His new reality was overwhelming. Where the tutorial had gradually resolved into being, the game just was. The ocean’s breeze heavily carried the stench of salt and rot. The screeching of gulls blared in the blazing sun. Humidity and rope, algae and urine. All of it was overwhelming, and yet all of it was overwhelmed. Omnipresent was the acrid stench of bile accompanied by discordant retching surrounding him. He looked down to find the dock awash with a veritable pool of vomit.

Sympathetic, Harding lost it himself.

He was still puking as new players spawned next to him. Eyes watering and breathless he heard them become ill themselves. It was a vicious chain reaction fed with an unending stream of unsuspecting new victims. The vast accumulation indicated it was not a recent development.

A man, a sailor perhaps, who was carrying a chest over one shoulder laughed at Harding as he passed him and slapped his back hard. "You'll get used to it, kid," he chuckled.

Harding glared, half bent over while he spit out the remnant bile, the taste of it still stubbornly burning in his nasal passages. The man made it about four strides further before he slipped in the vomit and fell flat on his back with an audible splash. The chest he had been carrying crashed to the dock and broke open. From it spilled a collection of fancy clothes into the mess, soaking it in.

Schadenfreude in less than six seconds.

Laughter rose from the ship behind Harding as the laid out man groaned. Another player spawned right next to Harding and was bent over instantly. The sailors laughed harder as the splatter hit Harding's shoes.

Launch day bugs are always fun.

With great effort, aided by a now-empty stomach, he stood and began to walk forward. Carefully. One squishing step at a time. Spectators howled and jeered at the afflicted, but he just kept going. Harding walked down to the end of the dock and joined the edges of the gathering crowd. It was no small mercy that he had managed to not overly soil his own clothing escaping. Plenty of others found themselves wearing their misfortune. Theirs, or their neighbors. Hems of heave.

Harding looked about and determined he was on some kind of secured pier at the end of a long port district. There was an obvious checkpoint, its metal fence rotting slowly beneath chipping paint. A group of uniformed men stood at the gate and he did not see many getting through. Beyond that gate stretched a bustling harbor full of ships, those piers full of industry.

The crowd was gathered along a brick wall near a different gate, an archway through which held the only other obvious exit from the newbie pier. Though slowly, the sea of people visibly drained that way. A glance again at the security gate solidified that it was closed to new players. Not needing further introduction to the stomach contents of his fellow noobs, Harding joined the press. Closer inspection of the gap showed it was wide enough for the crowd, however there was a commotion causing people to loiter and clog.

As he got closer, he saw that there were three men in uniform; blackened ring mail covered in some official livery. One held a pole from which hung a vertical banner. The banner a black field occupied by a giant, golden exclamation mark. Beneath it, a chest. Another of the men stood beside it, engaging the crowd while a third watched carefully a few steps away.

"You look like a strapping young lad," the talkative guard judged while indicating a slight young man near him. "Your quest is to kill five pigeons in the plaza and return to Chedwick there with their heads."

Apparently the watchful one was Chedwick.

"Cool. Do I get a weapon," the young man asked eagerly.

"For pigeons? Nah. Show the city your mettle. Go on now, we've got quite the crowd today you know," proclaimed the quest giver in unrestrained exuberance.

The mousy guy nodded enthusiastically and hurried through the onlookers towards the crowded archway.

"Next," cried the quest giver before searching the crowd. "You're a handsome lass. Your quest shall be…" He dug around in the chest sitting at the bannerman's feet and presented her with a very crude dress. "Put on this flower girl uniform and collect one flower of each kind from the plaza."

"Ok" she responded automatically as she took the flowered dress. After a moment she realized she couldn't just swap inventory slots. "Uhm, I'll do it later…"

The guards laughed.

Harding rolled his eyes and edged past the crowd of noobs who hadn't read online that there were no quests in the game. He passed under the archway like the rest of the press, with a shuffle instead of a stride.

