At the sect’s height was an enormous bronze bell engraved with dragons. This was the Seven Glorious Suns Bell, named because it rang seven times a week with the rise of the sun.

It was a sound that every single apprentice had learned to hate the first time they were woken up with a hangover.

The pain was sharp enough to find him through a sea of gluey, sticky nausea. His eyes stung as he opened them, feeling across his face for what was wrong. The answer was–

Everything.

The structures of his face were unfamiliar. The nose, the cheeks, the lips. His face was like a foreign country. And then there was the pain. The pain covered the right half of his face, and when he touched the surface he felt something faintly sticky on the skin.

The room was coming into focus. It was a small, spartan room that smelled strongly of the pine wood used in the boards. He was lying on a straw mattress, and the only other features of the room were a washing basin and a small desk.

This isn’t my room.

It took all his will to leave the bed. The straw was scratchy and rough, but it was still soft, and right now his entire body wanted to sink into the softness and go back to sleep. To dream more about the world called…

What was it called?

Earth.

It was called Earth. I’m from Earth.

But this isn’t Earth.

This is Sha. The Mountain-Gate World. And within that world, the Mantis Sect.

He rolled off the mattress onto his knees and struggled up, using the wall for support. His limbs were shivering, and shaking like jelly beneath him. Something was wrong. His whole body felt loose and heavy. His arms swung about, numb at the wrist and dead at the fingers. To stand up, he had to press his face and shoulder against the wall and slowly push against the floor with his feet.

Cold sweat covered his face. He thought frantically, What did this to me?

And like magic, the answer came out of his own mind, You took too many Blue Heaven Pills.

Blue Heaven Pills…

As soon as his mind focused on the name, a mental image of a book appeared in his mind. It was a large tome bound in green leather with brass caps at the edges. The image was so clear and solid that it didn’t feel like something he had imagined, but rather, something real that existed within his mind. With his reality only in blurry focus, it felt super-real, a definite point in a confusing world.

The book flipped open, and the pages began to turn. Written on every one were illustrations of medicinal flowers, herbs, and roots. He had the sense that the book contained entire libraries of knowledge.

Finally, the pages came to a halt. There was an illustration of bright blue pills in a mortar bowl, and the writing:

Blue Heaven Pills (Dull)

10% Potency // 21% Toxicity

Effect:

Viciously addictive. Causes vivid delusions of living on another world.

Ingredients:

Alchemical Ash Scrapings

Whispering Pine Tar

He blinked. Things were coming into focus as he leaned over the basin and studied his reflection in the water. It was entirely foreign to him. His face was long and gaunt now, with an unhealthy amount of shadow beneath the cheeks and stern, unsmiling eyes. Vaguely handsome under a sheen of grease, like he didn’t take very good care of himself.

And on the right side of his face was a massive tattoo, something like a Chinese character. It spanned from the edge of his eye down to the base of his jaw, written in blue ink, and the skin underneath it was inflamed and swollen up with infection.

My caste mark.

The thought jumped into his mind. Two days ago, he had been tattooed with a permanent rank in society.

And it hadn’t been a good one. Just the thought summoned up a feeling in his stomach like he was going to be sick.

At that moment someone knocked on the door. It was a sharp, insistent rapping that didn’t let up as he tried to ignore it. “APPRENTICE! Rain! Get out here at once. You will NOT be late for your first day.”

Rain…

Rain isn’t my name.

Shit what is my name?

The knocking continued, making his headache throb. But he was close to something. The memories of Earth were blurry but he could remember flashes–

– a childhood spent in the outdoors –

– a car, upside-down, smoke pouring in from the hood-

– standing at a grave –

– and a name. Booker Kerrison.

“Rain!”

He groaned and splashed cold water over his face, before dragging his way across the wall to reach the doorway. There was no mistaking him for a sober person as it swung open.

On the other side was a man wearing ornately layered robes. A red outer robe hung around his shoulders, with a tighter black robe tied at the waist beneath. There was intricate patterning on the sleeves, picked out in golden thread. The man had an aging but handsome face, with a pointed chin and his gray hair drawn back in an immaculate bun. He walked with the help of a cane and had the same tattoo as Rain printed across his right cheek.

A tattoo that Booker suddenly knew – dredged out of Rain’s memories – meant ‘Cripple’.

Booker looked down at himself. He was a mess, his robes hanging disheveled from his shoulders.

“Apprentice…” The man closed his eyes and pinched the middle of his nose, like he was trying to restrain a headache. “I can see you need a moment to compose yourself. Take it.”

