The Qliphoth Bastion of Sanguillon looms inevitably in the distance. A great number of winged demons flock to it, and take off from it in turns: organized battalions of Hell, moving in rigid formation to inflict the greatest amount of evil and chaos upon the world, like an efficient factory of destruction. Their warpath drags blood even across the color of the sky, the blue horizon stained a bloody red. The arcane stench of the castle corrupts all that it perceives and all that perceives it, even the air and water and land. Though its towering spires and impossible architecture might be considered beautiful by its denizens, the Bastion is a blight, a mistake, a tumor on a beautiful world.

Courtney Cross's bubblegum pops, and she snorts.

"I mean, it isn't that scary."

"What?!" Ronister of Smallwood yelps, bewildered. The young squire does a double, triple take, looking between her and the physical form of universal, objective evil. "Are your eyes working, milady? To view it is to be repulsed – some have even fainted upon seeing its visage –"

"Literally overreacting." The teenager rolls her eyes. "It's just a castle."

"Just a – surely you jest –"

"Like, sure, there's… magical pollution and stuff? But I don't – I don't really see why old ladies would faint at the sight of it, or whatever you said happens." Courtney scrunches her nose. "Sounds like a marketing scheme. Like, when they say something's the purest, cleanest water with all the electrolytes, but it's just – it's just water. But more expensive."

"..." Ronister licks his lips, trying to compose himself in the face of such barefaced, otherworldly audacity. "Are you implying that the Qliphoth Bastion of Sanguillon is a… ponzi scheme?"

"No, it's not a scam, it's just, like, overblown. I mean, they probably kill and torture people and shit, yes, but, like… shit, y'know." Courtney shrugs, some frustration rising in her tone.

Ronister still looks at her like she's lost her mind, and she groans melodramatically. God, why was she sent to deal with the Lord of the Rings crap? They should have sent that one guy from last year, Michael… Worth? Was that his last name? Really big into this sort of stuff. Wouldn't shut up about it when she made him do her science project. He'd know what to do.

But no, Courtney's the one who got run over so now she has to deal with this. Fucking whatever. At least she has a cool outfit, kinda.

"Alright, let's get going, then." Courtney starts descending from the hill they're currently on, trying to mind her footing with these heavy-ass armored boots. Armor's surprisingly light. Honestly, she thought she'd be clanking around all hot and sweaty and gross, but chainmail is such a life-saver.

About twenty seconds pass before Courtney realizes she can only hear her own footsteps. Squinting at nothing in particular, she shifts her weight and turns around to see Ronister frozen in place. He hasn't moved a muscle – he's just staring at the castle in the distance. …Wait, was there actually some magic trick if you looked at it for too long?

"Ronister." She grunts, snapping her fingers loudly. "Ronister!"

The short guy yelps, and realizes she's like halfway down the hill without him.

"I'm, ah, I'm sorry, milady, I'll – be right there." Ronister breathes, taking his sweet time heading down the hill.

Every part of him clunks around, what with the amount of armor he's wearing and stuff he's carrying. He's like a walking garbage pile of metal scraps. Courtney's sure he's going to wake up buried under his own shield and sword, sooner or later. He really is built like a freshman. A tiny freshman. This world is fucked up if they're making him fight at all, instead of going to boarding school or apprenticing for a blacksmith or something.

And, every so often, he looks up at the castle, pale-faced with his lips slightly ajar.

…Halfway down the hill, Courtney pauses and turns around, stopping in place. The smaller boy's armor clutters unceremoniously as he bumps into her back, making a pathetic little yelp as he stumbles for balance.

'Ronister, you know you can go home." The varsity cheerleader says flatly, her eyes resting on him like dull, frigid blocks of steel.

An alien tension rises in his shoulders, and he can feel his face heating up. Like he wants to curl up into a ball, and clench every part of his body. "Pardon, milady?"

"I don't – we're going to get hurt. We might not make it out alive. And look, I already died, so if I die again, it's no big deal. But you have your whole life ahead of you, and your mom'll be worried sick the longer you're away – fuck, I sound like my dad," Courtney winces, memories of angry scolding bubbling up in her mind, before continuing, "Look, my point is –"

"I-Is this a test of courage?" Ronister stutters, bare-faced confusion in his eyes. "Do you… not believe in me? I've trained all my life for this adventure, I can't just…"

"All your life?" She scoffs. "So, what, four years?"

"I am of working age!"

"Working at thirteen is actually just child abuse, Ronister."

"Perhaps in your world, but in these lands, I am a breadwinner," the boy's voice cracks when he says 'breadwinner', "do you doubt my manhood?"

"Manhood, what the f –" Courtney takes a deep breath and feels a migraine coming on. This kid, she swears to God. "I'm not trying to emasculate you or whatever, it's – bigger, stronger men would bow out right about now. No shame in doing so."

"But milady, what would I tell my friends, my mother?" Ronister blubbers, and she's had it.

"That you're alive!" Courtney snaps. "I don't want you to die young, Ronister. Go home!"

Ronister turns around to look back. To home, to his family, to the quaint little village where Courtney landed ass-first in a pig trough. He could get back to Smallwood before sunset, if he went now.

