Days had passed and he wasn’t getting better.

The brawn hero-summon Rhode Mortimer Irving of the anti-level universe Urth sat on a bench, growing more and more sure that he’d been brought to this world by mistake. His broad, meaty fingers were laced together in his lap: he was pleased to notice they were growing in their fingernails. Sitting on a stone bench alone, he wore a long, thick woolen scarf of garish crimson over a loose purplish robe. The garment was hemmed too short (leaving his ankles chilly and exposed), but his stubby toes wiggled in soft, downy slippers with sturdy leather soles. Since socks were apparently hard to manufacture here, especially for someone his size, an apprentice healer had wound long, felted foot-wraps up to Rhode’s calves. Securing them so that they wouldn’t pinch or fall off was apparently not easy, and Rhode failed to learn the trick of it the first time he’d been shown. He cleared his throat, and tapped his slipper nervously. He loosened the wrap about his neck, then reached down beside him and gripped the pommel of his sword. Rhode frowned, and then held it sheath-tip down like a walking stick.

Goblins and even elves hurried past him in the corridor, dressed in tunics and liveries and smart looking suits and on various errands. Whether they stared at him, or averted their eyes, they would all steer around him, pressing further against the other side of the corridor than necessary. The hallway itself was festooned with lush tapestries, and narrow plinths sporting tiny, delicate valuables or sculptures. Generous scented candelabras and light crystals painted the corridor with a cheerful ambiance. But underneath all of the hasty decorations, the walls were still rough, cold dungeon granite.

Rhode had been alive for just under two weeks. He’d been asleep for 9 days out of those twelve.

Sputtering noises rose from a machine on the floor to the side of the bench. The breathing apparatus was an over-complicated jumble of a thing, made of brass and gears, and leather, accordion-shaped bellows. A small, colorless crystal vibrated with a tiny hum as it powered the machine to start up, and various components came to life. Rhode watched as a tiny puff of steam released from a valve, and then looked down to a spherical glass flask which jutted out the side. It was filled with a dirty, pungent oil, and a tube drew a carefully measured dose of it into the machine.

Reluctantly, Rhode reached over to his right, picked up the hose which ended in an irregular glass cup, and placed it over his mouth. It didn’t fit or seal well, but the huge figure breathed the chemical fumes as deeply as he was capable. It smelled like burnt tonic. He stifled a cough, set the hose back down, and nodded at the young man who’d stopped abruptly to stare.

“You don’t happen to know what they put in this, do you?”

The young goblin man wasn’t so different than a human, really. The broad strokes were all the same, anyway. Eyes, mouth, nose, chin. Arms, legs, sure. It was just a matter of the little things: the boy’s pinkish eyes, square pupils, cheekbones just a little wrong. The boy wasn’t even very green, really; he was more swarthy than anything else. But his ears, those were different. And the teeth.

Still, the young man reacted with bravado and uncertainty, both at the same time and so common to that particular age, and it seemed all too familiar.

“Ser, I am afraid I am not to speak to you.”

Rhode quirked an eyebrow in question.

The attendant stood to attention with practiced posture. His uniform was cheap material, but well-tailored: black with white cuffs, and panels of fleur-de-gorgon pattern in burnt orange. He seemed to calculate for a moment, and then performed a shallow bow, pressing his forefinger across his forehead. “Your Calamitousness, the master-in-attendance of the house has warned me that you have brought ten thousand unnatural secrets from beyond the void. Should I listen to them uncautiously, my mind could be undone, and I would fall to madness.”

Rhode blinked. “Oh. Well, I don’t think that’s true...” , he wheezed.“But, I guess I should let you go?”

“Thank you, Ser. May our enemies tremble before you.” The young man bowed once again, but deeper. “Ash and salt be left in your ruin,” he said in farewell, and then strode hurriedly off towards his business.

There were others that passed, of course. Some were servants, carrying goods. Some were scholars, or healers, or soldiers, and Rhode quietly observed the differences in their clothing, in their features. He tried to make sense of the various factions which had gathered in this place; gathered, he was beginning to understand, to make more of him.

After a quarter hour, Rhode was starting to get used to being ignored, comfortable with the sound of footsteps passing by. Then one particular set of them arrived at his side and stopped.

“Good morning big guy, you ready for your potion? It’s first bell.”

Stolen novel; please report.

Rhode jerked. A new goblin was standing, holding out a boxy little bottle, an ampule, made of cloudy, semi-precious stone. Even though Rhode was seated, and admittedly slouching, he was still meeting the man at eye level.