“Thanks.” Closing the door, Booker took a deep breath. Whatever poison this body’s last owner had taken, it was beginning to wear off.

This guy…

He’s a loser. His life stinks. I think he fucked up bad enough they wrote ‘loser’ on his face.

And I’m stuck with him.

How I’m stuck with him, I don’t know.

As he thought he retied his robes, adjusting them to look more like the man outside. It wasn’t perfect but it was actually better than Booker expected; his hands seemed to know what to do, as if they’d been taught to do this since childhood.

Of course they have. I have Rain’s memories.

The memories were scattered and disorganized, but everything Rain had experienced was in Booker’s head somewhere.

I just need to pretend like I fit in for long enough to figure them all out.

Running his hands through his hair and trying not to wince at the unwashed grease that smeared against his fingers, he quickly tied his hair up and opened the door again.

“Ah, better. Still hung over but…” There was something in his eyes that mixed with his clear annoyance. Pity, maybe, as he inspected the obviously infected right side of Booker’s face. “Well, there is much to improve. Come with me and we’ll find something to put on your face.”

He turned and began to walk away.

But before he did, he turned back, “Do not think, however, that I will accept you showing up drunk or hungover again. You can still have some pride in yourself as a son of this clan, regardless of your caste.”

Right. He probably went through whatever happened to Rain – they’re both in the same boat. I guess I have someone who’s at least a little sympathetic to this fuck-up, then.

His mouth felt drier than a desert, but his mind was racing. The old man led the way through a compound made up of circular courtyards surrounding lush green gardens. The walkways were made of lacquered red wood and the doors and windows were circular. The sheer strangeness of it all had Booker entranced.

There was a massive mantis in one of the gardens, its body made of what looked to be pink glass. Booker only noticed because its head turned to follow him, wide eyes staring as they tried to figure out whether he was prey.

In the next there was a woman in yellow silk robes. She was engaged in a slow, meditative dance, and a ring of swords floated through the air around her. Numerous younger men and women were kneeling at the edge of the garden to watch as she sliced her hand downwards and caused the swords to slash forward, forming what looked like a river of steel as the individual blades blended into a continuous blur.

This world… really is fascinating.

The next area they walked through was familiar to Rain. The immediate feeling that welled up in Booker’s chest was desperation and despair.

It was a training hall. Dozens of rolled-up straw mattresses were being used as targets, and in front of each target stood a young man or woman in a black robe. Walking between the rows of students was an older woman who carried a reed whipping stick. The training had a certain rhythm to it. Every student would take their position, root their feet in a fighting stance, and draw back their hand. The woman would shout– as one the students punched forward.

Booker felt what it was like to be in that crowd.

Rain had practiced daily, until his knuckles were bloody and his face covered in sweat. More than once he’d felt the sting of the reed whip. His stance had never been firm enough, his strikes were too telegraphed, his defense too open– a litany of faults. And always he’d watched with a mix of hunger and despair as other, younger students were elevated above him.

That feeling of being passed over had built and built.

I was an orphan by 14. A drug addict... Fantasy pills that swept me away to other worlds…

Rain’s side life was beginning to trickle into his mind. Booker couldn’t help but feel…

I mean, what is there to feel? I don’t know if he’s dead, or if in some weird way he’s me now.

All I know is I’ve inherited the life he fucked up.

But there was no more time to think. They had arrived at their destination.

The old man drew back the door to a large workshop. Three enormous stone vessels sat over glowing piles of coal and ash. The vessels were made of a blue-green stone and solid on the underside, while the top had a matrix of triangle-shaped holes that let out huge amounts of smoke. Each of the vessels was big enough to hold a man inside, and had a scowling demonic face carved on the front with an open mouth where ingredients could be thrown in.

Beyond the vessels were worktables and shelves full of different herbs and roots drying in jars. A massive beast like a wolf had been laid on one of the tables, and its ribs had been cracked open like the jaws of a bear trap so that the organs could be taken out and laid on slabs of ice.

“Come along.” Leading the way down the stairs to the work floor, the old man casually grabbed a few jars off the shelf. Pouring ingredients into a stone bowl he crushed and ground them into powder. Pouring that powder into a tall clear vial he stirred with a metal mixing rod. “Fetch me the Ferroflower Essence–”

The book snapped open in Booker’s mind. He’d almost forgotten the book. But now it was back, a solid presence occupying the space where normally only imagined images appeared. The pages flipped until they landed on an illustration of metal flowers beside a small pouch of gray metal shavings.