Beyond the arch was a long, regular plaza surrounded by high walls. A matching archway stood in the distance at the opposite end. The whole thing looked to him as though they'd torn down an existing warehouse and made the once-interior an open air plaza. Along the edges were a mass of low budget vendors working out of trunks, recruitment drives for player groups, and hawkers of highly suspect street food. In the middle was a large, shallow fountain around a larger-than-life statue of an imposing armored man. It appeared to be bronze, but it was hard to tell as it was almost entirely encrusted in bird shit.

He walked up to the fountain and read the plaque.

> A gift of His Highness

>

> King Tressmere of Reimmes

If this guy was that respected he wouldn't be corroding under avian excrement.

The eddies and currents of the impatient plaza crowd threatened to wash the unwary out the other gate. But there was opportunity here, something to experience instead of just experience to gain, and Harding didn't want to miss out.

Nearly everyone was young. Undoubtedly there were NPCs this age, but the game was obviously spawning new players at roughly the same age. It made it easy to tell who the players were, they all looked like a rampaging crowd of college students just discovering freedom and alcohol. Freshly drunk freshmen rowdily demanding recognition. This was their world now. Their belief was their right. None of them fit the world, but it didn't matter because they didn't notice.

Of all the vendors hawking baubles and unidentifiable bits-on-sticks, what caught Harding's attention the most was an old woman sitting at a table. Next to her was a simple sign that read, "See your FATE."

It resonated.

The old woman was small and gray but unbent by her advanced age. She wore a plain purple dress and was laden with a questionable buildup of wooden bead necklaces. Next to her stood a burly man, decades younger than her but still older than almost everyone else in the plaza. He bulged with muscle and scowled with chafe. His eclectic collection of cloth, leather and mail looked more an ensemble of experience rather than fashion. His beard was long and black, his hair pulled back just like his permanent scowl. Every bit of him promised easy violence.

While Harding inherently questioned any claim at fortune telling, the presence of such a dour and dangerous looking guard lent her some credibility as did her age. But neither did as much as Kioski's partial explanation of fate. Fate was real.

Here. Only here. But what direction could anyone have if they had not yet done anything? The Auction of Souls, of course.

He found himself pulled towards it in curiosity, a hook set firmly into the meat of his mind. As Harding approached he saw she was laying a field of picture cards on the table in front of an obviously new player. He was bulky, brawny and fresh off the spawn in the same type of clothes as the other new players. Not that they were all exactly the same, just close enough in quality, quantity and style to leave little doubt.

There were five cards laid in a sideways "t" shape, three down and one to the right. No names on them, just painted images on thick stock.

"... and your sinister is," the old woman announced dramatically, then pulled the top card from the deck in her hand and laid it out to the left making the field turn into a plus sign.

Not a plus sign, it’s a cross…

The card lay upside down to the noob. On it was a painted picture of a darkened mine entrance. A mountain goat stood atop it, its white coat stark against the grays of the surrounding crag. "... The Black Mine. Beware lawlessness, for it shall cost you your potential… or lead you through great pain to it."

"You mean like getting robbed or doing the robbing," the newbie rumbled, confused.

"You shall know. Now, good luck to you and let the next sit," she said, brushing him off verbally. It felt like the typical vagaries of a scam to Harding, but he was no less intrigued. The newbie stayed still, expecting more. But when it was clear no more answers were forthcoming and the guard started to shift on his feet, he got up and left.

"Remember to throw a coin in the fountain," uttered a voice from behind Harding. With adroit command of language and wit, Harding turned and uttered, "Huh?"

Always a shining beacon of eloquence.

There was a guy behind him, well dressed in something like a fine cotton shirt and heavy woven pants. Harding had no interest in textiles, no cleverness of fashion. None of it meant anything to him. His awareness was instead focused on the knife in the man’s belt and the rapier on his hip. He didn't look new, but here he was in the starter area and he was otherwise unremarkable.

"When you get a chance," the guy continued, then speaking lower, "take out the smallest coin you have in your purse and throw it into the fountain. It sets your bindpoint to the city fountains."

"Sit down child," crowned the old fortune teller from the other side. Harding looked back to make sure it wasn't him. There was a tiny female in front of him, so frail and plain that he had overlooked her in every way. Seeing that he wasn't next he turned back to the guy behind him.

