The battlefield vanished.
One moment, Sir Benginold the Strong stood knee-deep in ash and splintered bone, his greatsword steaming with yet another dragon’s blood. The next, he found himself in a chamber that defied all reason.
It was neither hallowed hall nor celestial paradise, but a stark, cold-lit vault that smelled faintly of burnt herbs and dread. The walls stretched into eternity, their pallid faces unbroken save for a shimmering, bright red eldritch script that read NOW SERVING: HEROIC REQUESTS. Beneath it sat a being who might have been a god, if gods wore rumpled tunics and glared at stone tablets as though they’d spat in his mead.
“Next,” droned the god, not looking up.
Ben stared. The creature’s voice echoed as if spoken through a warhorn, and its face—if it had one—rippled like a reflection in a storm-tossed lake.
“Is this… the afterlife?” Ben rasped, his throat raw from battle cries and dragon smoke. “I don’t remember being slain…”
The god sighed. A sound like glaciers calving. “Divine Intervention Department. Request filing only. State your business.”
Ben glanced down. His armor, still streaked with gore, felt suddenly ridiculous. “There’s a… thing. A shadow. It’s unraveling the sky. Crops are dying, rivers—”
“Entropy incursion. Tier Five existential threat,” the god interrupted, flipping a page on his tablet. “Standard resolution: heroic sacrifice. You’ll need to—”
“Another sacrifice?” Ben’s gauntlet creaked as he gripped his sword. “I’ve nearly died seven times this decade, once I actually did. Do you know what dying does to a man?”
“Heroic Liability Waiver, Clause 12-B: ‘Soul recalibration post-death.’” The god waved a dismissive hand. “Not my department.”
Ben’s eye twitched. Centuries of battles, of saving ungrateful kingdoms and listening to bards mangle his exploits into drinking songs, and this was his reward?
The god, noticing Ben’s confusion, “The gods, in their infinite pettiness, do what is needed. Here souls are processed, not praised. Welcome to the Divine Department of Redundancy.”
“Just… fix it, help me save the world,” Ben growled, gesturing vaguely upward as if the crumbling sky might hear. “Save the world. Whatever it takes. Make. It. Stop. Tell me what I must do!”
The god scribbled on his tablet. “Request noted: ‘Make it stop.’ Processing…”
“Wait, that’s not—”
“Request fulfilled.” The god snapped his fingers. A sound like a thousand portcullises slamming shut echoed through the void. “Entropy incursion neutralized. World saved. Next!”
Ben gaped. “That’s it? No epic battle? No… I don’t know, fanfare?”
The god leaned forward, his form flickering like a mirage. “Fanfare requires a Tier Three Ceremonial Upgrade. Your account”—he tapped the tablet—“has insufficient cosmic loyalty points.”
“Loyalty points?” Ben’s voice rose. “I’ve saved the world nine times!”
“Eight and a half.” The god squinted at his notes. “The ‘Great Goblin War of Tuesday’ was technically a skirmish. World not in danger. Now”—he produced a crisp scroll—“your parting gift.”
Ben stared at the document. The header read:
SIR BENGINOLD THE STRONG, SLAYER OF VYRATHIS THE DEVOURER:
MAIL CLERK
“Resume? This appears a… scroll of servitude?”
“Reincarnation protocol.” The god’s tone suggested he’d explained this a thousand times to a thousand baffled heroes. “Office job. Moderate-deductible healthcare. Your own personal mug provided. Guard it.”
Ben’s sword clattered to the floor—or where the floor should have been. “I’m a dragonslayer!”
“Transferable skills.” The god ticked off points on his fingers. “Swordsmanship equates to scribing speed. Battle strategy: ledger management. Dragon-slaying:…” He paused. “Conflict resolution.”
“This is madness!” Ben roared. “I demand to speak to your liege lord!”
The god’s form solidified abruptly, his features sharpening into something cold and ancient. “I,” he said, and the word vibrated in Ben’s teeth, “am the supervisor.”
The scroll burst into golden flames, reforming as a bronze sigil pinned to Ben’s breastplate.
NAME: Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Vanquisher of Villains, Wymarc of the Iron Sword (Ben)
TITLE: Mail Clerk Specialist
STATUS: Probationary
“Good luck,” said the god. “When you get the call, answer as you’ve always done, Benginold.”
Ben’s armor dissolved into a strange tunic of coarse, scratchy wool. His sword became a clay goblet etched with runes: “World’s Okayest Employee.”
“DON’T FORGET…IT MOCKS”, still hung in Ben's ears, fading like the echo of a warhorn blown in a canyon. The coldness of the vault pressed in on him, then seemed to ripple outwards. Under his feet, the smooth, solid ground began to shift, a rough gray texture rising to meet his gaze.
Ben stood at the edge of the Cobblestones (cracked parking lot), his uncomfortable footwear (dress shoes) grinding stray gravel beneath his soles. Above him, Obsidian Towers clawed at the heavens, their mirrored scales (glass facades) reflecting the light of the sun. A Horseless Carriage (delivery truck) roared past, belching Burnt Alchemical Sludge (diesel fumes) that coiled around Ben’s legs like smoke-serpents. He snarled, swatting the air as if to cleave an invisible foe.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
The tower’s jaw (revolving door) spun relentlessly, swallowing mortals (office workers) whole. A shieldmaiden (woman in a pantsuit) stumbled out, clutching a Goblet (Starbucks cup) like a holy relic. Ben watched, brow furrowed, as the door’s crystalline fangs (glass panels) snapped shut behind her. “Sorcery,” he muttered, his hand drifting to the nonexistent hilt of Dragonsdeathbringer, his greatsword.
