm are mod, and the rest are mid.”

“I see,” I say. I run my finger along the stave of my bow. I’m pretty unique, as far as Freax users go, as I use this weapon during all my hunts. Most people in the real world use guns, of course. Will I have to face these ‘mid’ players when I have my targets?

“Binder,” says Hob. His binder is decorated with yellow and red racing stripes.

“Cool skin,” says Garnet. “Binder.” Her binder is plain military green.

I did not know that binders could look different. Mine is, of course, plain grey. “Binder,” I say. “Hey, can I have one of these skins?”

Garnet shrugs. “You won’t be able to expense it,” she says.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say.

Hob chuckles. “So being a government lackey doesn’t pay for everything.”

“Skins are considered extraneous,” says Garnet. “And I’m not a big fan of them anyways. Some X-marines like showing off their skins, but I’m not one of them.”

“Is there, like, a storefront where I can buy a skin?” I ask.

“Yeah, there’s two here in town,” says Hob. “When this is all over, I can show you around.” He looks out over the army of goblins. “But we’ve got a lot of stuff to deal with first.”

“When it comes to combat,” says Garnet, “The Realm isn’t a game. There’s a gold card that can heal some major wounds, but there aren’t that many out there.” She takes a card out of her binder. “Drop.” A crossbow appears in her hand.

“So you’re a mid,” I say.

Garnet nods.

To the west, a number of black dots resolve into the forms of three Abrams tanks, two French AMX tanks, and a number of Bradleys and VABs.

“Looks like the cavalry is here,” says Garnet.

Hob whistles. “Yeah, times like these make me forget how much I hate you military pukes.”

In the distance I hear a distinctive soundtrack playing. Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries.

I sigh. “Are they really?”

Garnet appears to be amused. “They’re really.”

As the volume increases, undercut by the sound of helicopter rotors, I can’t help but let out a small chuckle. There’s no way this wouldn’t happen, right? Those marines saw the chance and took it.

Hob begins to hum along with the melody. Then, the fat lady starts singing. Hundreds of rocket pods flash overhead in a rippling wave of smoke and fire. Explosions rise up to the stratosphere. The violins screech. Two dozen American helicopters blaze overhead. The tanks and IFVs roll across the open desert, spitting plumes of sand out behind them.

“Looks like the boys are spending all my tax dollars,” says Hob.

“You don’t pay taxes in The Realm,” says one of the other players on the wall.

Hob shrugs.

Garnet leans against the crenellation. “Happy Independence Day,” she says.

We watch and listen as the music blazes and the ordinance rains. The whole view is covered in smoke.

The smoke ripples. At the bottom, some shadows slip through. Ten. Twenty. A hundred. Two hundred. A thousand. The goblins leap out of the dust and smoke, close enough to see their frothing mouths and blotched, mottled skin. Three trolls trundle out of the smoke. Ten more follow, dragging clubs the size of sedans.

A single troll comes within the range of the defenders, who open fire. Bullets and arrows ping off of its tough hide. The trolls approach the walls.

One troll smashes the wall to pieces next to where I am standing. Wood particles fly all over the place.

The players surge forward, joining the battle. I enter the fray from the side. Swords and spears are everywhere. Blood splatters my face. A goblin charges me, cackling with the voice of a maniac. This does not seem at all like it’s any form of a game.

The fighting stretches on. Goblins pour into the city through multiple breaches in the wall. Fires jump from rooftop to rooftop. A dragon sprays fire onto the buildings in the town.

An American jet plane soars past and shoots the dragon down. The monster lands in the middle of the town and smashes a couple of buildings, sending up a plume of dust.

Garnet slides up next to me. She is holding twin curved knives at angles to her wrist. I myself have put my bow away and am wielding a short ninjato. Its blade is running with goblin blood.

“Looks like this is the end for South A Town,” says Garnet.

“It had a stupid name, anyways,” I say, trying to make light of the situation.

Garnet slices the arms off of an attacking goblin. “Eh, the game designers could have done better, I agree.” She decapitates another goblin.

“Someone actually designed this game?” I say, as I parry a strike.

“What, you thought The Realm appeared out of nowhere?” says Garnet.

“I didn’t know people actually built it!” I say, as I slash the goblin in front of me.

“Some sort of elder race from another dimension came to ours or something like that,” says Garnet. She kills two goblins in a twirling motion. “They saw that we were making games and made one of their own. Who knows what they were thinking?”

I shrug. The fight continues, and the players are pushed towards the center of town. We take heavy losses.

A flash of light illuminates one of the shops close to the main road. Debris flies everywhere, and out of it rises a blue fire phoenix. The phoenix emits a resonating cry that causes my bones to shiver.

“Someone used a gold card,” says Garnet, baking away from an approaching troll. “Rise of the Water Lord.”

The blue phoenix smashes through the goblins in the city, tossing them up like chaff in the wind. With one of its wings, it slashes a troll in half. It tangles with a dragon and rips the dragon to pieces. Fiery feathers float to the ground.

“What a waste,” says Garnet.

