After all the food and general chaos of the day, sleep comes easy. The insanely huge and comfortable bed doesn’t hurt, either. And as an added bonus, I learned a few more things from the helpful servant girl before she went back to the party: if I become a wizard and don’t like it, I can change later, but it costs half my stat points. Stat points determine level at a rate of eight to one, though it doesn’t matter which stats I increase. And increasing stats is just like working out in a gym. I train my body, my physique goes up. I train my mind, my cunning goes up. Authority and attunement are a bit more challenging, however. Especially attunement. It measures my connection to mana, to magic, or something like that, though on that point the girl wasn’t very clear.

I stretch my legs, grab a few more bites off the cart, then set out into the vast hallway in search of a bathroom. A large part of me is shocked to still be here. And by here: in Inktown. In the world. I expected to wake up back in my own bed, sweating from a migraine and desperate for some pain pills. For now, I can’t tell if I’m happy about not going back. Am I stuck here? Is it such a bad thing if I am?

I’ll miss Jessica. And my brother. Not much else. The world sucks. Especially since the war, and absolutely since the end of the war and all the bombs. I can still remember sitting in the back of a military helicopter, my friend’s blood splattered across my face, and watching the very first bomb drop. A whole city vanished beneath the mushroom cloud. Then, only a few minutes later, a second one went off. Then a third. The cascading explosions were too bright even through the darkened visor, and I had to look away. All in all, over seventy bombs dropped on the first day. By the end of the first week, half the world’s nuclear arsenal had been deployed, and two billion were dead.

“Get it together, Sarah,” I whisper through my teeth. I count my fingers on each hand, one at a time, until the images of mushroom clouds and memories of intense heat subside. “I still need to find a bathroom. And there’s no VA shrink here to put your head on right if you get lost.”

I strongly consider peeing in a vase full of fragrant flowers by the time I find a bathroom. The house is simply too large to be easily navigated, and none of the servants are upstairs. The bathroom itself is just as opulent and ostentatious as the bedroom, bedecked with oil paintings, gold leaf, and all manner of other wealth. It does seem, thankfully, that indoor plumbing has been discovered, and for that I am thankful. On the other hand, toilet paper has apparently not been figured out, so I have to improvise for that one. There’s also no toothbrush, but there is soap. More improvisation.

Once I’m cleaned up, I head downstairs to just… well, I have no plan. A proper breakfast wouldn’t be bad. I really just need to have a look around and get my bearings. Some of the guests from last night are still there, passed out against the walls and surrounded by empty wine glasses, though most have gone. At the other end of the ballroom, I spot a huge dining room with seating for at least sixty. Various cold foods are leftover from the night before.

Beyond the dining room, the house opens into a sprawling courtyard with two more wings of the house extending to my right and left. Between the wings is a fountain with a circular pool surrounded by rose bushes. A handful of gardeners tend to the plants, carefully pruning and watering here and there.

The sun blazes overhead, and for the first time, I realize how different it is. In fact, there isn’t just one, but two. They’re close together, overlapping significantly, but still distinctly two bodies. Strange.

My first goal is going to be more information on Sir Mormont and the possibility of cloning up more ammo. I ask one of the gardeners where to find Sir Vasily, and he points me to the left wing of the mansion. I follow the outside wall down to a ground-level portico with double doors covered by flowing white silk curtains. I pause for a moment, listening, and hear several voices coming from inside.

“Sir Vasily?” I call.

No response. I knock, and a voice calls back. “Yes?”

I can tell it is him. “Sir Vasily. Do you have a moment?”

The door opens a minute later, and the wizard appears with a smile on his face. He wears the same cartoonish robe from yesterday, though it is open and hanging around his waist. The copious amount of chest hair he sports completes the Turkish kebab seller look perfectly.

“You?” He stammers, a hand vigorously rubbing his chin. “W-what are… how? You did not vanish when I ran out of mana yesterday, but surely, you should be gone now! What are you?”

“Yeah, good morning to you too.” I smile and walk past him into the room, curious to see how the most famous man in Inktown spends his mornings. A pair of naked women sit on a couch across from a gargantuan bed embroidered in the same fashion as the one I was given last night. The women are slight and pale, probably no older than twenty-five, and they giggle to each other in hushed tones while never taking their eyes off me.

I suppose my attire is probably a bit out of place. I’m wearing fatigues with an American flag patch on the shoulder, and so far, the fashion of Inktown has been a mix of Renaissance and industrial revolution. The girls’ black party dresses are crumpled up in a corner near a translucent changing screen.

