(Charles)

"Elves!" Dylan suddenly exclaimed, slapping his thigh with enthusiasm. "I was wondering if you were all elves or vulcans—and no, I’m not elven. I’m human."

Charles processed the information calmly. His people, the elves, had been an astral-faring civilization for millennia, spreading to most known, hospitable planets. Most worlds welcomed elves as part of their population, though a few still limited them to tourists. Elves had become one of the most widespread and dominant races in the universe—so much so that “elvenoid” had become one of the four racial classifications for sentient species: primal, mythical, elemental, and elvenoid.

Charles had assumed Dylan was elven. He mentally filed this away: humans were now the second race of people that he knew of that could pass as elven. The other was a lost race of people; rumored to have colonized and ruled over an ancient version of the universe eras ago.

The exact details of their society varied across different accounts. Legends far outnumbered official records from that era. Whatever catastrophe had befallen them, it was said to have wiped their existence from the multiverse—an event that occurred long before the formation of the League of Adventurers, during the recordless eras.

Charles nodded slowly to himself, mentally connecting the dots. This new information was another piece of the puzzle. Flak, an ancient elven food dating back to early colonization efforts, might explain why Dylan wasn’t fond of its taste.

“What’s a vulcan?” he asked, wondering how they might differ from elves.

“They’re people from a planet called Vulcan,” Dylan explained. “They live for hundreds—maybe thousands—of years, and they’re strong, nimble, and they have long, pointed ears. So… basically elves,” he sighed, realizing the circular nature of his explanation, “but from another planet.”

“I’ve never heard of Vulcan. Is that a world near Dirt?” Charles noticed the subtle twitch in Dylan’s expression, clearly resisting the urge to correct his pronunciation. Instead, Dylan closed his eyes briefly and let out a small sigh

“I’m ashamed to say… but I’m not Trekkie enough to know where Vulcan is in relation to Dirt.” Dylan replied, emphasizing the word Dirt.

Charles filed that information away for later. Perhaps a review of the League’s records on elven planetary colonization could provide some insight. He returned his focus to the matter at hand. “So, you were saying—an elf named Abs botched your escape?”

Charles reached into the throat of the boot, adjusting the heel. The cold, damp interior from sweat was unpleasant, but he focused on the task with his usual efficiency, ignoring the discomfort. There was still another boot to deal with.

Socks, he noted silently. He’d make sure to give Dylan a pair before the night was over.

“Yep, and then Bronze—the lizard-lady… I think she was a girl? She didn’t have any, uh…” Dylan hesitated, making cups with his hands in front of his chest. “Not that she couldn’t be a girl without them!” His cheeks flushed red as he stumbled through the explanation. “Sorry, gender is... hard.”

Charles cycled through possibilities in his mind. ‘Lizard? Reptile? Draconi, most likely. Bronze—scale color. T’lanza—Dreadfang’s mate.’ It made sense. She was the one who’d killed him.

“Draconi,” Charles nodded. “A mythical race. Their reproductive cycle is complex and doesn’t require mammaries.” He stopped himself before launching into a full explanation; his knowledge of the draconi was extensive, and he could speak at length about them.

“Well, that draconi slit my throat and killed me. That was my second death, if anyone’s keeping score,” Dylan added matter-of-factly.

Charles paused at the thought, his mind shifting gears. ‘What’s my score? How many lives have I taken? Should I count beasts, too?’ He knew he could figure it out over a weekend if he wanted, but... what was the point? Dwelling on the lives he’d taken only stirred emotions he preferred to keep locked away.

“Why did she kill you?” Charles hesitated for just a moment, stopping himself from saying the name T’lanza. “What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dylan replied quickly.

Charles waited in silence, watching him carefully.

“Okay, fine,” Dylan relented after a beat. “Maybe I goaded her. Just a teeny, tiny bit,” he added, holding up two fingers pinched close together. “But still, that’s no reason to kill me!” He trailed off again, his eyes distant. “Unless she was mad about the explosion...”

Charles leaned in slightly. “What explosion? Did you cause it?”

“I swear to Mother, I had nothing to do with the explosion. All I wanted was a mating cupcake,” Dylan said.

‘Mating cupcake?’ Charles raised an eyebrow. ‘Celebrating copulation with pastries... or perhaps offering it as a proposition?’ Both ideas were fascinating, and he was curious what other oddities might lie in the human mating system.

Dylan continued, his voice animated as he recounted the chaos. “So, I go to cross the street and wham,” he clapped his hands together, “suddenly, the sun’s gone, someone’s stolen my clothes, taken my phone, and dropped me in a dark room. Naked, not alone, and very confused.”

Charles blinked. “Was Christian Bale with you?”

Dylan chuckled. “Nope, definitely a woman this time.”

Charles noted that Dylan’s mug was nearly empty again. Without comment, he leaned over and filled it, allowing Dylan to continue uninterrupted.

“And then the building next door blew up. I’m pretty sure it killed her, but it definitely threw me across the room hard enough to break my leg.”

