Grem’s lungs protested against the brisk morning air as he hurried along the smooth stone streets of Remria. The night before yielded little sleep; the excitement and anxiousness that precedes the first day at a new job was almost his undoing. He focused on the rhythmic slapping of his shoes rather than dwell on first impressions. The normally bustling roads were sparsely populated, adorned with cloaks of morning mist.

At least I beat the morning rush, Grem thought to himself.

Moments later, Grem stood breathless in front of the massive Remrian Hall of Records. He gazed up the wide stone staircase, beset on either side by massive marble pillars. The great metal doors stood permanently ajar, welcoming him in.

Why even have doors if you aren’t going to close them, the young man silently asked himself.

Grem smoothed his ruffled hair down and adjusted his cloak. Then he ascended the stairs nervously. The entrance hall was cool and quiet. Running the length of the room there was a red rug with gold filigree gilding its edges. Grem strode past the myriad paintings on either side into the reception area at the end of the hallway. At a high desk sat a plain-looking woman with brown hair wearing a rather bored expression. She was reading a document of sorts and did not seem to notice Grem. He cleared his throat to get her attention. The woman lifted her eyes to meet his gaze and sighed.

“How can I help you,” she asked, clearly irritated.

“Um, yes,” Grem said nervously. “I’m Grem Briarbridge, and it’s my first day as an Archivist. I wa-”

“Right,” she cut him off. “Mr. Brommus will be right with you.”

“Oh right, thank you, Miss–erm may I have your name?”

The receptionist kept her sight focused on the parchment in front of her and pointedly ignored answering him. Grem decided not to press the issue and meandered around the reception area. The architecture was lavish and ornate. The floors were set with polished wooden planks and the walls were adorned with elegant red banners. On either side behind the desk was a staircase leading upward. The eager young man studied a painting on the wall across from him. It was a portrait of a scowling man with a high hairline. He wore a neat gray doublet and the icy blue eyes seemed to stare right into Grem’s soul, inspiring him to move his gaze elsewhere.

He looked to the other side of the room and spied a row of booths adjacent to a sitting area composed of two uncomfortable-looking benches. Grem shuffled over to the first booth giddy with excitement. Inside was a spirit scanner. The mechanism was a frame of copper with a large crystal set in the center. It was light blue in hue, and in the center, surrounded by runes was an orifice large enough for a finger. Grem had scanned himself just the day prior, but he was ever the connoisseur of all things raw data, which prompted him to insert his index finger into the scanner. After a moment, the runes around his finger lit up in an undulating pattern and a whirring noise resounded from somewhere behind the crystal. Then a readout was projected from the crystal in front of the young man’s face:

Name: Grem Briarbridge

Age: 19

Tier: F-1

Physical Condition: Healthy

Mental Condition: Healthy

Mana: 67/63

Strength: 2

Agility: 2

Constitution: 3

Perception: 5

Mana Density: 10

Mana Regeneration: 11

Then he heard slight grinding as a small card was spit from a slot below the crystal. Grem’s brow furrowed as he studied the card. His mana read in at fifty four yesterday, and the current value was above his maximum value. A change that drastic was not plausible in the least. To be an archivist required

abnormally high mana values for F-tier individuals. Twenty or higher would be above average. Most people who had applicable mana values became adventurers and learned some sort of spell that their soul resonated with. Grem would have dearly loved learning a spell of any sort. Unfortunately, much to his mother's chagrin it was not in the cards for him. No amount of studying or tutoring would yield any fruit. The talentless young man had a large mana pool that he could not properly utilize. Grem’s situation made him perfect to become an archivist, because mana and an open schedule was exactly what they needed. Excitement at the prospect of being useful fueled the fire of his heart and soul. He needed something– anything.

Footfalls caught the would-be archivist’s attention. Descending the stairs was a graceful albeit skeletal man. The only thing more jarring than the man’s pale skin and slicked back dark hair was the “smile” he wore. Upon the visage staring back at Grem was an unsettling grin. The man’s thin lips were spread wide, with the corners lifted as if they were stitched permanently in place, revealing pearly teeth.

“Mr. Briarbridge,” said the man in an unexpectedly deep tone. “It is always an honor to welcome an aspiring archivist to our ranks.”

Grem fought back the instinctual urge to flee and approached the ghoul of a man. “Yes sir, it is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Brommus,” he said excitedly. Grem offered his hand to shake and Brommus delicately wrapped his cadaverous digits around Grem’s hand, the horrific grin never leaving his face.

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“Please, Mr. Briarbridge. The pleasure is all mine. We look forward to you being a part our. . . family.”

The slight pause and the sickly sweet way Brommus had spoken the word ‘family’ set Grem’s teeth on edge, but he ignored any further flight or flight responses welling up from within.

“Now let us get situated right away,” Brommus continued, approaching the stairs and beckoning toward Grem. “For our archivists there is always too much work, and not enough bodies.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Grem piped in as he eagerly caught up.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he said. “It’s not a common trait in archivists these days. Tell me, Mr. Briarbridge. What exactly is it that you think or know you will be doing during your stay here at the ministry?”

“As an archivist, I will be reviewing memory stones,” Grem said automatically.

“Very good, and what are memory stones?”

“Memory stones are essentially droppings coded with data. Massive, sentient landmarks known as Dungeons often leave memory stones when they are aware of something fantastic.”

“Such as,” Brommus prodded.

“Such as the emergence of a never-before-seen spell, a new species of monster, or the battle between the dungeon’s final monster and the adventurers,” Grem blurted out excitedly - the final battles were always his favorite bits.