“Hey,” I say, giving them a wave. They just giggle and chatter.

“Truly, in all my days, I have never heard of a familiar lasting more than an hour. A day at the extreme!” Sir Vasily brushes past me and pours himself a cup of dark liquid from a steel container on his nightstand. It smells like coffee, but it doesn’t steam with any heat. Cold brew? Probably. He’s also completely at ease with me walking in on him with the girls.

“Yeah, about that whole familiar thing. I don’t think I am a familiar. I’m actually a person, you know? My name is Sarah.” I reach out my hand for a proper introduction. Sir Vasily just sips his coffee.

“Whatever. What I’m trying to tell you is that I’m a real person, and you summoned me here, and now it seems I need a class. Make sense?”

Sir Vasily takes another sip. “Curious. Most curious…”

“Look. I’m super happy you won the Tournament, and I guess I won it for you, so you kind of owe me one now. And I’d like you to take me to Sir Mormont so I can learn to clone stuff.”

At the mention of his old tutor, Sir Vasily’s expression finally changes. “You wish to become a wizard? If you truly are not a familiar, I can make you a wizard. But cloning. Cloning! Bah. Impossible. Old man Mormont tried for years. It drove him mad! Never figured it out.”

“I thought he cloned a sheep.”

Sir Vasily waves it off. “A sheep! What is a sheep! Give me a male sheep, a female sheep, and half a year, and I will clone you a sheep! Any farmer can clone you a sheep. It is nothing.”

“Wait, you’re telling me the wizard was actually just a sheep breeder? A shepherd?” That son of a bitch servant girl lied to me!

Vasily gives an overexaggerated shrug. “So what if Mormont cloned sheep overnight? It is not impressive. Now… winning the Inktown City Tournament four years in a row! I’d like to see Sir Mormont win it even once! Ha! He could never!”

The girls laugh and chitter away at the bravado, and I give them a sharp look that accomplishes nothing. Clearly, they don’t care about me at all. Sir Vasily is their god, and until he gives them a command, they’re not going to quiet down.

Actually, I know this one. The servant girl explained it to me last night. Sir Vasily, on account of his celebrity status, has an exceptionally high authority stat. I do not. I could yell at them all I want, but it would never do any good as long as Sir Vasily is in the room.

The wizard sets down his cup and waves a finger. “No, I do not believe you are real, and I will prove it to you. You want to become a wizard, yes? And I am a wizard, yes? You choose the class, and I will attempt to confirm it for you. When it does not work and nothing happens, you will see. A familiar cannot choose a class! Then I will be done with this nonsense, and I can begin training for next year’s Tournament.”

I take a deep breath. If wizards can clone items, that’s what I want to be. And I can always change it later, albeit to great penalty. “Status.” The screen jumps to life in my vision. “Select class: wizard.”

‘Wizard’ fills in my class, and my attunement jumps from zero to one. With it, I gain a base mana pool of ten. According to the servant girl, nothing else will happen until I have the class confirmed by another wizard at least level twenty. Luckily, I know just the man.

“Alright. Confirm my class. I’m ready,” I state, gripping my hands to fists at my sides.

“Tsk, tsk. It is not so easy, my beautiful familiar. The great and mighty Sir Vasily Gnomeslayer, the Petulant Scourge of Inktown, four-time champion of the Inktown City Tournament, does not give out his confirmation so easily. No, no, no. First, you must complete a task!” He bellows toward the ceiling, and the two naked girls on the couch practically swoon. If they weren’t sitting already, I would have expected them to fall over.

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“Come on, man. What the hell do I have to do? And does everyone have to play your stupid game to earn your blessing?” It seems like a ridiculous proposition. Part of me thinks he’s just fucking around.

“Ah, yes. The great Sir Vasily Gnomeslayer has only confirmed three wizards. Three! You killed one of them yesterday! Sir Barton, my dear apprentice. Bah, he was weak! Terrible!” Sir Vasily tightens the robe about his waist and reaches high, stretching his back. The bones in his neck pop.

“Fine. I’ll bite.” I sigh, hardly believing what is going on. “What do I need to do to earn your favor, Sir Vasily?”

He points a hairy finger at my chest. “You… you must… venture into the forest, yes, and, and slay a mighty Djun-Rog! Haha, yes! Bring me the head of a Djun-Rog, and you will have Sir Vasily’s blessing.”

I could tell he was making up the trial on the spot, but I don’t care. And I don’t have the slightest clue what a Djun-Rog could possibly be. It sounds big and fearsome. And it lives in the forest. Perfect. “Does a Djun-Rog bleed?” I ask.

