At first, Vance thought that he would part with Eleanor on the outskirts of Argilstead, but she didn’t stop for him to dismount and galloped past the entry checkpoints. No one stopped her. No one asked her who she was or where she was going. And she continued to race through the dirt roads of the clay village as if she had been late for an important appointment.

“Where are you taking me?”

“The Fly Market.”

The asymmetrical buildings seemed to be moving on the right and left like pictures on a sepia film tape. Vance saw uneven roofs, slanted walls, and holes for windows. There were countless signs and signposts, each displaying text written in a different alphabet. Elvenform and anthroform were the ones that he recognized, but he could read only what was etched in the latter (road names honoring legendary slayers and advertisements for various services, such as healers and potion patches). The pedestrians, who walked under the signs and in and out of the drab buildings, were as diverse as the alphabets on display. There were humans, elves, highlanders, giants, dwarves, and other races that Vance couldn’t even name.

But the strangest sight yet awaited him at the Fly Market. There, at the end of a curving road, he found the Fly Merchants—creatures that had the body of a human and the head of a Honeydew Fly. They wore olive-green robes and sat on brown carpets. An inattentive visitor to the market would have mistaken them for an unsightly set of statues if not for the Targrass that they chewed on. Their mouths were constantly grinding the rubber seeds, and the lower parts of the stalks protruded from between their mouthparts like cigarettes, moving up and down with the slightest hints of a circular motion.

Eleanor stopped and dismounted in the middle of the crowded market.

“Here’s where you’ll gear up for Middlerift,” she said.

Vance dismounted and approached a Fly Merchant with her.

“Thurvik is king,” the merchant said, his eight eyes blinking. “And he was. And he had been. And he will be. And he must be. Thurvik is king.”

“This Headbound wants to trade with you, Fly Merchant,” Eleanor said.

“Headbound is friend.” The merchant moved his many mouthparts. “And he was. And he had been. And he will be. And he must be. Headbound is friend.”

Shop Alert

A Fly Merchant has given you access to his shop.

The following items are available for purchase:

Item Price Bones of Bazawrath 20 hours Book of Dirges 12 hours Book of Elegies 15 hours Dust of Portention 3 hours Farreach Token 20 hours Imp’s Storehouse 10 hours Larval Dagger 10 hours Larval Sword 15 hours Larval Spear 15 hours Larval Shield 10 hours Mantis Armor 20 hours Robes of Insight 10 hours Robes of Azara the Cursed-Knight 10 hours Robes of Dusky Aid 10 hours

“What are these prices?” Vance said. “They’re listed in hours.”

“You pay using your Flame of Revival,” Eleanor said.

“Using the flame?”

“It’s like a timer, remember?”

“Can’t I pay with something else? I have some gold in my bag.”

“Sadly, the Fly Merchants don’t accept any other currency.”

“But didn’t you say I’d die if my flame went out?”

“Don’t worry. I happen to know a way to stoke it.”

I don’t like this. Vance hesitated. She kept talking about the Headbound who built Argilstead and about how they sacrificed their time. But now she’s telling me there’s a way to stoke the flame. It doesn’t make sense.

“Trust me,” Eleanor said.

“How will I get back the time I spend?”

“Through donations. Other Headbound can give you part of their flames.”

“So you’ll give me part of yours?”

“No,” Eleanor said. “I have important duties to fulfill during this ascension, so I can’t share my flame with you. But I can help you find the other Headbound who are willing to donate.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Vance felt a bit more reassured. Now that the obvious contradiction had been addressed, he turned his attention back to the strange items that the Fly Merchant offered. Seeing no descriptions, he said, “What should I buy? Any recommendations?”

“First things first, pick up the Dust of Portention. When you use it, you’ll be able to see how much time you have left until your flame goes out.”

Vance bought the Dust of Portention.

The Fly Merchant stood up eagerly. He lit a stalk of Targrass using Vance’s Flame of Revival and then swallowed the burning stalk as if it had been the tastiest meal in existence. As a result, Vance’s flame flickered and weakened, but it didn’t die out. Satisfied with the transaction, the merchant spit a small packet of dust, the same size as a teabag, and handed it to his customer with a grateful bow, saying, “I was you. I had been you. I assist. I will assist. I must assist. Lost dreams revive. One day. Lost dreams revive.”

