Oliver craned his neck to look at the towering bookshelves. They reached the ceiling, which must have been twenty feet. “I’m Oliver, sent by the Crimson Pike Guild.”

“A poor name for an apprentice, much less a wizard. So you must be here to give me bad news. Out with it.”

The cluttered tables were piled high with jars of multicolored powders, liquids, and insects. Various metals appeared in the process of alchemy. It was acrid and dusty.

Oliver searched for the origin of the voice. “They sent me here because I used magic.”

A lanky man stepped forward. He had a large nose and beady eyes. Clad in robes of deep indigo, he held a staff with a crystal orb.

"Oliver," the man made it seem like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "I've been expecting someone like you. I’m Staharad the Blue."

Oliver waited. Would he be an apprentice? It would be helpful to learn more about his class.

“Are you even excited? Where’s the emotion? Did Heron send me a second-tier NPC?”

The longer it took to respond, the dumber Oliver would seem, but he tried to process what the wizard had just said. So, he was dealing with a Player. That could be dangerous. He looked up and saw the ferret's eyes examining him. “I’m very excited. I have a few powerful spells, but I want to know more.”

"Powerful spells?" Staharad laughed. "Follow me, and mind the books."

Oliver ascended a spiral staircase to the next floor and marveled at the sheer volume of knickknacks. The wizard was a hoarder.

Scrolls and tablets occupied every available surface, and all around the floor lay half-eaten plates of food. A large window overlooked the mountains and let in the hoot of an owl.

"Do you feel the approach of my enemy?" Staharad asked but waited for no reply. "He thinks he’s our savior." He thumbed a pipe full of something green and lit it with a finger. It smelled like weed.

Oliver leaned on the sill of the glassless opening. "How do you know he’s not your savior?"

Staharad choked on the smoke. "Sometimes NPCs catch me by surprise. Shit.” A few coughs and the wizard recovered. “Let’s just say he tampers with ancient technologies. Now, there are matters to attend to. I’ve waited years for an apprentice." He gestured toward a stack of logs near the hearth. "Fetch some water from the spring. We'll need it for our work. And I want a bath."

"Of course," Oliver agreed, hiding his disappointment. He had hoped to learn something.

He hefted two wooden buckets and made his way outside. The path to the spring was steep and dark, winding upward along the rocky hillside. As he climbed, the crystalline mountain air filled his lungs, and the sound of a bubbling spring lay ahead. Reaching the source, he sat momentarily to catch his breath beside the moon reflecting water.

Filling the buckets, Oliver carefully descended the path, mindful of his footing. Back at the tower, he poured the water into the cauldron to heat and pour into an iron tub. He set out repeatedly, and by the fifth trip, his legs wouldn’t work anymore, and he sat against the wall.

"Good," Staharad acknowledged without looking up from a yellowed parchment. "Get some rest. In the morning, laundry needs doing. All my robes smell like ass."

Suppressing a sigh, Oliver passed out on a couch and slept for what felt like a blink of an eye. Upstairs, the wizard continued to snore.

He collected the clothes and linens and carried them to a small washing area behind the tower. As he worked, scrubbing the fabric against the washboard. The bastard better teach me some damn good spells.

Occasionally, he checked that the Memory Spheres remained in their pouch. Zaisy and Hunter lived somewhere in this world, but where?

Returning indoors with the dried linens, he found Staharad engrossed in a tome and drinking coffee. Arcane symbols swirled above the pages. It was well into the afternoon.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Is there anything else?" Oliver asked, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

Staharad glanced up briefly. "Not at the moment. Well, one thing. Think up a better name than Oliver."

For the remainder of the evening, Oliver swept the floors, organized scrolls, and dusted shelves. Staharad remained absorbed in books, occasionally muttering to himself or jotting down notes. As night settled in, Oliver began to lose patience. "Master Staharad, when will we begin my training?"

Staharad didn’t look up. "Training? Oh, yes. In due course." And then to himself, “Train an NPC that’s a good one.”

Oliver tossed the mop. "You fucking shitbag."

A storm rode passed over Staharad's face. "How dare… wait, are you a player or one of them?"

