Early chapter today :)

A letter to my dear readers.

If the literature that we’re reading doesn’t invoke the mind and heart, why do we give it our attention? If all we see is a sanitized version with no real stakes then what purpose do we have in it?

I have a hill to die on here so let me explain some things because I see the comments on the tragedy going on and the emotions that are being felt. I understand, we want the hero to prevail, we want good to win and to have a ride off into the sunset moment. I want that too, but what kind of story would we want to read if the plot points were:

Hero wins and everything's okay -> Hero wins and everything's okay -> Hero wins and everything's okay -> Ad nauseam

The thing is, James, as in Frank was an ordinary man on earth. I tried to portray him as an everyday guy that we would see walking around today. Maybe more introverted and passive than some, and it was only because of Claire that he actually got out of his shell and did something, albeit in a purely reactive way. But so far with the transition to the realm of Friengard, and the losses he's endured, he’s still in a state where things are just happening to him. As they rightly should in this stage of the story, he’s frank yes, but he’s also James. A complete foreigner to the world naive to any real struggle on earth (Barring his saving the little girl in the store) and a young man still wet behind the ears.

Side note because I think I have to go back and make it more clear. I put it in ages ago so I don’t expect people to notice, but Andy wanted to train James to be an adventurer, maybe I’m spoiling the fun of foreshadowing things by giving it away but it’s in the cannon from the start. Bell talks about their other son and how it didn’t work out to well the first time around, so they put a lot more emphasis on letting James be a kid and then make his own choice at the induction of the Status at age 10) - A major reason that he isn’t a encyclopedia of knowledge some folks think he should be, that learning was supposed to be happening “now.”

Okay back to the hill I was talking about. Ser Loran was to do three things if you count the first mention of him back in chapter three.

First, guide James through the embroiled heartache from the recent loss of Nyx and his feeling of inferiority with protecting Joey and the sustained missing his parents. The anguish that was going to turn to hate, would rather turn to determination.

Second, introducing James to the world at large. (you'll understand next chapter where it's going) I could have gone in a different direction and had him hand hold James and I did genuinely consider this, it's been done in the past and the path was there but it felt wrong, again this story is about stakes and the human condition where you grow and mature.

Third was back in the start where he made a comment to Andy about the strength of James as an infant. It was in passing as he went out to the very Harrowlands they just came back from. I really believe that by the end of book two we can look back and see that it was the right path for our boy.

Back to the disorienting aspect of it. That’s par the course for right now. Who being flung from another world is able to say "I know what I have to do, create the perfect build min-max and I know everything because I played some games so I have a perfect plan and I am going to be a lone wolf who has no emotions and is a blank canvas the author self inserts themselves into for wish fulfillment."

Being 100% real here, I wouldn't wish to be James, that's some serious hit's he's taken! But that is what literature is supposed to do, it brings us into the life of another person, to feel what they feel and experience things that we cannot ourselves experience. It can be uncomfortable, and it can suck at times to feel it, but like James we can grow from it and learn more about ourselves in the process of it. That's what I am trying to capture with A Duke Out Of Time, That's the core of it, full of the fixings in my favorite genre of LitRPG and progression fantasy.

To cap off this rant/explanation of my thought process, this isn't going to be torture porn book where everyone and anyone dies. Will others die? Well... yes. Again stakes, but there is going to be so much more than that. We will see James love and care for others and in turn be loved and be cared for.

What happens in the next few chapters will thrust him into the next season of his life where he can take some agency and no longer feel powerless, tossed too and fro. Where he can, rather than say the vow “I’ll protect those I love against a nameless threat” instead he can have a goal and a clear understanding of what failure looks like and strive to "Live." Because that's what were all doing, we want to live and to live a good life. And that takes time to age and to percolate and to mature in a book series.

Part of uploading to Royal Road daily is you can't have the resolution to something now. It's a constant cliffhanger, I've been reading on the site for almost seven years now and I get it, it can be frustrating. But it's also so rewarding to see it to the end, and I'm not going anywhere, anytime soon :) This is a passion project of mine, so I wanna see it through.

So the hill I die on, tragedy in a story can be cathartic and give us the full range of human emotion. If overdone it’s trite, but I think in this case it’s warranted. I will give you this, after this chapter there won't be any more deaths that are built up to be this emotional.

The problem now is some folks have rated it at 0.5 and unfollowed the story. I'm totally fine with it, this is a more mature book than the simpler ones out there on the site. At least I'm trying to make it more mature and if you stick with it; the pay off will be worth it! :)

enjoy your day and this chapter. There's a reason for the decisions that I make and I hope you can trust me with it.

-Vivid

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James stared at the empty, wind-swept space where the sub-exit had been. Mere moments ago, that swirling tear in reality had glimmered with the hope of escape for Ser Loran. Now it was gone, shut like the final page of a grim storybook he never wanted to read in the first place. The wash of residual mana that had bathed the farmland in luminous streaks had faded into a faint haze barely distinguishable from the twilight. In that ambiguous darkness, James’s mind fell into a vortex of disbelieving numbness.