Charles glanced down at Dylan’s two fully functional legs, thinking back to the steady gait he’d observed since they met. ‘Maybe he’s already had a healing potion?’ That was unlikely, as those usually aren’t just lying around.

“What happened to your broken leg?” Charles asked. He finished resizing the boots, unable to justify adding any more stitches.

“I don’t know.” Dylan shrugged. “I picked up this magic snow globe, and poof—leg and vision fixed.” His attention shifted to the boots in Charles’ hands, staring at them with newfound interest.

“I’m not familiar with snow globes,” Charles handed the boots over to Dylan. “Can you show it to me?”

“I don’t have it anymore—it broke when I picked it up.” Dylan took the boots from Charles, then promptly decided to air out his feet by the fire, ignoring the boots for now.

“How do you know it was magical?” Charles pressed.

“Well, it asked me if I wanted to use it, then tricked me into saying yes. Things got weird, it shattered, and I’m pretty sure I absorbed it. Hopefully, it wasn’t toxic.” He glanced up from the fire, his face lit by the flickering flames. “But hey, after that, my leg and vision were good as new, so I’m not complaining.”

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‘An orb? There’s no way he just found one lying on the ground,’ Charles thought, his mind racing. The sheer rarity of such a thing was staggering—yet, it was the only explanation that made any sense.

“What you’re describing sounds like an orb.” Charles cupped his hands to form a sphere. “Was it about this big?”

Dylan nodded, not fully grasping the significance of what he’d found. This was unheard of; Orbs were incredibly rare and prohibitively expensive, often the greatest hurdle for anyone seeking to become an adventurer. These items allowed people to transcend from mundane into the realm of magical.

Charles' thoughts churned. ‘Which orb did he absorb?’ This changed everything. Dylan’s self-reported deaths suddenly seemed far more plausible now that magic was in the equation.

“What did you see inside the orb?” Charles asked, his curiosity piqued. He needed to know which type of orb it was; speculating on Dylan’s abilities would be pointless until he had a clearer picture. This also confirmed that Dylan had already begun his journey as an unranked adventurer.

“It was blue and orange,” Dylan replied. He continued describing it, though Charles found himself momentarily drifting, lost in his own thoughts.

‘A Time orb,’ Charles realized grimly. ‘That’s unfortunate.’ He’d heard of them but had never encountered one in person before. This was far worse than he’d anticipated.

“When I looked closer, there was a blue sky—over a desert, I think. Or maybe it was a beach? I’m not sure, but the orange sand flowed like a river,” Dylan explained, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece the imagery together.

‘No, no, no...’ Charles’ mind raced as a knot tightened in his stomach. The realization hit harder than he’d expected, and a wave of rare sympathy washed over him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. The campfire’s flames flickered restlessly, as if echoing his growing dread. Dylan had no idea of the peril he was in. Charles remained silent, lost in thought, his mind churning with the consequences of what Dylan had done.

Dylan had absorbed a Time orb. Time was one of the restricted magic types, too dangerous for any individual to wield—at least, that’s what the League of Adventurers had decreed. Charles knew firsthand the burden of wielding restricted magic. His own Dark framework's first ability was classified as restricted, and he had only used it once—enough to understand why some magic was deemed too powerful.

The memory of Lysha surfaced unbidden. For the past month, he’d been free from the night terrors, a brief reprieve from the relentless guilt. She had been from the same generation as him. Although not an orphan like Charles, her mother—a sponsored Ebonscale adventurer—had given Lysha up to the guild soon after she was born. Lysha’s mother had no time to raise a child, but did have a debt to pay off; the exchange was transactory.

Charles and Lysha grew up together, their lives intertwined through schooling, training, and countless chores. It’d always been clear that the guild intended to forge a romantic union between them, a union that would benefit the guild as much as it would them. Lysha had always been open to the idea, but Charles had never been romantically interested in her. She was his best friend, after all.

Between the two of them, Lysha had always been the superior fighter—faster, stronger, and relentlessly aggressive. Every time Charles held back, thinking he could outwit her, she’d thrash him even harder for it. She could sense weakness like a predator, and she never let him get away with it.

Charles had just absorbed his Dark orb, unlocking its first ability. [Intrusive Thought] was a Psychic ability from his Dark framework, one that sank deep into the mind, planting seeds of self-doubt, weakening a target’s willpower and disrupting concentration effects. The power had a creeping, insidious nature to it.

Their final bout had been no different. Charles let her tire herself out, soaking her attacks and biding his time. He knew her techniques intimately; she’d beaten him hundreds of times before with the same ruthless precision. Lysha’s strategy was always to break her opponent down in close quarters, only to finish them off with a devastating, well-placed ranged strike.

She’d drawn blood, as usual. Green rivulets dripped from the cuts and scrapes she’d inflicted, and when she disengaged to set up her finishing move, Charles smiled. He knew exactly what was coming.