"Uh, the docks are like a minute away…" Harding elucidated. The man’s stare reminded Harding that the guy knew such things. Every player did.

The crone crooned behind Harding, "Alright my dear, cut the deck… no, lift up a portion and set it to the si… yes, that's right, good, good…"

The guy promised, "This sets you to the city fountains system. Whichever is the closest fountain. Trust me, it's worth it."

"Your Claimant is… the Void," the old woman proclaimed.

"You a beta," asked Harding, trying to figure out the veracity of the guy's knowledge.

"We are done here," pronounced the crone. "Next!"

"Yup," affirmed the guy. "Name's Bart Bronson. You're up man," he encouraged.

"What does that mean," whispered the confused girl, still huddled in the seat. She was fidgeting when Harding turned to look, struggling physically with her own hesitation.

"You've no Claimant, girl. No force invested in your Fate. You're a blank slate. I cannot tell you more or why, go and be well." The crone flipped a bony hand at her, shooing her off. The girl slumped out of the chair, on the verge of tears, and stumbled into the crowd.

Harding felt bad sitting down, empathy for the girl no one had picked. There was nothing to be done about it though. The crone eyed him. "My, you're a handsome one. You should come to my temple later…"

"What," Harding stammered.

The chatter of the crowd ceased, the girl forgotten as they watched him get hit on by a geriatric witch. The crone smiled at him, showing her mostly full set of yellowed teeth, then laughed uproariously. "Sometimes, you just need to clear the air after a reading,” she smiled while shuffling the deck.

Harding felt relief.

“And sometimes you need to take a chance," she whispered with a wink.

She suddenly slapped the deck on the table. "Cut it my boy and let us see what's in store for you."

Harding cut the deck and watched.

The system can do whatever it wants, the deck is just a blind.

"And you're claimant is…" she nearly yelled, dramatically playing to the crowd to attract more visitors and all but ignoring him. She didn't even look at him. She picked up the deck and played the first card. It was a small pond with three large fish beneath the surface. "Okkor's Three, very interesting. Good good, now who is your Suitor?"

She flipped over the next card. It depicted a child huddled under a black blanket without any background. The card was inverted. "Death wants you boy, you better be careful. He's a real bastard," she cackled.

Harding saw her eyes dart over to the crowd.

"And your Foundation…" she called, flipping the next card. "Ha. The Moon. Okkor's really excited about you, no wonder Death's pissed."

"I don't know what that means," Harding softly objected, unsure if he was supposed to ask questions or just sit there and nod like this made sense.

She chuckled and sat back, stretching her back until she winced. "Death wanted you, but Okkor had deeper pockets. Maybe because of you, maybe just to irk Okkor. You were stolen from Death and Death doesn't like to be robbed. Those boys, they're like brothers. They're often hand in hand, sometimes to wrestle each other and other times to conspire against the world. You're stuck hard in the middle of a divine family rivalry," she mused, then looked up at the sky lost in thought. A smirk appeared on her creased lips after a moment and she leaned forward with the cards again.

"Oof," cried out a thin voice from off to the side of him. He looked over and saw the pigeon-questee laying on the stone pavers, stretched out prone. Several pigeons landed a few places away cooing at him with annoyance. Harding just shook his head.

"Your Dexter," the crone sighed, giving up on whatever contemplation she had been entertaining. She looked tired to Harding, her verve an affectation.

If she was actually reading divine energy, it must take its toll eventually.

Her quick draw came with an audible snap. Placing the card to the right of his column, she muttered to herself. "Hmm, odd."

It was the same card as that big guy had, the outlaw card with the goat. "Black Mine?" he asked.

"Look at you, such a clever boy too. But no. It's 'Rich Earth'. 'Black Mine' is the inverted form. Phiris' secondary, opposing Okkor. It's a weird play. But Ghamitor is like that, the tricky old ram, full of secrets, lies and subtext. I think he wants you to learn anti-knowledge. I'd say you're bound for a temple tonight, just not mine sadly."

Anti-knowledge?

"A shame," she tutted teasingly.

