"NPC-RND-4394! Please come to the front. You're up next."

  I shoot upright in my seat and salute the clerk from across the reception room. The 1st Class Trial Dungeon was completely stuffed when I arrived this morning; several hours later, the crowd of aspiring adventurers has thinned out just enough that I can squeeze past everyone by holding my breath.

  Sucking in my chest, I fight my way to the front desk. Bigger, badder guys than I'll ever be shoot me dirty looks as I accidentally half-trip over their feet and jab elbows into their sides.

  "'Scuse me--pardon me--sorry, coming through!"

  If my heart wasn't already racing, their narrowed eyes might do the trick. For better or worse, though, the excitement-anxiety cocktail swirling through me's already beat them to the punch.

  "Hello, there." A sparkling service-desk smile lights up the clerk's face when I arrive. "Sorry for the wait. Ready for your test, sir?"

  I scratch my cheek with a single finger, a nervous sound bubbling from my throat.

  "Ready as I'll ever be."

  "Hey, have some confidence! You'll do fine."

  Bet she says that to everyone, I think, while the clerk pulls a clipboard from a hook on the wall behind her. If not, she's got more faith in me than I do.

  Humming to herself, the clerk flips through the clipboard's contents. The butterflies in my stomach flutter to my throat and tangle there, drying up my mouth and turning my breaths to shallow puffs. Everyone in the room's been sitting here for half a day. A dozen impatient glares drill through my skull, and cold sweat prickles fresh at my hairline.

  "No worries," mutters one of the giants I elbowed. "It'll be our turn soon. That li'l shrimp won't last a nanosecond."

  The man's colleagues snicker, just loud enough that I can hear. I prickle with indignation and square my posture. Shrimpy though I might be, I can't give them the satisfaction of intimidating me. I've come too far for a couple thungs to get between me and becoming a [Drifter].

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  "Your chosen name is... Quinn?"

  My thoughts scatter at the clerk's curious voice. I shake my head, grounding myself, then reply with a resolute nod.

  "Yeah. That's me."

  She slides a pen across the desk, followed by the clipboard.

  "Please sign on the dotted lines."

  I flip through page after page of legalese. I was told to expect a waiver or three, but the length of these documents has me throwing the clerk a nervous look.

  "It's just a formality." She giggles and taps the first line, leaning forward so that the ribbon circling her collar brushes against the paper. "Go on. If it helps any, only twelve people have had to respawn mid-trial. Each time we managed to recover most of their inventory, too."

  Just like that, all the blood drains from my face. My eyelid twitches.

  The clerk simply continues smiling, of course.

  "Twelve, huh...?"

  I sign with my system ID and a shaky hand, clearing my throat to conceal my fear. Twelve's no small number.

  "I'll be careful not to add a thirteenth to the tally."

  "I'm sure you won't. Good luck, Mr. Quinn."

  She directs me towards a pair of ornate double doors flanked by two sleepy-eyed guards. If I properly recall, these guys have always been sentries, even during the Heroes' time. I murmur a friendly greeting while the doors swing open before me. No-one replies.

  "Okay, then... sheesh."

  Somewhat discouraged, I step past the doorway. A long, dark corridor decorated by twinkling crystal lamps and little else surrounds me. I swallow nervously in the shadows. No windows; no warnings; not a single blinking arrow to guide me towards the dungeon proper.

  The doors squeal shut behind me, then latch with an echoing ka-chak.

  It's really happening now, huh...

  Recalling the others' impatient stares, I move on. The hovering lamps brighten when I pass, chiming and bobbing as if cheering me on. Their glow dyes the smooth marble floor an inviting blue that seems to say, 'You can do this, buddy'.

  I straighten my sleeves with one sharp tug apiece. The default newbie 'armour', hardly more than glorified layers of cloth and leather, hang awkwardly from my body. I adjust the heavy mantle and triple-check my bootstraps.

  That's right... I can do this. Keep going, Quinn.

  As I round my first corner, the dread threatening to overwhelm me starts ebbing away. Perhaps it's the crystals' soft lamplight easing my nerves. Perhaps it's the reliable rhythm of my own footsteps. Perhaps I've grown so anxious that I've crossed the line twice and--I don't know--achieved inner peace.

  So long as I pass the [Drifter] exam, I could glitch a second head for all I care.

  Onward and onward. I thumb at my belt, reciting the promise I made to myself:

  "Someday I'll swap this cheap leather strap with a [Marksman's] holster."