Warning: The requirements of a piece of equipment you are wearing exceeds your current attributes.
Patrik shivered as his own clothing flickered, then disappeared only to be replaced instantaneously by the bright blue robes of the wizard. He’d just switched them over in his inventory to several boxes labelled as “equipped items.” After a moment’s thought, he added the hat and ivory staff for good measure.
“This’d better work,” he muttered. “I look like I’m wearing pyjamas.”
His skin continued to crawl at the thought of wearing clothes recently taken from a dead man, but at least that was better than the alternative. Not that this plan was by any means foolproof. The PQA had given it a 65% likelihood of success—whatever that meant.
He felt his terror rising as he continued down the hill and the mob drew closer. It wasn’t long before those in the lead noticed him. If anything, they seemed to pick up the pace. Patrik swallowed and resisted the temptation to reach draw the dagger from his inventory. There were far too many villagers for him to fight.
As they drew near, he caught flashes of details from amidst the mob. Ice spread through his veins as he saw their levels. Most were in the low teens, but several were at twenty or even thirty. He was still learning the basics of this world, but it didn’t take a genius to realise he would have a lot more trouble with a bunch of high-level humans than he’d had with the level 3 spiders.
“You there, wizard!” the lead villager called as he drew to a stop before the mob. “What are you doing in these parts?”
Patrik had memorized an explanation for his presence, but the man’s use of the title “wizard” momentarily threw him off-balance. He felt no small amount of embarrassment wearing the bright blue, starry robes of the old man. The PQA claimed that each piece of clothing was a powerful magical item, but their requirements were so far above Patrik’s own abilities that he couldn’t get any information about what exactly they did.
Taking a firmer grasp of Tenser’s ivory staff, Patrik drew on every lesson he recalled from his second-grade drama lessons and put on his angry Dumbledore face.
“Who are you to question me?” he bellowed, eyes bulging, magical staff thrust out before him. “I came here seeking demons, not to answer the questions of a bunch of daft country bumpkins. Now get out of my way.”
Silence fell across the roadside as Patrik finished. He stood there a moment, breath coming in soft gasps. He’d had to yell to ensure his words could be heard by all the villagers, leaving his throat hoarse. But from the stunned looks on their faces, he thought they might just buy his act.
You know they can see you’re only level 10, right?
Ahhhh… He had not, but Patrik wasn’t about to admit as much.
Another moment passed, then one of the leaders turned to another at the forefront and whispered something in his ear. The frowned for a second, then nodded. A forced grin appeared on the villager’s face as he stepped forward and spread his arms.
“Our ah…apologies, Mr. Chosen One. We did not realise to whom we spoke. Please, make yourself welcome in our village. We must be going—there are urgent matters to which we must attend in the Enchanted Forest. But ah…I am sure our apothecary may have a potion that could help with your demon problem.”
Patrik blinked, not quite sure he’d understood the man’s words—he spoke with a distinctly English accent. But sure enough, one by one the villagers stepped aside to grant him passage through to the village. Patrik nodded to the lead villager and then strode forward through the mob.
He kept the stern expression on his face until he’d passed through the last of the pitchfork-wielding villagers, and only when he was another hundred yards down the road did he dare to breathe.
“Holy shit,” he burst out, laughing despite himself. “I can’t believe that worked!”
I know! the PQA chirped in. Honestly, if you’d told me you were going to pretend to be a mental patient, I would have told you you were mad. Hey, maybe that’s why it worked so well! You sure you didn’t escape from a psychiatric ward?
“We don’t have those anymore…” Patrik started, then frowned. “Wait, what was that first part?”
You don’t have psychiatric wards? Where do you send the crazy people then? the PQA shot back, ignoring the question.
“You’re not meant to call them crazy anymore,” Patrik chided. “And they mostly go to libraries now. Or the streets. But seriously, what the hell are you talking about?”
That little act back there. Seriously, hilarious stuff. A level 10 going on about hunting demons! No wonder they sent you to the apothecary.