The witch continued on and played the next card. Harding watched as she played his last card, a fully armored knight atop a rearing white steed, lance held straight up. Except the card was upside down. "You're Sinister is the Charging Templar. Honestly," she chuckled, "Ghamitor might just be insulting those two boys at this point. Remember this reading boy, this one has secrets. Or, your fate is the punchline to a joke only the Prism can hear. It should be interesting either way. Thank you for an extremely intriguing read in a day otherwise full of heedless edges destined to be swung bluntly."

"Next," she crankily screamed, like he wasn't and had never been there. Harding got up, making room for Bart and started to search his pockets.

I never even checked my inventory. I'm an idiot.

"Let's see, oh, you know what to do," the crone was saying behind him. He found a small, palm-sized journal wrapped in leather in his right pocket and a small leather pouch in the other. Choosing the pouch, he opened it up to see a handful of strange coins.

Harding fished out the one of the largest diameter coins he had and was about to tip the crone when a strong hand engulfed his wrist. He looked up to see that it was the guard that had a hold of him. This close to the man he noticed the blades tucked away all over the man's body, subtle handles laying flat and ready. He could almost hear them cheering for blood. Menace.

"You would insult her. She does the work, that is her purpose,” he hissed, quiet and harsh. “That coin will put Mesaphia on her table and poison all the readings."

"What about a little coin in the fountain," Harding asked, feeling a bit lost. The guard just nodded and let go of him.

The crone's voice rose up behind them. "Foolish boy, you can't just try and reset Fate through a reading. You've made your circumstances and you must ride them! Get," shrilled the fortune teller.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Did she say 'ride' or 'right'?

Bart grabbed Harding by the arm as he escaped, laughing, "Shit, let's get out of here."

Harding held up his coin for Bart to see. "Yeah, yeah, don't forget that," he chuckled.

Bart went with him to the fountain and Harding threw the coin in, waiting to see if he felt something. Instead of feeling some magical effect, he heard choking and gagging. He looked over to see the pigeon-boy crouched over a dead bird, spitting out a mouth full of feathers and flesh. Presumably, lacking tools, he'd tried to bite the head off.

Geek.

"What is wrong with people," he asked Bart.

"You don't get it yet, but you will," Bart replied with a manic grin. "So will they, eventually. Everyone comes here, thinking this is just another sandbox to build up their castles and knock down each others'. They don't see the other hand coming."

Harding glanced again at the fountain, disappointed with the lack of affirmation of his action.

Bart continued, "If one hand offers, the other punishes. That's the thing that makes this place different. Punishment, not just consequence."

Bart led Harding through the crowd, head slightly turned to yell back at him. "Most games just offer you what you want. Here you get that but you also see the child starve, the whore cry, your friend trying to push his guts back in while wailing in bloody panic. Here you gotta think about the consequences."

"That… doesn't sound fun," Harding worried.

"It isn't, but it is. It's what you need. It's what makes this place real. You can be a dick here, but it will catch up to you and the longer it takes you to pay for it the worse it will be."

"Yeah, I'm not sold on that," replied Harding.

"Think what you want, your opinions will change back and forth over time. But every day you'll think 'why am I here' and the next day you'll be logged in again. Except the real raging assholes. Those guys quit pretty fast. They can't handle the truth."

They exited through the far archway of the plaza into the active street beyond. Buildings loomed over the street, crowded. The streets crawled with life instead of the bland plaza.

"Hmm," offered Harding, noncommittally. "So I guess I gotta find this Okra Temple, you know where that is?"

Bart snorted. "Okkor is a god, okra is a vegetable. And I do. But we are going shopping first. You look like a noob."

"I am a noob."

"Not if you're hanging out with me. And you're hanging out with me. We are going to the bar later," Bart informed him with finality.

"I don't drink," Harding responded automatically, which he thought was mostly true.

I didn't drink, but this isn't me.

"Here you do. In the city, without a pure source of water, you’ve got no idea what you're drinking. Unless you want to play 'Intestinal Parasite Simulator', you do drink," Bart laughed. He had been acting nearly manic after being run off by the crone to a level which Harding found slightly concerning.