“Right. Thank you.” The homunculus reached over, his fist dwarfing the goblin’s, and carefully took the potion. The clear alchemical liquid was carefully balanced, deceptively flavorless, and practically humming with invisible energy. Rhode downed the whole thing in a single swallow, and grimaced as a sour and umami aftertaste hit him.

Rhode took another puff from his breathing machine as his body was flushed with chemical potential. It oozed into his bloodstream and lymphs and spread slowly into his flesh. Though he didn’t understand how he knew it, he had an intuitive sense that these treatments were interacting with his [Vigorous Ichor], as if it were a thing that was independent of his body.

Rhode touched his arm, as a chill, thorny silver armband prickled at his skin under his sleeve.

Gene [Vigorous Ichor] ★○○: The first key to Enduring Stamina. Foundation level {mutation}. Levelable. Mergeable.

Progress to ★★○: 4→11%

Evolution to [Rejuvenating Ichor] available. Evolution resisted.

Comment: Known combination paths exist when paired with [Daemon: Berserker], [Gene: Bloodlust], or [Rune: Hatred], would you like to know more?

“Ugh, that’s so weird. Thanks again, uh – who are… I mean we’ve met before, but what’s your name?”

“Junior Scholar Tarrop. Right,” the goblin chuckled. He rubbed the top of his head in a self-conscious way, a bad habit which only drew attention to his receding hairline. He was young to be balding though, and a bit chubby besides. He was dressed like a renaissance costume, which Rhode imagined as uncomfortable, but in muted colors. Overtop, Tarrop wore a thin apron or smock: cream with pale blue heraldry that portrayed the silhouette of some kind of ape creature. It featured sat cross-legged and holding a five pointed star high above its head. “I guess you’ve never really been awake for morning shift.”

Nodding slowly, Rhode asked, “and you’re with the College of the Arcane?” He was only half-sure of the answer.

“Yep, Wavelton and Broox. Finest affordable school of magic in the land, and here to help you become the best version of you.” The goblin paused, a shadow clouding his features. “The most ah, heroic version of you, anyway. Do you mind if I divine your status?”

Shaking his head, Rhode held still while Junior Tarrop made subtle gestures with his hands, then brought out a small cup filled with painted bone dice. The pudgy man shook the dice and murmured to himself for a moment.

“You’re looking good. I’m glad you’re holding off on evolving your mutation. I know that in your condition, it’s probably pretty hard. Just remember, if you let that gene steer towards the regeneration path, we’re pretty sure it could combine with [Hibernate] and make things worse. As long as you stay the course and trust the plan, we’ll get your foundations back on track. You’’ll be unstoppable, you’ll see.”

Rhode nodded, suppressing a frown.

“And ah, don’t listen to the armband unless you check with us first.”

Be the master of your own fate! Throw off all shackles! Break the bones of your lessers into dust!

Power reserve = low

Going to sleep

Rhode nodded again, more emphatically this time. He scooted over to make room for his minder, and the two of them sat, silent and comically mismatched.

“Good,” the goblin began casually. “You know who we’re meeting this morning, right?”

There was a narrow, solid wooden door directly across from Rhode’s bench. It was reinforced with latticed metal strips, and framed on either side by hanging garlands of herbs. He had been waiting for the door to open for over an hour.

“The army command guy who works for the Prince,” Rhode coughed.

The scholar rose and stepped over to fiddle with the breathing machine. He gave it an earnest whack on the side and it sputtered to deliver another dose. “Adjutant Fidelity Brand. He’s important.”

“That can’t be his real name,” Rhode protested.

There was noise coming from the door, so Tarrop motioned for Rhode to stand. He shrugged “New nobility. Get to pick their own names. Anyway, let me do most of the talking. Try to look mysterious and imposing, but you know, submissive to the royal authority.”

The door swung inward to reveal a crystal-lit room which was furnished like a pioneer era study. There was a plain-looking desk inside, and several expensively cushioned chairs. Shelves were stocked with scrolls, and little porcelain figurines, and stacks of laced, unbound books. The Adjutant was seated, holding a sheaf of papers in one hand and pretending to read them. He had a comically thick mustache and curly mutton chops down to his jaw, and wore the Second Prince’s colors. The air by his shoulder shimmered: his daemon spirit hovering above him, anchored to the man by his levels. It looked like little more than pair of eyes fixed on Rhode: a construct of memory, duty and vigilance.