At some point he had half fallen off Starfall half climbed down and was now kneeling on the ground. He told himself to move, to think, to do something, yet he couldn’t so much as twitch a muscle. It felt as though invisible threads tied him to the ground. His arms were deadweight at his sides, and his battered legs ached in silent protest, as if they already knew there was no point in running now. The wind tossed stray leaves and bits of dried grass around him, swirling them across the patch of trampled dirt that marked where he and the others had emerged. He blinked slowly, almost dreamlike. The entire world around him, the farmland, the distant silhouettes of skeletal trees, the plumes of dust rising in the aftermath, took on a distant, colorless hue against the scene of mountains in the distance.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the ache of realization throbbed: Ser Loran was gone. The knight who had traveled with them through the rift, who had fended off beasts that would kill James with one hit, the one who had told James, in his final words, to live. In those fleeting seconds before the portal closed, James had glimpsed the knight’s final stand, beset on all sides by abominations far larger and more lethal than any man could hope to defeat alone. James had watched helplessly through the thinning veil as Loran fought like a cornered lion, steel flashing in arcs that left trails of blackish gore. He remembered the blinding swirl of claws and teeth and the last flicker of Loran’s gaze, the haunting acceptance in the knight’s eyes that told James he knew there was no rescue coming.

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“Live,” Loran had said, not in words but in that final, piercing look. And then… gone.

James’s mouth felt paper-dry. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when he tried to form words. He thought he heard someone, maybe Joey, shouting, but the sound was muffled, like hearing an echo through water. The skill he had used countless times now, {Strategic Tranquility}, was usually so effective at steadying his mind in crisis. But now it felt like trying to quell a tsunami with a spoon. His thoughts tumbled over one another without rhyme or reason, colliding in a swirl of heartbreak, denial, and guilt. It was easier to just shut it all out.

A swirl of dust gusted across his feet. Dimly, he registered voices around him: Joey’s frantic sobs, the rasp of Marcus’s voice. Even the distant thud of hooves, likely Starfall’s, barely registered in the haze. The farmland beyond was a gentle, rolling expanse of waist-high grass, dotted with the occasional stand of thin, scraggly trees. Long shadows extended across the field, shaped by the weak light of evening. Great mountains created a pastoral backdrop, perhaps under normal circumstances, James would have found the sight calming. Now it was just a bleak reminder that they were stranded somewhere unknown, having escaped one peril only to face new horrors.

A sudden jolt shook him as someone brushed against his arm in passing. It was enough to jar him from the worst of his fugue; he blinked again, trying to gather his wits. Only then did he notice Jackson’s form moving across his peripheral vision. Jackson’s posture radiated an unsettling mix of haste and confidence. It shouldn’t have been noteworthy, Jackson was part of the group, he'd come back to help. Right? They’d been traveling companions through the rift… but James’s muddled senses picked up a subtle tension in the rogue’s frame that set off vague alarm bells in the back of his mind.

He tried to recall how Jackson had acted in the past few hours. In the swirl of monsters and terror, Jackson had seemed helpful enough, flickering in and out of illusions, often scouting new routes. Yet… something about the memory left an odd taste in James’s mouth. He remembered Jackson always standing a little apart from the group. He remembered Jackson saying that he was leading monstrous creatures astray with illusions, but sometimes, James had an odd sense that he was guiding the party down more dangerous roads than necessary.

Loran trusted Jackson so James forced the notion back, at least temporarily. They’d been through so much together. If not for Jackson, they might have been cornered in that rift ages ago. But doubt nagged at him. Jackson was heading with grim purpose toward Marcus, who, at last glance, was barely staying upright by leaning on Betsy’s flank. The swordsman had lost so much blood that his face was ashen. If Jackson was going to help Marcus… well, that was good, right?

James’s arms twitched. He wanted to help too, but the heaviness in his limbs refused to yield. Panic warred with an overwhelming sense of defeat. If Loran couldn’t survive, what chance did any of us have? He was so lost in those thoughts that he didn’t realize how silent the farmland had become. No monstrous roars echoed here, no swirling rift energy hissed. It was just the hush of a mild evening wind that caressed his cheeks, so at odds with the heartbreak swirling inside him.

He felt a presence at his shoulder. Then a voice, Joey’s, rang out, jarring him again. It took James a moment to parse the words. “Marcus!” Joey was shouting while running, his voice raw with desperation. “Marcus, hey, stay with me!” Something in Joey’s tone catapulted James out of his numbness. The boy’s fear was so stark, it cut through James’s mental static.