While he's looking away, Courtney shoves her hands in her pockets and starts heading towards the Bastion, with or without him. She still doesn't understand what the big deal is, and she's been staring at it for ages now. Looks like a video game. One of the scary ones. She's crap at all of them, so she never gave them the time of day.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Who will start your fires?" Ronister's squeaker voice calls out, and Courtney turns around, irritated that she didn't have the last word.

"Huh?"

"A-And set up camp?" Ronister continues, even though Courtney still doesn't know what the hell he's on about. "And prepare rations, and haggle your inn prices?"

"I can probably – figure it out?" Courtney says, but wait, he raises a good point. She doesn't know how to do any of that crap. Not that she'll ever admit it, she's above losing arguments like that. Especially not after she lost her cool and shit.

"You'll need a guide. There's more to an adventure than storming the Bastion." Ronister stutters, trying to scrounge up the words out of his heart and into his throat, grasping at straws. "I – I'm the only one that would do it for free. At least."

"Don't try to prove yourself, dude –"

"I'm not!" Ronister blurts, cutting off whatever scathing comment she had. The anger actually silences her, coming from a twerp who became a doormat the moment he heard the word hero.

The little squire wipes his brow through his helmet, eyes looking anywhere but at Courtney. "I just – I'm coming with you."

For a long moment, the hill is quiet, except for the sound of cicadas.

Courtney heaves a sigh, looking up to the sky to gather her patience. Then, she looks at him again – still just a mouse in a tin can. Literally a middle schooler. Jesus Christ, is she really gonna let this kid kill himself because he has self-esteem problems?

"Guess so," she grumbles to herself, before waving him over to join her, "fine, fine, come on."

The excited clomping of the heavily-armored boy is all the confirmation that Courtney needs to hear, and she continues onwards.

She's going to regret this. She knows she will. She'll have Ronister dead in her arms, and she'll have to knock on his mom's door and tell her that the kid's dead. This world is fucked. Everything about this is fucked.

"Trust me, milady, I shan't let you down! I'm one of the best huntsmen in Smallwood, and I can even haggle with the merchants from the Capital –"

"Uh huh."

"Besides, I can carry your packs, especially with your willowy figure."

"Willowy?"

"Er, I mean, not that I find you ugly, for true ugliness lies in personality and…"

"No, shut up. What do people traditionally consider attractive here?"

"Well, er, curves, for one, and most ladyfolk bear more meat upon their bones –"

"Did you just fucking call me anorexic? Dude!"

"I've no clue what that phrase means, but milady, I assure you –"

----------------------------------------

Four hours down the road, and Courtney is bored as hell.

She's already eaten most of the dried berries that they'd packed for snacks. She'd successfully introduced Ronister to I Spy, and they'd played about two dozen games by now. They've also played 20 Questions: Ronister's favorite color is green, his favorite song is some untitled minstrel melody that he tried (and failed) to recreate, he doesn't know his dad nor what happened to his dad, and he didn't have a crush on any of the girls back in Smallwood. Her current source of entertainment is watching hell-demons fly back and forth from the Bastion.

Can't wait to get to the Capital. Gran Tidel, or whatever it's called. Can't wait to enjoy plumbing again. Can't wait to get a horse. Although, now that she thinks about it –

"Ronister, what's the weapon we're supposed to pick up from the Capital again?" Courtney asks, trying to remember the name of the thing. "You mentioned it earlier, before we left, but I couldn't really, uh, follow."

"Oh. Yes, we are to report to King Charlon and the court wizards will grant you a Soul Weapon!" There are sparkles in Ronister's beady little eyes. "Whenever a hero arrives from another world, they have the special ability to –"

"– summon their God-assigned spirit weapon, yes, I know. But, like, what is it?" Courtney gestures vaguely. "Like, is it a sword, a spear? The power of friendship?"

"Er, well, from what I've heard, it's different between every hero." Ronister fidgets, trying to remember the particulars past the sales pitch, "Many have swords or foreign curved blades. Some have magic staves – I've even heard of one having a handheld cannon. I can't say for certain what yours would be."

"I have to learn how to swing a sword?" If Courtney ever gets home and has swordsmanship abilities, her friends will never let her live it down. She'll catch fantasy-flavored shit from them for three years, at least.

"Possibly! It's quite good, too – it's summoned on command, so it doesn't burden your party's carrying capacity. And Soul Weapons have magical properties, and can affect ethereal creatures!"

"They're probably pretty crap, if all the other 'heroes' died before me." She'll probably get killed too, all things considered, but maybe she can learn from the… correlation? Causation? She never remembers which is which. "Also, if the demons can shoot fireballs from far away, what good does a sword do?"

"I… suppose I never thought of it that way." Ronister trails off, contemplatively, before trying to lighten the mood. "But that's what your other party members are for, I presume?"

"I'm gonna need stronger party members if I want to deal with this crap," Courtney grouses, more to herself than anyone, deaf to the sound of Ronister's faltering self-worth.

Instead, she hears a twig break, and stops in place.

"You hear that?" Courtney tries to focus on her hearing.

"What?"

Another crack. "That."

"I do." Ronister clatters forward, pulling out a warhammer from behind his back. He had a warhammer this whole time? Well, he did say he's trained. "Stay behind me, milady, and let's move forward slowly…"

But then, a little green bastard thing leaps out from behind the bushes, and Courtney punts it on instinct.