“I’m not a player.” Oliver prepared to let loose Astral Lance and obliterate the old man. “And I’m not a housekeeper.” Surprisingly, no fight followed. He expected the wizard to lash out, but that never happened.

The wizard nodded thoughtfully. “In that case, I have much to teach you.”

The morning sun cast bars of light through the tower's narrow windows, illuminating dust motes. Oliver found Staharad in the study, sipping coffee while perusing a scroll.

"Master Staharad," Oliver said.

Staharad set down his cup. "I didn’t sleep a wink." He ran his fingers through his beard. “It’s a good thing you ran into me first. Most Players are convinced you’re kind is a problem, while I think it’s just a natural evolution.”

Oliver took a seat and accepted a cup of black liquid. He would have given anything for some cream and sugar.

Staharad leaned back in his chair. "You see, humanity hit the singularity a long time ago. Reality and fiction became indistinguishable when the Universal Constructor created its first world. Monolithic machines worked in tandem to give us complete freedom. This is my life. I live on the outskirts of Credola, and I’m a wizard. It’s not an illusion."

“Why would any players want to harm NPCs?”

“We still have a physical connection to the original world. When an NPC defeats us, there’s a chance we’ll die for good. Coda, a player always ranked first, started a movement to kill all NPCs and perform the Great Reset. He comes from the East as we speak. Empires fall, and he wipes them out, man, woman, and child.”

Oliver wiped his eyes. “Those of us who gain sentience also lose our ability to be reborn. He’s killing them for good.”

Staharad finished his cup and stared out of the window. “Then it is worse than I thought. Truly horrifying. You’re mortals in an immortal universe. Why would the monoliths do this? Death had been solved.”

Taking a deep breath, Oliver sat in silence and thought about death.

Later that afternoon, Oliver focused his energy. He extended his hand, and the runes along his swordstaff began to glow softly. "Astral Lance," he declared. A beam of concentrated starlight shot across the chasm, striking a boulder and sending it airborne.

Staharad's eyes widened slightly. "Impressive."

Emboldened, Oliver moved on. "Astral Shield." A translucent barrier of cosmic energy enveloped him.

"And finally," Oliver said, concentrating harder, "Celestial Burst." A wave of ethereal light launched from him, forming a molten path stretching to the chasm's bottom.

Silence hung between them. Staharad rose slowly, his expression thoughtful. "These are not spells I know," he remarked. "Tell me, where did you learn them?"

Oliver hesitated. "They come to me instinctively. I found them in my class description."

Staharad circled him, examining him as one might a curious specimen. "Fascinating. You're far more than just an NPC."

"I’m a Star Mage. Does that ring a bell?" Oliver asked.

Staharad nodded, stroking his chin. "The Star Mage must be like a Fire Mage, but stronger. Perhaps much stronger. You must be very careful as you level up. I don’t know what kind of destruction you may cause."

"Can you teach me to control it? Or do you always have to unleash the full strength of a spell?"

"Yes and no," Staharad said. "These attack spells can’t be done in fractions. Perhaps I can teach you to control the shield. Bring it up again."

“I’m out of mana.”

Staharad’s eyes widened. “What level are you?”

“One.”

“What the fuck,” the wizard said. “You’re a goddamn weapon. Well, we’ll have to continue tomorrow when you’ve recovered.” He walked away, muttering about insane power.

Oliver stood looking over the mountains with only the hush of the wind through the pine to listen to. He opened the screen and navigated to his class. It said he was level two. His mana remained depleted. He wondered what would happen the next time he cast a spell. Well, tomorrow, he’d find out.

He took the buckets up and down from the tower to the spring to take a bath. His legs gave up on him, and he splashed into the hot water. He dozed off and on and had dreams of duels with players. He kept thinking he needed to do something, but even if he were a weapon, how could he change an immortal world when he would die? Even if he defeated Coda somehow, wouldn’t he try again in another world?

But Staharad had said that NPC could kill players for good.

No, he couldn’t even pay for a meal, much less take on a man who destroyed empires. He needed to focus on survival and then on finding his friends.