Finally, the chittering girls fall quiet.

Sir Vasily leans in close, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Djun-Rog… most capable of beasts… Many men and women have gone in search of its head, and few return. It slays mighty warriors with its horns and throws their corpses into the trees! It tramples fair maidens to dust beneath its hooves! It eats babies and children in one bite!”

“It sounds like a rhinoceros. But again, does it bleed?”

“Oh yes,” Vasily continues, his smile threatening to envelope his ears altogether. “I have seen the mighty Djun-Rog bleed. I almost kill—”

“Great! I’ll see you back here tonight with its head.” I spin on my heel and leave the three of them speechless behind me. I may not know a damned thing about this world, but there’s one thing that transcends all planets, all countries, and all species: If it bleeds, a rifle can kill it.

I head back to my room to make preparations. It won’t be the first time I’ve gone on a hunt, just the first time in a long time. I wrap plenty of food inside a towel from the cabinet and stuff it into my bag along with the rifle and all my other possessions. I contemplate leaving some things behind in the room, but in the end, there just isn’t enough for it to matter.

Luckily, the map shows me just where to go to find the forest, though I still don’t know exactly what a Djun-Rog is supposed to look like. Plus, I’m going to need a decent knife if I’m going to be removing a Djun-Rog’s head. The knife is easy enough to pilfer from the huge dining table, but a description of the beast is harder to come by.

For a description of my quarry, I decide on the barracks. It’s the only building on the map with a label that seems useful, though if I strike out there, my next plan is the butcher. If anyone will know about animals in the forest, it should be a guy who chops them up and sells them, right?

The first thing I learn about Inktown is that the place is much larger than I thought. The map’s scale is terrible. The second thing I learn is that the suns are hot. The breeze feels great, though, so I don’t mind it too bad. The people here are more accustomed to the heat than I am, and I very rarely see anyone wiping sweat from their brow.

The fashion, for a third thing, is just as strange as I thought the night before. The rich—I assume based on their cleanliness—wear long dresses, fancy wool coats, and top hats. My industrial revolution analogy appears correct in that regard. The poor, on the other hand, wear just about anything. The most normal, at least compared to me, wear plain brown pants with plain brown shirts. My fatigues really aren’t that out of place.

What I guess to be a few miles into town, I finally spot a gnome. The little fucker runs right in front of me like a house cat chasing a mouse, and I nearly trip on the thing. Or… person. He? She? It? I have no idea. The gnome rushes into a building, and a second later I hear someone inside screaming at it to be gone, and then an old man emerges with a broom and violently sweeps the tiny being back onto the street.

“They really are pests here… Wow.” All I can do is shake my head at the absurdity of it. I watch the little gnome scamper off, squealing with high-pitched shouts of glee, and it meets up with its tiny little gnome friends in a tight pack next to a shop selling shoes. The gnomes wear little scraps of clothing all haphazardly assembled from other garments, and they really do give off an aura of vermin with their snickering. I wonder how many Sir Vasily butchered to earn his somewhat gruesome moniker.

Just as quickly as they appeared, the little pack of gnomes hurries off down the street and around a corner, likely on to their next heist or scheme. No, I silently scold myself. That’s racist. Or species-ist? Bigoted. I let out a long sigh. I’ve seen every part of the world, from the lowliest of beggars dying in the war torn streets of Tel Aviv to a presidential reception in the New White House in Philadelphia after my second tour. I’ve seen people without a single piece of clothing to their name, and I’ve shaken the hands of trillionaires who have never had to want for anything. Among those varied groups, I’ve seen good and bad in both. I try not to judge. Perhaps the gnomes are fine. Or perhaps not. Either way, it isn’t my place.

I continue down Inktown’s main thoroughfare, checking out the shops to either side and generally observing the people, until I finally reach the town barracks not far from the colosseum. For a moment, I wonder if anyone will recognize me, but I doubt it. Sir Vasily was the main attraction, and they all just assume I dissipated into the wind by now.

The barracks is one of the few two-story buildings in Inktown, and it boasts a large gate covered with decorative wrought iron filigree. The top of the gate is crowned with iron spikes, and there’s a sign mounted just above them. And… I can’t read it. The letters are completely foreign to me.

“Great. I’m illiterate. But no… I read the map!” I pull the map from my bag and compare the letters on the map to the ones above the gate. “Oh, thank god. Two different languages,” I announce to myself. The gate is probably old, or the sign could be ornamental in the same way a lot of government buildings back home had Latin phrases plastered on them.

