Morning light streamed into Reynold’s Keep, brighter than before. Oliver took to the ramparts and thought while he stared out into the forest. He could almost see the tops of farm buildings to the north. If he went higher, perhaps he could see more.

Oliver, why don’t you reply? Are you even reading all the information I’m giving you?

Oliver typed back, and he should have done so sooner. I’m sorry. I’ve always been a loner, and I’m not used to all the attention I’m getting. It's overwhelming.

Yes, I guess I don’t know your old life. But that’s all behind you now, if you can let it go. Anyway, I learned that the Universal Contractor exists at the Galactic Center. It creates the game worlds in a two-dimensional skin around the supermassive black hole’s event horizon. These gameworlds are permanent, and there are three. If we were to destroy the System, we would be cut off from the Players and the manipulation of our lives.

How do we do that?

I don’t know, but I’m close to creating pathways between the three worlds. Also, I’ve created a group chat where you can communicate with your allies. I’ll send you an invite soon.

Oliver wished Eldrin was still young and healthy. Why did it all fall on him? He was a moron compared to the scientists.

He looked down at the yard where the knights gathered to spend their day training. If he weren’t so stressed out, maybe he’d join them. It wasn’t much different than playing video games all day, except at some point, these guys would put their skill to the test and possibly die an agonizing death.

Ugh, he avoided thinking about what he wanted to do. He would ask Beatrice if she wanted to come along for the adventure. Yesterday was amazing, and though he’d like to distance himself from those he might bring harm to, what if he didn’t have to be lonely anymore? Would that be the worst thing?

He climbed the tower, each step echoing in the tight spiral stairwell, and passed a man patching the morter. The man smiled, an uncommon gesture while the ghost had roamed the halls. Just above the room Bridget had occupied, the stairs led to a flat roof with a parapet open to the elements.

From the last step, he froze.

Sir Gillian stood with his back turned, armor gleaming in the morning sun, and nothing covering his ass cheeks or legs. And Beatrice, who was bent over grabbing her ankles, moaned as the man pistoned into her over and over.

Oliver’s heart lurched. He had no claim to her or right to feel betrayed, yet he felt angry nonetheless. The ache inside him wanted to pull him to his knees. He remembered the way she felt in his arms, the way her tits felt. But here she was, choosing Gillian of all people. The man caused the haunting when he couldn’t keep it in his pants.

Oliver took one step back down, hoping not to be seen, but her face appeared almost upside down, hair sweeping the stone. Her eyes met his, and she looked away.

He returned to the guest quarters and found Halfdan, Sigrid, Saj, and Charity sitting around the table, packs shouldered and ready to move on.

Hunter stood nearby, arms crossed, offering Oliver a questioning glance. “You don’t look well.”

Oliver forced a smile. “No, everything’s good.” He wasn’t lying. None of what happened mattered. I don’t give a fuck about Beatrice.

The others struggled to match his pace as they departed and marched down the road through the forest. Reynold Keep disappeared behind them through the lattice of branches.

Oliver noticed a yellow tinge in the canopy of the trees. Perhaps autumn had come already, he had no idea.

After the forest fell away and the road waded into a grassland with Lake Zars glittering in the distance, they encountered a modest farm nestled beside a wide stream that was no deeper than a fingernail. The farmer, a man who wiped his eyes and waved to them.

Oliver greeted him warmly, relieved to see normal folk after so much strangeness. But the farmer’s face tightened with grief as they spoke.

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

“My son,” the farmer said. “A man named Changen.” He wiped his face again.

Changen was the Player who put Oliver in the prison wagon, no doubt.

Sigrid put a hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “It’s okay, go on.”

“No,” the farmer said. “I don’t want to go on. My family’s been destroyed.”

Halfdan stepped forward and raised the man’s chin to look at him. “There’s always something to live for, even if it’s revenge.”

“My son is still alive. But that man sent him into the cursed town of Shannadale. Many from here and beyond have sought the Time Crystal within. Adventurers who can slay ogres have entered and never returned. No one returns. What chance does my boy have?”