Ferroflower

Powder // Dull Quality

A flower that grows above rich veins of mundane metal. Kept by prospectors as a sign of good luck. Its cultivation benefit is distributed throughout the entire flower.

Effects:

Least Healing (+)

“– it will be the small jar containing the lusterless gray-black dust, small granules, no–” The old man turned halfway through explaining what the ingredient looked like. When he did, he found Booker was already holding out the jar for him.

“Huh.” Was all he said.

Oh shit. Booker thought. I’m not supposed to know this, am I?

I assumed the book was something to do with Rain and his memories, maybe something everyone here had. But what if it’s only me that has a magical-mind-book? If that’s the case…

“Where exactly did you learn what ferroflower extract looks like?” The old master inquired.

Fuck. This is forbidden knowledge I bet. No, worse, I bet the only good reason for me to know is that I’ve been stealing things…

Don’t say you read it in a book. Books might not even be a thing here; it looks ancient, so I might not even be literate.

Before, Booker had been swept along by how strange things were. Now, the hint of threat in the old man’s voice brought him crashing back into this new reality, his focus tightening in through the lingering pain of headache. “I asked some older apprentices.” He lied. “They told me some of the basics.”

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“Ah.” He nodded, with an expression that said he didn’t believe Booker one bit. “Then, how about you fetch me the sunpalace flower stamen?”

The book’s page flipped past.

Sunpalace Flower

Stamen // Dull Quality

A flower that grows spectacularly large, and eventually births a miniature sun from the center of its white petals. Its essence is concentrated in the stamen.

Effects:

Moderate Healing (-)

Purification 10% (+)

Potency 25% (+)

But Booker hesitated. This sounded far, far more valuable than ferroflower extract. To his paranoid mind, it didn’t sound like something you would teach an apprentice to handle.

But you would teach someone whose job was to steal the most valuable ingredients and disappear into the night.

“They didn’t say anything about that.” He said, trying to sound sheepish.

The old man considered Booker for a moment, then turned back to the vial in his hand. Stirring in a few more pinches of strange powders, he poured it into a clay drinking bowl the size of Booker’s palm. It resembled liquid mercury now, thick and shiny and reflective.

“Drink up.”

Taking the bowl, Booker tilted it back and tried not to feel the sluggish concoction making its way down his throat. It burned faintly, a tingling warmth itching at the lining of his esophagus. As it hit his belly that warmth expanded and the headache pressing down at his temples lifted. His vision came more into focus. The clumsy sense of dizziness lingering from the pills vanished entirely.

Booker breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Yes, I remember that doing wonders for my hangovers.” The old man’s voice was calm again, so Booker figured the danger had passed – and he had passed for a normal student who’d let nerves drive him to drink the day before his apprenticeship began.

“Now, to your first day’s tasks. We’ll start simple.” The old man took a small wooden box from his workbench and passed it to Booker. “This is your first tool as an alchemist.”

Opening the box, Booker saw a slender chef’s knife made from steel that was cast in waves of shiny and dark layered together. The handle was made from a lacquered red wood, held together with smooth-backed rivets and shaped to the grip of his hand. It looked beautiful and felt like a delicately weighted cloud in his hand. Underneath the knife was a leather scabbard with a cord belt.

— — —

Before the hour was up, Booker knew that his master had a lifetime of knowledge but not a lot of experience teaching. His explanations came by doing; he would demonstrate how to slice, cut, and peel each ingredient with blindingly fast hand-movements, and expect Booker to follow perfectly.

And to Booker’s surprise, he did. His hands didn’t shake or make mistakes as they quickly drew the knife through the ingredients, as casually as if he was cutting water with a fingertip. As he began to feel how expert he was with the knife, he sped up, and found he could dice ingredients with the heel of the knife and the base of his palm so fast his master actually raised an eyebrow.

“Patience! Apprentice, these are valuable things, not to be wasted in haste. Slow work is, ah–” But as the old man picked up a diced cube of something called redpith root, expecting it to find the cuts sloppy and the resulting segments mismatched. Instead it was a perfectly even portion. “... good work.” He trailed off, and clearly, even he wasn’t certain if he was praising Booker or simply finishing the adage.

After that, Booker slowed down.

The secret to his success was the book. Every time an ingredient was placed in front of him it would flip open and reveal a diagram of how to take it apart to harvest the most valuable pieces. At some points the old man said something that Booker could see was different in the book, and those were the only instructions he struggled to follow. Whenever he tried, his hands became clumsy again, as if whatever easy rhythm he was following from the book had been disturbed.