Intrusive Thought hadn’t just disrupted Lysha’s attack—it had obliterated her focus completely, leaving her disoriented and vulnerable. It wasn’t just a distraction; it severed her connection to the fight itself. Sensing the opening, Charles moved without hesitation, his strikes precise and relentless. For the first time, Lysha was on the back foot, unable to recover, unable to adapt.

When the fight ended, Charles couldn’t believe it—he’d won. But something felt off. Instead of their usual post-match camaraderie, where they’d grab a bite and dissect each other’s strategies, Lysha had only offered a weak smile and excused herself. She claimed she wasn’t feeling well.

That night, when Charles didn’t see her in the dining hall, he grew concerned. He made her a plate, thinking some food might help, and brought it to her room in the dorms. When he entered, he found her lying on the bed. Quiet. Still. He set the plate on her nightstand...and then he saw the note.

> I know I’ll never be enough for you.

> And that’s not enough for me.

> I’m sorry.

Lysha didn’t stir when he shook her; she had been gone for hours, her life already snuffed out. Charles held her tightly, the tears burning hot behind his eyes. The heat of his emotions threatened to ignite the very walls of the dorms as he clung to her lifeless form, his sobs ripping through him. In that moment of unbearable grief, he swore he would never use that insidious ability again.

Now, sitting by the campfire, Charles felt tears gather at the corners of his eyes once more as the memories clawed at him, prying open wounds he thought long sealed. Grief, unbidden and relentless, chipped away at his resolve. This—this was why he kept everything locked away, buried deep where it couldn’t hurt him. With a deep breath, he forced the key to turn, locking away his emotions and cutting himself off from the pain once again.

Clearing his mind of the past, he refocused on Dylan’s situation. It made sense that someone had tried to kill him if they’d discovered the Time orb. The League of Adventurers didn’t take chances with restricted magic. Open contracts were issued to bring in anyone with such power, dead or alive.

Restricted magic wasn’t feared for no reason. Its unpredictability, its potential for devastation, was too great. These individuals were considered living weapons, dangerous enough that death was often seen as the safer option—so long as a positive test confirmed the framework during the autopsy. Faking such results was nearly impossible, with only a handful of rare exceptions.

The League had been surprisingly lenient with Charles, allowing him to register just one restricted ability rather than condemning him to a lifetime in prison. He’d accepted the brand willingly—an intricate tattoo, called a bounty hunter’s mark. The mark was more than a symbol; it was a magical teleportation seal that allowed the League to recall him to a holding cell at a moment’s notice. They claimed it didn’t actively track his every move, only activating in the most extreme situations. Still, Charles never truly felt free with the brand on his skin—a constant reminder of the League’s grip on his life.

Dylan, however, faced a far crueler fate. If he ever completed his framework, he’d possess four restricted abilities. The League would never allow him to live in peace after that. They would hunt him relentlessly, and if they caught him alive, they wouldn’t just imprison him. No, they would vault him—lock him in stasis, never to awaken unless the League needed to wield him as a weapon. A fate that offered no mercy, no freedom—never allowed to live or die. ‘That,’ Charles thought grimly, ‘would be an unkind fate.’

Charles found Dylan tolerable, more so than most. There was an oddity to the chubby man that he found strangely endearing. Had there been more time, he might have even found Dylan acceptable.

He’d already decided to help Dylan when they first met but wasn’t expecting it to be like this. Dylan deserved a quick, clean death—better than the slow horror that awaited him in the hands of the League. And though it wasn’t something Charles liked to admit, a small part of him wished that someone had spared him from the horror of living with restricted magic.

Dylan rambled on about his missing communication device, unaware that Charles’ attention had drifted. Rising quietly from his seat, Charles crossed over to the chest affixed to the side of his arborhearth. His fingers hovered over the lid, and as he closed his eyes, he summoned the familiar shapes of his longsword, shortsword, and dagger in his mind.

The blades appeared at the bottom of the chest when he lifted the lid. It had been so long since he’d held them—since the day he walked away from Ebonscale and had his Adventuring license revoked. The sight of the weapons stirred a feeling deep within him, a distant echo of who he used to be.

He knew he’d only need the dagger for what he was about to do, but Dylan’s unusual resilience troubled him. Self-resurrection abilities were rare but not unheard of at common rank, often accompanied by lengthy cooldowns or a limited number of uses. Dylan had already defied death twice, and Charles wouldn’t take any chances.

Preparing for either outcome, Charles slid the dagger from its sheath, equipping the other blades across his back. He turned slowly, positioning himself behind Dylan, his mind steeling itself for what was to come. “I’m really sorry about this, Dylan,” he said softly, his voice laced with an unfamiliar heaviness.

Charles had come to a decision—it was important to keep score. Perhaps it was the only way to stay grounded in a world that often demanded impossible choices. He would start with Dylan.

“It’s okay,” Dylan said absentmindedly. “Who needs a phone when—”

The thought never finished. With a single swift motion, Charles placed the dagger against Dylan’s temple and drove the blade deep. The soft crack of bone and the sudden slackness in Dylan’s body were the only sounds that followed. Death came instantly.