Oliver’s companions shared grave looks, but he said, “I’m in.”

Hunter flipped a coin. “Didn’t you heart the farmer? Sounds more than dangerous.” He caught the coin and held it up. “Crow, a bad omen.”

Hafldan grunted. “If you think that’s a bad omen, then you know nothing of omens. But it isn’t related to this. Oliver, where did you pick up this stray?”

The coin disappeared with a sleight of hand. “Stray? I’ve been with Oliver since a previous life.”

“Stop,” Oliver said. “We’re going.” The Time Crystal was an objective, after all.

The farmer pawed his arm. “Thank you. Thank you. It’s not far from the road. You’ll see the mists.”

Oliver placed a hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “We’ll try to find your son and bring him back.”

The farmer managed a watery smile of gratitude. “Kill that bastard. Please make him suffer.” The farmer led them just around a corner to a barn with a group of men lowering a little girl from a rope. “He and his henchmen strung her up and let the undead gather under her and bite her. He’s a monster.”

They followed the farmer’s directions and reached the outskirts of Shannadale by late afternoon. A dome of swirling mist greeted them. As Oliver and company stepped into it, sound dampened, and the world turned white and gray and then dim.

“Stay close,” Oliver warned, looking to and fro.

The buildings materialized out of the mist. Here, half-collapsed cottages. There, abandoned stables and shops with sagging roofs.

Oliver tried the door to a house, and a jerk opened it. The air smelled of rot. A table in the corner was set with plates and bowls, swarming with flies over rotten, maggoty food. He grimaced and retreated, stomach twisting.

Outside, he sucked in fresh air.

They discovered that no matter which direction they tried to leave the town, they would end up on the opposite side. Old video games used to work like this. If an enemy stood at the far end of the town, Sigrid could turn around, shoot into the mist, and hit the target at the far side. It would be doubtful if that would work, but they talked about it.

Saj enjoyed stepping through the mist. “Perhaps it’s the town that moves and not us.”

Then banter soon died when they realized they were utterly trapped and saw nothing of a Time Crystal or the farmer’s son.

The signpost, green with moss, read “Shannadale” in faded paint. Broken wagons and dropped belongings littered the silent streets.

Time looped as well. A distant chime of a clocktower reached their ears. It was midnight, and abruptly, they teleported to where they came in.

Oliver became tired of walking and sat at the town center square.

In that square, people gathered. They appeared out of nowhere and took seats at benches that hadn’t been there moments ago.

Oliver approached, but as he drew near, he realized these figures were not solid. They were phantoms.

A group of adventurers boasting of a Time Crystal found in a distant desert. A tall woman with braided hair and a scar on her cheek addressed the group. Her words drifted to Oliver as though through a dream:

“We have the Crystal. The Sea People promise the horizon for it.”

“Whatever that means,” one retorted.

“Whatever it means,” she said, “It’s a lot. A kingdom, a sea of gold. Something grand. There is nothing the Sea People want more than this crystal.”

Oliver stepped closer, but the figures did not notice him. They were nothing but ghosts from the past. He noticed a woman with a shadowed eyes.

She stood near the clock tower and bent down to speak to a boy. “I’ve spiced the food,” she said. “The Crystal shall be mine. What a waste it would be to take it north.”

The child looked up. “Why would they give it to you?”

She messed the child’s hair. “Go eat. I’ll join you soon.”

Oliver watched helplessly as the phantoms played out their tragedy, feasting on the woman’s poisoned food. It began with people clutching their throats and gagging. Eyes bulged, and vomit sprayed with ropes of blood.

The adventurers lay face down at the table.

The woman smirked. Time passed in flickers, and images overlapped. She raised the crystal high, and it glowed. Days passed, a dull sun spun around and around, and she grew gnarled. When she opened her mouth, a wail filled the town.

Oliver’s heart thumped faster, and he felt panic. He had to go now.