Vance accepted the dust with discomfort.

“Throw it into your Flame of Revival,” Eleanor said.

He did—and watched it flare up thrice.

Portentous Whisper You can now gauge your Flame of Revival.

“How much time do you have left?”

Vance gauged his flame and answered, “3 days and 1 hour.”

“Good. The more you level up past your ascension threshold, the less time you have here in Middlerift. By the look of it, you didn’t level up too much. You have enough hours to buy what you need.” Eleanor paused a little, as if to think. Then she added, “Next, I want you to buy the Imp’s Storehouse.”

“A storehouse?”

“You shouldn’t go back to the human world with the items that you buy here. They can betray your identity and put you in danger. This storehouse is where you keep them safe until your next Class Ascension. While you’re still here in Middlerift, you can also use it as a general storage so that you don’t have to go around carrying everything on your back. It’s very convenient.”

After this effective marketing pitch, Vance bought the Imp’s Storehouse. The Fly Merchant spit a golden key into his hand, saying, “Work imp is all serious. Holiday imp is all tricks. But imp is friend. Work or holiday, imp is friend.”

Portentous Whisper Your Flame of Revival goes out in 2 days and 15 hours.

“Next is the Farreach Token. You use it to summon a mount like Agatha.”

Portentous Whisper Your Flame of Revival goes out in 1 day and 19 hours.

“Now get the Mantis Armor and the Larval Dagger.”

Portentous Whisper Your Flame of Revival goes out in 13 hours.

“That’s it. You’re officially ready for Middlerift.”

Vance looked down at his feet, where his last three purchases lay covered in insect secretions. He first checked the Larval Dagger. It had a black grip and a gold cross-guard. This much was normal. But the blade itself was made of the hardened larva of Honeydew Flies. Vance had never seen this material before, and after a quick tactile assessment, he realized that it might be sharper and stronger than steel. How strong is the real question, though. He gave the dagger a few test swings just to get a feel for its weight, and to his pleasant surprise, it also turned out to be lighter than his steel one.

“It’s neat, isn’t it?” Eleanor said. “It deals physical and magical damage.”

“Magical?”

“Yeah. Larval weapons aren’t that strong, but they have interesting qualities. If you get hit with electro-magic, they deal some electro-damage on the side. If you get hit with hydro, they deal hydro. And so on.”

“I see … That’s called Magical Realignment, correct?”

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d know the term. Yeah, Magical Realignment.”

Vance examined the Mantis Armor next. It consisted of four main parts: a helmet, a breastplate, gauntlets, and tall boots. All parts were made out of the green exoskeleton of mantises, and they were designed to be attached to the body with yellow straps. Such armor was neither valuable enough to be resold nor fit for a high-level adventurer to wear, but it offered better protection than clothes: it could at least withstand a few projectiles and monster bites. Wearing it, Vance would no longer have to worry about flying bone shards or any other inconvenient shrapnel.

“I know you would’ve preferred light armor,” Eleanor said. “But a mantis set isn’t that heavy, and it’s the best match for your current level. In your coming ascensions, you’ll have more options to choose from, so don’t worry.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Do the merchants offer more items when I’m higher in level?”

“Of course. You’ll have a stronger flame, and that’s a business opportunity for them. They’ll even offer you item descriptions. VIP treatment, am I right?”

Vance put the armor down and checked his last and most puzzling purchase, the Farreach Token. It was a circular disk with the drawing of a horse on one side and the print of a human hand on the other.

“How do I summon a mount?” he asked.

“You just break the token,” Eleanor said.

“Will I get a three-headed horse like Agatha?”

“No, every mount is unique. And the summoning is randomized, so it can be fun and frustrating at the same time. Once you break the token, you’ll get a system message explaining what you should do next. I know you’re curious, but it’d be a waste of time to explain things now.”

“Thanks, Eleanor.”

“Don’t sweat it. Now open the Imp’s Storehouse and put your items away before someone tries to steal them. Those Fly Merchants can swallow things too, you know. They don’t just spit treasure.”