Patrik stopped dead in the trail. “They didn’t believe I was a real wizard?”
In place of a response, actual laughter echoed through Patrik’s mind, followed by a distinct thump, as if someone had just fallen off their chair.
Patrik’s heart sank, oddly upset at the PQA’s laughter. He’d been quite proud of his Dumbledore impersonation. Apparently it would need more work before he could convince the people of this world he was an all-powerful wizard.
Letting out a pained sigh, he continued on his way towards the picturesque village. “Well, at least they let me past,” he said after a while, then as an afterthought. “What was it he called me, ‘Mr. Chosen One’? What’s that all about anyway?”
Mate, come on, did you not read your title?
Patrik scowled at the PQA’s tone. “Of course I read it…” He trailed off as he pulled up his stat box.
Name: Patrik the Chosen One
Race: Human
Level: 10
Progress to next level:
Health: 100/100
Mana: 4/10
Strength: 1 (+1 bronze dagger)
Constitution: 1
Intelligence: 1
Charisma: 1
Dexterity: 1
Alignment: -715
* Attention: You have 27 stat points to assign. You may now assign stat points to attributes.
“Patrik the Chosen One...wait, so that’s what everyone sees when they examine me?” he exclaimed.
Ding, ding, ding, correct! You might just get the hang of this yet, mate!
“What the hell!”
He remembered the wizard rasping something about a saviour or chosen one when Patrik had first landed in the stone circle. He’d assumed it was the ravings of a…mentally ill person at the time. Now it turned out he’d literally been labelled as the “Chosen One” for everyone else to see. That sort of attention was the last thing he needed.
There didn’t appear to be anything he could do about it just now, so pushing the concerns aside, Patrik set his thoughts instead to the village ahead.
Truthfully, “village” seemed an overly generous description for the collection of buildings known as Monmouth. The trail leading down to the village was worn and pitted with use and led right up to the first of the buildings without so much as a wall for protection. Considering they lived right next to an Enchanted Forest filled with monsters like the Giant Silk Spiders, that seemed somewhat naïve. Sure, the monsters were supposedly friendly, but you could never really trust a wild animal. What was to stop a few hungry spiders wandering down one night and eating some poor family?
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
You know, this line of thought feels a lot like an attempt to justify the wonton slaughter of a nest of friendly spiders.
Patrik startled at the PQA’s interruption. Wait…so you can hear all my thoughts?
I am quite literally inside your head, mate. And yes, that means I can read all your thoughts. Including what you did with your cousin in tenth grade.
“She was my cousin by marriage—” Patrik started, then bit off what he’d been about to say.
He’d just passed the outermost building of Monmouth and his outburst had drawn the attention of group of villagers standing nearby. They stared at him, eyes wide in surprise. He gave a little wave.
“Hey there,” he said, “I’m ah…looking for the apothecary? Bit messed up in the head, apparently.” He wrapped his knuckles against his skull for good measure.
The villagers continued to stare for another full minute before one finally lifted a hand and pointed down the street.
“It’s next to the inn,” the man offered hesitantly.
His cheeks hot with embarrassment, Patrik nodded his thanks and continued on his way. The streets of the village were similar to the road outside—unpaved, dusty and pitted so badly he had to watch his step lest he break an ankle.
In contrast, the buildings themselves seemed to be of solid enough construction. Most were single story, though he noticed a few clustered near the centre of the town stretched up higher than the rest. The wooden walls reminded him of the log cabins up at the Mt. Hood ski field, though here the roofs were of thatched straw rather than steel panels or tiles. He wondered how they stood up to snow in the winter. Did they even have snow here? Or winter, for that matter?
Information requested: Monmouth winter. In the harsh months of winter, the people of Monmouth often find themselves cut off from the world by heavy snows. During these times, many spider caretakers move to the Enchanted Forests and light fires to keep their precious Silk Spiders warm. Others hunker down and ration their supplies until the spring snow melt arrives.