I follow her, backing up, towards where the bulk of the players are making their last stand.

From somewhere behind me, Santa begins to laugh.

“Binder, Ethereal Shield!” yells Garnet. A ring of yellow crosses surrounds us.

The laughter passes overhead, followed by a blast of frigid air. The goblins in the street ahead of us freeze into comically large icicles.

“Nicholas’s Party,” says Garnet. “Another Gold Card.” She releases the barrier around us.

The air feels like we’re in Alaska in the middle of winter. Little snow crystals tinkle to the ground.

More goblins push through their frozen brethren, cackling and waving their crude metal spears. A troll smashes its way past the frozen goblins. The goblin-based icicles shatter in his wake.

Garnet turns, binder in hand, and faces the troll. “Confusion,” she says. A card rises out of her binder and puffs into black smoke.

Yellow balls of energy flit around the goblins and trolls approaching us. They begin to stumble about, careening into buildings.

A train whistle hoots, reverberating across the landscape.

The corners of Garnet’s lips curl up. “We got lucky,” she says. “It’s the Roving Keep.”

The Adventurers of Moray: Book Two Chapter Two: Restaraunt

Restaurant

The aftermath of the sniper attack is only slightly more prolonged than the attack itself. Mandrake summons a sheet of glass to replace the broken one and puts it in place with a couple of slaps. The broken glass pieces are shoved into a trash bin and I am the one to carry it into the street.

Mandrake grins. “That damn bastard. The sniper was probably hired by the Darks to give us a scare.” He holds the bullet he caught between two fingers up to the light. “But I must say, using pure gold bullets sure stinks of petty overspending.”

As he says, the bullet is indeed made of gold.

“Well,” says Mandrake. “At least we know that the Darks have a good source of funding. But we could have guessed that, right?”

I nod. “Can I see the bullet?”

“Sure,” says Mandrake, dropping the solid gold nugget into my hand. It is a lot heavier than I thought it would be. Since it was caught perfectly between two fingers, it hasn’t been deformed much by impact.

“Can I keep this?” I ask.

Mandrake chuckles. “Sure. Though I don’t know what a kid who can easily buy as much gold as they desire would do with a tiny nugget like this. For me this is a lot but for you? No.” He pauses. “It would take some serious capital to buy enough of these to win in a sustained firefight. Plus, it’s just wasteful.”

I cup the gold bullet in my hand. It is warm.

Mandrake rummages through a bin and pulls out a sheet of metal.

“This is a prototype I’m working on,” he says. He hands it to me. “Since you’re the metals expert here, I was wondering what you’d think of it.”

I rub my thumb along the metal. “It’s fine,” I say. To tell the truth, I actually do not know as much about metal as Mandrake seems to think I do.

Though I have studied up a lot in my quest to find a way to teach those conjurers Crayton hired for me.

“Good,” says Mandrake. He takes the sheet and tacks it to the window with nails. Now the only light in the room is coming from a desk lamp. Mandrake sits in the recliner properly this time. He takes out a cigar and cuts it. After a thorough examination, he lights it with an antique lighter. After a single puff he lets it hang out of his fingers.

“I trust you have a strong conscience,” says Mandrake. “You were able to avoid causing trouble even with the huge amount of resources at your disposal.”

“Um, I’m not sure they’re so huge,” I say.

Mandrake takes another puff of his cigar. “Nonsense. You are the master of the entire contents of an S-class portal. Including the bosses. With that power you could conquer the world.”

I shake my head. “But I don’t want to.”

“Exactly,” says Mandrake. “However, your power makes you a sought-after figure. Everyone will want you to be on their side, and they will offer very tempting things in return.”

Besides reviving Alice, which I don’t think anyone would be able to do, I really don’t know what I want deep down inside. I just want to relax and enjoy life while I have it.

Mandrake stands up from the chair and walks to the kitchen. He is still holding his cigar.

“I was going to offer you something to eat,” he says, “But this safe house hasn’t been restocked in a while.” He opens the fridge. “All we have is a couple of microwave dinners.”

I shake my head, and then turn to Sebastian. “What’s the fanciest restaurant in London?”

Sebastian seems to think for a moment. Then he smiles. “A restaurant opened not too long ago that serves conjured meals. They recently gained their third Michelin Star.” He puts his finger to his temple. “I think it was called ‘Conjuratus.’”

I grin. “Great,” I say. “Let’s take Mandrake there.”

Mandrake walks out of the kitchen. “So, do you want something to eat or not?” He looks between me and Sebastian. “What?”

“We’re going to take you out to eat,” I say.

“Well then!” says Mandrake. “I hope it’s somewhere not too expensive!”

“We’re heading to Conjuratus,” I say.

Mandrake’s eyes open wide. “I would love to,” he says. “Are you sure you want to be spending that kind of money on me?”

“You’re a silverbones,” I say. “Don’t you have a lot of money anyways?”

Mandrake shakes his head. “No. As a matter of fact, I make just enough money to live on.”

I am confused. With his power, he could be doing anything, making a ton of money.