Vance took out the golden key that the merchant had given him. Following instructions from Eleanor, he closed his Mental Eye, imagined a door, and put the key in its lock. When he opened his Eye again, he found before him a real door with a golden knob. It had appeared out of nowhere. There was nothing behind it, but when Vance opened it, it revealed a pearlescent-opalescent portal into another dimension. From inside this portal, an imp emerged—red-faced, suited, monocled, smelling of cologne. It bowed with respect. Then it looked up at Vance and coughed into the back of its gloved hand to clear its throat.

“Monsieur Wolfe,” it said, “the imps of the Spatial Pocket thank you for your patronage. I am Didier, at your service.”

Vance looked down at the imp. It was around the height of a goblin, but its dignified demeanor contrasted with the little green monsters’ savagery. For a moment, he didn’t know how he should interact with it, but then he collected himself and said, “Take these items away for now.”

“We have received your Farreach Token, Mantis Armor, and Larval Dagger,” the imp said, writing a list in its notebook. “Please keep your golden key safe. No one can use it other than you, Monsieur Wolfe, but if you lose it, you also lose the items you store with us. There are no spares and no reimbursements.” The imp paused and looked around it before it continued, “As it seems you do not intend to store anything else, I will now take my leave. Bonne journée.” The imp threw the purchased items into the lustrous portal before it followed them with a dignified gait. After it disappeared, the stately door closed on its own and faded away from existence.

“Have you ever met any talking imps before?” Eleanor said.

“No, this is my first time seeing one,” Vance said, still surprised by the brief encounter. “Are they monsters?”

“Only when it comes to the golden keys,” Eleanor laughed. “I once lost mine, and it was hellish. Take good care of yours”

“I’ll keep it with me at all times,” Vance said, putting it in his bag. “So are we done here? Or do I have to talk to any of the other merchants?”

“You’re done, hotshot,” Eleanor said, clapping him on the back. “But it’s my turn to make a few purchases. Let’s see now … Which of these gross merchants sold the Necrohide Interpreters?”

***

After the visit to the Fly Market, Vance and Eleanor got on Agatha’s back and headed to their next destination. It wasn’t far. After they galloped through two roads and turned a corner near a pavilion for giants, they found it—a building as spacious as a church but as drab as the rest of the clay structures surrounding it. Although its architecture and design remained simple, it seemed that some planning went into its construction. It had three stories supported by thick walls that didn’t slant, and its windows were not odd-shaped holes but square openings that were carved with care and attention. A stone sign above the entrance read in anthroform, “The House of Turncoats.”

Standing below this sign, Vance gauged his flame.

Portentous Whisper Your Flame of Revival goes out in 12 hours.

“Is this the place you told me about?” he said.

“Yes,” Eleanor said. “This is where you can stoke your flame.”

“I don’t like it.” Vance pointed at the sign. “The ‘Turncoats’ part, I mean. It’s not really encouraging me to walk inside.”

“It’s funny you should say that. You and I are full-fledged Turncoats. That’s what everyone calls the human Adventurer Slayers. We turned against our kind when we chose Thurvik, so we’re Turncoats.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“You’re not the only one, but we’re stuck with it.”

“Well … I guess it’s just a name.”

“Yeah, just a name,” Eleanor reiterated, as she tied Agatha to a post near the entrance. “Anyway, should we head inside?”

“Right after you.”

Following Eleanor, who knew the building, Vance walked under the arched entrance and passed through a small entryway, where he was asked to leave his dirty shoes. Walking in his socks, he found himself in a large carpeted room with stone tables and chairs. Groups of lively and uninhibited Headbound were sitting together—talking, trading items, exchanging tips, playing board games, or arm-wrestling. Others were sprawling on the soft carpets, with red potion patches stuck to their arms and with an air of stupor and ecstasy. And yet others were sitting in isolated corners and reading in silence, with abstruse books strewn around them and with pens dancing across their fingers.