"Besides, it's launch night. The most common cause of death tonight will be alcohol poisoning," Bart prophesied. "And I guarantee you at least a thousand players will earn themselves a Resistant Syphilis curse."

"That's… lovely."

Bart snorted again.

"I've enough money for this. Nowhere near 'rich' money mind you, but I can't take it with me to hell and you are putting up with me. So think of it as me paying you for listening to me," Bart suggested. Harding wasn't going to argue with being the subject of Bart's largesse.

"Does that make me a therapist or a whore?"

"Don't know," admitted Bart, "but congratulations on your first in-game career."

They laughed and wandered the streets. The city was divided into distinct districts by gated walls. The districts didn't seem to be themed, though each certainly each had their own feel. They walked along the main roads only, not venturing down the smaller side roads. Despite this Harding was quickly lost, guided only by Bart pulling him along. Bart bought him a reasonable set of clothes, a supremely utilitarian belt knife and a small wineskin. The most extravagant purchase though was well fitting boots.

"Wait until these 'wizards' try to do a campaign in their slippers," he explained. "Doesn't matter what you can do in a lab, you're worthless if you can't get there and stay standing."

After all that they settled in a corner booth of a low end bar. Harding didn't catch the name and it was the kind of low place that didn't even have a big sign. Or a sign at all. Or standards. Harding had real concerns.

As the night, and rounds of ale, passed by they merrily spent it laughing at the awkwardness, depravity and rank lack of awareness of the playerbase. If all the world was a stage, tonight's production was a low brow comedy. "It'll all be different in a month," Bart told Harding.

They'd both seen it before.

They talked about the game, about what the beta was like, and pretty much everything else except their real lives. Eventually the conversation got around to what bothered Harding the most.

"They limited my tutorial to three questions. What's the deal with that?"

"Beta didn't even have a tutorial."

"So you just started by puking on the dock?"

"What? Nah, we just woke up in a district hospital and wandered off."

"Then how'd you learn the mechanics?"

Bart smiled crookedly, "Who said we did?"

Harding voiced his doubts, "Players really don't know what's going on? I find that hard to believe, there's always a couple guys doing experiments. A community of theorycrafters."

"Some mighta figured out bits, others ‘ve got their theories. Some of those ideas are public… but most are held in secret,” Bart informed. That behavior puzzled Harding.

"Because information is an advantage?”

Bart nodded, “So they hoard it."

Bart attempted to wave down a tavern maid for another round. She just scowled at him and headed off to the other way. As far as Harding could tell, that was the peak of customer service for the place.

Bart sighed, "You just do stuff."

"And then?"

"You get better at it? There aren't levels. No skill points or progress bars, nothing like that."

Bart leaned forward planting his elbows on the grimy tabletop. With the hallmark seriousness of the inebriation he declared, "Look. You go out and you… you do you. Then you end up getting better at… being you. Best advice there is."

Bart belched to punctuate his enlightenment and leaned back. Harding watched as Bart’s sleeves cling momentarily to the table.

He reiterated, "Be you."

"I get it."

"Best leveling there is."

"Ok."

"Be free."

"You're drunk."

"Not enough…"

As the evening passed the rowdy and joyous crowd felt somehow separate from their table. They were out there and Bart and he were in their own world. Bart told stories, mostly embarrassing things other people had done. Sometimes he shared his own triumphs and follies, but every tale was outrageous. Harding just nursed his ale and listened.

Sometime late into the evening a man and woman walked up to their table. The quality of their clothing clearly stated that they were not the tavern's clientele. While still utilitarian, Harding suspected what they wore cost more than what the usuals here made in a year. Harding was pretty clueless about living a hard life, but their dress and confidence here made Harding want to hide in the corner. You don’t look like that in a place like this without a reputation.

"Good evening, Mister Bronson," said the nearly foppish man who pointedly ignored Harding. The woman, though, scanned over Harding first before turning to Bart. She was pretty enough, in that kind of average but comely way, dressed in an assortment of fine blue clothes beneath a dark brown leather corset with some vaguely armor-like accessories. Her stare, though, had made Harding squirm. And his unease had made her smile.