Mandrake tilts his head. “I see you’re confused. It’s just a personal creed of mine. I’m very against the idea of wealth.” He shrugs. “But I can’t refuse the kindness of others, either.” He smiles. “Let’s go!”

Sebastian leads Mandrake and I through the building until we reach the street. Our limo is already pulled up next to the sidewalk. Sebastian opens the doors for Mandrake and me. I get in first.

Mandrake sits down.

I open the mini fridge. “Do you like alcohol?” I ask.

Mandrake raises an eyebrow. “What’s a minor like you doing with vintage whiskeys?”

“There’s also brandies and gin,” says Sebastian, from the front seat.

“I’ll take the gin,” says Mandrake. He grabs a bottle of gin and pours himself a glass. Glancing at me, he smiles. “Well, I suppose you need something to drink as well.”

I open the hidden fridge and pull out a diet root beer, popping it open with a snap.

Mandrake chuckles. “Diet root beer. Good choice, lad.”

Sebastian sighs from the front seat. Yeah, yeah. Diet root beer isn’t exactly suited for a rich young prince like me. Appearances and all that. I take a guilty sip of the beverage and set it down on the table with high edges.

Mandrake watches the cars beside us, not saying a word. I am left wondering what he is thinking.

“You haven’t told me directly,” I say, “But what’s the purpose of the Silverbones?”

“Immortality,” says Mandrake. “Or, at least, the search for it.” He sighs. “Plus a lot of other things. Look, lad. Don’t worry about what we do before you’ve made a decision.”

“But it’s obvious what I want to do,” I say. “I’m no bad guy.”

“So they all say,” says Mandrake. “I’m not counting on your presence until after the Darks contact you. We’ll see how moral you are after you’re presented with their offer.”

We pull into the parking lot of Conjuratus. It’s a fancy building in the London suburbs that is decorated as one would expect a high-class restaurant to look.

Sebastian opens the door for me, and I step out. Mandrake follows.

Sebastian bows. “I will not be accompanying you this time,” he says. He hands me a card. “Here is the method of payment.”

It looks like a simple debit card. I shrug and put it in my pocket.

“That’s a British Express Platinum, my boy,” says Mandrake. He seems genuinely impressed.

I take the card back out of my pocket and examine it. It doesn’t look that special to me. Sure, it’s shiny and has good build, but I would expect that of any payment plastic. I place it back in my pocket.

Mandrake chuckles, and then turns to the entrance of the restaurant. “This will be the first time I’ve eaten high-class conjured food,” he says.

We both step in. I am dressed sharply—it’s been a habit of mine ever since I realized I could—and, of course, Mandrake is wearing a black suit and fedora. We are dressed for the establishment.

A waiter approaches us.

“Reservation for Mr. Red, correct?” he says.

I nod.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” says the waiter. He leads us to a rather private table near the back of the establishment. I can catch a glimpse of the kitchen from here.

We both sit down. The waiter hands us our menus.

I read through it and decide to try the Duck Flambe.

“So, what are you going to have?” I say, to Mandrake.

“Just a steak,” says Mandrake. “I’m not very used to establishments like this.”

“Neither am I,” I say. “But I suppose at chances like this I have to try something brave.”

“That’s a good way to think about it,” says Mandrake, as he puts his menu down. He folds his hands and rests his elbows on the table.

“I have to ask,” he says. “Do you know where your money is coming from?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” I say. “I just accept the fact that the portal beings working for me aren’t causing too much trouble.”

“Hrm,” says Mandrake. “You also have your Rearden Metal, right?” he says.

I nod.

Mandrake crosses his arms. “It’s normal for any human who has absorbed a multi-thousand-year ring to manifest many special powers. Entrance to the Silverbones requires absorption of at least a five-thousand-year spirit,” he says. He taps his finger on the table. “I myself have acquired a twelve-thousand-year spirit. I was originally the owner of an organic compound manifestation. A certain polymer that doesn’t have an official name. I was assigned to be an adventurer because I could use the polymer to create shields.”

“So you’re a tank-class,” I say.

“Correct,” says Mandrake. “And I manifested a wide range of powers having to do with plastics and organic compounds. That metal sheet I showed you is actually an organometal.”

I whistle. “I should try making something like that.”

Mandrake chuckles. “I don’t doubt you could. Rearden Metal and my creation are in different classes, but both are strong.”

The waiter comes to the table and we order. After the waiter leaves, Mandrake folds his hands.

“So, you’re here in London for just another month, right?” Mandrake says.

I nod. “Just long enough to teach the conjurers Esmex hired to produce Rearden Metal.”

Mandrake sighs. “I don’t know if that will come to good or not, but it’s part of my personal creed to neve profit from what I can produce.”

I shake my head. “I don’t really want to profit,” I say. “I just want to be useful to the world.”

“Well, that’s noble of you,” says Mandrake, with a small smile.

The waiter arrives with our dinners.

“That was quick!” says Mandrake, as the food is placed on the table.

The waiter gives a professional smile. “All our food is conjured in its final form by our head chef.”

