It wasn't that a summons from the King of Greenwold resulted in a minor anxiety attack. It was just that he was, and Bob was guessing a little here, a faux tier nine Dragon, who could easily destroy all life on Earth if he decided it was his best course of action.

Bob didn't want to ever be in the position where he was the one who inadvertently convinced the King that it was a good idea to just wipe Earth clean.

He had been hoping to deliver the King's crystals to his Seneschal. While Ericka's smile was beyond creepy, it was still much less stressful dealing with the overly pleasant Draconian.

As he walked through Harbordeep, he was surprised to see that the city wasn't nearly as empty as it had been in the previous months. He was even more surprised when he realized that a substantial number of the people he was seeing were clearly from Earth.

He got in line at an honest-to-goodness food truck that advertised fish tacos. It wouldn't have been at all out of place in L.A. Bob narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. He was pretty sure that he'd actually seen this food truck at UCLA before.

Business was brisk, and the line moved forward steadily. A pair of men in front of him were discussing something in a language he couldn't understand, but he thought might have been Italian. A group of four people behind him were Greenwold natives, and from their discussion, they were in Harbordeep to delve the Dungeon, pushing to tier six. Apparently, the Taco Truck was a recent but well-liked addition to the city, and they grumbled a bit about how the proprietor hadn't been allowed to park in the inner city.

When Bob arrived at the front of the line, he looked up to find a friendly-looking young woman in her early twenties grinning down at him. "What'll you have?" She asked, gesturing to the menu to the right, which was written in Thayland.

"Ten tacos, six of them plain," Bob paused and shook his head, "could those six just be the fish in a bowl? It's for my buddy, Monroe," he finished, reaching up to rub under Monroe's jaw.

The feline of mass consumption was looking up toward the open windows of the food truck, licking his chops as the scent of delicately spiced grilling fish wafted out to tease him.

"You're from Earth!" The proprietor exclaimed, her smile broadening. "Sorry, you're dressed like one of the locals," she shook her head and continued, "sure, sure, I can put the fish in a bowl for that handsome fella."

"It'll take a minute, mind waiting at one of the tables in the back?" She asked.

"Alright," Bob replied, wandering around behind the truck where he found half a dozen folding plastic tables set up, the cheap kind you could buy at Walmart for twenty bucks a pop, along with eight dollar chairs.

About half the tables were occupied, so Bob took a seat at an empty one, sliding Monroe off the Makres, and depositing him in the middle.

He pulled out his tablet and was surprised to see a wifi connection available. It was named "Taco Truck," and upon connecting, redirected him to a splash page offering brief biographies on the head cook and proprietor, Renee Adams, and her assistant cook, Larry Stevens. It also offered the menu, along with catering options and even a few recipes. There were also video reviews, with someone, probably Renee, asking customers how the food was. He was scrolling through the comments under the videos when Renee approached the table with a basket of tacos in one hand and a bowl of fish strips in the other.

"I'm Renee," she introduced herself as she set the food down in front of her diners, wiping a hand on her apron and offering it up for a shake.

"Bob," he replied, giving her hand a firm shake, "and you've already met his imperial majesty, Monroe."

"He's huge," Renee sat down with a grin. "Mind if I chat you up for a minute?"

"Sure, but don't you have a huge line?" Bob asked.

Renee laughed and leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorily. "Don't tell anyone, but we could feed four times as many people. Keeping a bit of line builds the sense that there is something worth waiting for, helps to draw people in."

"That makes sense," Bob acknowledged.

"Salesmanship one-oh-one," Renee agreed. "So, how long have you been here? You're all sorts of decked out, and unless you were a model back on Earth, I'm guessing you're pretty high level."

"I've been here for a while," Bob admitted, "and I'm a nobody compared some of the people around, level-wise."

"How bad is it? Fighting monsters, I mean," Renee added.

Bob looked at her in surprise. "You haven't been delving?" He asked.

"Nope," she shook her head. "My brother dragged me over here with a bunch of his D&D dorks, I mean, I play, and it's fun, but those guys are just obsessed. Anyway, he was showing me the sights, and I realized that this big-ass city didn't have a single food truck. So I guilt-tripped him into taking me back home, and I grabbed the truck, and Larry and the rest is history."

