Learn to differentiate between what’s real and what’s not. Trust the first. Not the latter.

Doctor Mendez’s words echoed in Nil’s ears. Usually, he used the mantra to ignore the visage haunting him. Whenever the woman in the bloody white parka and ripped jeans waved, gestured, or mimed something at Nil, he ignored her. Then another fireball exploded in the street behind him, and lightning flashed out of the windows in the building ahead. So, when she pointed at an alleyway to his left, Nil took the suggestion and ran.

Backtracking occurred to him as the wall stretching to his right trembled and dust rained on him. A hundred-meter sprint would take him back to Picadilly Circus. Mana-tech screens advertising Arthurtech’s latest defense wards or the next Apocalypse Arena event bathed the famous junction in permanent ethereal illumination. Given Soho’s chaos and its desirability as a target for terrorist attacks, security forces always patrolled it. If he retreated to its safety, he would survive the night unscathed.

Unfortunately, the sounds of Schema-enhanced muscles shattering concrete and arcane spells sounded behind Nil. Retreating would probably put him in the warring gangs’ crossfire.

A fireball roared across the junction ahead, and Nil skidded to a halt. He threw himself against the neighboring building’s entrance and ducked for cover. The door behind him creaked open.

“Ladki chahiye?” A man wearing an old corduroy coat asked. He leaned against the frame, picking at his teeth with a long and ugly pinky nail.

“I don’t speak Hindi, mate,” Nil lied, eyes darting from side to side as he looked for the best escape route.

“Why you lie, friend? Tell me what you want. I got everything. Local. Foreign. Summoned. I see you every day. I give you discount. Yes?”

“Can’t you see I’m trying not to die?” Nil asked.

The pimp laughed. “Arre, bhai. Who’ll pay the bills if I stop doing business because of those bloody bastards? This is everyday thing, no? If you don’t want girl, I’ll give you shelter for sixty pound.”

“No, thank you.”

A loud buzz and flash made the pair jump. The sound repeated, and a bright light pulse accompanied it. A heartbeat later, the stink of ozone assaulted his nostrils, and a car alarm went off. The pimp slammed the door closed.

It was lightning magic. Nil had seen it up close once before and didn’t want to again. So, despite Dr Mendez’s advice and against his best judgment, he followed the hallucinated woman’s directions and took off running once again. He kept his head low, hoping to survive the five hundred meters of dimly lit road unscathed. Oxford Street always had police or Corpo squad patrols. They ensured Soho’s chaos never leaked beyond its borders.

Walking down the much-better-lit and policed Regent Street would’ve taken Nil home to his shoebox apartment without risking a shank or fireball to the face. However, the route would add at least forty minutes to his journey. The actual walk wasn’t much longer, but he’d have to deal with checkpoints and suffer interrogations regarding his bag’s contents. Nil had less than nine hours until his next shift, and every second spent not in bed was a second lost. He still needed to do the laundry and at least hang up his chef whites to ensure he had work clothes for the day after the next.

There weren’t many avenues for the non-Summoned to achieve greatness. They needed to be born rich, have charisma coming out of the wazoo, or have genius-level intellect. Unfortunately, Nil had none of the above. He did well in school and college but failed to get a loan for the oh-so-necessary post-graduate degree. The cheffing bug bit him while part-timing, and he had finally clawed his way into a Michelin-level kitchen. Nil enjoyed the work, but the hours were grueling, and his time off involved polishing techniques to stay relevant. Worst of all, the only quick commute was life-threatening.

As Nil left the dangers of Soho and fled onto Oxford Street, he wondered whether a master's in mechanical engineering would’ve done him any good. Given the popularity of manatech, it was probably Summoneds with artisanal abilities and qualifications in artificing or some other otherworldly trade leading the show.

“Oi! Stop right there!” A gruff voice yelled just as Nil slowed to a jog. A high-pitched whine followed, and Nil recognized it as an Arthurtech stun gun charging up. During his late-night power walks through Soho, Nil had heard the standard-issue Metropolitan Police weapon several times. He complied and pre-emptively followed the expected order. “Hands where I can see them!”

A pair of inhumanely strong hands grabbed Nil’s wrists and twisted his arms behind his back. “You carrying any weapons?”

“I’m a chef,” Nil quickly replied. He nodded at the zippered case slung across his shoulders. “That’s my knife bag.”