I look at the beautiful duck roast in front of me. As the waiter leaves, I take a bite, making sure to adhere to the English etiquette I was taught not long ago.

There is a loud screech and a crash. A car comes barreling through the front of the restaurant and smashes the wall, sending tables and dishes flying.

A couple seconds of silence pass. The car doors open and a gigantic, beefy man with Schwarzenegger-class muscles steps out. He is holding a chaingun.

“Get down!” yells Mandrake, as he tips the table in the direction of the attacker. He forms a semi-clear barrier of organic material between us and the gunman.

The gun opens fire, sounding less like individual bullets and more like the tearing of a cosmic sheet of paper. Screams are everywhere. Broken dishes and tracer rounds fly all over the place. One of the restaurant goers seems to be an adventurer and tries to fight back. Before he can take out his weapon, he is turned into a fine red mist.

“Damn Ronald,” says Mandrake, as he crouches behind the table and his shield.

“Is that his name?” I say, as I watch the restaurant explode.

Hundreds of bullets are pinging against Mandrake’s shield.

Mandrake’s face is deadly serious. “Yes. He’s not someone you want to mess with.” He pauses. “Not that anyone in the Darks is to begin with.”

The chain gun is still firing. I’m pretty sure that, by now, everyone in the room is dead. And yet the gun keeps firing.

Finally, the chain gun stops. All that is left is the sound of it spinning, and then that stops.

Ronald takes a couple of steps towards us, shells clinking beneath his feet. He stops in the middle of the room.

“Come out, come out!” he says, with a thick German accent. His eyes lock on us. He grins. “We need to borrow little Markus for a moment,” he says. “If you don’t turn him over,” Ronald holds up a bomb detonator, “I will put a hole in this street. Many people will die!”

“You’ve already killed enough,” says Mandrake. “Why do you want to kill more?”

“Kill?” says Ronald. “I do not kill. I stomp. I crush. I flatten.” He turns the chain gun towards us. It begins to spin again.

Mandrake whispers to me. “If he directs the gun against my shield, I won’t be able to hold long.” He cringes. “I’m going to have to let you go. They won’t kill you or torture you. You’re too valuable.”

I shake my head. “I have an idea.” I reach into my personal dimension and find the stone golem boss from the S-class portal. It’s still there. When I see it in my mind’s eye, it stands up from a sitting position and kneels before me.

“Master,” it says.

I snap my fingers.

A white portal appears on the restaurant floor, covering several broken tables and dead bodies. The golem begins to rise from the ground. First its head, then its shoulders. When it is at its waist, it tears a hole in the ceiling. With two gigantic steps, it walks out of the portal and tramps towards Ronald.

“You bastard!” yells Ronald, as the golem picks him up in both hands.

“Guns don’t work against portal beings,” I say, grinning slightly.

Of course, my grin falls when I see the dead bodies.

It returns for a split second when the golem throws Ronald like a professional baseball pitcher and sends the killer flying over the city skyline. Then the golem bows to me, returns to the portal, and sinks back into the floor.

“That won’t kill him,” says Mandrake. “It will barely scratch him.” He sighs. “Now they’re probably going to punish you at some point. And they won’t be attacking you alone anymore. If you try the golem trick on Blastoid, you’ll end up with a cloud of steam and a pile of broken rocks.” Mandrake wipes his forehead with a handkerchief.

Police sirens wail in the distance.

“Well,” says Mandrake, “After the theft at the National Gallery, the news will have a lot of things to report today.” He turns to the dozens of dead bodies covering the restaurant floor. “Namaste,” he says, holding his hands together.

“Rest in peace,” I say, holding my own hands together.

It looks like the war has just begun.

The Lesser One: Chapter 14: A True Adventurer

A True Adventurer

Construction at the CCC lab goes as I expected for the two hours I was there. I was given an assignment to practice conjuring the same piece of alloy at least ten times a day to improve my accuracy. Because I ask, Alexia names my new alloy “Rearden Metal.”

Life goal achieved!

Alexia also mentions that he would like to do further research on the Rearden Metal alloys—up to and including a master’s thesis. Alexia is a graduate student, after all. I agree and leave him with a small amount of each of the three alloys I produced.

I spend the rest of the day practicing my bow work, being studied by Dr. Barrimore, and working on my conjuring accuracy.

That night I have another dream featuring my army of devils.

Jirgrar approaches me in the same fashion as before, wearing a suit, surrounded by video-gamey houses. He bows before me.

“Myself and my fellow arch-devils have devised a plan to serve you better. If you would allow a number of us into society to make the world a better place for you, we would be willing to do anything to further your glory and renown.”

“Er, what kind of things are we talking about?”

“As you are aligned with the side of good, we cannot take any actions that would smear your honor. However, there are many things that we can do to earn you fame, wealth, and success that will not cause you any moral pain.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say. I honestly feel afraid letting a bunch of devils out into the real world—I do trust Jirgrar’s statement, but I don’t know what the effects really would be.

“Very well,” says Jirgrar. “We have devils who can do many things. Profitable things.”

“How about this,” I say. “You and five other devils can leave and do your thing in the world for a week. After that I want a full report.”