"You seem to be doing pretty good business," Bob mused.

"Oh, we are," Renee assured him. "We pay a ten percent tax to the king on every sale and another ten percent for using the street. That's nothing compared to the taxes, fees, and licensing I had to deal with L.A."

"But, the thing of it is, I wouldn't mind leveling up a bit," Renee continued. "I've got this pamphlet that they passed out when we came over, and it sounds a bit much."

She passed over a laminated bit of parchment. Bob was shocked to see the rules laid out.

The First rule of Delving is Caution. Everything in the Dungeon, from the Monsters to the plant life, to the very air, exists with a single purpose. To kill you.

The Second rule of Delving is Humility. Don't ever underestimate the Dungeon, and don't ever overestimate your own abilities. There is no shame in retreating, if you die, you'll likely take some of your friends with you.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The Third rule of Delving is Skill. Keep your skills capped. Even if that means grinding away for days or even weeks. This means all your skills, including those chosen for utility. Delving a Dungeon is a matter of life or death, and leaving any amount of power on the table, no matter how small, is foolhardy.

The Fourth rule of Delving is Knowledge. Someone has been where you are going before. Don't go in blind, find out what you're up against. If you find out that the floor of the Dungeon is a bad matchup for your skillset, refer to rule two.

The Fifth rule of Delving is Equipment. Much like rule three, you will likely end up grinding and stalling your advancement, but enchanted armor and weapons are a force multiplier. They allow you to deal more damage and mitigate deadly blows.

The Sixth rule of Devling is Crystals. You can never, ever have enough of them. Accept that you'll be killing monsters to collect crystals for the rest of your very, very long lives. You'll need them to advance, to tier up, to reincarnate, to have equipment enchanted, and to pay for everything in your day-to-day lives, from food to entertainment to lodging.

These are the rules set down by Robert Whitman, The Reef, He Who Walks Before. Follow them and thrive, ignore them at your own peril.

For further guidance, merely ask for assistance at the nearest Endless Tower.

Bob blinked. The Endless crest was at the bottom and top of the parchment.

"They're just passing these out, huh? To everyone?" Bob asked, a feeling of dread weighing down on him.

"Yep," Renee agreed, then peered at him closely.

"Wait a second," she muttered, looking down at the parchment and then back up at him. "Are you this Robert Whitman guy?"

There had been a few instances where Bob had regretted accepting the divine blessing of Veritas. This was going to go right up there at the top of the list. He could obfuscate and avoid mentioning, but the only way to not answer the question was to do exactly that.

"You are, aren't you?" Renee's voice was excited. "I saw that memory crystal thing, where you saved that family and fought off the monster wave!"

Bob gave in, closing his eyes and reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He knew he should have stamped down on that shit.

"Dude, you're a fucking hero," Renee grinned, "I hear they have statues of you!"

Bob switched to rubbing his temples. "How, exactly, did you see that?"

"When they gave us a copy of these rules and a pamphlet talking about different classes, we asked why they were going so far out of their way to help," Renee explained. "They told us that they'd seen what the people of Earth were worth and offered to show us a memory of the first person from Earth fighting off monsters."

"Man, if I were you, I'd be strutting," she said. "So if these are your rules, you must take that shit pretty seriously."

"I wrote the rules," Bob began quietly, "because I met some kids here in Harbordeep that were going to get themselves killed. There wasn't a support system in place for them, not really, and I couldn't let them go in without being prepared. It turned out that the survival rate for people who followed the rules was significantly higher, so they've spread around."

"I guess I'm just a little scared," Renee admitted, lowering her voice to match his own. "I've never killed anything bigger than a bug. Even my fish comes pre-cleaned."

"'What Darwin was too polite to say, my friends, is that man did not rise to rule the Earth by being the strongest, or even the smartest, but because we have always been the meanest, craziest, most murderous motherfuckers in the jungle,'" Bob quoted. "Steven King has a rather deep insight into the depths of the human soul," he explained. "Jim Butcher said that if you look deep enough, you'll find that there are violent bones in everyone's body. Two Hundred and Six of them, to be exact."