A familiar policewoman stepped in front of Nil and removed his knife bag. He had seen her patrolling Regent Street several times before. They had never spoken. Nil always acknowledged the police, nodding or smiling so they’d keep him in mind and not suspect him of the neighborhood’s crimes or violence. He hoped the invested effort would pay dividends now. She didn’t manhandle him like her partner. After retreating a couple of meters, she peeked inside the case. She nodded before speaking into her radio. Nil heard the phrases ‘possible suspect’ and ‘matching description’ over the pounding in his ears.

“Where are you coming from?” asked the policeman, still holding his arms.

“Work,” Nil replied. “I’m a sous chef at Misdirection.”

“That the place with the mage chef?” The question came from the officer holding his knife bag.

“He’s just a rogue.” Nil felt the hands holding his wrists loosen as he spoke.

“You mean to tell me all the shit he puts online is just a damned Sleight of Hand power?”

“He’s got a tinker-style artisan on staff, too. The chef should still be in the office. Would you like the number? My name is Sunil Roy. He can—”

“How about you tell us why you were running?” The policeman asked, guiding Nil by the elbows.

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“Lightning bolts and fireballs,” Nil answered. “It's terrifying back there, officer. The bastards are going to bring all of King’s Square down. I didn’t want to get involved or caught in their fight. So, I ran.”

“Clever.”

“Take it easy, Jones,” the female police officer said. “I’ve seen this one around. He should be clear.”

“Just run his bios, will you?” Her partner grunted.

Nil found himself in front of a police van. It was the Arthurtech kind with an electrified cage in the back. “Is this necessary?” Nil’s heartbeat calmed somewhat. Anxiety still bubbled in his stomach, but at least he didn’t need to worry about a stun gun to the side. The weapons had settings to deal with defensive Summoneds with brute or knight classification powers. He feared a misfire or incorrect setting could cause permanent damage if not kill him. “Please. Just call my boss. My ID is in my wallet. You can look me up—”

“Do yourself a favor and shut up, alright?” The policeman liberated Nil's wallet. The previous interactions and the female officer’s confidence did not affect his handling or treatment. “I’m just going to secure you in here while we make a few calls.”

Nil sighed. He would need to slog through the coming fifteen-hour shift sore and sleep-deprived. Nil knew well that what he was experiencing wasn’t proper police procedure. Protesting or resisting would only earn him more discomfort and trouble, so he kept his thoughts to himself. The policeman commenced cuffing Nil while interfacing with the police vehicle.

The visage shook her head and hands. Her wide eyes betrayed her concern. After the evening’s guidance thus far, Nil wanted to trust her. Instincts demanded he run, but all he could do was prepare himself for whatever was to come.

The van demanded two forms of biometric scans before unlocking. The officer barely gripped the handle before a concussive force blew the door open. Fortunately, the shockwave only grazed Nil, throwing him off balance. He staggered to the side and almost tripped over the curb. The past seven years of regular self-defense classes had made footwork almost reflex. His apparently imagined apparition had also left him wary. The officer didn’t have such luck. The van’s rear door swung into him hard enough to knock him off his feet. The blow flung him into a neighboring lamppost, denting it.

A shirtless man leaped from the vehicle. His bloodshot eyes shot between the stunned police officer and his shocked partner. She had a hand on her holster but hadn’t drawn her weapon yet. The criminal leaped at Nil, moving too fast for an ordinary human. He felt a much too-powerful forearm and handcuff chain on his neck a moment later.

“Keep your hands off that bloody gun!” The criminal screeched. His pitch and the slurred words suggested off-market stimulants in his system. He vibrated every handful of seconds. It felt like someone had chained Nil to an off-balance washing machine. “I’ll break the kid’s neck. I don’t even have to try. He’s a twig.”

“Alright! Alright.” The policewoman held her hands out in front of her. “Nobody else needs to get hurt tonight. Okay? Just let him go, and we can talk.”

“Nah.” The man laughed. “Give me your keys. We’re going for a ride.”

“This isn’t necessary, is it?” Nil asked. He tried to sound calm, but his voice quivered. His heart wanted to pound out of his chest, and he felt his bowels begging to release, too. “We’re in the same boat. Aren’t we? Just—”

Nil shut up as soon as the hold around his throat tightened. “Why the fuck are you talking?”