Jirgrar bows his head. “As you command.”

And then the dream ends. When I wake up, Jirgrar and five devils are standing around my bed like butlers. All of them bow at once.

“We shall be on our way,” says Jirgrar. Two of the devils disappear into smoke. One walks through the wall. The other two leave using the front door.

Jirgrar remains. He bows like a butler. “I shall safeguard your fame, your finances, and your reputation.” Then he sinks into the floor.

I am feeling nervous about this whole setup, but if these devils can do things for me, then at the very least I will be in for something interesting. I stay in bed a little while longer and then get up. A slip of paper pops into existence on my nightstand.

I have acquired a cellular phone. My number is XXX-XXX-XXXX.

Well. I put the number into my phone and shoot Jirgrar a text—an action that makes me feel exceedingly strange.

Me: This is my number. Are you going to keep me updated through text?

Jirgrar: For small updates this is a good system.

I shrug, and place my phone back in my pocket.

There is a knock at the door. I open it and look out. It’s Evan.

“Hey, Markus,” says Evan. “Looks like the Riding Valkyries have a dungeon to crawl today. Meet in the staging area at eleven.”

Classes are canceled on dungeon crawl days for the members of the specific guild called to clear them. I get dressed and head towards the elevator. As I am walking through the hall, I see one of my devils, dressed as a janitor. He makes eye contact with me and nods.

I pass him without doing more than acknowledging him. If the devils can infiltrate this building’s staff as fast as that, I wonder what kind of other stuff they can do. There are only six out there and I have two hundred and forty-five left inside me.

Crazy.

I meet Mr. Tuffman and the rest of the Riding Valkyries in the staging area of the Association HQ. It’s a lot like a bus garage or the room of a fire station. Lots of equipment is racked up on the grey concrete walls. Two big garage doors are fitted onto the street side.

The association buses are parked along one side of the room. Today we are taking it—we usually take it about half of the time, depending on how far away the portal is. This one is at least ten miles away, in the suburbs.

I climb on board, behind Sarah and the thief, Mary. Before I can get up the steps, Mr. Tuffman stops me. I step out of the bus.

“Markus,” says Mr. Tuffman. “We have fitted you with some armor and given you the designation of damage-per-second. We’ve also brought your bow from the shooting range.” He motions towards a series of racks that hold light armor and my trusty bow. There are no arrows.

I put on the armor. Since it is of the light class, it doesn’t take much to put it on. I’m done before the rest of the guild has boarded the bus. Carrying my strung bow, I sit down in the middle.

We start moving after a couple minutes. The trip to the location of the portal is uneventful. Soon I am standing in front of a rather large D-class portal that has appeared in the middle of a white picket fence grass lawn. The owners of the house and the residents of the street have been evacuated, and the adventurer support team is keeping traffic out.

This time I am standing with the adventurers, not the apprentices. I form an arrow in my hand and keep it close to my bow.

Mr. Tuffman stands before the group and holds the usual strategy talk. Since I am one of the adventurers, I get to participate.

“Markus,” says Mr. Tuffman. “This is your first actual crawl as an adventurer. We know your stats are now higher overall than any of us. In fact, if you had been this powerful from the beginning, our guild would have neve been able to recruit you. Despite this, I want to put you in the back where we usually put new adventurers. Is this okay?”

I nod. “It’s fine. I’m in no hurry.” In this position, I am only one or two steps above my previous place as apprentice. However, this position has room for advancement if I show my worth.

The strategy meeting continues for fifteen minutes. It’s routine stuff, and I don’t play a large role. All I am told to do is take whatever shots present themselves. My anima vision will help with this for sure.

We enter the dungeon at 12:30 pm. The dungeon theme this time is a graveyard with a medical twist. The enemies will be ghost and undead type. Crypts rise out of the ground, covered in used hypodermic needles, medical equipment, and bones. Dried blood spatters cover all the stone surfaces.

A crowd of clattering skulls approach from the front.

“Contact!” yells Mary.

The team’s two DPS members form up. I stand between them. Mr. Tuffman throws up a “gel shield—” his spirit is an organic molecule that forms tight floating barriers.

The skulls split into two streams, going around the gel shield.

I knock an arrow and fire at an approaching skull. The arrow strikes it right in the forehead. The skull explodes into bone dust.

“Brandon would love this dungeon,” I say, under my breath.

“Hm?” says Fera, one of the DPS members bedside me.

“Nothing,” I say. I knock another arrow.

The skulls split into three streams and flow around the gel shields that Mr. Tuffman is throwing up.

Gilly—a multi-class—and Jesus—a marksman—move to counter the skulls.

I fire another arrow and blow another skull to pieces. There are still at least two dozen, and they are getting closer.

One skull flies straight at me. Before I can knock an arrow, Turner—another DPS—shoots it out of the sky.

I dodge flying pieces of bone.

Gilly throws out an AOE spell. At least a dozen skulls go up in a pillar of flame.

The rest of them back away, and then disappear into the graveyard hills.