Horseless Carriages (cars) clashed in the Battleground of Eternal Roar (intersection), their blinded cyclops eyes (headlights) flaring. A charioteer (taxi driver) leaned on his War Horn (horn), the sound a wyvern’s shriek. Ben recoiled, his Mug of Mockery (World’s Okayest Employee) sloshing Bean Elixir (coffee) onto his Polyester Straitjacket (suit).
“You dare challenge me, steel-skinned cur?” Ben bellowed, raising the mug like a mace. The taxi sped off, its Runic Stamp (bumper sticker—“Honk If You’re Horny!”) flashing mockingly.
A tide of mortals swept past, their Palm-Sized Scrying Stones (phones) casting sickly light on their hollow faces. One scribe (teenager in earbuds) collided with Ben’s shoulder, his Ink Quill (vape pen) clattering to the asphalt. “You tread where dragons fear, whelp!” Ben barked, but the boy scrambled away, muttering “Fucking weirdo…”
Near the tower’s base, merchants (food vendors) peddled Cauldron-Cursed Sustenance (halal cart chicken) from wagons (food trucks) adorned with Glyphs of Gluttony (“$5 LUNCH SPECIAL!”). The stench of Grease of the Damned (fryer oil) mingled with the metallic tang of the Tower’s Breath (AC exhaust).
Wind howled through the canyons (skyscraper alleys), carrying the Whispering Winds. Ben’s cloak (blazer) flapped behind him like a tattered banner as he craned his neck to study the glowing slabs (office windows) far above. “A thousand eyes peer from this Titan’s Helm,” he growled, spotting shadows (workers) toiling behind the glass. “Yet none see the chains that bind them.”
Ben lingered, his calloused palm pressed to the Obsidian Tower’s cold flank. Somewhere within, enemies prowled, and shadow beasts sharpened their claws. The city’s Song of the Damned (distant sirens) wailed. “Aye,” he said at last, hefting his Mug of Mockery. “Let us storm this false stronghold… and see what treachery it guards.”
He stood tall. A warrior-king in a world of… of what he wasn’t quite sure yet.
The tiny chickens (pigeons) swarmed around Ben’s shoes, their beaks clacking against the Cobblestones (sidewalk) as if auditioning for a role in his ire. “Insolent fowl!” Ben barked, thrusting fist at a particularly brazen bird pecking his shoelaces. “In my realm, your kind is roasted over Dragonfire!”
A cough sounded behind him. Ben whirled, dagger raised, to find a slight mortal clutching a Scroll of Eternal Torment (stained manila folder) to his chest. The man’s Polyester Straitjacket (ill-fitting blazer) hung loose, his Shackles of a Petty God (lanyard badge) labeled Human Recourses—Greg. His eyes darted between Ben’s fist and the Sigil of Servitude (Mail Clerk Specialist: BEN) pinned to Ben’s lapel.
“Uh. Ben?” Greg adjusted his fogged glasses, retreating a step. “Chad—uh, the Branch Manager—said you’d be… towering. I’m supposed to… y’know. Orient you. But first I gotta check in with Lisa. The receptionist.” He jabbed a thumb toward the Obsidian Tower’s (office building) spinning mouth, where a shieldmaiden (receptionist) typed furiously behind a Fortress of Polished Stone (marble desk).
Ben relaxed his fist, looming over Greg like a siege tower. “You name me servant to this… glass titan?” He gestured to the tower, “I am Sir Benginold the Strong, slayer of the Frost Wyrms! My blade thirsts for—”
“Yep! Great! Slayin’ stuff!” Greg interjected, backing toward the Tower. “Just, uh… head to the break room on 3. Follow the exit signs. Lisa’ll print your Sigil (badge), and I’ll meet you after I… appease Chad.”
“A quest,” Ben declared, squaring his shoulders. “At last, a worthy trial and direction!” He strode toward the Obsidian Tower, his Boots of Squeaking Betrayal (dress shoes) heralding his approach. The Winged Serfs scattered, one pausing to Tribute (poop) on Greg’s discarded Scroll (folder).
The Obsidian Tower’s spinning gateway—a whirling circle of crystalline panels (revolving doors)—clattered like a war machine as Ben approached. His broad shoulders filled the entryway, the door’s momentum grinding to a halt when his frame jammed between two glass partitions. “Treacherous contraption!” he bellowed, muscles straining as he forced the door forward with a metallic screech. Mortals (office workers) trapped behind him muttered curses into their Palm-Sized Scrying Stones (phones), while a shieldmaiden (security guard) slapped the emergency stop button.
Freed at last, Ben staggered into the Fortress of Polished Stone (lobby), his Boots of Squeaking Betrayal skidding across Dragon-scale tiles (polished marble). He righted himself, adjusting his Sigil of Servitude (crooked employee badge) with a defiant glare at the now-still door.
“A feeble trial,” he announced to no one in particular, “but I am victorious!”
Greg, lingering nearby, buried his face in his hands.