So the book doesn’t just tell me things about this medicine. It helps me through the steps as well…

The only difficult part of the work was slowing himself down enough to make it look natural. Booker had a suspicion that there were no good reasons for an apprentice to be as skilled as he was.

Slowly he discovered the ‘rules’ of his strange new power. It only worked while he was focusing on the task at hand – the more his attention slipped away, the less certain his movements became. This meant he was left with plenty of attention to waste on speculation.

So, Rain, or whoever you were – Mr. Memories-left-in-my-head. Where the fuck am I?

From within his memories came an answer. An image of a flat model of the planet, suspended in a metal ring. Even in miniature he could see that the mountains at the center of the world, rising up like a spoke from a wheel, were thousands of times bigger than any mountain on Earth.

It was also…

Not at all what I wanted. Where am I, specifically.

Another image. Standing on the side of a mountain, along a narrow trail. The point of view slowly looked up and Booker struggled not to gasp at the sense of scale. That narrow trail led down into a valley that must have been hundreds of miles across.

But on the far side of that valley, distantly visible through the mist, was a mountain that dwarfed the one they were walking along. It was verdant green and covered in a sea of red flowers, shaking slowly in the wind. Rising from those endless flowerfields were palaces, beautiful towers that caught the mist on their many rooftops so that they disappeared into swirls of cloud.

For a moment Booker was totally in harmony with the memory. Both him and Rain felt the same sense of awe.

Then Rain’s mother reached out and pulled him by the shoulder, breaking the memory.

Mother, huh. Do I have to worry about Rain’s parents?

An image. It was a gravestone with two names on it.

Oh. Uh… Brothers?

Three more graves. No stone this time, only a wooden stake plunged into the ground. Same graveyard.

Yeesh. This guy really had the worst luck. Any sisters still alive?

Just one. The feeling contained within the memory was absolute adoration. The image he saw was her in a fighting tournament. She had her enemy’s arm locked behind his back, her palm on the back of his head, shoving him down as the excruciating twist in his arm began to press his joint in the wrong direction. She was smiling.

Scary.

He turned his attention back to chopping just in time to avoid losing a finger. Each time he finished preparing an ingredient, his master would take it and weigh it carefully on a scale, then began to boil, burn, and simmer them. They were passed through fire and cold water, then dried in salt, allowing them to fully lose all remaining moisture. The desiccated remains were ground to powder, and the powders combined.

The final product was carefully packed into a weight stone orb, which would hold it together as the furnace slowly heated it into a single solid mass.

The result was pills. Round, marble-sized pills that let off a heavenly scent of pine needles, whiskey, and fresh rain. Booker’s stomach growled at the scent.

So, how did I end up here…

The images that flashed past weren’t pretty. A lifetime of failures. His acceptance to the Clan was only conditional on his talented sibling joining, and Rain had consistently failed to reveal talents of his own. His martial arts were uninspiring and his cultivation, weak.

Cultivation?

The next image was what Rain had always wanted to be. A golden-robed, wild-haired emperor flying through the sky on a radiant sword. One look into his eyes and you would know this was a man who met insults with death, persecuted his enemies to the seventh generation, and offered no mercy to fools. Women flung themselves at his feet but he ignored them all. Genocide was his breakfast cereal.

Goddamn. Rain, you were fucked up. I mean, genocide?

Images of vengeance flashed through his mind like a storm. He had been humiliated, bullied, and outcast by peers with greater cultivating abilities. So of course he would have humiliated, bullied, and outcast them if he was stronger.

So I’m in a war-obsessed, honor-crazy clan who can do magic. And they hate me, because I can’t do magic. And I’m now a glorified cook’s assistant, with my job written on my face so everyone knows to avoid me.

How do I come back from this?

As if answering the question, the book appeared in his mind once more. It flipped to an empty page, and splotchy handwriting began to appear. It was totally unlike the neat writing in the rest of the book. Splatters and splotches flew about as the frantic scribbling wrote itself across the page.

Quest: Repairing Your Life

Goal: Create a Seven-Times Purified Charcoal Pill and use it to repair your poisoned body.

Reward: Materials Box

Right. Of course. The key to making people who only respect power like you…

Is getting power.

Can’t say I love it, but it’s sound logic.

The new handwriting continued to spread across the page.

Quest: Going Sober

Goal: Find your past self’s pill stash.