Renee looked puzzled, so Bob continued. "Everyone is capable of violence," he said. "The thing to keep in mind, is that monsters aren't real. They're just ambient mana stuffed into a pattern and solidified, given the primal need to hunt down people and eat them. Killing them isn't killing an animal that was born and raised by its parents, it's recycling a ball of mana that appeared in place a few seconds ago."

"Might just stick with cooking," Renee muttered.

"This world is ultimately one ruled by personal power," Bob replied. "When a competitor shows up, and they will, offering similar food, but one that provides a buff because they've leveled up a cooking skill, you'll be out of business. And that is ignoring the fact that waves and tides are a brutal reality on this world and will be the same on Earth. Relying on others to protect you and your loved ones is just delaying tragedy."

"You're a lot more Batman than Superman," Renee said.

Bob snorted. "I'm not a hero, let alone a superhero," he shook his head. "I'm just a regular guy who fell into extraordinary circumstances, and I'm doing the best I can to keep my head above water."

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

Renee had returned to her mobile kitchen, and Bob had eaten three of his tacos, the fourth having been stolen by Monroe, who had finished his bowl of fish while the humans had conversed.

Reincarnating after hitting tier seven was starting to look really good. He wasn't aware of the Endless handing out pamphlets, and he wouldn't have objected if they hadn't stuck his name on the bottom. Or shown that damned memory around.

As he walked through the city, it was clear that people from Earth had infested the outer city more than the inner. The wide, clean boulevards, lined with blossoming trees and flowers, weren't teeming with people, although he did see several cellphones in evidence. It was hard to tell if the people using them were from Earth or not, as they were all wearing armor in the local style.

Erick had mentioned something about Gary and Nikki experimenting with kevlar, but he hadn't had time to stop in and see what they'd come up with yet. The Australian contingent had transitioned to leather armor, or metal plates riveted to leather. The D&D group had happily embraced the local style of armor in much the same way they'd gleefully delved into Dungeons and started throwing fireballs and lightning bolts.

The end result was that well-equipped Adventurers were all dressed the same, with little to determine if they were from Earth or not.

Bob suspected some were, as the D&D group had a regular rotation on the twenty-sixth through the twenty-ninth floors of the Dungeon in Harbordeep, farming for Affinity Crystals.

He passed the Adventurers Guild, with its two doors clearly delineating the upper and lower classes, and the Church, which towered over the Guild, its windows and doors spilling out golden light, banishing any shadows and welcoming you in.

At some point, he'd become jaded. There was alien beauty all around him, and he'd allowed himself to become consumed with his tasks. His vacations on Earth had helped restore his sense of wonder, and he found it had reawoken his appreciation for the sights of Thayland as well.

Of course, that wonder could just as easily turn to dread. He approached the King's palace, noting, as always, the ridiculously oversized doors, hallways, and ultimately the throne room. He was ushered in by a clerk, and found himself facing the King of Greenwold, in humanoid form, Ericka the Seneschal, who flashed him her bright and disconcerting smile, and a man he didn't recognize at all.

"Bob," Kellan greeted him, rising and descending his dias to shake his hand.

Bob returned the handshake gingerly. On the one hand, it was a good thing that King seemed to like him. On the other hand, the best possible scenario when it came to Dragons was that they didn't know or care that you existed.

"Your Majesty," Bob replied, bowing after the handshake. He didn't know if that was the right protocol, but better safe than sorry.

"Ericka will take this month's crystals," The King motioned to his Seneschal, and the smiling Draconian moved forward to accept the spatially expanded bag that Bob offered, as well as the ledger he pulled from his satchel.

"I've asked you here today to facilitate a meeting," Kellan began, his voice hinting at wry humor. He turned to the human standing to their left and motioned towards Bob. "Yorrick, this is Robert Whitman."

Yorrick smiled and approached to offer his hand. He was tall, likely an inch over Bob's own six foot three, but slender. He had raven black hair, green eyes, and a brilliantly white smile. "I hear you go by Bob," he said as Bob shook his hand.

"I do," Bob offered uncertainly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Yorrick's grin widened, "and as His Majesty didn't see fit to do so, allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Yorrick Wrathsbane, High Seat of the Warlocks Guild, the third pillar of the Karcerian Empire. By the Accord of Darkness and Light, I have requested that his Majesty arrange a meeting between us."

"We need to talk," Yorrick finished, still smiling.