Patrik blinked. “Hey, that was surprisingly helpful.”
That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?
Patrik kept his mouth shut. There was no point replying to that question. Instead, he asked another that had come to mind when the villagers were staring at him.
“So does everyone here have a PQA?”
Nope! Just those of you who cross the void between worlds and find yourselves stranded here in the Four Circles.
“Wait, so there are others like me? From Earth?”
From Earth, no. No one’s poked that nest of hornets since the Thousand Years War. Old Tenser must have been desperate to dig up a spell that could crack open your universe.
Patrik sighed. “That’s just great.” He hesitated. “So, ah, I probably should have asked this earlier, but do you have a name?”
A long silence followed. I’m a Personal Quest Assistant. We don’t have names.
“Well I can’t just keep calling you ‘voice,’ now can I?” He frowned as he walked, trying to think of something creative and interesting to call the magical all-knowing voice inside his head. He came up blank. “How about Steve?”
…Seriously?
“Great, then it’s settled!” Patrik exclaimed, then quickly lowered his voice when he noticed a pair of villagers watching him. “Steve it is.” He took no small amount of pleasure in the silence that followed.
Then he remembered he was still wearing the clothes of a dead man. His nose wrinkled. “I don’t suppose this place has a laundromat…”
Patrik trailed off as he finally took note of his surroundings.
All was not well in the village of Monmouth.
Patrik came to a stop in the middle of the road, staring at a man hammering nails into the wooden boards he was fixing over his windows. He’d already finished half of the front facing windows of the shop. A crudely painted sign hanging from the front door read “Out of Business.” As he stood there, a text box popped up in Patrik’s vision asking whether he’d like to examine the store. He selected “yes.”
The Blacksmith of Monmouth [closed]. Fredrick the Blacksmith first came to Monmouth in search of a suit jacket made from the town’s famed spider silk. While visiting the town, he ventured into the Enchanted Forest and was blessed with a hug from one of the Giant Silk Spiders—from the queen, no less. He instantly fell in love with the region and decided to set up shop as the local blacksmith. For thirty years, he has built his business forging iron armour renowned for its high quality. However, due to the wanton slaughter of the Giant Silk Spider population and the collapse of the local economy, he has lost everything. With the Dark Lord’s tax collectors due any day, he must flee the town or risk being detained for tax evasion.
“What the hell?” Patrik muttered. The blacksmith finished boarding up the last window and cast a glance in Patrik’s direction. He gave a little wave but the man disappeared into his shop without a word. “His business doesn’t have anything to do with the spiders. Why would he be going out of business? Why would anyone be going out of business, for that matter—it’s barely been a few hours since I umm…well, you know.”
That guilty conscience finally catching up to you, Mr. Chosen One? Steve piped up. But by way of answer, think about this. Spider silk is estimated to make up 80% of the village’s income. Without it, there will be no inflow of gold into the town. That means no clientele for other store owners such as the blacksmith, or jewellers, or baker—or just about any business in town. As for why it’s happening now…well, the Dark Lord likes to be efficient. No point drawing things out, right?
“This is ridiculous,” Patrik muttered. “I did not bankrupt an entire town.”
Keep telling yourself that, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
Patrik was about to give a snide reply when he noticed another group of villagers. At first he thought they must be another mob preparing to follow in the footsteps of the first. Then he noticed these villagers carried not pitchforks and flaming torches, but bundles of random belongings hoisted on their shoulders. Some of the men were even dragging wheeled carts behind them. Each was stacked high with a smacking of different furniture—chairs and tables and cabinets, even a few trunks Patrik assumed must contain yet more of their personal belongings.
He swallowed a sudden lump that had lodged in his throat. “So much for the laundromat.”
The forlorn villagers continued their march. Patrik came to a stop to let them pass. A few cast glances in his direction, but most kept their heads down. Misery hung over the group like a cloak. Several were even sobbing, as though it had been their friends and family they’d lost in the forest. Patrik’s stomach twisted itself into a knot the size of melon.
