Once Lebowski accepted the Heritage, a bright blinding light - much like the one that took him to the Introduction - crashed into him, zipping him away. But, this time, the light took longer to go away, maybe a second or two longer than when he arrived in the jungle. Then, finally, the light cleared, and Lebowski found himself in a small glade. The trees were idyllic with picture-perfect green, full leaves, and twittering birds. The sky was a deep blue, clear of any clouds.

There was a small waterfall that emptied into a little pond. By the water sat a tiny tree twisting wildly against gravity and the wind. It has soft, pink leaves, fluttering and drifting through the air, and sitting under the shade was an older man.

This man had horns on his head and scales for skin, just like the statues outside the temple. So, perhaps it was incorrect to call this person a man. But, whatever he was, he was beckoning at Lebowski to come to sit near him.

Lebowski moved through the meadow, the flowers pushing against him, their aroma blending in the morning dew. The air tasted sweet.

“Come, boy, and sit with me.” The older man’s voice was solid and deep. It was a voice that was used to being obeyed.

Lebowski sat down, nodding in greeting with the man.

“You are my Inheritor. Do you know what that means?” The man asked.

This person before Lebowski, then, must the whisper, the old king that his people betrayed. Lebowski thought that he’d be a bit bigger. “I get your treasures and a portion of your power. How I claim that I haven’t the faintest inclination.”

“Mmm, so ignorant, yet such great potential.”

Lebowski stayed silent, watching the man stare out beyond the trees into the distant mountains.

“You are correct in the simplest terms—a Heritage bonds you and I, Lebowski Lebowski. Through this bonding, you receive a portion of who I was. Maybe you can even gain some wisdom from this, though it is doubtful based on what I have witnessed of you.”

“You are most gracious.”

“Yes, Lebowski, I’m sure you think so.”

“How do we bond then?”

“I relive your memories, and you relive mine. This way, I can guide you to a greater path, and you know my story.”

“I see.” Lebowski did not like the idea of having this man go through his head. It's a grave possibility that the man would get lost. But, again, it appeared that he didn’t have a choice. Lebowski was getting sick of being put in a forced situation.

“If you have no objections, then take my hand.”

The older man’s hand looked hard, calloused, and scarred. It matched the man’s voice. “I haven’t an objection, but merely a question. You said that you get to be reborn in a sense through the knowledge and treasure you give me, and that’s your benefit and desire to do this. Is that the whole truth?” Lebowski asked.

Pulling back his hand, the old man pondered, smiling. “Your audacity, boy, is amusing. I think I have chosen well. But, to answer your question, no, that isn’t the whole truth, but it’s a bit too late for that now.”

Well, fuck. Lebowski had been lied to, both by the Voice and the old king. What a dog-eat-dog world. Despite this, Lebowski felt his heart flutter. So much to learn, so much to learn, and with learning comes opportunity. However, whether this situation is fortuitous or not has yet to be seen.

The old man’s hand reached back towards Lebowski, waiting for his grasp. Lebowski took it after a moment.

Memories. Both past and present filled Lebowski’s mind. These memories were not his own, but for the moment, they were. He saw his father, a great king who the people loved. He saw his mother, a gentle and kind woman who cared deeply for her country. Both of them held him, cradling and protecting him against the world.

He watched himself as he grew up, learning under tutors and trainers, the very best that the kingdom had to offer. First, nobles and dukes bowed down to his father and then to him, the scion of the most powerful man and woman in the realm.

Academies vied for his attention, begging for him to come to their schools to learn. He eventually gained his class, becoming a Swordsman.

He grew up into a young man, highly skilled with the sword. Countless swordmasters came and went, each molding him in their style. He eventually developed his own.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

His style was a dance, a painting in motion. The blade never stopped flickering out, hunting for opportunities to slice. The man became a master in his own right, and he challenged the very best - many of whom were his old masters. He lost many times, but he learned and progressed, eventually becoming the best.

He saw his mother weep over his father’s body. He saw himself cry. Then there was a coronation, and the crown fit perfectly on his head. The crowds and throngs of citizens cheered. He was the Blademaster, and he was the King. His classes dwarfed all of those around him. No one dared to compare.

Eventually, he led an army to the battlefield. He didn’t remember why he was fighting, but he knew he yearned for it. He craved the heat of war. The lines charged, and men died. Their deaths were meaningless, but it grew his legend.