"Hey, Ricasso. Bluejay. I was going to come see you after tonight," stammered Bart. Whatever this was about, Bart's demeanor had changed. He was palpably afraid.

The man smiled and nodded absently, like he expected as much. "Yes, I'm sure Mister Bronson. I'm sure. You had until today to get things arranged. The day is over. You know how the Society feels about punctuality."

"Yeah, I know. I had it arranged but…" Bart paused before shaking his head slightly. His shoulders slumped, paused, then raised again. After a deep breath he affirmed, "It does not matter because it did not happen. I know. It's on me, I accept that."

The man continued to nod along, though didn't appear to really be listening. He looked over at Harding and it seemed like his eyes glowed amber in the soft lantern light. "Who is your companion, Mister Bronson," the man asked with the welcoming smile of a shark.

"Oh he's just a new refugee, hasn't even been here a day. Doesn't have a clue about anything." Bart looked over at Harding. "Why don't you run along now, go find your new life. You'll be fine, you've got a head on you."

"Uh, yeah, look at the time… gotta go, see you around Bart," Harding stammered. He slid out of the booth and wandered through the common room. He didn't know where to go, just that he shouldn't be there. It all had the rancid taste of cowardice to him.

Whatever Bart is caught up in though, it isn't my business.

He pushed through the crowd, worming more than driving, to find an escape.

Not like I know him, and he obviously has done some bad stuff.

Harding pushed on through the stale sweat and spilt spirits.

If I don't stand up to things here, then what's the point?

He felt off. Odd. A feeling both familiar and foreign at the same time. Suddenly, Harding understood what he had to do. He changed directions and struggled through to the bar before waving down the bartender and yelled, "Where's the bathroom?"

It took a few tries before the portly man, who looked entirely too much like a hippo, heard him. "No baths here, we don't rent rooms."

"Yeah, no. I gotta take a piss," Harding clarified.

The man looked at him like he was an annoying child, turned away from him and went back to yelling into the backroom at an unseen employee.

Why does an NPC reaction make me feel foolish?

Harding walked out into the night feeling a familiar desperation. From the smell of the street, everyone else had already pissed there. Clinging to some shred of prescribed decency, and more than a slight fear he was breaking the law, Harding followed the long front of the building to the alleyway. There it was dark. Light from the street lanterns seemed to be forcibly rejected by the solidified darkness. He followed the alley in a distance, a warring tension between the desire for privacy and anxiety from the enveloping dark. The narrow alley felt closed in, the buildings' looming height making it feel even more constricting.

It was then that Harding discovered a horror of the age.

No zipper's, shit.

Though awkward and fumbled, Harding successfully withdrew himself and began to unburden his bladder.

A door crashed open down the alley, somewhere deeper into the darkness. Startled, he listened to it reverberating on poor hinges from the impact. Then the sound of the shuffle of people. Muffled arguments. A few grunts. A groan. A strange, wet sound. Over and over and over that strange, wet sound.

Harding had run dry and knew he should run too, but he didn't do what he should. Instead he crept closer to the sounds, deeper down the alley.

"I'm sorry," coughed a quiet wet voice.

Bart?

"She knows, Mister Bronson, she knows."

That Risotto guy?

Another shuffle and another muted cry of pain. Harding crept closer and found that a back alley crossed his way. He peaked around the corner. Bart sat against the wall, more propped up than anything. There was someone crouched over him, low and compact, making short upper body movements. A gleam, weak light flashing darkly on steel.

It's gotta be her, right?

Harding watched her punch the knife into Bart a few more times, demonstrating the source of the strange, wet sound. Despite himself and absent of thought, he crept quietly closer.

Bart gurgled.

The woman purred and leaned in close. It looked like she was kissing Bart, but the idea of that made no sense in his head. Harding wondered what kind of messed up history they had between them. She turned her head, a little light trickling from the moon above softly illuminating her blood-smeared face. Harding watched as she chewed a mouthful of something.

There were no thoughts in his head, only fear and revulsion.