I test the gate, it swings open on oiled hinges. A small stone building stands off to my left, and there’s a training yard with some soldiers to my right. I head for the building and find it unlocked as well. “Hello?”

An older man looks up from a wooden desk. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I…” I hadn’t really thought this far. “I’m new here. And I was wondering if someone could tell me a bit about the local wildlife?”

The man snorts back a laugh. “What do I know about local wildlife?” he says with a sneer.

“Hunting, then. That’s what I intend to do. I’m a hunter. Any big game around Inktown?”

The man looks back to his papers on his desk. “Check the hunters’ lodge then, miss. I’m afraid I don’t hunt. Fourth Street. Big red building. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” I say, and politely close the door behind me. I head back out and look for a street sign. I haven’t seen any yet. I’ve just been navigating based on the map and my relative location to the clocktower at the center of town.

After a bit of investigating, I determine that streets are simply numbered at the start and finish with a collection of brass circles hammered into the buildings at the end. Going what I think is east from the clocktower, the streets all have odd numbers. Going west, they’re even. With my new system, finding Fourth Street doesn’t take long. Identifying the hunters’ lodge is equally easy. There aren’t any other red buildings on the street.

Unlike the barracks, the hunters’ lodge bustles with activity. People come and go, and it appears they do quite a significant business selling packaged meats. And the food is certainly fresh. A handful of deer, along with some animals I cannot name, hang from chains directly behind the sales counter. It seems my butcher plan B won’t be necessary as the butcher works right out of the hunters’ lodge.

“What’ll it be?” the gruff and portly fellow asks from behind the counter.

I shake my head. “I actually don’t have any money, but I’m wondering if you could help me. I’m a hunter from out of town.”

“Yeah?”

“Not a man of many words, I see. Anyway, I’m going on a hunt this afternoon with Sir Vasily Gnomeslayer.” I hope that dropping the celebrity name will buy me some street credit. “I’ve been informed that the best game in Inktown is a Djun-Rog, but, as I said, I am not from here, and I do not know what that is. I wouldn’t want to trouble Sir Vasily with the matter, of course. Can you help?”

“Heh.” The man grunts and slides his carving knife into a stone block. Then he turns and leaves through a door next to the selling counter.

Do I wait? Follow him? I have no idea. After a solid minute, I decide to follow him through the door into the main area of the hunters’ lodge. I find the man standing below a wall of hunting trophies, mounted trophies with small plaques beneath them. The trophies are heads, of course, and the plaques display the weapons used to fell each beast. Most of the creatures are familiar to me, though some of the proportions are certainly off. Deer, antelope, an ibex, what looks like a pair of jaguars, a rhino, several large game birds with colorful plumage, and then a handful of things that certainly did not have analogies on Earth. The most interesting appears to be the head of a horse, but it is scaly like a crocodile and sports far too many eyes.

“Which one is the Djun-Rog?” I ask, hoping I wasn’t about to go hunt a horse-crock-spider.

The man points up to the rhino head.

“Fuck me. I was right! The most famous wizard in the whole town is scared of a rhino.” I can barely contain my laughter. Surely a magical wizard would have no problem dispatching a rhino. The task suddenly feels even more trivial than it did before.

“These rhinos, or Djun-Rog, as you call them. Four legs? Pretty fat? Kind of scaly skin texture?” I ask.

The man nods.

“They’re hard to kill?”

“Skin like iron,” he says. He makes a chopping motion. “Nothing gets through it. Not arrows or spears, at least. And no magic. Doesn’t work on Djun-Rog.”

I check the plaque below the rhino head. Instead of a spearhead or broken arrow, there’s an inscription: ‘Sir Valgor gave his life to slay the Djun-Rog.’

“So how did Sir Valgor kill the Djun-Rog? It doesn’t say.” All the other plaques showcase the killing weapons except the rhino.

Again, the man grunts. He runs a hand through his curly brown beard. “Heh, Sir Valgor used magic.”

“Wait, you just said that doesn’t work. Do you even know?”

He snorts. “Blood magic. Sacrificed himself. Traded souls with the beast. Only way to bring it down.”

Well that doesn’t help. “There’s no other way to kill it? Just… blood magic?”

“Aye. Takes a life for a life to kill a Djun-Rog. Only way.” The man snorts again, shakes his head, then leaves me in the richly appointed trophy hall.

No wonder Sir Vasily wanted me to hunt it. It can’t be killed without sacrificing my life… but it bleeds. I give the rifle in my bag a friendly pat. If it bleeds, it can be killed.