Reward: Dialyze function.

Quest: Martial Basis

Goal: Practice your martial arts for 10 hours.

Reward: 1 Hour Practice Token.

Quest: Petty Ambitions

Goal: Complete a Clan Assignment.

Reward: Dull Materials Box.

Alright, so this magic book seems to have a plan. I can roll with that. Only problem is… I probably won’t be allowed to actually make pills for another decade.

Stealing the ingredients will definitely end up blamed on the new apprentice so…

“Apprentice!” The old man snapped. Booker had let his attention drift entirely, and chopped the irongrass stalk he was handling without first carving out the valuable pith. But rather than being angry, the old man seemed happy to have finally caught him making a mistake.

“Why don’t you finish up – carefully – and run along.” He said, already busy attending to a small refining fire. “We can consider the lessons done for the day.”

Actually, what had happened was Booker had completely torn through their stock of supplies. Going at his own rate, it would take the old man all day to use up the ingredients Booker had prepared for him.

Booker nodded, happy for the excuse, and went through the remaining irongrass stalks in the blink of an eye. He bowed to the old master and departed as quickly as he could.

Hurrying back out into the corridors of the clan complex, Booker headed straight for his room. There was one quest he could reasonably complete today – and until he had a better idea what was going on, he wanted to avoid getting caught up in anything.

After all… Just because I don’t know what’s going on, doesn’t mean they haven’t dealt with something like this before. Maybe people’s souls end up in the wrong body all the time here…

And if so, they’ll be prepared to catch imposters. At best I’ll be killed, at worst, I’ll be valuable enough to keep caged up forever.

But as he hurried through the halls, he heard a big brassy voice shout–

“Rain!”

A huge man bore down on him, wearing the green-hemmed robes of a disciple who’d managed to condense qi.

Booker froze. He tried to pull the thread of memory that was surfacing in his mind, to figure out who this was, but the man was talking over his thoughts.

“Rain, I’ve been trying to find you. You didn’t answer when I knocked, I–” He swallowed some unpleasant emotion, grimacing. “Well, I want you to know your friends are still your friends. We still have your back.”

This is Xan.

The images in his mind were of drinking and fighting. Xan was a champion drinker and reveled in dragging his friends out to cheap, rat-infested teahouses to show off their prowess in front of the local toughs. And when his bragging had soured the mood so much things turned violent, Xan was strong enough to defend both himself and his scrawny friends.

Rain had profoundly grateful memories of Xan stopping him from being pummeled by just lifting the man off of him, and then putting them back on the ground with a brutally simple throw.

But the Xan today wasn’t the Xan of Rain’s memories.

He was even bigger, for one thing. The arm he’d slung around Booker’s shoulder was the size of a rolled straw mat, thick and bronze-skinned. It was difficult to find space to breathe and a casual flex would have decapitated him in a guillotine of muscle.

“C’mon. Let’s go drinking. Get your mind off things!”

So much for heading back to my room…

— — —

What do I owe Rain?

This is his body, with his memories. His friends, his family.

I could just run away. It would make things… easier? It would mean nobody would recognize me and know I was acting different.

But…

Realistically, I owe him something. It would be like inheriting an antique and breaking it. There’s a responsibility to take care of the life I’ve been handed. To treat Rain’s friends and family well, and live the kind of life Rain could have been proud of.

Booker contemplated life as he drank millet alcohol from a shallow clay bowl. The more he saw of this place…

The more he didn’t understand why Rain had chosen the life he did.

The city was beautiful. Blue-tiled roofs extended out towards the horizon, the slant of the mountain’s side hiding everything but thew peaked rooftops and making the vista a sea of ceramic blue. As the sun sank below the horizon a golden-red shade of dusk mingled with the orange light of paper lanterns. Between the houses wove streets like rivers, busy with carts, horses, and a flood of people.

Not all of them human. The owner of the tea-house was a man with frogs scales and a rubbery, wide-lipped mouth. He croaked happily at the sight of Xan, his best customer.

There was a prestige to being from the sect. People bowed their heads in the street and they were given the best table.

They sat on the balcony above the street, and Booker was content to be quiet. This place is as big as New York or London. Maybe as big as Beijing. The Sect rules all of this…

If I ran away they would find me.

But he couldn’t just hope the evening would pass in silence.

“Hey!” Xan leaned over the railing, shouting down to a pair of passerbies in the street below. They looked up and Booker felt a now-familiar sting of recognition.

Fen and Zu. My other friends.