He also charged into the conflict, sword-swinging, licking at blood, slicing at flesh. Men fell before him in droves. Here, he was indeed a king.

Another war and another victory. Then another. And another. And another. The wars grew to be countless, but he remained unsatisfied. He continued to push his people harder and harder. The world was his to claim. After all, only the strong thrive, and the weak, if they are lucky, survive.

There was a meeting with his generals. They urged him to halt, just for a moment, his endless conquest. But, instead, he had them executed for treason.

The people began to call him The Merciless. Gone were his proud titles of Blademaster and King. He wore his new name with scorn.

Then, one night in the middle of his capital in the only building of stone, he prayed before his goddess, asking her to grant him victory on the battlefield. He was close to breaking the world under his hands. He just needed a little more time. Then, his name would ring forever in the halls of eternity. That was his belief.

His fantasy shattered with the banging of doors opening. High elites, dressed and trained to be the best killers in the empire, rush in, brandishing swords, boots clattering on the cobbles. The Merciless was unarmed, but he was named. Tens of the high elites died to his bare hands. But flesh could not compare to steel. So he was killed, without honor, in the only temple of stone, by his soldiers.

He was buried, bloody tunic still covering his body, in the deepest depths of the goddess’ house. His mages cursed the tunnels and catacombs there, damning all who came looking for his corpse to endless, fearful wandering. Then they summoned his soul, tethering him to this deep pit. The years passed, and he had been lost to time.

Then Lebowski saw himself coming in: a man with a straw hat, floral shirt, sweat pants, and tennis shoes with a cane twirling between his fingers and a crooked smile on his face. A pang of hope struck through his ethereal body. This man braved the dangers of the tunnels, finding his eternal resting place. This man presented an opportunity to escape, to find peace in actual death.

He watched, with a feeling of curiosity that was not his own, as he opened the tomb, finally allowing the old king to speak.

Then the light flashed again, and Lebowski looked back up to the clear blue sky, laying on his back under the pink tree.

***

A day had passed since Lebowski woke up. The old man, whose name Lebowski knew to be Murmur, had walked away as soon as he awoke. Lebowski hadn’t seen him since. So, he passed the time making a rod, fastening a fishing line he bought from The Store to it, and fishing.

It was ridiculously hard to catch a fish with no bait. Lebowski couldn’t convince himself into buying a tackle box since the line by itself cost 50 points. He had no interest in parting with anymore of his precious points.

Also, it was worth noting that Lebowski hasn’t spotted a fish in the water yet. Was there a possibility of there not being any fish in the pond? Sure. But Lebowski is a positive thinker. He’ll manifest a fish, speaking it into existence.

“Redfish, bluefish, yellowfish, green fish; pink fish, dotted fish, rainbow fish, blackfish. Come, come fish, you’re my dearest wish. I want to make a dish, with you, fish.”

Nothing came to grab at his bait. Heartbreaking. Just heartbreaking. Lebowski repeated his rhyme, hoping for a different outcome.

“Redfish, bluefish, yellowfish, green fish; pink fish, dotted fish, rainbow fish, blackfish. Come, come fish, you’re my dearest wish. I want to make a dish with you, fish.”

Still nothing. Aristotle once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. So, Lebowski decided to head his advice, mixing up his rhyme: “I have an itch to catch a fish, squish, squish. I need a kingfish, not a ghostfish, shish, shish.”

The water remained undisturbed, not a ripple running across the pond. Lebowski pulled the line back in, trying but failing to come up with a new rhyme. Then, reaching back behind him, he threw the line back into the water, letting the tiny hook sink to the bottom while singing a distance memory: “Oo-de-Lally, oo-de Lally, golly, what a day.”

***

It wasn’t till mid-day when the Murmur came back. But, unfortunately, the man wore a frown, completely wrecking the good vibes Lebowski had built up until this point.

It seemed the old king didn’t like what he saw in Lebowski’s mind. Lebowski wasn’t surprised.

“You should think about stocking this pond with fish, sir. There appears to be no life whatsoever residing in its splendid waters, which is a shame. I mean, just look at how pretty the water is. It’d be perfect for some fishing. And now, I’ve just wasted all my time trying and failing to catch a fish - all of my precious time.”

Murmur just looked at him. “I have made a mistake picking you as my Inheritor, Lebowski. You are mad. You will bring nothing but ruin to my Heritage.”

“Makes you wish you had a pamphlet for these types of things, doesn’t it?”

The old king sighed and shook his head. “A grave mistake.”