As if she felt his reaction, she adjusted her head to focus directly on him in his dark hiding. Red eyes blinked. They weren't glowing, they gave no light in that place and neither did they reflect. And yet he could see two solid wells of red staring at him. She kept chewing as she watched him, unconcerned.

"Yes, quite right. Our clumsy interloper has finally arrived. I am just as surprised as you to find it to be none other than Mister Bronson's young entertainment. Amazing how he just turns up again, isn't it? An reportedly innocent and unknowing youth. Do you think Mister Bronson fibbed," asked Ricasso curiously from the dark.

Harding held his hands up. "Not my problem. Have a good night," he proclaimed heroically.

She swallowed whatever she had been chewing.

Harding turned and began to walk away casually. As soon as he cleared the corner he dropped into a sprint. With eyes locked on the glowing outline of the alley exit, he pushed his body forward with all his might.

He hadn't made five strides when his feet were kicked out from under him. While still flying head first he was grabbed in midair and spun by his clothing so that he landed hard on his back. His head cracked viciously on the brick pavers and the world of inky shadows above him swam. Two red orbs peered down at him and blinked. He wasn't sure if she was swaying like a snake or if it was the world, but he really wished she would stop moving like that.

Harding's ears rang and the sounds of the night were distorted. He laid gasping for the breath he had lost. He was lucky he had just emptied his bladder, but his stomach was threatening to revolt in its own fashion. Groaning, he tried to roll but found there was no give in Bluejay’s pin.

Named after a bird she was nonetheless made of iron.

"I do agree with you," Ricasso languidly replied to nothing as he strolled towards them in the dark. "That was rude. Certainly he did not show a lady such as yourself the proper respect."

Silence; except Harding’s thundering heart.

"Well, I'm not sure what you'd feed a pet like that," the man replied thoughtfully to a question Harding was glad he hadn't heard.

Her hand tightened on his mouth, thumb and finger pressing between his teeth in an attempt to force his mouth open. The world was spinning and clamoring in Harding’s mind. Red eyes still blazing without light. Colored darkness full of wicked intent. She held up a blade, a funny little thing that was just a finger length of steel bound full of malice and wet with Bart.

Against his will his mouth was forced open by the inhuman power of her dainty hand and she pressed the thin steel flat to the top of his tongue.

"Stop," commanded a new male voice.

Bluejay looked up and Ricasso sighed, "And yet more uncouth interlopers, this city is indeed uncivilized."

Another new, male voice, "This is not your territory, leave rogue."

"Neither is it yours, Deathless," spit Ricasso with heated emotion Harding had not yet heard from him. "It is no one's, which means it is everyone's. At least, until it is someone's."

"Are you starting that contest now," was the response, cold and calm by another new voice.

Whatever the drama, Harding was currently being ignored which he appreciated. Without lowering her gaze from the newcomers, Bluejay backed down over him on all fours and came up crouching at his feet with a different knife drawn. This one was long with a solid handguard, but mostly Harding was focused on it being long. While an entirely different blade, it was no less malicious. The sight of it made him nauseous. Or, maybe, it was a concussion.

Bluejay stood and backed up slowly until she was beside Ricasso who had his hand on the hilt of his own rapier. Freed, Harding rolled over and crawled to the edge of the narrow alley. He hazarded being caught between the two forces would be hazardous.

Once sure Bluejay wasn't paying attention to him, he looked at the new party. Bathed in the light of paper lanterns that some of them held up on poles stood a small crowd dressed in what he would call samurai clothing. They looked so out of place to him in this eurocentric fantasy city, but they also looked to him to be authentic. Black, pleated skirt-pants with crimson tops. Several wore white robes over it, only the edges decorated with color. Repeated on it all was a symbol of a black bound white circle with two evenly spaced horizontal black lines within.

Whoever and whatever they were, they were at odds with Bluejay and Ricasso and had enough weight to give those two pause. A thought which brought relief and greater fear of those two simultaneously. Harding slipped along the wall towards the lantern’s warm light. As he approached, a retainer shifted slightly to let him through. Moving along the edge of them, Harding estimated there to be nearly a dozen of them. They were armed differently from one another, wrapped handles and tall spears. None had drawn weapons and none wore armor.