Fen was a minor prince of a minor clan, taken by the sect as a hostage. He was raised with respect, and given full resources as a son of the clan, but that didn’t mean they treated him as one of their own. His life here was cold and restrained.

As for Zu, he was Fen’s right hand and sunny temperament. He smoothed over every temper the prince’s prickly demeanor set in motion. Whatever Fen needed Zu delivered, and someday, when Fen returned to his clan, their debt would be settled.

He was also a bastard.

“Hey, come up! We’re drinking Rain’s sadness to death!” Xan called.

But Zu stepped in front of Fen before the prince could answer. “We’d rather not. You’re not keeping good company these days, Xan.”

“You little shit.” It didn’t take more than those few words for Xan’s face to flush red with anger. Even though he felt the insult, Booker laid a hand on Xan’s shoulder. “So suddenly you’re too good? Huh. I wonder what will happen when your friends think they’re too good for you. Will you want it to be said you didn’t pay your own debts? Huh? That nobody should concern themselves to what’s owed to you?”

There was a motion–

– it was too fast for Booker’s eyes to follow –

And in a single leap Zu stood balanced on the railing of the balcony, scowling.

It was the first time Booker had seen cultivation used casually. The sword dance he’d seen in the compound had been a show and a demonstration. This was more impressive by being less intentional, a power Zu could draw on without even thinking twice.

Xan stood up, rolling the sleeves of his robe up his arms.

But before the two could come to blows, Booker spoke. "Fen can drink with whoever he wants, Zu. That's what being a prince means. If he wants to drink with a beggar or a dog, he can." It's just you who's insecure about his position. "So what are you afraid of? Live like a prince, and drink with your friend the cripple."

It was the first time he'd really needed to speak since being questioned by the old man, and Booker was desperately trying to balance two different needs. One was to defuse the situation before he lost two of his few friends. The other was to sound like Rain.

And Rain wasn't that eloquent.

Zu actually looked thunderstruck that 'Rain' had spoken back at all. He struggled for a moment to respond. "Rain, you idiot. Don't you see you'll drag us all down? It would be best for Xan if you just left him alone."

But Fen's voice rung out, gentle and cool. "Zu. You needn't be mad on anyone else's behalf." Like Zu, he leapt up to the balcony. But where Zu's movement had been sharp and fast, Fen almost seemed to float through the air, his cerulean blue robes fluttering like a piece of sky come loose from the midday blue horizon.

"And I can indeed drink with whomever I like. Zu, I will be drinking with my friend Xan. Whether you join us is your own choice." He continued.

I like him. Booker thought. You'd never realize he grew up a hostage. He carries himself like a real prince.

Waving to the server to bring over another jug of better spirits and another bowl, Fen sat down besides Rain. After a moment of stunned silence, Zu sat down as well, still scowling.

“So Rain.” Xan said, breaking the silence. “How’s your new master? I’ve heard alchemists can be… temperamental.”

“I think he’s a fine old geezer.” Booker said. “I get the impression he hasn’t had many students, so maybe he’ll put some extra care into me.”

“Alchemists can be temperamental.” Fen said. “Remember Song? She was happily engaged before she became an alchemist. Next thing you know, she’s trying to castrate her fiance with scissors!”

“Her fiance, who was also Mei’s fiance, and Lin’s fiance…” Xan laughed.

— — —

Booker stumbled home with a burning intoxication flushing his face red. He hoped to god he’d chugged down enough water, or he’d be disappointing his master by showing up with a hangover again.

He was slung under Xan’s arm, helping to support the giant. Xan’s weight pushed him until his clumsy feet could barely keep from skidding on the floor.

But as he arrived at his door, it was cracked open. Just as they were arriving, a disciple standing nearby whistled, and another disciple with the crippled brand stepped out and began to hurry away. The shit-eating grin as he glanced towards Booker gave the whole game away. Stealing from the new meat. It’s probably common around here.

“Hey!” Booker slapped Xan’s back and stepped out from under his arm, lunging to get in front of the thief.

The man paused, and Booker had time to remember his face. Spider. He’s always hated me; cripples only rivals are other cripples, so he takes every chance to show me up.

Clutched in his hand was a leather pouch. Booker recognized that too. His blue heaven pills were inside.

And I need those for my quest.

Spider shifted his feet, squaring into a martial stance. Behind Booker, the other disciple stepped forward, “Cease impeding Brother Spider’s path. You should remember your place here.”

And Booker felt the impending arrival of violence.