Bismark, the technician, goes into action and starts sucking up all the skulls’ spirit rings. These skulls can’t be more than twenty years old. Essentially, they are trash circles, good only for industrial purposes.

We proceed further into the dungeon, shooting down trash mobs and hoovering up their spirit circles and item drops. Since I’m no longer a porter, I don’t have to carry anything. I don’t even have to carry arrows—I can shoot as many of them as I want. I suppose that is why I was assigned “damage per second” instead of “marksman.” An ordinary bow user would be assigned to the marksman role, as their limited arrow count would keep them from shooting at everything as fast as possible.

I’m pretty happy with how things are turning out.

We reach the boss room without breaking any records, but still maintaining respectability. The boss room is a gigantic crypt surrounded by a fairy ring of gravestones.

“Here we go!” says Mr. Tuffman. He steps into the zone.

The crypt explodes into a mass of stone shards. A gigantic bull skeleton rises out of the ashes, its bones clacking with angry menace. Two dozen small skeletons rise out of the graves surrounding the crypt.

“Fera!” yells Mr. Tuffman. “Take Markus and handle the minions!”

Fera looks at me. I nod. We begin to shoot at the minion skeletons. I fire an arrow at the point my anima vision tells me to. I make two, then three and then four kills.

One skeleton pops out of the ground behind me. I turn around in surprise and jam an arrow into its jaw.

The skeleton clamps the arrow shaft with its teeth, its eyes filled with infernal blue fire.

I push the skeleton away, trying to put an arrow to my bow.

The skeleton snaps the arrow in its mouth and grabs me by the shoulders. Its clattering mouth hovers inches from my nose.

A hammer smashes the skeleton’s skull and sends fragments flying. It is Gilly.

“Thanks,” I say.

Gilly swings her hammer in a circle. “That’s what I’m good for, right? Smashing things up.”

I form a steel dagger out of my anima matter and store it in my belt. I’m not making the mistake of not having a close weapon again.

At least a dozen minion skeletons remain. I shoot arrow after arrow, each missile hitting its exact mark—the spot where my anima vision tells me to shoot.

The minion skeletons are soon gone. The gigantic bull—the size of a house—continues to rampage through the graveyard. We haven’t had any casualties yet, but at this rate we won’t keep getting lucky.

I fire a dozen arrows as fast as I can. Even hitting the boss’s vitals, the arrows don’t do much good. Fat DPS I am.

Bismark signals the group. “We’re almost done! Keep pushing!”

Mr. Tuffman forms a gel shield in just the right place. The bull skeleton stumbles, driving its horns into the ground. Gravestone particles fly everywhere.

I continue to shoot my arrows. The bull tries to get up.

Gilly swings a final hammer blow and crushes the bull’s skull. Bone shards fall to the ground, tinkling.

The monster is dead. The atmosphere becomes chilly.

“It’s yours,” says Mr. Tuffman, to Gilly.

Gilly sits bedside the skeleton in a meditative pose. “Oh, god of the hammer, I ask you to imbue me with the power of my conquest …”

A large ring, probably around two hundred years old, lifts out of the dead skeleton monster’s body and surrounds Gilly. It snaps into her chest, leaving behind a snow of falling particles. Gilly stands up. She flexes her fingers.

Mr. Tuffman turns to the apprentices, who have been waiting outside the boss zone.

“We’re done,” he says. “Pick up the items and let’s get out of here.”

My first dungeon crawl as an adventurer has been successful.

Chapter one of The Weakest Link

“Fey! Hurry up or you’ll be left behind!”

Magnolia’s voice bounced off the walls of the stone cathedral, which was lime-lit by pillars of rock around which torch fire ricocheted and played merrily with itself. The whole room was cast in a gloomy, disinterested glow. Flickers of orange and yellow churned on the ceiling and the creaking depths of the darkness below their passage, illuminating nothing. The air smelled of must and guano.

Fey picked up his pace. His pack—almost too heavy for him to carry—dug into the small of his back.

“I’m coming,” he said, as he approached the back of the adventuring party.

He caught up to James, a middle-aged man with a slender build, wearing a magician’s cloak. Exuding power, the cloak simmered in hues of angry red and soft, touching blue. Electricity crackled around its edges, sparks jumping orange. Enough power to rival a nuclear bomb fought to escape the silken fabric.

The tank whose job it was to protect the rear, Alex, had equipment of the same caliber and electrically powerful make.

The only difference was its design. Covered in sponsorships, ranging from McDonalds to Roundup, it resembled the paint job of a NASCAR vehicle. Logos fought for space on his breastplate, greaves, and leggings. His entire helmet was dedicated to an advert for specialty dungeon equipment by the maker Pelicar—a high-end brand that was along the lines of Louis Vuitton in the dungeon crawling scene.

Most other adventurers in the party were similarly outfitted—except for Fey. His cheap, battered cloak and worn-down boots were all that he could afford.

He was only working this job because of Magnolia.

Magnolia drifted backwards through the advancing party until she came into contact with Fey.

“Hey,” she said. “You look a little gloomy.”