“How can it be this bad?” he muttered beneath his breath.
Sure, the forest’s description had mentioned the town’s reliance on the spider silk. But it wasn’t like he’d killed all of the creatures. This had to be an overreaction. Surely they could rebuild…
A fresh group of villagers brought Patrik’s thoughts careering to a halt. There were twelve of them in all, though all carried a massive backpacks loaded up with hatchets and pickaxes and all manner of tools. Each pack had to weigh at least eighty pounds—a feat made all the more incredible as not one of this group stood taller than five feet.
“Wait,” Patrik said, “are they…”
They’re dwarfs, Steve offered helpfully.
“I…ah, think we’re meant to call them ‘little people,’” Patrik coughed.
These are the more fantastical variety, the PQA replied. So, ah, don’t go calling them “little people,” mate. They’ll rip your head off. And if you recall, there are two of us in here now.
Patrik nodded absently, still staring at the group of dwarfs. The other villagers seemed to be giving them a wide berth, though he couldn’t say whether that was down to some bias or because each of the dwarfs wore a scowl that could strip paint. Thick, wiry hair covered their arms and tumbled down their faces in matted beards. Golden rings and bracelets adorned their stubby hands and several clutched weapons of forged iron—short swords and daggers for the most part, but one held a hatchet as though he was prepared to change its diet from wood to blood. Most of the group seemed young—or rather, their features seemed young by human standards. He couldn’t be sure whether aging held true across species…or which were men or women, for that matter. If they followed some of the mythology on Earth, the beards weren’t necessarily exclusive to men in their species. If they were in fact considered a separate species…
“You know this is going to get me in trouble with Peter Dinklage—”
“What was that, rubberneck?”
Patrik jumped as one of the dwarfs stopped dead and turned to stare at him. The one with the hatchet. He definitely wasn’t happy.
“Ahhh, nothing, nothing!” Patrik said hastily, raising his hands in what he hoped was a universal sign of peace.
The dwarf watched him with its beady eyes as the rest of his column marched past. Finally he snorted and rested the hatchet on his shoulder.
“Mongrel,” he spat.
Then he turned and marched after the others without so much as a backwards glance. Patrik stared after the departing dwarfs as another group of human villagers took their place. Just like those in front, they too gave the dwarfs a wide berth. He caught snatches of their comments as they trudged past.
“Bet it was one of the little bastards…”
“Never can trust their kind…”
“…would do such a thing. Never seen the like. All torn to pieces.”
They don’t seem to like each other much, Patrik commented in a silent communication to his PQA.
There are four humanoid races in this world—humans, dwarfs, elves, and dragons. For the most part, they tolerate one another’s presence. But in times of stress…well, you saw. Old prejudices run deep, they say.
“So elves are real here too—wait, did you say dragons?”
Yes, although you’ll generally only find the last two in the inner circles. They live exceptionally long lives, so tend max out at higher levels.
“Sounds like a pretty raw deal for us humans…wait, what was that about inner circles?”
Sorry, yeah, the whole circle thing is a little misleading. It’s really more of a spiral.
“Very helpful, Steve. But I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
An audible sigh whispered through Patrik’s thoughts. He shivered. Steve’s voice was one thing, but the actual noises the PQA occasionally made were an unnerving reminder the thing was actually lodged somewhere in his brain. The implications of that were truly terrifying.
Before the PQA could make whatever snide comment it had been about to offer, shouting broke out down the street in the direction the crowd was moving—which was thankfully back the way Patrik had come. The ring of clashing weapons followed. A fight had broken out.
Ah, might I suggest you find someplace safe to hold up while the consequences of your actions play out? Then I’ll be more than happy to go over everything you need to know about the Four Circles and those attribute points you’ve been ignoring.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Do you have any suggestions?”
The local inn would be a good place to start.
Patrik nodded. “Lead the way.”