Blinking hard, James turned. “Joey, what’s,” The rest of his sentence died unspoken. A fresh surge of horror jolted him as he realized Marcus was no longer leaning on Betsy. He was half-collapsed, now on his knees, using one hand to brace himself on the grass. A thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his expression was vacant, eyes slightly unfocused. The man looked as though he were trying to speak, but his lips only trembled, forming half-syllables that never made it into coherent sound.

James’s heart twisted. “Marcus?”

Those hollow eyes turned faintly toward James, but there was no recognition in them. The swordsman’s hand slipped, and he pitched forward in an ungainly sprawl. The impact was oddly soft, the grass breaking his fall, but the ominous splash of blood told James it was a serious collapse. In the aftermath, dust and debris puffed around the body, mingling with the red seep that was already beginning to stain the dirt.

Instantly, James felt his own heart thunder in his ears. This could not be happening again. They’d just lost Loran, and now Marcus? A wave of panic thundered through James’s mind, and he found the strength to stumble forward on numb legs. “Marcus!” he called, though his voice emerged strangled. A distant, self-critical voice inside him wondered if it was already too late, if the man had bled out before they even realized. Guilt lanced him. He should have been checking on Marcus. He should have done something more than stand around in shock.

Joey was crouched by Marcus’s side, hands fluttering uncertainly over the man’s battered armor, which was caked in dried gore and fresh bleeding. “No, no… no, no,” Joey repeated, almost babbling. “We can get a healing salve or, or, something.” His mechanical arm clacked uselessly, the metal digits quivering with his trembling. The look on Joey’s face was part terror, part helpless fury.

James felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. His capacity to feel was a jagged, conflicting tangle. Fear for Marcus warred with the crushing knowledge that Loran was already gone. The urge to check if Marcus was still breathing battled with the dread that he might not be. He was about to drop to his knees and help Joey, but a flicker of motion behind the two of them caught his attention. There was Jackson, walking in a slow, purposeful line, his posture strangely rigid. Was he coming to help? Or to investigate?

James never had a chance to call out. Because an instant later, everything changed.

The figure approaching was approaching Elia who was frozen in shock herself. James saw two figures in fact, one was Jackson, or so it seemed; the other was… also Jackson, striding in from the left. That made no sense. Panic stabbed through James. He didn't know the extent of Jacksons abilities, only that it is illusion-stealth based. The disorientation hammered at his mind. Was one a fake? Both illusions? What is going on?

Elia’s staff came up with reflexive speed as she broke out of her state. A crackle of gathering water mana formed at its tip. James recognized the posture from half a dozen prior battles, the distinct angle of her shoulders indicating the high-pressure water lance she favored. Sure enough, the watery projectile shot forth with a hiss, a lethal spear shape that could pierce hide and armor alike. It impaled the closer Jackson, if that indeed was Jackson, and that figure immediately fizzled, dissolving into a swirl of illusory dust. For a heartbeat James didn't understand until he heard Joey roar in anger. "YOU DID THIS!" He was pointing at Jackson who was oblivious to the boy.

James’s heart soared with relief as the Jackson that was advancing on her dissipated and the one behind her was gone to. Elia was proving once again how formidable she could be even low on mana and drained from the rift. The real Jackson, if that’s what was going on, must have tried some trick, but Elia had seen through it.

But that victory lasted only a fraction of a second. Before James could even voice relief, a sudden movement behind Elia shattered the moment. Out of thin air, seemingly from the intangible gloom at her back, a blade flashed. A nauseating gasp escaped Elia’s lips, and the staff clattered to the ground.

James watched in horrified slow motion as the metal slid out from between her ribcage out the front of her chest, glistening with a dark sheen of blood. The woman’s eyes went wide, her face twisting in shock and agony. She tried to say something, but only a grotesque, wet gurgle emerged. The ground under her feet turned muddy red as she staggered forward. James’s entire body seized with revulsion and dread. Jackson had stabbed her. This was no accident. This was betrayal.

Time skewed, and James couldn’t think. His muscles seized, breath locked in his throat. The immediate reaction was No, no, this can’t be real. The idea that Jackson, their Jackson, could do this was unthinkable. Jackson had fought with them, scouted for them, laughed with them on the occasional reprieve. Why would he do something so monstrous? Then he considered how they met, and the way he treated Elia. The deference he had for Ser Loran was there but the others he treated with callousness or like play things.

Joey’s reaction was more immediate and visceral. The boy, who had turned from Marcus’s fallen form, saw Elia crumple. He let out a cry of raw, incandescent rage and charged, mechanical arm raised like a bludgeon. James felt his mind shriek a warning. Joey, no! He’ll kill you,

Desperately, James lurched for Starfall’s saddle, where his trident was strapped. He’d barely gotten a hand on the haft when Joey reached Jackson. But Jackson was lightning-fast, sidestepping the blow with unnerving ease. He swung the hilt of his knife in a tight arc that caught Joey’s temple. The crack of impact was sickeningly loud. Joey collapsed, his knees folding under him. He slumped into a silent heap, eyes rolling back.