Fey thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said, “I am. I don’t like spelunking-class dungeons very much.”

“What about them? The atmosphere? The lighting? Or are you claustrophobic?”

“That,” said Fey. “All of it.”

Marigold flicked Fey in the forehead. “You dummy. You know I’m going to make sure you get out of here in perfect shape.”

Fey turned his gaze away. “I—”

“Contact!” yelled Sam, the party member whose job it was to keep an eye out for the enemy.

Magnolia’s expression changed to an unreadable blend of maniacal fiendishness and self-aware irony. “Would you look at that,” she said, moving her gaze to where a tunnel split off from the main path. “Kobolds.”

Fey shivered. “I’ll stay back.”

“As always,” said Magnolia, smiling sweetly. She gave him a rub on his head. “Your big sister will take care of you.” Then her eyes glimmered a bit and she thumbed the edge of her blade. Radiating magic power, the blade half disappeared into thin air, leaving only a phantom of its form behind. Electricity arced from its tip, traveling all the way to the hilt in waves.

She disappeared. A second later the kobolds descended. Foaming at the mouth, traced with war paint, a hundred of them poured out of the entrance to the side tunnel.

“They’re ordinary!” shouted Sam. “I count one hundred and seven!”

Alex, who was standing next to Fey, chuckled. “As expected of an A rank dungeon. Switching things up a bit.”

Fey shivered. “Are kobolds dangerous?”

“They usually populate E rank dungeons in pairs of two or three, but this many can only be seen in an A rank.” He pointed to a rather tall kobold standing behind the pack. “See him? He’s a kingpin. They’re not very powerful, but they are smart.” He raised his shield. “See—”

A little dart appeared out of nowhere stuck in Alex’s hand. Before he stopped moving completely, he pushed out the words: “Paralysis …”

Fey scrambled to unpack his bags and find the right potion. Before he could, a single kobold slipped through the defensive lines and ran straight at Fey.

Fey stumbled. The kobold’s face slavered with rage and bestial emotion. It held a small, crooked dagger that it held in its right hand.

Fey fell to the floor. His fear had overwhelmed him. He pulled his own dagger out of its sheath.

When the kobold came close, he slashed.

A red “12” floated above the kobold’s head. The kobold’s skin suffered a small slit through its armor. A blue “130/142” appeared after the red “12.”

His attack was almost worthless. He backed up on his hands and knees as the kobold approached with a merciless glee in its eyes. Raising its blade, the kobold laughed. Its tongue hung out of its mouth, flapping from side to side.

Fey dodged, but not fast enough. The blade entered his side, striking a rib. He coughed up blood. The kobold twisted the dagger, wearing a grin filled with crooked teeth. Spittle landed on Fey’s face.

The kobold ripped the dagger out. Blood traced in droplets through the air. Fey’s vision blurred.

A crossbow bolt pierced the kobold’s head, sending it into a dance of frenzied death, after which it collapsed to the floor, lifeless. Blood trickled out of its mouth.

Through his double vision and intense pain, Fey saw Magnolia kneel in front of him. She appeared distressed, more so than would have been normal after Fey had taken a hit. He moved his head to the side.

Oh. Alex was dead. His eyes had rolled back and he wasn’t breathing. His body was in a position that implied he had died because he had been distracted by Fey’s plight. An arrow had struck a critical hit.

Bright light emanated from the healer, Bee, who stood right next to Magnolia. The pain in Fey’s body lessened.

“Damn porter,” she said, her voice a distant stream. “Why did we have to bring this F ranker here?”

“He’s my brother,” said Magnolia.

“That doesn’t mean we can let him get our party members killed!”

“I have to keep an eye on him, and he needs the money!”

“That has nothing to do with our party!” said Bee. She lifted her hands.

Fey sat up, groaning. “What …” he said. He looked at Alex’s body again. “Did I do it again?”

Magnolia’s face creased in a strange way before she sighed. “Yeah, Fey,” she said. “You did it again.”

Fey coughed. “Sorry …”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” said Bee.

Magnolia slapped her. “I’m the leader here,” she said, in a strong voice. “I get to decide what happens.”

Bee hesitated. “You …” She seemed to think for a moment. “You’re just a money-grubbing worm who doesn’t think about the lives of her people,” she said. She stood up. “I’m leaving.”

“We can’t keep going without our healer,” said Sam, from the other side of the battle zone.

Magnolia rubbed her eyes. “Then we’ll leave. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“Just because it will cost money …” said Bee, before she turned away and began the return to the surface.

“Does anyone else have any complaints?” said Marigold, surveying the party.

“She’ll never make it out alive,” said James.

“Who’s going to stop her?” said Marigold.

All the party members averted their eyes.

“Exactly,” said Marigold. “We stick together down here or else suffer the consequences.” She glanced at where Bee had gone.

“Let’s go.”

The whole party mumbled, and Fey knew that it was about him. Yes, he was weak. Yes, he couldn’t even fight against a single kobold. The only reason why he stayed with his sister on these dungeon crawls was that she was paying him. Not much. Just enough to cover his insulin fees—which were astronomical thanks to big business and monopolies.