"Get out of here, kid," one urged him in a very American accent. "The kashira will handle them."

Harding didn't need more urging. He ran into the night until his body failed him and forced him to stop. Gasping for air, he found it sobering to realize how little distance he'd actually covered.

Weakness is dangerous.

He was safe for the moment though, relatively, despite being lost in a foreign city at night. Saved by the intervention of a rival group who were seemingly out of place and out of time with the rest of the world.

Deus ex Machina? Whatever, never look a gift weeb in the mouth.

All that was left to him was the temple, out there somewhere in the hostile night. There was no way he would sleep on the streets with Bluejay out there. He didn't want to imagine there was even worse. Harding found navigation a bit more difficult than during the day. The anxiety of thinking who, or what, might be in the darkness between the streetlamps did not help. Eventually Harding made his way through the streets until he found the district gatehouse.

The guards at the gate house were impressive. Being this close to them eliminated any doubt he had that those guys on the docks were just beta players being assholes. These guards looked like they'd seen real combat and were ready for more despite it just being an inner-city gate. They exuded danger while seeming completely relaxed. Surprisingly, Harding found that they were pretty cool about things. He was given clear enough instructions, despite the guard having a troublesomely thick accent, to a district called Tuberents.

Why can I understand the shopkeepers perfectly, but the guards all have heavy accents?

Following their directions led Harding to a gatehouse sporting a sign that read, "Two Brents". The guards there were just as helpful though still burdened with the same accents. Harding dutifully followed the road past the first hill and turned up the road of the second hill. The road was so steep he questioned the safety of it, especially where a cart or wagon might be concerned.

At its peak the hill flattened out and on the left side of the street was a long wall. Walking its length was easy enough and at the gates hung cyan lanterns, as the guards had said. Somewhat sheepishly, Harding entered the open double gates to find himself on a path through moonlit gardens. Frosted lanterns hung at intervals, softly illuminating the grounds with pale blue light. Either the city's smell had completely gone away or Harding had finally acclimated to it, the greenery the only detectable scent.

"Greetings young man," called out a soft voice from the dark. A figure emerged from the shadow dressed in a hooded robe which was similar to Kioski's in cut, though light blue in shade. "I see the Lord of Potential has brought you here."

"Who?"

Harding immediately regretted his reflexive response. The guy was obviously some kind of priest and Harding was in a temple. The priest didn't know that Harding was here by a combination of lack of options and potentially cannibalistic murderers. And, perhaps, a bit too much to drink. Harding let him believe what he wanted, he just needed to ride out the night and find the right direction.

"I'm Brother Raymond. Let's get you a bath, a change and a room," the priest sympathetically suggested.

Harding was all for that. After a half hour, he'd been allowed a short bath and given a pair of blessedly clean light brown robes. A new priest, Brother Roberts showed up after that and led him to a dark and unmanned kitchen. There he put together a wooden bowl of raw vegetables and a hefty chunk of bread. It was simple, but it was also wonderful after a day of dirt and grease. It was the first time he'd felt clean and safe in this life.

"You'll be in my class tomorrow," Brother Richards informed him as they walked down the dimly lit halls afterwards. "We will cover the most basic exercise of the Order."

"When is that? How many hours from now?"

"Early evening, before dinner," Brother Roberts informed him. "Here we are, your cell."

Harding's cell turned out to be a room slightly larger than a closet. There was a cot on one side and a tall, narrow cabinet beside it with what appeared to be a fold down desk top. There was no chair though. "Thank you, looks great," breathed Harding.

"Sleep well," said the Brother and turned to go.

"Ah, Brother Roberts, does studying here mean I'm going to be a priest," Harding tentatively inquired. He didn't really want to be a healer or pretend to follow some hokey religion.

"No, son. Temples are for monks. Churches are for priests. We study magic here," the monk patiently explained.

"Wait, I'm a mage," Harding asked in surprise.

Brother Roberts shook his head and began to close his door, smiling in genuine humor. Just before the door closed, Brother Roberts corrected him, "You are not a wizard, Harding."