“Ah yes, all very exciting things to witness, Mr. Briarbridge,” Brommus said with a hint of disdain in his voice. “But there are many other things one can glean from the memory stones. Some of them mundane, yes, but others potentially life-saving.” Grem’s shoulders slumped as his answer was refuted. He chided himself for allowing his emotions to get in the way of his first impression with his new boss. “Consider this, Mr. Briarbridge.” Brommus had stopped ascending the stairs, and had turned to harangue the young man with a full show of the skin crawling grin. “There is beauty in the dreadful. Never-before-seen spells, yes, that is interesting information, but what about a newly-discovered disease? A fatal and contagious one that could wipe out hundreds if not thousands. That is the sort of thing we’re looking for.”

“I–,” Grem started attempting to assure Brommus he understood, but he was cut off.

“Or an experienced adventurer becoming hopelessly lost in a newly-discovered dungeon. A dungeon so vast that creatures begin spilling from it, leading to an invasion-level threat,” Brommus’ face had inched ever closer to Grem’s while speaking, “or the most important of all. . . an adventurer’s last moments.”

The would-be Archivist winced at the dour reprimand, but the thin man merely turned to walk back up the stairs to wave it off. Grem was sure the eerie smile was still stapled across his lips even then.

“Don’t fret, Mr. Briarbridge. All Archivists are excited by the same things at first: glory, adventure, and of course loot. While those things hold their significance, we perform a vital service to our community and fellow man. Reporting dangers and death can save lives. Families of adventurers deserve to know the fate of their loved ones. We know little enough about dungeons that it is of the utmost importance that we maintain as much knowledge as possible of potentially harmful things spilling from them, purposefully or not.”

Brommus turned at the apex of the stairs to point Grem down another hall. The smile was still there, and he wasn’t sure, but the young man felt as if it had intensified from the subject of the last sentence. He wondered at what may have caused the condition. Had Brommus been an adventurer prior? Surely Grem would have known if he had. There wasn’t a famous adventurer he wasn’t familiar with. Perhaps Brommus had suffered some unfortunate accident in a dungeon that caused his face to be frozen in a permanent death’s smile. Grem shuddered. They walked in silence for some time and, curiously, after climbing a flight of stairs, they took several more flights, except in a downward trajectory. Each set of stairs appeared more drab and tiring than the last. Grem had not seen a single soul since their descent.

Curious, he thought to himself. Why climb a flight of stairs just to take several more stairs down? We must be in the basement at this point.

Brommus stopped at a heavy wooden door at the bottom of the final stair. The wood was chipped and devoid of paint. The stone walls smelled musty and Grem could detect the onset of algae on them.

“This will be your office,” Brommus announced as he pushed open the stout door. “Inside you will find a hefty backlog of memory stones as well as a reading chair. We need you to review the stones of the deceased. You’ll know them by their hue, which will be primarily purple. Are you familiar with how to use a reading char, Mr. Briarbridge?”

“I took the time to read the literature, sir,” he said. “I am quite familiar with the process.”

“Very good, Mr. Briarbridge,” he beamed at Grem. “I will send an associate down later to check on you, do not forget to take breaks. The process can be quite - - draining.”

Grem shuddered once more as Brommus began ascending the stairs, leaving him to an open door and yet another staircase downward. This one spiraled around a circular stone room. It was dimly lit and smelled strongly of dust that had not been disturbed in years. He wrinkled his nose as he gingerly descended. In the center of the room was a large chair. It was cushioned and covered with hide - likely for comfort due to the lengthy nature of stone-reading. On the right arm was an indentation large enough for a cup and on the left was a smooth crystal the size of his hand. From the headrest a strange helmet like device covered in runes dangled. This was the first reading chair the young archivist had seen up close. He regarded it in reverence and his fingers tingled with excitement at the prospect of testing it out. This was an older model than all the ones Grem had typically seen in his reading. Any more, reading chairs were stone or wood with no regard to the comfort of the reader. He found himself glad at the ministry’s neglect for infrastructure in this case.

The only thing left to do was find a memory stone and get started. Grem turned to a massive pile of stones against the curved wall. Every stone in sight was purple. He felt a pang of guilt seeing the disheveled mess of death in front of him. These stones were the final memories of people that had lived and breathed, and here they lay, forgotten and left to rot in the lowest room in the ministry. These were all lives that thrived and had abilities far beyond Grem’s, and here they were, reduced to dungeon shit. There was nothing that could be done and the young archivist was eager to prove himself. He plucked a stone from the top, and blew the dust off it. It was lavender with a deep purple core - sunbursts of green flecked the outer edges.

“Looks like you’ll be my first memory,” Grem said breathlessly.

He took the gem over to the chair and placed it in the indentation on the right arm. After climbing into the chair and settling himself, Grem pulled the uncomfortable helmet on, placed one hand on the smooth gem on the left arm and the other on the memory stone in the right arm. For a moment nothing happened, but the young man expected this. He had read the manual after all. Grem took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Concentrating deeply, he focused first on his left palm, and then the left, and immediately felt a steady drain of his mana.. A rhythmic clicking sound began to emanate from the chair behind him and then the symbols on the helmet sprang to life. His vision was obscured by blinding light and then he was falling through a tunnel of blue swirling stars. A letter display flickered into view denoting the dungeon tier, the adventurer’s class, and other pertinent information. Then there was nothing but blackness, and then Grem could hear sounds. Not the expected ones, but sounds of nature: Insects buzzing, and voices.