Marigold had a saying: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” Fey had sometimes wondered if she actually cared about him, but he usually put that thought aside whenever it popped up.

He needed to work this job to stay alive. Type 1 diabetes was still incurable. Battle healing magic only worked in dungeons, and only healed injuries that had been obtained in that dungeon. There was no respite for him.

He followed the party out of the dungeon and into the streets of Los Angeles.

Dungeons. They appeared suddenly as doors into another world, and if the boss wasn’t killed in seven days, the monsters within would have free reign over wherever the gate appeared. At the same time as the appearance of the dungeons, about one in every hundred people received an “level up,” which gave them powers far greater than a normal human being. Usually, these powers went along the line of traditional role playing video games.

No one knew why.

The adventurers were ranked based on a class system that went from F, where the individual was just barely stronger than a normal human, to S, which was the category where those beasts who could not be measured were grouped.

There were two major guilds in the Southern California area. Longneck, and The Greasers. There were many, many smaller guilds, but most adventurers chose to work with the big guilds because of their power and, of course, their support crew.

Marigold stepped out of the portal and into a crowd of support crew. Yellow and white hard hats swarmed around, taking everyone’s special equipment, passing out Gatorade, cooling the adventurers off with towels.

The logo of the Longneck guild was everywhere. This was their party, after all. Though it was only the C team.

A woman in a prim, tight business suit approached Marigold. She eyed the gathered party members.

“I assume I’m going to have to send in a corpse retrieval party?”

“Two,” said Marigold. She took off her armor and handed it to a nearby support personnel.

The woman sighed. “You really need to better manage your party,” she said.

Marigold’s face flashed with anger. “Who says I’m not doing a good job?”

The woman rubbed her temples. “Look. We can’t keep taking losses on your end. The B and A teams rarely lose a member.”

Marigold looked like she was about to hit the suited woman. “I’m not doing anything wrong.” She turned to the party. “Am I?” she tried to meet their averted gazes. “Am I?”

There was no response.

The suited woman put her hand on Marigold’s shoulder. “You’ll have to brief command later.” She looked at Fey. “And get that man a drink. He looks like he’s been through hell.”

Fey sighed. Every party needed a porter. The pay was comparatively low, and thus no high-level adventurer would ever take the job. Not only that, there was a stigma, and a legend that if an adventurer of C class or higher took a job as a porter, their career would be over.

It was dangerous, too.

Fey stretched his arms, looking for a nice place to sit. He felt bone-tired. His entire being shuddered with the feeling of a blade penetrating his side. The floating numbers that passed his vision were almost real, as if there were enemies in front of him at the moment.

“Alex was a good man,” said Sam, facing Fey. “You’re dead weight here. No one knows why you, an F ranked hunter, are still here.”

Fey averted his gaze. “I’m just here because I have to be here.”

Sam turned away. “I recognize that Bee died because she didn’t stay with the group, but you’re probably the cause of that too.”

Fey shook his head. “I don’t know. I never know. I’m not powerful but …”

“But what?” said Sam.

“I don’t know. I guess that’s it. I’m just weak.”

“Then why haven’t you left?”

“I … I don’t know.”

Sam grimaced and turned away.

A support crew member handed Fey a bottle of Gatorade. Fey thanked him. The crew member nodded once, understandingly, and then began handing Gatorade to the other team members.

Fey folded his hands and looked at the sky. It was a true, bright blue, not a cloud in sight. Perfect California weather. The skyscrapers of downtown LA swept up and pierced the sky.

The portal that lead to the dungeon cast everything around it with a slight greenish glow. Every now and again the mysterious ruins that lined its edges changed, dissolving and then reappearing as different, still unintelligible, words. A large amount of magical energy radiated outwards like the heat from a fireplace.

Marigold stood in the center of the crowd, giving orders to the support crew. Her mannerisms were curt, almost brutal. Everyone feared her. Her power as one of the top ten A-rank adventurers lent a certain strength to her commands. She could take on the rest of the party toe to toe, alone. Her beauty was unmatched as well. She was a tyrant queen, full of ambitions and the need to be recognized as powerful.

This much Fey knew. But he couldn’t bring himself to hate her. He sighed, taking a swig of the Gatorade the support personnel had given him. It was Blue Cherry, not his favorite, but any Gatorade would do after a harrowing adventure. He looked at the pack that he had been carrying. Already vested of its valuable soul stones—dropped by every monster before it puffed into dust—there was only emergency equipment and a couple of backup weapons. It was Fey’s life.

Later that evening, as Fey sat on the balcony of his tiny apartment, he watched the stars go by, the blinking of the lights of the city. Distant sirens grew louder and then faded. Some people on the bottom floor were throwing a party.

Doberman, Fey’s dog, shuffled out of the apartment and lay down at Fey’s side. Fey scratched behind his ears absent-mindedly. “You’re weak, are you?” Fey said. “You’re the strongest animal I know.”

Doberman, not understanding, nuzzled Fey’s leg.

“Good boy,” said Fey.