The majority of the crowd were human, but there were also a few solar elves, a couple of dwarves, and one highlander. They seemed to be having fun with the humans in a way that was impossible in the mortal world, where war and strife were common among the races. The highlander had just won a tough arm-wrestling contest using one of his four arms, and he was receiving warm congratulations. The dwarves were discussing forging techniques with human smiths. And the solar elves were caressing the shoulders and breasts of their human partners, with a lot of romantic warmth and affection.

“Welcome back, Eleanor.”

A human suddenly walked from a blind spot on the left and into Vance’s field of view. He wore a mage’s blue robes, and the metal head of an elephant covered his Flame of Revival, which shone from behind the eyes and turned them into two eerie pinholes. This unusual bronze accessory was attached with leather straps that peeked out near the man’s collarbones. It made him look like a chimera—a human-elephant hybrid whose tusks gorged enemy after enemy day after day. Much as his appearance was intimidating, however, the man himself talked in a very calm and docile manner.

“I’m happy you returned safely,” he continued. “If you have the Necrohide and the Interpreters, you should head straight to the third floor. The committee has been waiting for quite some time.”

“I’ll be there right away,” Eleanor said. “But first.” She pushed Vance to the forefront and continued, “This is Vance Wolfe. It’s his first ascension. We just hit the Fly Market, and he has around 13 hours left. If you can—”

“Say no more,” the elephant-mage interrupted. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Great!” Eleanor said brightly. Then she turned to Vance and added, “I have some business to handle, but I’ll be back in no time. Whatever happens, don’t leave the House of Turncoats without me. We have to talk about something important before you go.”

“Something important?”

“I’ll tell you later. Just wait for me.”

“Eleanor, what about—”

“I won’t take long, I promise!”

She hurried away without adding another word. She climbed the stairs and disappeared into the upper floors. Vance watched her until she was gone. Then he found himself standing alone with the elephant-mage. A tense moment of silence followed. He stared at the bronze elephant head, and it seemed to be staring back with its pinhole eyes. He began to wonder who this mage was. A city official? A friend of Eleanor? A healer offering his services? Every answer was equally probable but also felt somewhat off. The meaningless silence made it seem as if the mage would remain a mystery forever—a glaring, unflagging mystery—but then there came a sudden self-introduction.

“Welcome to the family. My name is Himilco Magus.”

“Magus?” The word slipped out in echo.

“Yes, the famous House of Magus. Not the pretenders. Not the charlatans.”

Vance retreated to his silence again.

“Oh my, are you surprised to find Old Nobility here in Middlerift?” Himilco giggled. “My dear friend, you shouldn’t be. The room you see before you is full of all kinds of people. You have the philosopher and the priest, the nobleman and the beggar, the monk and the lecher. The future, present, and past mingle. Everything is united by the fate we share. We are different, but our differences mean nothing, because we have all chosen Thurvik and life over the Church and death. We are all brothers and sisters in persecution.”

“You have a way with words,” Vance said.

“But actions matter more,” Himilco retorted. “So let me show you a simple proof of my sincerity. Would you please follow me?”

After a tacit agreement, the two started walking together among the tables of the ground floor. Vance felt a growing discomfort, especially now that Eleanor was gone, but he chose to wait and see what would happen. Stopping at each table, Himilco asked the Turncoats whether they were willing to donate to a newcomer. Then he gestured toward Vance, as if it were important to identify the newcomer in question. Some Turncoats refused to help; others offered a few flame hours with reluctance. But a significant fraction seemed ready and willing to support Vance. In less than half an hour, there were 20 confirmed donors, and Himilco judged that this number was quite enough.

Vance sat on a stone chair in the middle of the room, and the crowd of donors gathered around him. Each of them took a stalk of Targrass from Himilco. They dipped the dry stalks into their Flames of Revival, losing some of the time dedicated to their own Class Ascensions. Then they threw the burning stalks into Vance’s flame. A flare followed every altruistic offering, and friendly words of encouragement echoed through the room. It was a strangely heartwarming atmosphere for Vance, who had gotten used to a life of loneliness and aloofness, and he felt as if he knew these donors by name—as if they were old friends with whom he had just been reunited.

Portentous Whisper Your Flame of Revival goes out in 7 days and 14 hours.

Eleanor wasn’t lying. My flame is now even stronger than before.