The policewoman foolishly attempted to take advantage of the momentary distraction. The criminal roared as soon as she unholstered her weapon. He threw Nil aside like a rag doll and pounced at her. “Fuck it. I’ll just kill all of ya!”

Nil landed on the still-dazed police officer. As luck would have it, the handcuffs hadn’t closed completely around his right wrist. His hands were still free. Nil found himself with two options. He could flee or help. His eyes drifted between the policewoman now pinned under the screaming criminal and her partner’s weaponry. Drawing the stun gun was out of the question. He had read they scanned every officer’s unique arcane signature before activating. It would do him no good. On the other hand, the electric baton didn’t have such limitations.

Every instinct told Nil to run, but the officer’s bloody face concerned him. Her attacker was obviously strung out. The thrashing wouldn’t stop until she died or he passed out. He would probably take her keys and flee afterward. Given his enraged, drugged-out state, there was also a chance he would chase Nil afterward. The criminal had the physiology of a Summoned. His Might had likely ascended from the Mortal to the Iron Realm. The criminal’s Finesse probably wasn’t far behind. Nil would, without a doubt, lose a foot chase.

“Stupid idiot.” He cursed himself while wiggling the baton free of the officer’s belt. Blood leaked from the man’s forehead and red stained his white collar. As Nil hesitated again, he glanced at the visage. The supposedly imaginary woman in the bloody white parka and blue jeans shook her head and hands violently. Her deep blue eyes pleaded he avoid the decision.

No. Not again.

A swing sufficiently extended the baton, and its tip hummed to life, emitting a silver glow. Nil raced at the criminal, stifling a war cry. The policewoman’s resistance had less life to it. Gashes covered her arms, and her head had a few abrasions from where it had bounced off the pavement. On the bright side, the frequency and intensity of the man’s vibrations had dropped significantly. Nil heard sirens in the distance, but he doubted she would last long enough to benefit from the support.

Nil had no weapons training. However, he knew to poke with the pointy end. He emulated a fencing move from ‘Princess Bride,’ driving the baton’s tip into the man’s exposed spine. “You bastard!” He screamed, spasming. The thug fell on his side, scrambling away from Nil and the policewoman. His hands frantically clawed at the touch point.

Even though his instincts told Nil to retreat, he pushed forward, jabbing with his borrowed weapon again. This time, he hit the soft flesh around the navel, forcing another bout of spasms. Unfortunately, instead of retreating, the man lunged forward. After seven years of spending every day off in self-defense classes and daily gym visits, Nil had little trouble avoiding the wild attack and used the following opening for another strike. It gave him hope regarding his chances. He didn’t need to win. Just delay until help came.

The following swings missed, too, as Nil bobbed and weaved. His training involved punches, kicks, knee and elbow strikes. However, physical strikes from an ordinary human had little chance of doing much to someone with Might already in the Iron Realm. In fact, Nil was sure he’d already be dead if not for the intoxicants in his opponent’s system. The exchange thus far gave him hope in regard to his success.

Nil never thought he’d end up in a situation that involved facing off a violent Summoned again. He went to classes to feel secure and confident and deal with survivor’s guilt. Now, as he used the regularly drilled footwork to parry a wide hook and poke his opponent again, he saw the fruits of his labor and felt good about himself for the first time in a very long time. Then, he got overconfident and went for a follow-up attack instead of returning to defensive and avoidance tactics.

The Summoned criminal vibrated and blurred forward, abruptly gaining a burst of speed. He punched Nil’s torso, forcing all the air out of his lungs and causing several stomach-churning cracks.

The next thing Nil knew, he was flying through the air. He struck the police van head-first, and everything went dark for a moment. When his eyes refocused, Nil felt an instant physiological change. Nothing hurt. He wasn’t on his face or back but upright. Words in a thick, blocky font drifted in front of him.

The Schema recognizes your bravery and grit. When given the choice of fight or flight, you picked fight! A highly valued Summoned escaped probable death because of you. Sunil Roy, you have the necessary traits to serve as one of the Summoned. You may pursue a future of adventure, growth, and power or return to your old life of mediocrity.

Would you like to shed your injuries and sicknesses and ascend?

Nil’s stomach fluttered. He wasn’t on Earth any longer. The danger had passed—for the time being, at least. If he accepted the offer, it wasn’t just power that awaited him, but also otherworldly threats and more near-death experiences.