After the fiery rejuvenation, the generous donors dispersed and returned to their tables. Only Himilco Magus stayed. His eerie elephant head was staring as if into Vance’s soul, and something about it was reminiscent of a gleeful face.

“This isn’t what you expected, is it?”

“What?” Vance stood up from his chair.

“This.” Himilco spread his arms as if to point at everything simultaneously. “You thought you would find a bloodbath. You didn’t expect to find kindness and selflessness in the heart of Middlerift. Tell me, how long did it take you to trust Eleanor? Or do you still not trust her?”

“It took me some time,” Vance said, “but I trust her now.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Himilco said, and Vance could’ve sworn that the bronze elephant head smiled for a second. “Trust is what built the House of Turncoats. Ironic, right? But in a good way. And as the person in charge here, I have to warn you”—his voice was still serene—“not to betray our trust. We have banded together to offer you kindness, company, and even promiscuity.” He giggled and pointed at the staircase. Distant moans could be heard from the second floor, as countless beds rattled and squeaked. “All in the heart of hell. All at your disposal, as long as you play by the rules.”

“And who made these rules? You?”

“No. As Headbound, and especially as Turncoats, we were all put in the same debilitating situation. We are the defiant victims of the horrors of destiny, and our rules of trust and companionship developed naturally.

“One: Kill not a Headbound for gain.

“Two: Deceive not a Headbound with guile.

“Three: Abandon not a Headbound in need.

“These are the commands written in the Pact of Lost Flames. The hardships of this realm bring us together and rein back our selfishness. There is little to gain from infighting, and much to achieve together.”

“All right,” Vance said, “I’ll respect the rules.”

“As long as you do, you’re part of the family,” Himilco said, his elephant head smiling for another split second. Then he moved on to another subject with a smooth transition. He purred, “Thanks to our familial bond, you have seven days to hunt your beast. But are you ready for the fight?”

“I’m not sure yet. Why are you asking?”

“I recommend you rest here for a while before you depart.”

“I do need to replenish my HP,” Vance admitted.

“Would you like me to prepare a private room for you to sleep in?”

“No, thank you. I think I’ll look for a healer or something.”

“A healer will cost you,” Himilco said. “The room is for free.”

“Give me some time to think about it,” Vance hedged, convinced that it was too dangerous to sleep in Argilstead. “I’ve been going through a lot after my Blood Pilgrimage, and I want to calm down a bit before I make any decisions.”

“You already seem to be quite level-headed.”

Vance didn’t laugh at the obvious pun. He excused himself and turned away in a hurry because he still didn’t feel comfortable around the elephant head. He was about to find himself a table, where he could wait for Eleanor to return, but Himilco grabbed his arm from behind and stopped him. It was an unexpected move, and he almost equipped his spectral dagger—perhaps out of instinctive fear. In the next moment, however, it became apparent that the elephant-mage had only the kindest intentions.

“You forgot these.” Himilco placed five red patches in Vance’s hand.

“What are they?”

“Vermeil Activator … a powerful mind-balancing potion. Your body absorbs its droplets when you stick the patches to your skin. You said you wanted to calm down. It can help you forget your worries and loosen up.”

“I don’t remember asking for this kind of help,” Vance said.

“I give five patches to most newcomers. It’s a good way to deal with the stress and amnesia that you experience after the Blood Pilgrimage. Many have tried it and appreciated the results.”

“I don’t need them.” Vance tried to return the patches.

“Keep them with you in case you do.” Himilco insisted. “Don’t worry. There’s no harm as long as you use five or less. Most people find bliss after two. Take a free trip to heaven for a few hours.”

Vance reluctantly accepted the five patches and examined them with little to no curiosity. I know about Vermeil Inhibitor, but I’ve never heard about Vermeil Activator. He’s crazy if he thinks I’ll apply some unknown potion to my body. Vance knew well the difference between trust and idiocy. But I don’t want to antagonize him, so it’s best if I don’t say anything harsh. He put the patches in his pocket and decided to leave them there until he could throw them away later. Then he thanked the elephant-mage, found himself a secluded table, and sat down to wait for Eleanor. She said she had something important to talk about. What could she want from me?